The Arthur Machen Megapack: 25 Classic Works

by Arthur Machen

His limbs therein, and have it for a sign,

  That, as the flesh is pure and tree from stain,

  The soul within is in like manner cleansed.

  So, the cool water sweeps away the stain,

  And all have been absolved—the priest has said.

  THE FAST

  The dawn again is breaking o’er the deep:

  Shall we still journey or yet keep

  The fast in Athens? The sea heaves

  And murmurs, as the yellow autumn leaves

  At eastern winds, and nought relieves

  The masses of grey clouds, but ever dark

  They stand; and on this day no song

  Save of the lark.

  For is not now this day a day of tears,

  Kept through the long-past years?

  Kept and is keeping,

  In fast and in weeping.

  Now in the city where they stand,

  Sorrowing in dark attire,

  Wailing at the priest’s command

  A dirge, while with a lamp of fire

  Slowly he lights the sacred pyre

  With sad desire.

  See, for thy sake is weariness;

  Queen for thy sake is great distress.

  Let us not perish, kind earth mother,

  Sister by sister, brother by brother:

  But heavy with thy heaviness.

  Mourning and weeping on the temple floor,

  Let there be pity for our great complaint.

  And as by the sea shore,

  We, washing, all were freed from taint

  Turn to us, mighty Queen, and weep no more.

  So passed the day in mourning and in fast.

  THE PROCESSION

  The day is dawning. Whither shall we bend

  Our steps, or whither send

  The herald on before us; the great plain

  Pours forth a shout of praise and many songs;

  Thunders which roll and sweep the summer air,

  Rising and falling like the swelling sea,

  And striking all the soul with solemn awe.

  Into the heart they rushed like sweet dark wine,

  And all the rocks were ringing with the sound

  All through the plain in which fair Athens stands,

  Until the sailors seaward heard the noise

  Of many thunders, and their hearts were stirred.

  And worshipping they too took up the chant:

  So it rolled along

  Over the clean sweet waves till Thetis heard,

  Deep in her palaces beneath the sea.

  So sweet a song they made, the music yet

  Is not all silenced, some clear notes remain

  Though many waves of centuries have passed

  Upon those pleasant days: but hark awhile

  Unto the chorus, though the years have sped,

  And the dim twilight of the word is come.

  Goddess most fair,

  Loving the gracious land

  Of Greece, and the golden sand

  Of all its shores, ruling with thy hand

  Thy dear Athenian town, but present everywhere.

  Are we not pleasing to thee?

  Goddess and queen of the corn:

  Holiest mother divine,

  Grant us thy glory to see,

  Bright as the coming of morn:

  See how we kneel, and are present, and worship thy shrine.

  Hail! thou most sweet

  And gracious one,

  Is it not meet

  To praise thee when the sun

  Pours forth strong far-reaching heat,

  And then at evening when his race is run.

  Ah! like a summer sea

  At eventide

  Thy beauty is to me,

  I care for nought beside,

  Save only thee;

  Let thine anthems be upraised, let no chorus be denied.

  Ah! soft and sweet

  The maidens’ voices raise

  Thy hymn of praise,

  As through the winding street

  With eager feet

  They pass, crowned with roses and with bays.

  If in the holy place

  Men worship thee;

  And pray to see thy face,

  So we.

  If in the inmost fane

  Thy glory stands;

  Grant us to touch, being without stain,

  Thine hands.

  If the priest veils his head

  And boweth low;

  Make us too, pure, as thou hast said,

  As snow.

  Keep us, who worship thee,

  Within thy sight;

  Let us, though in the darkness, see

  Thy light.

  So the whole city burst into a song

  That reached us where we stood upon the hill;

  And all the altars smoked with frankincense,

  Which sailors, toiling in the eastern seas,

  With many weary furrows of the deep,

  Had brought unto the praise of Demeter.

  And all the day the seven-stringed harp rejoiced.

  And the procession passed along the streets.

  Even until the darkness covered all.

  And wearied with great joy the city slept.

  THE DAY OF TORCHES

  The sun has slowly sought his resting place,

  And the dim twilight of the day has come:

  The worshippers assemble in the streets,

  Coming from all the by-ways of the town.

  The priest is present; every one a torch

  Carries on high, and joins the line of light

  Moving towards the temple: let us go.

  For there is neither song nor choral chant,

  Only the solemn sound of many feet

  Moving with one accord; and at the head

  Slow walks the priest, holding a torch on high.

  At length the long procession reached the place,

  Holy to Demeter: then passing on

  Through gates and dimly lighted passages,

  Until they came unto the central hill.

  All set with marble columns, dimly seen,

  And here and there a lamp with rosy light

  Burning before a statue or a shrine,

  Lighting the dimness of the painted walls:

  Until the place is full.

  All through the night never a voice is heard

  In all the echoing passages and halls.

  All through the watches of the silent night

  The lurid light of many torches shines,

  On altar, statue, dimly painted frieze,

  Of which the figures flicker, hardly seen

  In the dim light of torches borne on high.

  Still not a word! the watches of the night

  Are passing swiftly: and the day is near.

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  Still must they stand,

  Waiting and longing for the dawn to come;

  For every light burns dimly; and the soul,

  Weary of anguish, sickened with the watch.

  Paler and paler grows the torch’s light,

  More and yet more uncertain shew the walls,

  And still no sign,..

  Not from the priest, or from the weary crowd,

  But very silence…

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  See! the rosy dawn

  Is come at last: the priest has given the sign,

  “Depart in peace, thy vigil has been watched.”

  IACCHUS

  The day is dawning. Whither shall we bend

  Our steps, or whither send

  The herald on before us? many strings

  Are swept, and many echoings of song

  Sound and resound throughout the city streets.

  Is there a minstrel left?

  Or any music which is still unthrilled

  Among their choirs? ah! the v
oices rush

  Up like a trumpet through the summer air.

  Was ever song like this? the birds rejoice

  And sing for gladness; but let us be still,

  We are not worshippers; the years are fled,

  And hushed the music, if a lingering voice

  And echo of their gladness be revealed,

  It is enough. Ah! that in early years,

  Before the greyness of the world has come,

  I could have worshipped also, but enough.

  Perchance across the waste, and strain to hear,

  What music then was made for weary hearts.

  Hark! the chant sweeps and thrills,

  Falling and rising like a mighty voice

  Of many waters.

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  Through the city gates,

  Unto the plain they pass a mighty throng,

  For it is near the end, and a great joy

  Fills every heart with praise and loud acclaim.

  Sweet, we are thine, thy vision is not far,

  But close the temple stair

  And marble altars; faint not by the way

  And fall not, for the fair

  Queen shineth like a star

  At close of day.

  Press on yet faster, lest there be delay.

  The maidens are not silent: what a strain

  Of love and sweet desire floats along

  Their clean sweet voicéd chorus: is there any song

  Like to their music, pleasure and sweet pain

  Are met together, mingled in a chain,

  There is no failing; e’en the weak are strong.

  The sweet soft scent of roses fills the air

  With silent music, even as a dream

  The lilies anguish and the censors stream.

  Sweet sounds and scents are mingled everywhere;

  Far in the clear blue distance climbs the mountain stair.

  Thus with their offering of solemn song

  The glad procession sweeps along the road,

  With dances and with music, till afar

  They see the temple: with renewed acclaim

  The waves of song burst forth as each one sees

  The goal of his desire.

  Clear in the summer air it stands and shines

  Like music carved in marble, and a song.

  What can we say or sing

  Of such a moment, for the swelling chords

  Are broken of the old resounding harp;

  Let there be silence and a solemn awe.

  And as we strain across the blinding storm

  Of many ages: only semitones

  Half broken, half resounding, echo yet,

  Heard by a few who love the former time,

  And dim remembrance of the far-off years.

  Now peace awhile, the night is drawing near;

  Peace, and let silence fall

  Upon the temple, peace and solemn fair.

  THE INITIATION

  The night has come, a cloud of darkness falls

  Upon the temple, save a lonely torch

  Lighting at intervals the silent throng,

  Who still are waiting there until the time

  When all its glories shall be seen by them;

  And still a silence…

  The heart is sick with waiting, half afraid

  And half expectant, is not yet the time?

  But ever silence…

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  Hark the trumpet sounds!

  Upon the steps the holy herald stands,

  And bids the worshippers prepare to see

  The glory of the goddess.

  How awful darkness broods, and one by one

  They pass within; but what is seen by them

  Within the temple; who of men shall tell,

  Only dim legends handed down and told

  From age to age; but no man knows the truth,

  Only they tell that sudden light was seen,

  And then the darkness covered all again.

  Anon the thunder rolls and breaks along,

  Crashing and thrilling all the halls among,

  And then the silence covered all again.

  . . . . .

  . . . . .

  Sweet and fearful sounds,

  Following in alternation till the soul

  Was melted all within, the heart was still

  And almost life departed, then at last

  The glory of the goddess was revealed.

  Finis