Pythagoras

’Twas not the hour of death the Master feared:He oft had died before, his soul had passedThrough many moulds, as each new cycle nearedHoping the Golden Day had come at last.

But like a giant ’neath the weight of ageHope was bowed down, and oft had ceased to seeAmong the spheres the looked for heritageWhere rest the pure from earth’s illusions free.

Whither doth this metempsychosis tend?Doubt stirs the heavy question in his breast.All that begins is toiling towards its end;Oblivion hath for all its day of rest.

And when a universe of death absorbsInto its hungry vortex all that is:The compact colonies of settled orbs,The untamed meteors of the free abyss;

And when, at length, the lamp of day is spent,And the charred air of night supplants the skies,What were the soul without its tenement,—Without these feeling hands, these seeing eyes?

Even the blest dawn he once had hoped to findMay rise while he in darkness dwells below;Yes, all may fail him now; the troubled mindMay end at last, and not its ending know.

Such were his thoughts, and while his death hour grewThey pressed into his heart such poignant pangsAs even the lordliest intellect subdueWhen life, yet wavering, in the balance hangs.

’Tis past: A cycle’s lustres have run out,And his unquickened soul in ashes sleeps,Perturbed no longer by the wasting doubt,Weak as a babe ere in the womb it leaps;

Still as a vessel stranded by the tideIn shallows whereunto no waters drift,Looming at anchor on its mouldering sideThat neither winds disturb nor billows lift.

Yet throes half-stir the drowsings of the grave,As when one turns in sleep with heavy senseThat what suspended being he may haveIs better, yet awhile, with Providence.

But all is like the passing of a breath.No eager promptings snatch the loosened threadWherein is meshed the memory of death:He knows himself, but not that he is dead.

Another cycle bears the cumbrous nightUnbroken, save as funeral clouds may rollAnd for a moment cross the path of light:So shines the ethereal darkness of his soul.

Still through these mists of death the cycles shone,—His soul benumbed, in utter silence hushed,Advancing time-like through oblivion,And pace for pace with all that o’er him rushed,—

When to his grave a sense of nature came,But with no conscious meaning or surprise:’Twas the old flutter of the dying flame,Tremulousness of being without eyes.

At last a voice, familiar as to seemHis own, heard in his sleep and heeded not,Broke through the patient whisper of his dream,Remembered but to be as soon forgot.

It presages some mighty morrow nearWhen his long baffled soul once more shall rise:The muffled cycles fall upon his ear,And his dust flutters with the centuries.

Awake, Pythagoras, it seems to say,—The looked-for morn is breaking o’er the earth:It grows, it brightens to the perfect day;Behold man’s resurrectionary birth!

His thoughts take shape, his pent-up senses move,His soul looks out from that abysmal sleep.Lo! shadows of the living world aboveBefore his eyes in dreamy pageant sweep.

And in the midst there shone a god-like youth,Who on his brow the Crown of Sorrow wore,And there was meekness, innocence, and truth;—Eidolon of his highest hope of yore.

Hath it then come at last, the world of peace?Hath he awakened to that ampler lifeWhere hate and lust of blood shall ever cease,And all the bitter days of human strife?

The world is hushed: must then the cycles endThat ever deepen his immortal tomb?The wondrous ladder must he re-ascendTo truths revolving round a virgin womb?

Even so it seems when, hark! the upper airRings to the battle’s rage—the soldier’s treadEchoes above his tomb! In dark despairHe turns his face unto the silent dead.

The Master sleeps—the ages onward roll—O twice nine stormy cycles since o’erpast!Bore they through eddying lives and deaths a soulStill dreaming towards its Golden Day at last?

The heavens are as they were, the sun, unworn,Seems on the blue of yesterday to rest,And drops below; but when shall come the mornHe dreamt of, when shall break that morrow blest?