Poems (Hardy)/Nephran and the law

by Irenè Hardy

THE VISION OF CYRLEON

CYRLEON walked a mountain path at noonAnd met an angel by a flower-lit bush,Azalean white and gold. Strength of limbAnd learning's pride had lifted up his headTo think no fear; the heavenly vision fronting himAs might a man abashed him not.As might a man abashed him not.One wordThe angel spoke, or seemed to speak, and lo,Cyrleon saw the shine of cities far,And domes and towers, and lands he knew not; sawThe ships that went, the caravans that came,And heard the noises of the nations; heardThe wail of one bewildered child, forlornIn a forest; the flutter of a leafUpon a nameless grave; a cricket's songDown in the plain below in his own field.With hand and smile he bade Cyrleon lookAcross 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 cameThe hidden craft of wood and field beforeCyrleon's eyes; he saw the shade-born fernErect her crozier, the moss unwind her threads,The leaf grow up, the rootlet seek the dark;He followed to its cell the silken mouseWith bead-round eyes and stripes of brown; he markedThe woodbird's weaving skill, the grouse's wilesWhen she would hide her leaf-brown broodTo save herself and them; he counted o'erThe convolutions of the snail's thin house; Nature gave up belovèd secrets, allAt 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 vestureLike the light of dawn; slow gazed and wondered:Perceived not yet that heavenly messengerOn heavenly errand fared; far less perceivedThat errand was to him.That errand was to him.So, up and downStaring, he marked a gleaming chain that heldBeneath the white-sheathed sword a casket whiteAnd wondrous, such as mortal thought conceivesNor makes not. Around it rayed light like flameOf 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 willConstrained, yet this is naught if thou withholdTo show me all."To show me all."The angel spake not yet;Stooping he plucked away from clinging earthA 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 thouRejoice in thy great knowledge. If I show,Thy pride will die, and thou upon thyselfShalt look remorsefully, as man sees notNor 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 beenTo thy sad heart, and all thy life shall goAs it has gone, treading its rough-shod wayAcross 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!""AbideAnd learn. It is thy destiny. Thy doomWere not to learn, and worse; therefore, I came."Pitiful, the angel gazed into his eyes,Yet stern his face, his form, then quickly laidThe 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 woundsHad 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 sharpAthwart his ignorance and pride of mind and self,That was,—O piteous thought!—no higher selfIn that which made him man, not woman, bornThan 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 theyTo whom vocation was to speak, give light?That friend, from his high vantage ground of love?That priest? Sanction most they had. Could it beThat they, even they, unto themselves the truthObscured? Where was the light my father had?Why went my mother to her grave and madeNo sign tome? The soul has highest rightTo knowledge of its dwelling-place. O why—"

" Hast thou been blind to all that lies around?Wherefore has that proud mind of thine not wroughtOut wisdom for thyself and thine, as forThe creatures dumb that serve thy land and thee?How couldst thou guide for good to thee and thineThy field-beasts' lives and bring to better heightTheir welfare so, by ever taking thought,Yet miss the thought that law of life is oneIn beast and man? In what mean cavern lurksThy soul? On what low levels battens allThy thought of life? Look up, and forth, and know;Look in and verify. Live where the LordThat made thee set thee lines to find the highest good;And know forever that if thou wouldst loveAnd fitly live, thou in a Siege PerilousMust ever sit, ever lose thyselfTo find thyself. Know this, then thou shalt know."

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

No voice came back; from spaces blue and brightAbove the mountain, slow winds breathed and fannedThe white azalea flowering to its fall.And all was still upon the mountain-sideTill set of sun, except Cyrleon's thoughtThat moved through rounds of grief, through gyresOf shame and wrath alternate, comfortingIn naught. But at early star-time a strengthReturned 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 handUpon his head, comforting, and her tearsFalling, falling. After, she pondered muchThis vision of Sir Galahad, the knightBlameless of Arthur's Table Round of old.