Collected Works (Vol. I)

106 MYSTERIES: LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC Crowned over life, and conqueror of death, The godhood that was Christ of Nazareth— Who of all men, that will not gird his brand And purge from priestcraft the uxorious land? Christ, who lived, died, and lived, that man might be Tameless and tranquil as the summer sea, That laughs with love of the broad skies of noon, And dreams of lazy kissings of the moon, But listens for the summons of the wind, Shakes its white mane, and hurls its fury blind Against oppression, gathers its steep side, Rears as a springing tiger, flings its tide Tremendous on the barriers, smites the sand, And gluts its hunger on the breaking land ; Engulphing waters fall and overwhelm :— Christ, who stood dauntless at the shaken helm | On Galilee, who quelled the wrath of God, And rose triumphant over faith, and trod With calm victorious feet the icy way When springtide burgeoned, and the rosy day Leapt from beneath the splendours of the snow :— Christ, ultimate master of man’s hateful foe, And lord of his own soul and fate, strikes still From man’s own heaven, against the lord of ill; | Stage thunders mock the once terrific nod That spoke the fury of the Christian God, Whose slaves deny, too cowardly to abjure, Their desecrated Moloch. The impure Godhead is powerless, even on the slave, Who once could scar the forehead of the brave, Break love’s heart pitiful, and reach the strong Through stricken children, and a mother’s wrong. Day after darkness, life beyond the tomh ! Manhood reluctant from religion’s womb Leaps, and sweet laughters flash for freedom’s birth That thrills the old bosom of maternal earth. The dawn has broken ; yet the impure fierce fire Kindles the grievous furnace of desire Still for the harpy brood of king and priest, Slave, harlot, coward, that make human feast Before the desecrated god, in hells Of darkness, where the mitred vampire dwells, Where still death reigns, and God and priests are fed, Man’s blood for wine, man’s flesh for meat and bread, The lands of murder, of the obscene things That snarl at freedom, broken by her wings, That prop the abomination, cringe and smile, Caressing the dead fetich, that defile With hideous sacraments the happy land. Destruction claims its own; the hero’s hand Grips the snake’s throat; yea, on its head is set The heel that crushes it, the serpent wet With that foul blood, from human vitals drained, From tears of broken women, and sweat stained From torturers’ cloths; the sickly tide is poured, And all the earth is blasted; the green sward Burns where it touches, and the barren sod Rejects the poison of the blood of God. Yet, through the foam of waters that enclose Their sweet salt bosoms, through the summer rose, Through flowers of fatal fire, through fields of air That summer squanders, ere the bright moon bare Her maiden bosom, through the kissing gold Where lovers’ lips are molten, and breasts hold Their sister bodies, and deep eyes are wed, And fire of fire enflowers the sacred head Of mingling passion, through the silent sleep Where love sobs out its )ife, and new Joves leap To being, through the dawn of all new things, There burns an angel whose amazing wings