Poems (Hardy)/Nephran and the law

by Irenè Hardy

THE VISION OF CYRLEON

CYRLEON walked a mountain path at noon
And met an angel by a flower-lit bush,
Azalean white and gold. Strength of limb
And learning's pride had lifted up his head
To think no fear; the heavenly vision fronting him
As might a man abashed him not.
As might a man abashed him not.One word
The angel spoke, or seemed to speak, and lo,
Cyrleon saw the shine of cities far,
And domes and towers, and lands he knew not; saw
The ships that went, the caravans that came,
And heard the noises of the nations; heard
The wail of one bewildered child, forlorn
In a forest; the flutter of a leaf
Upon a nameless grave; a cricket's song
Down in the plain below in his own field.
With hand and smile he bade Cyrleon look
Across the daylight sky, the noonday blue,
And lo, the sweep of worlds innumerable,
The secrets of their paths, their destiny,
Their doom.
Their doom.The seraph touched a glowing flower,
Azalean white and gold, and straightway came
The hidden craft of wood and field before
Cyrleon's eyes; he saw the shade-born fern
Erect her crozier, the moss unwind her threads,
The leaf grow up, the rootlet seek the dark;
He followed to its cell the silken mouse
With bead-round eyes and stripes of brown; he marked
The woodbird's weaving skill, the grouse's wiles
When she would hide her leaf-brown brood
To save herself and them; he counted o'er
The convolutions of the snail's thin house;
Nature gave up belovèd secrets, all
At glance, to him.
At glance, to him.But proud, undaunted still,
Cyrleon stood and eyed the angel's guise,
The helmet white, the shield of white, the vesture
Like the light of dawn; slow gazed and wondered:
Perceived not yet that heavenly messenger
On heavenly errand fared; far less perceived
That errand was to him.
That errand was to him.So, up and down
Staring, he marked a gleaming chain that held
Beneath the white-sheathed sword a casket white
And wondrous, such as mortal thought conceives
Nor makes not. Around it rayed light like flame
Of midnight stars. Cyrleon saw, amazed,
Impelled, and knew.
Impelled, and knew.The angel spake no word,
But looked with wistful eyes upon the man.
"Great angel, I have read the flower, the sky,—
Have read the world before me at thy will
Constrained, yet this is naught if thou withhold
To show me all."
To show me all."The angel spake not yet;
Stooping he plucked away from clinging earth
A pebble, granite black and white. "Read this,
Then read thy heart," his look, his gesture said.

Cyrleon gazed and paled but nearer stepped,
With flaming eyes. "Show me the casket,—show!"'
"Nay, if I show, never again canst thou
Rejoice in thy great knowledge. If I show,
Thy pride will die, and thou upon thyself
Shalt look remorsefully, as man sees not
Nor yet has seen himself. Choose and abide.
If I show not, thy pride will live until the end;
Thine eyes will be withholden not to see;
Thy thought shall never speak what thou hast been
To thy sad heart, and all thy life shall go
As it has gone, treading its rough-shod way
Across what thou dost call thyself, thy soul.

Cyrleon, trembling, pale, with outstretched hand,
Strode forward. "Lo, I choose; now show!"
Strode forward. "Lo, I choose; now show!""Abide
And learn. It is thy destiny. Thy doom
Were not to learn, and worse; therefore, I came."
Pitiful, the angel gazed into his eyes,
Yet stern his face, his form, then quickly laid
The opened casket in the impassioned hand:
What seemed a human heart lay beating there—
O strange illusion, dreadful semblance! Could it be?
Cyrleon's heart of hearts, his life of life.
Wounded it was, until no spot for wounds
Had space thereon. Forlorn and bruised it was,
And other marks of dealing furrowed it more deep,
Nameless and wordless, the deepest and the worst;
Cyrleon's quickened soul knew how and why,
With sudden revelation striking sharp
Athwart his ignorance and pride of mind and self,
That was,—O piteous thought!—no higher self
In that which made him man, not woman, born
Than that dull clown's who ploughed his field of corn,
There in the vale below.
There in the vale below."Great angel of my God,"'
He cried, down falling on his face to earth,
"Myself I did not know,—that self the beast has,—
Except as thinking what it would must rule,—
As being Nature's gospel, therefore right;
Excepting as the world's way taught, and self,
Complacent, followed on unthinking, Yet, at worst,
I numbed my thought. I would not see, not know.
O why, if arrogant I thought I knew,
Was light withheld? And why silent they
To whom vocation was to speak, give light?
That friend, from his high vantage ground of love?
That priest? Sanction most they had. Could it be
That they, even they, unto themselves the truth
Obscured? Where was the light my father had?
Why went my mother to her grave and made
No sign tome? The soul has highest right
To knowledge of its dwelling-place. O why—"

" Hast thou been blind to all that lies around?
Wherefore has that proud mind of thine not wrought
Out wisdom for thyself and thine, as for
The creatures dumb that serve thy land and thee?
How couldst thou guide for good to thee and thine
Thy field-beasts' lives and bring to better height
Their welfare so, by ever taking thought,
Yet miss the thought that law of life is one
In beast and man? In what mean cavern lurks
Thy soul? On what low levels battens all
Thy thought of life? Look up, and forth, and know;
Look in and verify. Live where the Lord
That made thee set thee lines to find the highest good;
And know forever that if thou wouldst love
And fitly live, thou in a Siege Perilous
Must ever sit, ever lose thyself
To find thyself. Know this, then thou shalt know."

Then ceased the voice; the vision faded, passed,
Ere yet Cyrleon's heart could make its cry
Or give him strength to lift his fallen face.
"Angel," he cried in agony, "O come
To me again! Say if the wounds will heal."

No voice came back; from spaces blue and bright
Above the mountain, slow winds breathed and fanned
The white azalea flowering to its fall.
And all was still upon the mountain-side
Till set of sun, except Cyrleon's thought
That moved through rounds of grief, through gyres
Of shame and wrath alternate, comforting
In naught. But at early star-time a strength
Returned to take him home to Ara there.

So fell he at her knees abashed, and weak,
And wordless, till his grief had spent itself.
Then all his tale he told, her tender hand
Upon his head, comforting, and her tears
Falling, falling. After, she pondered much
This vision of Sir Galahad, the knight
Blameless of Arthur's Table Round of old.