Collected Works (Vol. I)

202 THE TEMPLE OF THE HOLY GHOST Slow steals the ambient light; white peace resumes In planet, element, and sign, her sway. The twisted ether shapes itself: relumes The benediction all the faded fumes With holier incense: in the fervid way All nature rests: .with holy calm I blend Blessing and prayer at the appointed end. THE ROSE AND THE CROSS.! Our of the seething cauldron of my woes, Where sweets and salt and bitterness I flung; Where charméd music gathered from my tongue, And where I chained strange archipelagoes Of fallen stars ; where fiery passion flows A curious bitumen ; where among The glowing medley moved the tune unsung Of perfect love: thence grew the Mystic Rose. Its myriad petals of divided light ; Its leaves of the most radiant emerald ; Its heart of fire like rubies. At the sight I lifted up my heart to God and called : How shall I pluck this dream of my desire? And lo! there shaped itself the Cross of Fire! HAPPINESS. Ir is the seasonable sun of spring That gilds the all-rejuvenescent air— New buds, young birds, so‘happy in the rare Fresh life of earth: myself am bound to sing, Feeling the resurrection crown me king. I am so happy as men never were. Of sorrow much, of suffering a share, Leave me unmoved, or leave me conquering. 1 The symbol of the ‘‘ Rose and Cross” now replaces that of the ‘‘Golden Dawn.” We may suppose from this that Crowley was about this time received into the former fraternity. O miserable ! that it should be so! Lord Jesus, Sufferer for the sins of man, Thou didst invite me to Thy shame and loss. And Iam happy! Pity me! Bestow The right to work in the eternal Plan, The right to hang on the eternal Cross! THE LORD’S DAY. THE foolish bells with their discordant clang Summon the harlot-ridden Hell to pray : The vicar’s snout is tuned, the curates bray Long gabbled lessons, and their noisy twang Kills the foul worshippers with hate ; the fang Of boredom crushes out the holy day, Where whore and jobber sit and gloom, grown grey For hating of each other ; the hours hang. But where cliffs tremble, and the wind and sea Clamour, night thunders from the roaring West ; I worship in the storm, and fires flee From my gripped lightnings and my burn- ing crest ; And when my voice rolls, master of the weather, A thousand mighty angels cry together ! BRIGHTON, January 1899. CERBERUS. I stoop within Death’s gate, And blew the horn of Hell: Mad laughters echoing against Fate, Harsh groans less terrible, Ifowled from beneath the vault ; in night the avenging thunders swell. The guardian stood aloof, A monster multiform. His armour was of triple proof, His voice out-shrilled the storm. Behind him all the Furies whirl and all the Harpies swarm.