Ancient Wisdom and the Heralding of the Christ Impulse

> ELEUSIS > To Hölderlin > Rest all about me and within me rest, > The ever-grinding cares of busied men > Asleep at last! To me they proffer > Repose and liberty. My thanks to thee, > Dear freedom-bringer, Night! Now the moon veils > The uncertain outline of the distant hills > With gauzes of white mist. The clear line of the lake > Looks kindly on me. > The long-drawn-out loud noises of the day > Seem years and years away. > Thy image steals, beloved Friend, upon me > With joys from byegone days, with longings > That soon give way to sweeter hopes > Of future meeting. Fancy paints > The ardent, the long-hungered-for embrace, > The questions asked and answered; > Intimate probings whether time has changed > His mien, his look, his feelings—then the joy > Of certainty, finding the pact maintained > Firmer and riper now than then, > That ancient pact no oath had bound us to > To live for freedom and for truth alone, > Never and never to make peace > With the laws that rule sensations and beliefs! > Now the mood that bore me lightly over hills and dales to thee > Compounds with dull reality. > Ah, but a tell-tale sigh betrays their discord, > And with it flies away my fancy's happy dream > I look up to the eternal vault of heaven, > To thee, thou gleaming star of night! > Oblivion of all wishes and all hopes > Comes streaming down from thine eternity. > Reflection dies away in contemplation. > All that I labelled ‘mine’ is here no more. > I yield myself up to the Infinite, > I am within it, am naught else, am All. > Thought, soon returning, feels estranged, > Trembles before the Limitless; amazed, it cannot grasp > Such depths of contemplation. > Imagination links eternity > To sense. Ye lofty Shades, Spirits sublime, > Welcome! Ye from whose brows Perfection shines, > Ye fright me not. I feel: This also is my home, > This radiance austere that wraps you round. > Ha! Might the portals of thy Temple part, > O Ceres, erstwhile in Eleusis throned! > Drunken with ardour, now I feel > The terror of thy coming, > Even as thy Revelations dawn on me— > Then would I tell the sense sublime > Of figured images, would hear and understand > The hymns sung at a banquet of the Gods. Alas, thy halls are silent, Holy One! > Fled is the choir of Gods into Olympus, > Bare their polluted altars; > Fled from the grave of unenlightened Man > The genius of spotless magic that was here. > The wisdom of thy priests is dumb, no echo from their hallowed rites > Hath been preserved to us. In vain it quests, > The scholar's prying itch, without the love > Of wisdom. So possessed, they still despise thee. > Somewhat they hope to gain by grubbing after words, > Words that thy giant Meanings once informed - > In vain! They only turn up dust and ashes > And never never find therein thy life renewed. > What if in that disanimated trash > They found some pleasure? The complacent ghouls > Mistook: no vestige, not a trace remained > Of sacraments and images once thine. > Sons of initiation felt that high > Doctrine ineffable too full, too deep > To be bestowed in shrivelled vocables. > The soul touched by Eternity, > Immersed beyond the bounds of space and time, > By thought now unconfined forgets itself, > Then back to consciousness once more > Awakes. Who seeks to speak of this at all > To others feels, had he the tongues of angels, > The poverty of words—is horrified > To find the Sacred dwarfed by thoughts as small > As words will hold. His lips are sealed > Fearful before the sin of utterance. > What the adept forbade himself, wise laws > Enjoined on weaker minds: not to divulge > Aught that they saw, heard, felt throughout that holy night, > Lest the devotion of some better spirit > Be mischiefed by its noise; their pack of words > Might foster wrath with the Divine itself, > Were that so trodden in the mire > As even to be memorised, become > A toy, a Sophist's article on sale > For any shopper's obol, > Clothes for a fluent phraseman, even a task > Imposed on careless schoolboys—till at last > 'Twere left an empty thing, its living root > Only an echo heard through foreign tongues. > Oh never, Goddess, did thy sons with greed > Bandy thy Honour in the market place, > Rather were fain to guard it well > Within the arcane sanctum of the breast. > Therefore, not on their lips, but in their lives > Thou lived'st. In their deeds thou livest yet. > This night I too discerned thee, Holy One. > Often thy children by their life reveal thee. > I scent thee as the Soul within their deeds! > Thou art the exalted mind, the constant faith > Which, still, though ruin reign, betrays not the Divine.