Poems (Blagden)/Say which were best
SAY WHICH WERE BEST.
Steeped in some soft delicious sin, Whose charmèd languors wrap thee in, Soul! take thy golden ease and play All the orient summer day; No storms thy joyous calm shall break, From thy bliss thou shalt not wake. Some will tell thee there is gall Within the purple cup—that all Its honied sweetness will o'erflow And leave but poisoned dregs below. The fools! they lie—securely drink; More deeply as thy lip shall sink, More luscious, rich, and strong the wine—Half delirious, half divine!
Loud the mighty sorceress laughed As her slaves her goblet quaffed: The liquid flame ran wild within And each was happy in his sin, Unconscious of the outward shame, Sealed from regret, remorse, or blame—Sealed from all passion which might stir, Or sting, each sense-bound worshipper. The false enchantress! she knows well That if the joy were bitter sweet, That if the guilt were not complete, A moment's suffering breaks the spell! And thus she guards their trancèd sleep With opiates strange, luxurious, deep, And, nerveless, pulseless they remain, Hugging their sweet enthralling chain—The soothèd senses wildly blest, The lullèd conscience charmed to rest Borne adown the siren stream, Life, one long voluptuous dream!
And this is sin? then what is error? Oh, the anguish! oh, the terror! Of the well-deserved blame Of the soul's unquiet shame—The retribution which must come As we face the self-wrought doom; Sowing seeds which we must gather, Rousing storms which we must weather, Some yoke neath which our souls are driven, Some chain to which our souls are riven, Some brand which must for aye remain, Some self-inflicted damning stain!
And is this all? Oh! if it were, It then were well to bravely dare The whelming floods of guilt and sin, And plunge our shivering souls within, And let its headlong torrent flow O'er all remorse, regret, or woe, Laving in Lethe tides all sense Of Being's nobler influence: If but to be a worm, 'tis best Hushed in some fair and downy nest, To pass through Life in idle swoon Until th' ignoble dream be done.
But 'tis not so—we must endure The fester ere the wound we cure. (Sorrow th' eternal law of Earth, The pangs of travail prelude Birth, And through the unuttered agony Which we call Death, our souls are free.) 'Tis our prerogative, our doom, To strive, to struggle, to o'ercome; Through error's veils to burst away From silken dalliance into Day, Unweaving Folly's fettering coil, To work out bitter truth by Toil; Bravely our clanking chains to wear, Nobly our humbling yoke to bear, And stand erect beneath the skies Through self-renouncing sacrifice; Baffled, defeated, not undone, To expiate and to atone—(What angel glory in those words! They pierce the soul as flaming swords) To expiate and to atone—To hope, endure, achieve, aspire, Though bleeding, tortured, tried by fire, Till heaven's redeeming path be won, And we the crowning heights shall tread, Life sanctified—Death perfected! Say which were best.