Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ZENITH, by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ZENITH, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: We watched the gradual rising of a star
Last Line: Beneath the king's own smile, -- perpetual zenith thine.
Subject(s): Alps; Christmas; Jesus Christ; Mountains; Night; Stars; Nativity, The; Hills; Downs (great Britain); Bedtime


I.

WE watched the gradual rising of a star,
Whose delicate, clear light outshone the crowd,
Gleaming between the rifts of parting cloud,
Brighter above each dusky veiling bar;
The fairy child, the glimpse of girlish face,
Rising to woman's dower of fairest, fullest grace.

And still she rose, and still she calmly shone,
Walking in brightness ever brightening still,
Gladdening, attracting at her queenly will,
With starlike influence. The years wore on,
And Isabel, the star, the pearl, the flower,
Could not but know her gift, the secret of her power.

"Never so lovely as to-night," they said,
Again and yet again! There came a night
When many owned afresh the royal might
Of beauty, as she came with snowfall tread,
And summer smile, and simple maiden dress,
Crowned only with the light and her own loveliness.

And the next day she was a little tired,
And the next night the rose had somewhat paled;
The fair pearl glistened, yet it somewhat failed
Of the past gleam, the radiance all-admired.
From the soft emerald of the wind-waved grass,
How soon the diamond sparkle of the dew must pass!

And the next week the sunbeams vainly sought
An entrance where their merry rival lay
Fevered and weary; while, from day to day,
The quick pulse wasted what short slumber brought
Of slow renewing. So the dark mist fell,
And hid the starry fire that all had loved so well.

Again she shone, when from that dark mist freed,
But with that singular radiance never more;
The brightening upward path so quickly o'er,
The solemn westward curve begun indeed!
The unconscious zenith of her lovely light
Forever left behind on that gay triumph-night!

II.

Ho! for the Alps! The weary plains of France,
And the night shadows, leaving far behind,
For pearl horizons with pure summits lined, --
On through the Jura-gorge, in swift advance
Speeds Arthur, with keen hope and buoyant glee, --
On to the mountain land, home of the strong and free!

On! to the morning flush of gold and rose;
On! to the torrent and the hoary pine;
On! to the stillness of life's utmost line;
On! to the crimson fire of sunset snows.
Short starlit rest, then with the dawn's first streak,
Oh! to the silent crown of some lone icy peak!

'Twas no nerve-straining effort, then, for him
To emulate the chamois-hunter's leap
Across the wide rock-chasm, or the deep
And darkly blue crevasse with treacherous rim;
Or climb the sharp arete, or slope of snow,
With Titan towers above, and cloud-filled gulfs below.

It was no weariness or toil to count
Hour after hour in that weird white realm,
With guide of Alp-renown to touch the helm
Of practiced instinct, rocky spires to mount,
Or track the steepest glacier's fissured length,
In the abounding joy of his unconquered strength.

But it was gladness none can realize
Who have not felt the wild Excelsior thrill,
The strange exhilarate energies, that fill
The bounding pulses, as the intenser skies
Embrace the infinite whiteness, clear and fair,
Inhaling vigorous life with that quick crystal air.

That Alpine witchery still onward lures
Upward, still upward, till the fatal list
Grows longer of the early mourned and missed;
Leading where surest foot no more insures
The life that is not ours to throw away
For the exciting joys of one brief summer day.

For there are sudden dangers none foreknow;
The scarlet-threaded rope can never mock
The sound-loosed avalanche, frost-cloven rock,
Or whirling storm of paralyzing snow.
But Arthur's foot was kept; no deathward slips
Darkened the zenith of his strength with dire eclipse.

So year by year, as his rich manhood filled,
He reveled in health-giving mountain feats;
Spurning the trodden tracks and curious streets,
As fit for old men, and for boys unskilled
In Alpine arts, not strong nor bold enough
To battle with the blast and scale the granite bluff.

One glowing August sun went forth in might,
And smote with rosy sword each snowy brow, --
Bright accolade of grandeur! Now, oh now,
Amid that dazzling wealth of purest light,
His long ambition should be crowned at last,
And every former goal rejoicingly o'erpast!

For ere the white fields softened in the glow,
He stood upon a long-wooed virgin peak,
One of the few fair prizes left to seek;
Each rival pinnacle left far below!
He stood in triumph on the conquered height,
And yet a shadow fell upon his first delight!

For well he knew that he had surely done
His utmost; and that never summer day
Could bring a moment on its radiant way,
Like the first freshness of that conquest won,
Where all had lost before. A sudden tear
Veiled all the glorious view, so grand, so calm, so clear!

III.

An hour of song! of musical delight
To those whose quick, instructed ear could trace,
Through complex harmonies, the artistic grace,
The finest shades of meaning, and the might
Of order and of law. Nor less to those
Who loved it as we love the fragrance of the rose.

And Cecil stood, with all the added ease
Of ripe experience and of sure success;
With all her glad instinctive consciousness
Of natural gift that could not fail to please;
With all her rich maturity of tone,
Like sun-glow of the South on purple clusters thrown.

She sang, rejoicing in her song, -- each bar
A separate pulse of pleasure. Were there none
To listen and applaud, or only one,
As freely she had poured it. For a star
Shines not because we watch it! Only blaze
Of artificial light reserves its measured rays.

Yet who, that ever tasted, does not know
The witchery of any phase of power,
Ascendency unsought, magnetic dower
Of influence? And Cecil found it so,
And though but vaguely conscious of her might,
Lived in her own strong spell, a glamour of delight.

Nor only joy of power and joy of song
To fill the singer's chalice were combined;
But sympathetic influences of mind,
Acting, re-acting, as the charmed throng
Followed the wave of her swift magic wand,
Yet lured her ever on to fair heights still beyond.

And so the song passed to its dying fall,
As the electric interchanges crossed.
What marvel that the closing chord was lost
In rush of quick applause and fond recall!
And Cecil rose once more, and poured again,
From fuller gushing fount, the doubly welcomed strain.

Higher and higher rose the glorious song;
Deeper and deeper grew the silence round;
All unrestrained the free, full notes resound,
In splendid carol-gladness; holding long
Unwearied listeners in chains unseen,
As willing captives led by their victorious queen.

Tribute of wondering smile was freely paid;
And then, as subtle modulation wrought
Soft shadows in the sunny strain, some brought
The deeper homage of a tear, and, swayed
Beyond confession, strove in vain to hide
The unconquerable rush of sweet emotion's tide.

Then once again the clear tones rose and swelled,
While flashed the singer's eyes with inward fire;
And still the spirit of the song soared higher,
Until the closing cadence, as she held
All hearts entranced, till like a sunset lay
The last, long, sweet note thrilled, and softly died away.

And all was over! Ah, she had not guessed
That she had touched the zenith of her song,
That gradual declining, slow and long,
Must mark the path now trending to the west!
No boundary line is seen, and yet we cross
In one veiled hour, from gain, to sure though lingering loss.

She often sang again. But oftener fell
Apologies of unaffected truth.
There was more effort, yet less power, in sooth!
The ringing tones less like a golden bell.
"Not quite in voice of late. I'll do my best;
Do not expect too much; -- I think my voice needs rest."

So, one by one, the songs no more were seen
That called for grandest tone and clearest trill.
And when she sang, though old friends loved it still,
The stranger wondered what the spell had been.
And then they spoke of how she used to sing!
Passing or passed away is every earthly thing.

IV.

A silent house beneath a dome of stars;
A deeply shaded lamp, a lonely room;
A fire whose fitful whispers through the gloom
In rhythmic cadence leapt athwart the bars;
A broad, worn desk; a broad, worn, bending brow;
Yet a bright eye beneath, full of strange brightness now.

A rapid hand, that wrote swift words of flame,
Far-glowing words to kindle other fires;
Words that might flash along Time's mystic wires.
And thrill the ages with a deathless name:
Barbed words, that fasten where they fall, and stay
Deep in the souls of men, and never pass away.

Little recked Theodore of fame that night,
And less of gold. The current was too strong
For such vain barques to launch. It swept along,
Whither he hardly knew; the impulse bright
Passing at every turn some opening view,
Some echoing mountain height, some vista fair and new.

Lost memories trooped in amid the crowd
Of happiest images: ethereal forms
Of weirdly prescient fancy, spectral swarms,
Before him in oppressive beauty bowed,
And beckoned him, with gleaming hands, to grasp
Their fleeting loveliness in firm and joyous clasp.

And inward music rose, and wreathed around
Each thought that shaped itself to outline clear;
The royal chimes rang on, more sweet, more near,
With every gust. He caught the silver sound,
And cast its fairy mantle o'er the flow
Of his melodious lines, in all their fiery glow.

Such times are but the crystallizing hours
That make the rainbow-bearing prism. They change
Long-seething soul-solutions into strange
And startling forms; -- new properties and powers
And beauties hardly dreamt, yet latent there,
The poet-touch evokes, strong, marvellous, and fair.

For there are long, slow overtures before
Such bursts of song; much tension unconfessed,
Much training and much tuning, -- years compressed,
Concentrated in ever-filling store:
Till thoughts that surged in secret deep below,
Rise from volcanic fount in sudden overflow.

Much living to short writing! such the law
Of living poems that have force to reach
Depths that are sounded by no surface speech,
And thence the sympathetic waters draw,
With golden chain of many a fire-forged link,
Gently, yet mightily, up to the pearly brink.

Was it the stillness of the lonely night
That set his spirit free, with wizard hand,
Opening the gates of more than fairy-land?
Oft had he known the pulse of poet-might,
But never quite the free, exultant power,
In which he reveled now through that enchanted hour.

Was it not rather that the harvest-time,
After the sowing and the watering long,
Was fully come; the golden sheaves of song
Falling in fullness, and that royal chime
Pealing the harvest-home of wealth unseen,
Where the remaining years might only come and glean?

At length the last page lay beneath the light,
From wavering erasure free, and wrought
Too perfectly for any after-thought.
He rose, threw up the sash, and on the night, --
The brilliant, solemn night, -- looked forth and sighed,
And felt the immediate ebb of that unwonted tide.

For it was over! and the work was done
For which his life was lived! unconscious yet!
The blossom fell because the fruit was set;
The standard furled because the field was won.
And, with the energy, the gladness passed,
And left him wearied out and sorrowful at last.

For only work that is for God alone
Hath an unceasing guerdon of delight,
A guerdon nnaffected by the sight
Of great success, nor by its loss o'erthrown.
All else is vanity beneath the sun;
There may be joy in doing, but it palls when done.

V.

Once more. A battle-field of mental might,
A broad arena for the utmost skill
Of world-famed gladiators, echoing still
With praise or cruel blame, beyond the sight
Of each day's keen spectators, to the verge
Of widest continents and ocean's farthest surge.

A great arena, whence the issues flow
Not only through an empire, but a world,
Molding the centuries; wherein are hurled
Thunders whose ultimate havoc none can know,
Striking not names but nations: -- such the scene
Of conflict and renown, long entered by Eugene.

Many a time his weighty sword he threw
Into the scale of victory, and swayed
The critical turns, the great events that made
The era's history. For well he knew
Each subtle art of eloquence, combined
With rarest gifts of speech, and native powers of mind.

His patriotism earned a noble meed
Of trust and honor, more than any fame,
And sweeter. Yet some thought his hard-won claim
Not meetly recognized. Perchance indeed
The shadow crossed his own thought, as he found
Less kingly orators with heavier laurels crowned.

At length a contest of long doubtful end
Drew to a climax: and his soul was stirred,
And every generous faculty was spurred
To utmost energy. For he could spend
His very self upon the cause that seemed
Clear justice and clear right! or rather, so he deemed!

For there are few who care to analyze
The mingled motives, in their complex force,
Of some apparently quite simple course.
One disentangled skein might well surprise.
Perhaps a "single heart" is never known,
Save in the yielded life that lives for God alone, --

And that is therefore doubted, as a dream,
By those who know not the tremendous power
Of all-constraining love! So in that hour
Of fierce excitement, 'mid the flashing gleam
Of measured glaive, I will not dare to say
That Eugene's purest zeal no party claim might sway.

Still, all combined to bid the eagle soar
Beyond the common clouds, the shifting mists
Of every-day debate, the very lists
Of strong opponents strengthening him the more.
As the strong pinion finds the opposing breeze
The very means of rising over land and seas.

So Eugene rose in his full manly strength,
Reining at first the fiery courser in,
That with calm concentration he might win
The captious ear; -- reserve of power at length,
At the right moment from the wise curb freed,
Triumphantly burst forth with grand impetuous speed.

And as the great speech mounted to a pause
Some foes were silenced, some were wholly gained,
And all were spellbound, stilled, and marvel-chained,
And, more than all the clatter of applause,
The cause was won! "Eugene was at his best
To-night!" So much they knew! They did not know the rest!

For they who watched with envy or delight
The moment of his zenith, little knew
It was the moment of his setting too;
For fell paralysis drew near that night.
Never again Eugene might proudly stand,
And sway the men who swayed the sceptre of his land.

VI.

A simple Christmas-Day at home! And yet
It was the very zenith of two stars
That rose together through the cloudy bars,
In bright perpetual conjunction met,
A day whose memory should never cease, --
A Coronation-day of Love and Joy and Peace.

The culmination of two lives that passed
Through many a chance and change of checkered years,
Each shining for the other, hopes and fears
Centred within their home! And now at last
They gazed upon a clear, calm sky around,
And rested in their love, that day serenely crowned.

Bernard and Constance had no wish beyond
Each other's gladness, and the fuller good
Of those beloved ones who blithely stood
Around the Christmas fire, -- the fair and fond,
The strong and merry, sons and daughters grown
In closest unity, -- rich treasures all their own.

Bright arrows of full quiver! still unshot
By ruthless bow of Time and scattered wide,
Still in the sweet home-bundle tightly tied,
Though feathered for the flight from that safe spot.
Flight when? and whither? Ah me! who might say
What should befall before another Christmas-Day!

Closer they clustered in the twilight-fall,
And talked of pleasant memories of the year,
And then of pleasant prospects far and near;
Each name responding at each gleeful call.
The merry mention of a dear name there
Had never yet been hushed by any empty chair.

But most of all the gladness and the pride
Circled around the eldest brother's name;
His first success, his rising college fame,
Made merriest music at that warm fireside;
And in the parent-hearts deep echoes thrilled,
As the repeated chord proclaimed fond hopes fulfilled.

No dim presentiment of sorrow fell
Upon that zenith hour of happiness,
Perhaps the brightest that could ever bless
A merely earthly lot; the purest well
Of natural joy, unselfish, undefiled,
Up-springing to the day, while heaven above it smiled.

And so the evening hours sped swiftly by,
And Christmas carols closed the happy time,
And Christmas-bells, in sweet wind-wafted chime,
Stole softly through the shutters. Not a sigh
With music of the gay good-night was blent,
No discord in that full, harmonious content.

What then? Bernard and Constance wakeful lay
A long, long while, unwilling each to tell
That, as the midnight tolled, it seemed the knell
Of the great gladness of that Christmas Day.
"Oh, what if it should prove too bright to last,
Clear shining that precedes the wild and rainy blast!"

And they were right. It could not come again!
Sickness, and scattering, and varied woe,
Yet nothing but the lot of most below,
Soon marred the music of that perfect strain,
And though the westering path had many a gleam,
That zenith joy was but an oft-remembered dream.

VII.

A soft spring twilight. Cherry blossoms white
Whispered about the summer they were told
Was coming, when the beech trees would unfold
Their horny buds, and chestnuts would be dight
In great green leaves. "What will become of us?"
They wondered. And they shivered as they questioned thus.

For the east wind came by, with curfew bell
Upon his wings, and touched them stealthily,
Shriveling the tender leaves. And silently
In their sweet white array the blossoms fell.
Ah for the zenith of the cherry tree!
Yet is it past, although the snowy glories be?

Wait for the shining of the summer day;
Wait for the crimson glow amid the green;
Wait for the wealth of ruby ripeness, seen
After the fitful spring has passed away.
Wait till the Master comes, with His own hand
To find His pleasant fruit in clusters rich and grand.

Yes, soft spring twilight! And a bowing head;
A kneeling form amid the shadows gray;
A heart from which the hopes had passed away,
That made life exquisite as the blossoms shed
Around that open window; -- and a throb
Of dull gray pain, that rose, and forced one low deep sob.

Only the zenith of his youth had passed,
And scarcely that. Yet perhaps the saddest time
Is while the echo of the matin chime
Has hardly died away in silence vast:
Sadder to realize the noonday height,
Than the slow-gathering shades of long impending night.

It did not seem that there could ever be
Another zenith, different, and bright
With grander hopes, and far more glorious light
Than all the spells of siren minstrelsy,
And all the love and gladness that entwined
The merry paths of youth forever left behind.

For Godfrey had no special powers to spur
To emulation in the great world-race,
No special gifts or aims; -- the open space
A possible joy had filled -- the dream of her
Who might have been and yet was not to be
Queen of his life! and now -- the dark-draped throne was free!

Free! Yet another claimed that empty throne,
And in the twilight He was drawing near,
'Mid all those shadows of dim grief, and fear,
And sense of vanity. The King unknown,
Unrecognized as yet, was come to reign,
And yet to crown the life that owned its life was vain.

And while the spring airs trembled through the trees,
The gracious Wind that bloweth where it lists
Dispersed the fallacies, the world-breathed mists
That hid unseen realities. That breeze
Unveiled the mysteries of hidden sin,
And let the all-searching Light flash startlingly within.

Then the vague weariness was roused indeed
And passed away forever, as he saw
The nearer lightnings of the holy law
Through suddenly deepening darkness; then the need,
More of a Saviour than mere safety, dawned
In lurid daybreak, as he glimpsed the gulf that yawned

Close at his feet -- those careless feet that trod
So merrily a harmless-seeming course
Of merely useless pleasure, by the force
Of custom, and yet never came to God,
Never yet stepped upon the Living Way,
That only leads to life and everlasting day.

Again that holy Breeze swept by in might,
And fanned each faint desire to stronger flame;
He said, "Oh, bid me come to Thee!" He came,
Just as he was, that memorable night;
And lo! the King, who waited at the door,
Entered to save, to reign, and to go out no more.

And then he saw those awful lightnings fall
Through the cleft heavens upon a lonely Tree
That stood upon a mount called Calvary.
And knew that stroke had spent the fiery ball:
And then the earthquake closed the gulf below,
While he stood all unscathed, safe from the overthrow.

"Stood," said I? Nay! in wonder and in love
As on that more than vision Godfrey gazed,
He fell at his Deliverer's feet, and praised
With a new sweetness, sweet as harps above,
The Glorious One, whose royal grace had saved
The aimless wanderer, who never grace had craved.

Far in the night this wondrous watch he kept
With the unslumbering Shepherd, while a joy,
The first he ever knew without alloy,
Filled all his soul with light. At last he slept,
Wrapped in this strange new peace, whose steady beam
Made all his past life seem a sinful, troubled dream.

What then? It was no zenith, though the star
Of life shone out at radiant height, that dimmed
Each previous gleam to gloom that barely rimmed
The shifting clouds, with something, that, from far,
Might have been fancied light, yet only made
The darkness more discerned, the spirit more afraid.

Rather it was the rising! the first hour
Of the true shining, that should rise and rise
From glory unto glory, through God's skies,
In strengthening brightness and increasing power.
A rising with no setting, for its height
Could only culminate in God's eternal light.

The feeble glimmer of the former days,
The hope, the love, the very glee that paled
Just at their seeming zenith, and then failed
Of fuller sparkling, -- all the scattered rays
Were caught up and transfigured in the blaze
Of the new life of love, and energy, and praise.

The joy of loyal service to the King
Shone through them all, and lit up other lives
With the new fire of faith, that ever strives,
Like a swift-kindling beacon, far to fling
The tidings of His victory, and claim
New subjects for His realm, new honor for His Name.

And so the years flowed on, and only cast
Light, and more light upon the shining way,
That more and more shone to the perfect day;
Always intenser, clearer than the past;
Because they only bore him, on glad wing,
Nearer the Light of Light, the Presence of the King.

Who recks the short recession of a wave
In the strong flowing of a tide? And so
Without a pang could Godfrey leave below
Successive earthly zeniths, while he gave
A glad glance upward to the rainbow Throne,
And joyously pressed on to nobler heights alone.

Or if awhile a looming sorrow-cloud
He entered, still he found the Glory there,
Shechinah-brightness resting still and fair
Within the holy curtains, as he bowed
Before the Presence on the Mercy-seat;
Then forth he came with sound of golden bells most sweet.

And then the music floated on the wind,
A constant carol of glad tidings told,
Of how the lives the One Life doth enfold
Are ever with that Life so closely twined,
That nought can separate, below, above,
And life itself is one long miracle of love.

At last the gentle tone was heard, that falls
In all-mysterious sweetness on the ear
That long has listened, longing, without fear,
Because so well it knows the Voice that calls;
Though only once that solemn call is heard,
While angel-songs take up the echoes of the word.

"Friend, go up higher!" So he took that night
The one grand step, beyond the stars of God,
Into the splendor, shadowless and broad,
Into the everlasting joy and light.
The zenith of the earthly life was come:
What marvel that the lips were for the moment dumb!

What then? Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard!
Wait till thou too hast fought the noble strife,
And won, through Jesus Christ, the crown of life!
Then shalt thou know the glory of the word,
Then as the stars forever -- ever shine,
Beneath the King's own smile, -- perpetual Zenith thine.





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