William Douw Lighthall
The Artist’s Prayer
I KNOW thee not, O Spirit fair!
O Life and flying Unity
Of Loveliness! Must man despair
Forever in his chase of thee!
When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt,
Then feel I that thou art on high;
When fire o’er all the west is spilt,
Flames at its heart thy majesty.
Thy beauty basks on distant hills;
It smiles in eve’s wine-coloured sea;
It shakes its light on leaves and rills,
In calm ideals it mocks at me.
Thy glances strike from many a lake
That lines through woodland scapes a-sheen;
Yet to thine eyes I never wake:—
They glance, but they remain unseen.
I know thee not, O Spirit fair!
Thou fillest heaven: the stars are thee:
Whatever fleets with beauty rare
Fleets radiant from thy mystery.
Forever thou art near my grasp;
Thy touches pass in twilight air;
Yet still—thy shapes elude my clasp—
I know thee not, thou Spirit fair!
O Ether, proud, and vast, and great,
Above the legions of the stars!
To this thou art not adequate;—
Nor rainbow’s glorious scimitars.
I know thee not, thou Spirit sweet!
I chained pursue, while thou art free.
Sole by the smile I sometimes meet
I know thou, Vast One, knowest me.
In old religions hadst thou place:
Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit!
Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute
Through countless ages dreamt thy grace.
Gray nations felt thee o’er them tower;
Some clothed thee in fantastic dress;
Some thought thee as the unknown Power,
I, e’er the unknown Loveliness.
To all thou wert as harps of joy;
To bard and sage their fulgent sun:
To priests their mystic life’s employ;
But unto me the Lovely One.
Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm;
The might they tracked, but I the grace;
They learnt all forces were thine Arm,
I that all beauty was thy Face.
Night spares us little. Wanderers we.
Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare
But shape our darknesses of thee,—
We know thee not, thou Spirit fair!
Would that thine awful Peerlessness
An hour could shine o’er heaven and earth,
And I the maddening power possess
To drink the cup,—O Godlike birth!
All life impels me to thy search:
Without thee, yea, to live were null;
Still shall I make the dawn thy Church,
And pray thee “God the Beautiful.”
The Sweet Star
THE sweet Star of the Bethlehem night
Beauteous guides and true,
And still, to me and you
With only local, legendary light.
For us who hither look with eyes afar
From constellations of philosophy,
All light is from the Cradle; the true star,
Serene o’er distance, in the Life we see.
My Native Land
ROME, Florence, Venice—noble, fair and quaint,
They reign in robes of magic round me here;
But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,
With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.
Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!
I see the fields, I see the autumn hand
Of God upon the maples! Answer Him
With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!
I see the sun break over you; the mist
On hills that lift from iron bases grand
Their heads superb!—the dream, it is my native land.