Man arose the earth he trod, Grew divine as he gazed on God: Light in a fiery whirlwind broke Out of the dark divine and spoke: Man went forth through the vast to tread By the spirit of wisdom charioted. There came the learned of the schools Who measure heavenly things by rules, The sceptic, doubter, the logician, Who in all sacred things precision, Would mark the limit, fix the scope, "Art thou the Christ for whom we hope? Art thou a magian, or in thee Has the divine eye power to see?" He answered low to those who came, "Not this, nor this, nor this I claim. More than the yearning of the heart I have no wisdom to impart. I am the voice that cries in him Whose heart is dead, whose eyes are dim, 'Make pure the paths where through may run The light-streams from that golden one, The Self who lives within the sun.' As spake the seer of ancient days." The voices from the earthly ways Questioned him still: "What dost thou here, If neither prophet, king nor seer? What power is kindled by they might?" "I flow before the feet of Light: I am the purifying stream. But One of whom ye have no dream, Whose footsteps move among you still, Though dark, divine, invisible. Impelled by Him, before His ways I journey, though I dare not raise Even from the ground these eyes so dim Or look upon the feet of Him." When the dead or dreamy hours Like a mantle fall away, Wakes the eye of gnostic powers To the light of hidden day, And the yearning heart within Seeks the true, the only friend, He who burdened with our sin Loves and loves unto the end. Ah, the martyr of the world, With a face of steadfast peace Round whose brow the light is curled: 'Tis the Lamb with golden fleece. So they called of old the shining, Such a face the sons of men See, and all its life divining Wake primeval fires again. Such a face and such a glory Passed before the eyes of John, With a breath of olden story Blown from ages long agone Who would know the God in man. Deeper still must be his glance. Veil on veil his eye must scan For the mystic signs which tell If the fire electric fell On the seer in his trance: As his way he upward wings From all time-encircled things, Flames the glory round his head Like a bird with wings outspread. Gold and silver plumes at rest: Such a shadowy shining crest Round the hero's head reveals him To the soul that would adore, As the master-power that heals him And the fount of secret lore. Nature such a diadem Places on her royal line, Every eye that looks on them Knows the Sons of the Divine. --April 15, 1896 The Protest of Love "Those who there take refuge nevermore return."--Bhagavad Gita