The Return Of Law Poem by Francis Turner Palgrave

1660

At last the long darkness of anarchy lifts, and the dawn o'er the gray
In rosy pulsation floods; the tremulous amber of day:
In the golden umbrage of spring-tide, the dewy delight of the sward,
The liquid voices awake, the new morn with music reward.
Peace in her car goes up; a rainbow curves for her road;
Law and fair Order before her, the reinless coursers of God;--
Round her the gracious maids in circling majesty shine;
They are rich in blossoms and blessings, the Hours, the white, the
divine!

Hands in sisterly hands they unite, eye calling on eye;
Smiles more speaking than words, as the pageant sweeps o'er the sky.
Plenty is with them, and Commerce; all gifts of all lands from her horn
Raining on England profuse; and, clad in the beams of the morn,
Her warrior-guardian of old the red standard rears in its might;
And the Love-star trembles above, and passes, light into light.

Many the marvels of earth, the more marvellous wonders on high,
Worlds past number on worlds, blank lightless abysses of sky;
But thou art the wonder of wonders, O Man! Thy impalpable soul,
Atom of consciousness, measuring the Infinite, grasping the whole:
Then, on the trivialest transiencies fix'd, or plucking for fruit
Dead-sea apples and ashes of sin, more brute than the brute.
Yet in thy deepest depths, filth-wallowing orgies of night,
Lust remorseless of blood, yet, allow'd an inlet for light:
As where, a thousand fathom beneath us, midnight afar
Glooms in some gulph, and we gaze, and, behold! one flash of one star!
For, ever, the golden gates stand open, the transit is free
For the human to mix with divine; from himself to the Highest to flee.
Lo on its knees by the bedside the babe:--and the song that we hear
Has been heard already in Heaven! the low-lisp'd music is clear:--
For, fresh from the hand of the Maker, the child still breathes the light
air
Of the House Angelic, the meadow where souls yet unbodied repair,
Lucid with love, translucent with bliss, and know not the doom
In the Marah valley of life laid up for the sons of the womb.
--I speak not of grovelling hearts, souls blind and begrimed from the
birth,
But the spirits of nobler strain, the elect of the children of earth:--
For the needle swerves from the pole; they cannot do what they would;
In their truest aim is falsehood, and ill out-balancing good.
Faith's first felicities fade; the world-mists thicken and roll,
'Neath the heavens arching their heaven; o'er-hazing the eye of the soul.
Then the vision is pure no longer; refracted above us arise
The phantasmal figures of passion; earth's mirage exhaled to the skies.
And they go as the castled clouds o'er the verge when the tempest is
laid,
Towering Ambition, and Glory, and Self as Duty array'd:--
Idols no less than that idol whom lustful Ammon of yore
With the death-scream of children, a furnace of blood, was fain to adore!
So these, in the shrine of the soul, for a Moloch sacrifice cry,
The conscience of candid childhood, the pure directness of eye:--
Till the man yields himself to himself, accepting his will as his fate,
And the light from above within him is darkness; the darkness how great!

O Land whom the Gods,--loving most,--most sorely in wisdom have tried,
England! since Time was Time, thrice swept by the conqueror tide,
Why on thyself thrice turn, thrice crimson thy greenness in gore,
With the slain of thy children, as sheep, thy meadows whitening-o'er?
Race impatiently patient; tenacious of foe as of friend;
Slow to take flame; but, enflamed, that burns thyself out to the end:
Slow to return to the balance, once moved; not easily sway'd
From the centre, and, star-like, retracing thy orbit through sunlight and
shade!
--Without hate, without party affection, we now look back on the fray,
Through the mellowing magic of time the phantoms emerging to day!
Grasping too much for self, unjust to his rival in strife,
Each foe with good conscience and honour advances; war to the knife!
Lo, where with feebler hand the Stuart essays him to guide
The disdainful coursers of Henry, the Tudor car in its pride!
For he saw not the past was past; nor the swirl and inrush of the tide,
A nation arising in manhood; its will would no more be denied.
They would share in the labour and peril of State; they must perish or
win;
'Tis the instinct of Freedom that cries; a voice of Nature within!
Narrow the cry and sectarian oft: true sons of their age;
Justice avenged unjustly; yet more in sorrow than rage;
Till they drank the poison of power, the Circe-cup of command,
And the face of Liberty fail'd, and the sword was snatch'd from her hand.
Now Law 'neath the scaffold cowers, and,--shame engendering shame,--
The hell-pack of war is laid close on the land for ruin and flame.
For as things most holy are worst, from holiness when they decline,
So Law, in the name of law once outraged, demon-divine,
Swoops back as Anarchy arm'd, and maddens her lovers of yore,
Changed from their former selves, and clothed in the chrisom of gore.
Then Falkland and Hampden are gone; and darker counsels arise;
Vane with his tortuous soul, through over-wisdom unwise;
Pym, deep stately designer, the subtle in simple disguised,
Artist in plots, projector of panics he used, and despised!
--But as, in the mountain world, where the giants each lift up their horn
To the skies defiant and pale, and our littleness measure and scorn,
Frowning-out from their far-off summits: and eye and mind may not know
Which is hugest, where all are huge: But, as from the region we go
Receding, the Titan of Titans comes forth, and above him the sky
Is deepest: and lo!--'tis the White One, the Monarch!--He mounts, as we
fly!
Or as over the sea the gay ships and the dolphins glisten and flit,
And then that Leviathan comes, and takes his pastime in it;
And wherever he ploughs his dark road, they must sink or follow him
still,
For his is the bulkiest strength, the proud and paramount will!
--Thou wast great, O King! (for we grudge not the style thou didst yearn-
for in vain,
But a river of blood was between and an ineffaceable stain),
Great with an earth-born greatness; a Titan of awe, not of love;
'Twas strength and subtlety balanced; the wisdom not from above.
For he leant o'er his own deep soul, oracular; over the pit
As the Pythia throned her of old, where the rock in Delphi was split;
And the vapour and echo within he mis-held for divine; and the land
Heard and obey'd, unwillingly willing, the voice of command.
--Soaring enormous soul, that to height o'er the highest aspires;
All that the man can seize being nought to what he desires!
And as, in a palace nurtured, the child to courtesy grows,
Becoming at last what it acts; so man on himself can impose,
Drill and accustom himself to humility, till, like an art,
The lesson the fingers have learn'd appears the command of the heart;
Whilst pride, as the snake at the charmer's command, coils low in its
place,
And he wears to himself and his fellows the mask that is almost a face.
Truest of hypocrites, he!--in himself entangled, he thinks
Earth uprising to Heaven, while earth-ward the heavenly sinks:
Conscience, we grant it, his guide; but conscience drugg'd and deceived;
Conscience which all that his self-belief whisper'd as duty believed.
And though he sought earnest for God, in life-long wrestle and prayer,
Yet the sky by a veil was darken'd, a phantom flitting in air;
For a cloud from that seething cavernous heart fumed out in his youth,
And whatever he will'd in the strength of the soul was imaged as truth:--
Grew with his growth: And now 'tis Ambition, disguised in success;
And he walks with the step assured, that cares not its issue to guess,
Clear in immediate purpose: and moulding his party at will,
He thrones it o'er obstinate sects, his ideal constrain'd to fulfil.
Cool in his very heat, self-master, he masters the realm:
God and His glory the flag; but King Oliver lord of the helm!
As he needs, steers crooked or straight: with his eye controlling the
proud,
While blandness runs from his tongue, as the candidate fawns on the
crowd;
Sagest of Titans, he stands; dark, ponderous, muddy-profound,
Greatness untemper'd, untuned; no song, but a chaos of sound:--
Yet the key-note is ever beneath: 'Mere humble instruments! See!
Poor weak saints, at the best: but who has triumph'd as we?'
Thanks the Lord for each massacre-mercy, His glory, for His is the Cause:
Catlike he bridles, and purrs about God: but within are the claws,
The lion-strength is within!--Vane, Ludlow, Hutchinson, knew,
When the bauble of Law disappear'd, and the sulky senate withdrew:
When the tyrannous Ten sword-silenced the land, and the necks of the
strong
By the heel of their great Dictator were bruised, wrong trampling on
wrong.
Least willing of despots! and fain the fair temple of Law to restore,
Sheathing the sword in the sceptre: But lo! as in legends of yore,
Once drawn, once redden'd, it may not return to the scabbard!--and
straight
On that iron-track'd path he had framed to the end he is goaded by Fate.
And yet, as a temperate man, to flavour some exquisite dish,
Without stint pours forth the red wine, thus only can compass his wish;
Upon Erin the death-mark he brands, the Party and Cause to secure;
Not bloodthirsty by birth; just, liquor 'twas needful to pour;
Only the wine of man's blood! . . . But the horrible sacrament thrill'd
Right through the heart of a nation; nor yet is the memory still'd;
E'en yet the dim spectre returns, the ghost of the murderous years,
Blood flushing out in hatred; or blood transmuted to tears!
--Ah strange drama of Fate! what motley pageantries rise
On the stage of this make-shift world! what irony silenced in sighs!
For as when the Switzer looks down on the dell, from the pass and the
snow,
Sees the peace of the fields, the white farms, the clear equable
streamlet below,
And before him the world unknown, the blaze of the shadowless Line,
Riches ill-purchased in exile, the toiling plantation and mine;
And the horn floats up the faint music of youth from his forefathers'
fold,
And he sighs for the patient life, the peace more golden than gold:--
So He now looks back on the years, and groans 'neath the load he must
bear,
Loving this England that loathed him, and none the burden to share!
Gagging not gaining souls: to the close he wonders in vain
Why he cannot win hearts: why 'tis only the will that resigns to his
reign.
As that great image in Dura, the land perforce must obey,
Unloved, unlovely,--and not the feet only of iron and clay,--
Atlas of this wide realm! in himself he summ'd up the whole;
Its children the Cause had devour'd: the sword was childless and sole.

--Ah strange drama of Fate! what motley pageantries rise
On the stage of this make-shift world! what irony silenced in sighs!
In the strait beneath Etna for as the waves ebb, and Scylla betrays
The monster below, foul scales of the serpent and slime,--could we gaze
On Tyranny stript of her tinsel, what vision of dool and dismay!
Terror in confidence clothed, and anarchy biding her day:
Selfishness hero-mask'd; stage-tricks of the shabby-sublime;
Impotent gaspings at good; and the deluge after her time!

--Is it war that thunders o'er England, and bursts the millennial oak
From his base like a castle uprooted, and shears with impalpable stroke
The sails from the ocean, the houses of men, while the Conqueror lay
On the morn of his crowning mercy, and life flicker'd down with the day?
Is it war on the earth, or war in the skies, or Nature who tolls
Her passing-bell as from earth they go up, her imperial souls?
--He rests:--'Tis a lion-sleep: and the sternness of Truth is reproved:
The sleep of a leader of men; unhuman, to watch him unmoved!
In the stillness of pity and awe we remember his troublesome years,
For man is the magnet to man, and mortal failure has tears.
--He rests:--On the massive brows, as a rock by the sunrise is crown'd,
His passionate love for the land, in a glory-coronal bound!
And Mercy dawns fast o'er the dead, from the bier as we turn and depart,
England for England's sake clasp'd firm as a child to his heart.
--He rests:--And the storm-clouds have fled, and the sunshine of Nature
repress'd
Breaks o'er the realm in smiles, and the land again has her rest.
He rests: the great spirit is hid where from heaven the veil is unroll'd,
And justice merges in love, and the dross is purged from the gold.