Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Alfred H. Miles, ed. Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.

By The Ascent of Man (1889) (Part III). The Leading of Sorrow

Mathilde Blind (1841–1896)

THROUGH a twilight land, a moaning region,

Thick with sighs that shook the trembling air

Land of shadows whose dim crew was legion,

Lost I hurried, hunted by despair.

Quailed my heart like an expiring splendour,

Fitful flicker of a faltering fire,

Smitten chords which tempest-stricken render

Rhythms of anguish from a breaking lyre.

Love had left me in a land of shadows,

Lonely on the ruins of delight,

And I grieved with tearless grief of widows,

Moaned as orphans homeless in the night.

Love had left me knocking at Death’s portal—

Shone his star and vanished from my sky—

And I cried: “Since Love, even Love, is mortal

Take, unmake, and break me; let me die.”

Then, the twilight’s grisly veils dividing,

Phantom-like there stole one o’er the plain,

Wavering mists for ever round it gliding

Hid the face I strove to scan in vain.

Spake the veiled one: “Solitary weeper,

’Mid the myriad mourners thou’rt but one:

Come, and thou shalt see the awful reaper,

Evil, reaping all beneath the sun.”

On my hand the clay-cold hand did fasten

As it murmured—“Up and follow me;

O’er the thickly peopled earth we’ll hasten,

Yet more thickly packed with misery.”

And I followed: ever in the shadow

Of that looming form I fared along;

Now o’er mountains, now through wood and meadow,

Or through cities with their surging throng.

With none other for a friend or fellow

Those relentless footsteps were my guide

To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow

Immemorial moaning of the tide.

Laughed the sunlight on the living ocean,

Danced and rocked itself upon the spray,

And its shivered beams in twinkling motion

Gleamed like star-motes in the Milky Way.

Lo, beneath those waters surging, flowing,

I beheld the Deep’s fantastic bowers;

Shapes which seemed alive and yet were growing

On their stalks like animated flowers.

Sentient flowers which seemed to glow and glimmer

Soft as ocean blush of Indian shells,

White as foam-drift in the moony, shimmer

Of those sea-lit, wave-pavilioned dells.

Yet even here, as in the fire-eyed panther,

In disguise the eternal hunger lay,

For each feathery, velvet-tufted anther

Lay in ambush waiting for its prey.

Tiniest jewelled fish that flashed like lightning,

Blindly drawn, came darting through the wave,

When, a stifling sack above them tightening,

Closed the ocean-blossom’s living grave.

Now we fared through forest glooms primeval

Through whose leaves the light but rarely shone,

Where the buttressed tree-trunks looked coeval

With the time-worn, ocean-fretted stone;

Where, from stem to stem their tendrils looping,

Coiled the lithe lianas fold on fold,

Or, in cataracts of verdure drooping,

From on high their billowy leafage rolled.

Where beneath the dusky woodland cover,

While the noon-hush holds all living things,

Butterflies of tropic splendour hover

In a maze of rainbow-coloured wings:

Some like stars light up their own green heaven,

Some are spangled like a golden toy,

Or like flowers from their foliage driven

In the fiery ecstasy of joy.

But, the forest slumber rudely breaking,

Through the silence rings a piercing yell;

At the cry unnumbered beasts, awaking,

With their howls the loud confusion swell.

’Tis the cry of some frail creature panting

In the tiger’s lacerating grip;

In its flesh carnivorous teeth implanting,

While the blood smokes round his wrinkled lip.

’Tis the scream some bird in terror utters,

With its wings weighed down by leaned fears,

As from bough to downward bough it flutters

Where the snake its glistening crest uprears:

Eyes of sluggish greed through rank weeds stealing,

Breath whose venomous fumes mount through the air,

Till benumbed the helpless victim, reeling,

Drops convulsed into the reptile snare.

Now we fared o’er sweltering wastes whose steaming

Clouds of tawny sand the wanderer blind.

Herds of horses with their long manes streaming

Snorted thirstily against the wind;

O’er the waste they scoured in shadowy numbers,

Gasped for springs their raging thirst to cool,

And, like sick men mocked in fevered slumbers,

Stoop to drink—and find a phantom pool.

What of antelopes crunched by the leopard?

What if hounds run down the timid hare?

What though sheep, strayed from the faithful shepherd,

Perish helpless in the lion’s lair?

The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding,

In the night shines the unruffled moon,

Though on earth brute myriads, preying, bleeding,

Put creation harshly out of tune.

Cried I, turning to the shrouded figure—

“Oh, in mercy veil this cruel strife!

Sanguinary orgies which disfigure

The green ways of labyrinthine life.

From the needs and greeds of primal passion,

From the serpent’s track and lion’s den,

To the world our human hands did fashion,

Lead me to the kindly haunts of men.”

And through fields of corn we passed together,

Orange golden in the brooding heat,

Where brown reapers in the harvest weather

Cut ripe swathes of downward rustling wheat.

In the orchards dangling red and yellow,

Clustered fruit weighed down the bending sprays;

On a hundred hills the vines grew mellow

In the warmth of fostering autumn days.

Through the air the shrilly twittering swallows

Flashed their nimble shadows on the leas;

Red-flecked cows were glassed in golden shallows,

Purple clover hummed with restless bees.

Herdsmen drove the cattle from the mountain,

To the fold the shepherd drove his flocks,

Village girls drew water from the fountain,

Village yokels piled the full-eared shocks.

From the white town dozing in the valley,

Round its vast Cathedral’s solemn shade,

Citizens strolled down the walnut alley

Where youth courted and glad childhood played.

“Peace on earth,” I murmured; “let us linger—

Here the wage of life seems good at least:”

As I spake the veiled One raised a finger

Where the moon broke flowering in the east.

Faintly muttering from deep mountain ranges,

Muffled sounds rose hoarsely on the night,

As the crash of foundering avalanches

Wakes hoarse echoes in each Alpine height.

Near and nearer sounds the roaring—thunder,

Mortal thunder, crashes through the vale;

Lightning flash of muskets breaks from under

Groves once haunted by the nightingale.

Men clutch madly at each weapon—women,

Children crouch in cellars, under roofs,

For the town is circled by their foemen—

Shakes the ground with clang of trampling hoofs.

Shot on shot the volleys hiss and rattle,

Shrilly whistling fly the murderous balls,

Fiercely roars the tumult of the battle

Round the hard-contested, dear-bought walls.

Horror, horror! The fair town is burning,

Flames burst forth, wild sparks and ashes fly;

With her children’s blood the green earth’s turning

Blood-red—blood-red, too, the cloud-winged sky.

Crackling flare the streets: from the lone steeple

The great clock booms forth its ancient chime,

And its dolorous quarters warn the people

Of the conquering troops that march with time.

Fallen lies the fair old town, its houses

Charred and ruined gape in smoking heaps;

Here with shouts a ruffian band carouses,

There an outraged woman vainly weeps.

In the fields where the ripe corn lies mangled,

Where the wounded groan beneath the dead,

Friend and foe, now helplessly entangled,

Stain red poppies with a guiltier red.

There the dog howls o’er his perished master,

There the crow comes circling from afar;

All vile things that batten on disaster

Follow feasting in the wake of war.

Famine follows—what they ploughed and planted

The unhappy peasants shall not reap;

Sickening of strange meats and fever haunted,

To their graves they prematurely creep.

“Hence”—I cried in unavailing pity—

“Let us flee these scenes of monstrous strife,

Seek the pale of some imperial city

Where the law rules starlike o’er man’s life.”

Straightway floating o’er blue sea and river,

We were plunged into a roaring cloud,

Wherethrough lamps in ague fits did shiver

O’er the surging multitudinous crowd.

Piles of stone, their cliff-like walls uprearing,

Flashed in luminous lines along the night;

Jets of flame, spasmodically flaring,

Splashed black pavements with a sickly light;

Fabulous gems shone here, and glowing coral,

Shimmering stuffs from many an Eastern loom,

And vast piles of tropic fruits and floral

Marvels seemed to mock November’s gloom.

But what prowls near princely mart and dwelling,

Whence through many a thundering thoroughfare

Rich folk roll on cushions softly swelling

To the week-day feast and Sunday prayer?

Yea, who prowl there, hunger-nipped and pallid,

Breathing nightmares limned upon the gloom?

’Tis but human rubbish, gaunt and squalid,

Whom their country spurns for lack of room.

In their devious track we mutely follow,

Mutely climb dim flights of oozy stairs,

Where through gap-toothed, mizzling roof the yellow

Pestilent fog blends with the fetid air.

Through the unhinged door’s discordant slamming

Ring the gruesome sounds of savage strife—

Howls of babes, the drunken father’s damning,

Counter-cursing of the shrill-tongued wife.

Children feebly crying on their mother

In a wailful chorus—“Give us food!”

Man and woman glaring at each other

Like two gaunt wolves with a famished brood.

Till he snatched a stick, and, madly staring,

Struck her blow and blow upon the head;

And she, reeling back, gasped, hardly caring—

“Ah, you’ve done it now, Jim”—and was dead.

Dead—dead—dead—the miserable creature—

Never to feel hunger’s cruel fang

Wring the bowels of rebellious nature

That her infants might be spared the pang.

“Dead! Good luck to her!” The man’s teeth chattered,

Stone-still stared he with blank eyes and hard,

Then, his frame with one big sob nigh shattered,

Fled—and cut his throat down in the yard.

Dark the night—the children wail forsaken,

Crane their wrinkled necks and cry for food,

Drop off into fitful sleep, or waken

Trembling like a sparrow’s ravished brood.

Dark the night—the rain falls on the ashes,

Feebly hissing on the feeble heat,

Filters through the ceiling, drops in splashes

On the little children’s naked feet.

Dark the night—the children wail forsaken—

Is there none, ah, none, to heed their moan?

Yea, at dawn one little one is taken,

Four poor souls are left, but one is gone.

Gone—escaped—flown from the shame and sorrow

Waiting for them at life’s sombre gate,

But the hand of merciless to-morrow

Drags the others shuddering to their fate.

But one came—a girlish thing—a creature

Flung by wanton hands ’mid lust and crime—

A poor outcast, yet by right of nature

Sweet as odour of the upland thyme.

Scapegoat of a people’s sins, and hunted,

Howled at, hooted to the wilderness,

To that wilderness of deaf hearts, blunted

To the depths of woman’s dumb distress.

Jetsam, flotsam of the monster city,

Spurned, denied, reviled, that outcast came

To those babes that whined for love and pity,

Gave them bread bought with the wage of shame.

Gave them bread, and gave them warm, maternal

Kisses not on sale for any price:

Yea, a spark, a flash of some eternal

Sympathy shone through those haunted eyes.

Ah, perchance through her dark life’s confusion,

Through the haste and taste of fevered hours,

Gusts of memory on her youth’s pollution

Blew forgotten scents of faded flowers.

And she saw the cottage near the wild wood,

With its lichened roof and latticed panes,

Strayed once more through golden fields of childhood,

Hyacinth dells and hawthorn-scented lanes.

Heard once more the song of nesting thrushes

And the blackbird’s long mellifluous note,

Felt once more the glow of maiden blushes

Burn through rosy cheek and milkwhite throat

In that orchard where the apple blossom

Lightly shaken fluttered on her hair,

As the heart was fluttering in her bosom

When her sweetheart came and kissed her there.

Often came he in the lilac-laden

Moonlit twilight, often pledged his word;

But she was a simple country-maiden,

He the offspring of a noble lord.

Fading lilacs May’s farewell betoken,

Fledglings fly and soon forget the nest;

Lightly may a young man’s vows be broken,

And the heart break in a woman’s breast.

Gathered like a sprig of summer roses

In the dewy morn and flung away,

To the girl the father’s door now closes,

Let her shelter henceforth how she may.

Who will house the miserable mother

With her child, a helpless castaway!

“I, am I the keeper of my brother?”

Asks smug virtue as it turns to pray!

Lovely are the earliest Lenten lilies,

Primrose pleiads, hyacinthine sheets;

Stripped and rifled from their pastoral valleys,

See them sold now in the public streets!

Other flowers are sold there besides posies—

Eyes may have the hyacinth’s glowing blue,

Rounded cheeks the velvet bloom of roses,

Taper necks the rain-washed lily’s hue.

But a rustic blossom! Love and duty

Bound up in a child whom hunger slays!

Ah! but one thing still is left her—beauty

Fresh, untarnished yet—and beauty pays.

Beauty keeps her child alive a little,

Then it dies—her woman’s love with it—

Beauty’s brilliant sceptre, ah, how brittle,

Drags her daily deeper down the pit.

Ruin closes o’er her—hideous, nameless;

Each fresh morning marks a deeper fall;

Till at twenty—callous, cankered, shameless,

She lies dying at the hospital.

Drink, more drink, she calls for—her harsh laughter

Grates upon the meekly praying nurse,

Eloquent about her soul’s hereafter:

“Souls be blowed!” she sings out with a curse.

And so dies, an unrepenting sinner—

Pitched into her pauper’s grave what time

That most noble lord rides by to dinner

Who had wooed her in her innocent prime.

And in after-dinner talk he preaches

Resignation—o’er his burgundy—

Till a grateful public dubs his speeches

Oracles of true philanthropy.

Peace ye call this? Call this justice, meted

Equally to rich and poor alike?

Better than this peace the battle’s heated

Cannon-balls that ask not whom they strike!

Better than this masquerade of culture

Hiding strange hyæna appetites,

The frank ravening of the raw-necked vulture

As its beak the senseless carrion smites.

What of men in bondage, toiling blunted

In the roaring factory’s lurid gloom?

What of cradled infants starved and stunted?

What of woman’s nameless martyrdom?

The all-seeing sun shines on unheeding,

Shines by night the calm, unruffled moon,

Though the human myriads, preying, bleeding,

Put creation harshly out of tune.

“Hence, ah, hence”—I sobbed in quivering passion—

“From these fearful haunts of fiendish men!

Better far the plain, carnivorous fashion

Which is practised in the lion’s den.”

And I fled—yet staggering still did follow

In the footprints of my shrouded guide—

To the sea-caves echoing with the hollow

Immemorial moaning of the tide.

Sinking, swelling roared the wintry ocean,

Pitch-black chasms struck with flying blaze,

As the cloud-winged storm-sky’s sheer commotion

Showed the blank Moon’s mute Medusa face

White o’er wastes of water—surges crashing

Over surges in the formless gloom,

And a mastless hulk, with great seas washing

Her scourged flanks, pitched toppling to her doom.

Through the crash of wave on wave gigantic,

Through the thunder of the hurricane,

My wild heart in breaking shrilled with frantic

Exultation—“Chaos come again!

Yea, let earth be split and cloven asunder

With man’s still accumulating curse—

Life is but a momentary blunder

In the cycle of the Universe.

“Yea, let earth with forest-belted mountains,

Hills and valleys, cataracts and plains,

With her clouds and storms and fires and fountains,

Pass with all her rolling sphere contains,

Melt, dissolve again into the ocean,

Ocean fade into a nebulous haze!”

And I sank back without sense or motion

’Neath the blank Moon’s mute Medusa face.

Moments, years, or ages passed, when, lifting

Freezing lids, I felt the heavens on high,

And, innumerable as the sea-sands drifting,

Stars unnumbered drifted through the sky.

Rhythmical in luminous rotation,

In dædalian maze they reel and fly,

And their rushing light is Time’s pulsation

In his passage through Eternity.

Constellated suns, fresh lit, declining,

Were ignited now, now quenched in space,

Rolling round each other, or inclining

Orb to orb in multi-coloured rays.

Ever showering from their flaming fountains

Light more light on each far-circling earth,

Till life stirred crepuscular seas, and mountains

Heaved convulsive with the throes of birth.

And the noble brotherhood of planets,

Knitted each to each by links of light,

Circled round their suns, nor knew a minute’s

Lapse or languor in their ceaseless flight.

And pale moons and rings and burning splinters

Of wrecked worlds swept round their parent spheres,

Clothed with spring or sunk in polar winters

As their sun draws nigh or disappears.

Still new vistas of new stars—far dwindling—

Through the firmament like dewdrops roll,

Torches of the Cosmos which enkindling

Flash their revelation on the soul.

Yea, One spake there—though nor form nor feature

Shown—a Voice came from the peaks of time:—

“Wilt thou judge me, wilt thou curse me, Creature

Whom I raised up from the Ocean slime?

“Long I waited—ages rolled o’er ages—

As I crystallized in granite rocks,

Struggling dumb through immemorial stages,

Glacial æons, fiery earthquake shocks.

In fierce throbs of flame or slow upheaval,

Speck by tiny speck, I topped the seas,

Leaped from earth’s dark womb, and in primeval

Forests shot up shafts of mammoth trees.

“Through a myriad forms I yearned and panted,

Putting forth quick shoots in endless swarms—

Giant-hoofed, sharp-tusked, or finned or planted

Writhing on the reef with pinioned arms.

I have climbed from reek of sanguine revels

In Cimmerian wood and thorny wild,

Slowly upwards to the dawnlit levels

Where I bore thee, oh my youngest Child!

“Oh, my heir and hope of my to-morrow,

I—I draw thee on through fume and fret,

Croon to thee in pain and call through sorrow,

Flowers and stars take for thy alphabet.

Through the eyes of animals appealing,

Feel my fettered spirit yearn to thine,

Who, in storm of will and clash of feeling,

Shape the life that shall be—the divine.

“Oh, redeem me from my tiger rages,

Reptile greed, and foul hyæna lust;

With the hero’s deeds, the thoughts of sages,

Sow and fructify this passive dust;

Drop in dew and healing love of woman

On the bloodstained hands of hungry strife,

Till there break from passion of the Human

Morning-glory of transfigured life.

“I have cast my burden on thy shoulder;

Unimagined potencies have given

That from formless Chaos thou shalt mould her

And translate gross earth to luminous heaven.

Bear, oh, bear the terrible compulsion,

Flinch not from the path thy fathers trod,

From Man’s martyrdom in slow convulsion,

Will be born the infinite goodness—God.”

Ceased the Voice: and as it ceased it drifted

Like the seashell’s inarticulate moan;

From the Deep, on wings of flame uplifted,

Rose the sun rejoicing and alone.

Laughed in light upon the living ocean,

Danced and rocked itself upon the spray,

And its shivered beams in twinkling motion

Gleamed like star-motes of the Milky Way.

And beside me in the golden morning

I beheld my shrouded phantom-guide;

But no longer sorrow-veiled and mourning—

It became transfigured by my side.

And I knew—as one escaped from prison

Sees old things again with fresh surprise—

It was Love himself, Love re-arisen

With the Eternal shining through his eyes.