The Arthur Machen Megapack: 25 Classic Works (169 page)

A dirge, while with a lamp of fire

Slowly he lights the sacred pyre

With sad desire.

See, for thy sake is weariness;

Queen for thy sake is great distress.

Let us not perish, kind earth mother,

Sister by sister, brother by brother:

But heavy with thy heaviness.

Mourning and weeping on the temple floor,

Let there be pity for our great complaint.

And as by the sea shore,

We, washing, all were freed from taint

Turn to us, mighty Queen, and weep no more.

So passed the day in mourning and in fast.

THE PROCESSION

The day is dawning. Whither shall we bend

Our steps, or whither send

The herald on before us; the great plain

Pours forth a shout of praise and many songs;

Thunders which roll and sweep the summer air,

Rising and falling like the swelling sea,

And striking all the soul with solemn awe.

Into the heart they rushed like sweet dark wine,

And all the rocks were ringing with the sound

All through the plain in which fair Athens stands,

Until the sailors seaward heard the noise

Of many thunders, and their hearts were stirred.

And worshipping they too took up the chant:

So it rolled along

Over the clean sweet waves till Thetis heard,

Deep in her palaces beneath the sea.

So sweet a song they made, the music yet

Is not all silenced, some clear notes remain

Though many waves of centuries have passed

Upon those pleasant days: but hark awhile

Unto the chorus, though the years have sped,

And the dim twilight of the word is come.

Goddess most fair,

Loving the gracious land

Of Greece, and the golden sand

Of all its shores, ruling with thy hand

Thy dear Athenian town, but present everywhere.

Are we not pleasing to thee?

Goddess and queen of the corn:

Holiest mother divine,

Grant us thy glory to see,

Bright as the coming of morn:

See how we kneel, and are present, and worship thy shrine.

Hail! thou most sweet

And gracious one,

Is it not meet

To praise thee when the sun

Pours forth strong far-reaching heat,

And then at evening when his race is run.

Ah! like a summer sea

At eventide

Thy beauty is to me,

I care for nought beside,

Save only thee;

Let thine anthems be upraised, let no chorus be denied.

Ah! soft and sweet

The maidens’ voices raise

Thy hymn of praise,

As through the winding street

With eager feet

They pass, crowned with roses and with bays.

If in the holy place

Men worship thee;

And pray to see thy face,

So we.

If in the inmost fane

Thy glory stands;

Grant us to touch, being without stain,

Thine hands.

If the priest veils his head

And boweth low;

Make us too, pure, as thou hast said,

As snow.

Keep us, who worship thee,

Within thy sight;

Let us, though in the darkness, see

Thy light.

So the whole city burst into a song

That reached us where we stood upon the hill;

And all the altars smoked with frankincense,

Which sailors, toiling in the eastern seas,

With many weary furrows of the deep,

Had brought unto the praise of Demeter.

And all the day the seven-stringed harp rejoiced.

And the procession passed along the streets.

Even until the darkness covered all.

And wearied with great joy the city slept.

THE DAY OF TORCHES

The sun has slowly sought his resting place,

And the dim twilight of the day has come:

The worshippers assemble in the streets,

Coming from all the by-ways of the town.

The priest is present; every one a torch

Carries on high, and joins the line of light

Moving towards the temple: let us go.

For there is neither song nor choral chant,

Only the solemn sound of many feet

Moving with one accord; and at the head

Slow walks the priest, holding a torch on high.

At length the long procession reached the place,

Holy to Demeter: then passing on

Through gates and dimly lighted passages,

Until they came unto the central hill.

All set with marble columns, dimly seen,

And here and there a lamp with rosy light

Burning before a statue or a shrine,

Lighting the dimness of the painted walls:

Until the place is full.

All through the night never a voice is heard

In all the echoing passages and halls.

All through the watches of the silent night

The lurid light of many torches shines,

On altar, statue, dimly painted frieze,

Of which the figures flicker, hardly seen

In the dim light of torches borne on high.

Still not a word! the watches of the night

Are passing swiftly: and the day is near.

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

Still must they stand,

Waiting and longing for the dawn to come;

For every light burns dimly; and the soul,

Weary of anguish, sickened with the watch.

Paler and paler grows the torch’s light,

More and yet more uncertain shew the walls,

And still no sign,..

Not from the priest, or from the weary crowd,

But very silence…

. . . . .

. . . . .

. . . . .

See! the rosy dawn

Is come at last: the priest has given the sign,

“Depart in peace, thy vigil has been watched.”

IACCHUS

The day is dawning. Whither shall we bend

Our steps, or whither send

The herald on before us? many strings

Are swept, and many echoings of song

Sound and resound throughout the city streets.

Is there a minstrel left?

Or any music which is still unthrilled

Among their choirs? ah! the voices rush

Up like a trumpet through the summer air.

Was ever song like this? the birds rejoice

And sing for gladness; but let us be still,

We are not worshippers; the years are fled,

And hushed the music, if a lingering voice

And echo of their gladness be revealed,

It is enough. Ah! that in early years,

Before the greyness of the world has come,

I could have worshipped also, but enough.

Perchance across the waste, and strain to hear,

What music then was made for weary hearts.

Hark! the chant sweeps and thrills,

Falling and rising like a mighty voice

Of many waters.

. . . . .

. . . . .

Through the city gates,

Unto the plain they pass a mighty throng,

For it is near the end, and a great joy

Fills every heart with praise and loud acclaim.

Sweet, we are thine, thy vision is not far,