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In His Steps — Lost God-Francis William Bourdillon. Machine-transcribed; use the interactive transcript above to jump the player to any line.
Part 1 of a Lost God by Francis William Bordelan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Leander, Red or Masercien. Helen, Red by, Krista Zolesky. Bylaw, Red by Larry Wilson. Passerby, Red by Kerry Adams. Narrated by Devora Allen. In the reign of Tiberius, an extraordinary thing happened to some mariners in the Ionian Sea. They were cruising at daybreak among the islands of the Achinides at the mouth of the River Eccolus, which falls into the Corinthian Gulf. As the sun rose and touched with his first light, the waves of the archipelago and the Myrtle Hillocks of the little islands, they
heard a marvelous voice like softened thunder pass over them and die away to the mainland among the Italian mountains. Pan is dead, it said, and then a sying wind followed the voice, and the frightened sailors hastened a shore to narrate what they had heard. Tradition, which has given us the strange tale, explains it by a covering that on that morning, Krista began his teaching. Part 1. The Vision. There lies an island in the Ionian Sea, an emerald satin sapphire, but the gem is rimmed with iron. Rock are cliff and scour. Rocky the inlets and the promenatories, and sewn with sunken rocks are all the bays. It is a sea of islands and of rocks, the haunt of sunning seabirds, fastnesses impregnable to any wingless foot. A sea so thickly set with point and peak, that to the eyes down
looking could we mount where sales yon lonely seahawk. It might seem a robe of rippling blue, which flying nymph or niad's buying satyr beneath the hedge, had caught and left there, pierced with all the thorns. It is a sea of white wings and white sails, of soft wings swooping near and snowy sails that hang far off upon the hazy blue. For on the horizon eastward like a cloud, the mainland lies, the purple hills of Greece, and yonder is the entrance to the Gulf of Corinth when sore withers seek the sails. Sea but one sail is nearing. Is it sail or seabird snowy gleaming in the sun? Too slow for bird, yet nigh too swift for sail, save happy hearts are there and such blithe winds as blow for youth and pleasure. Now to clear the huge heaven-pointing pinion like a cloud, and the
black proud beneath the dips and springs, danced round with rainbows in the leaping spray. Now large and larger looms the bellying sail, close under the sheer cliff. Then suddenly shifted to round the headland shows the bark, carining as she feels the Helmsman's hand, gay fluttering garments, faces young and fair. Then like a scenic curtain, right before the flowery fringes of the cliff-top rise, and thenishes the vision. Sea and sky are lonely, and the light wind in the grass, sized to be back in that soft-buzzened sail, or fanning that fair company. But hush, what are those footsteps? Who are that bright pair who mount the daisy-dramperts of this del? Lovers they should be by the harmony of their light bodies, swaying as in time to unseen music, lovers by their hands enlacing, lovers
by their silent lips and eyes more eloquent. And who but lovers had left that laughing crew and sought alone this solitary dimple of the down? O dearest, I am glad to be here alone with nature's silence, and with your soft eyes. I have such tidings that I could not tell, to any ears but yours and scarce to yours. But that I know how beats your heart with mine. My wound you will not scorch with jest or numb, with silent incredulity more cruel. Our same-eyed dreams have followed me from sleep, into broad daylight as a madman's dew. Ah, heart of my own heart, have I not born, already though unknown your grief? My tears, scarce stayed from flowing as I marked all day, in what, unfathomable gulfs of gloom, below the rippling mirth that boid the rest, your spirit wandered lonely. Till at last, their laughing lips, twix, jest and
sympathy, whispered, a wolf has seen Leander first. What secret way does this that bows you so? Tell me that I may share its burden? Would that I could take the whole and leave you none? Yet trouble shared, unlike the manual load which two that lift take half and half exact, off lightens in the telling, and the two bear about the tithe of what the one had born. Listen sweet siren, have you ever dreamed a dream so hideous, as that God can die? Nay, the immortal said no dreams like that? Yet have I dreamed it, if it were a dream, and not some dreadful drama played in heaven, to wake in terrors and wind tears of gods? Nay, the immortal's act no plays like that. Nay, neither dream nor drama do I think it, unless I dream now or you act your love.
I saw, I heard, as now I see and hear, immortal gods a most reposful faith, grown in our core from childhood. Yet we see gray earth herself called mother of the gods, grow older, and the stars grow dim and die, and godlike heroes and great emperors. Are they not mortal? All that lives must die. How if the gods live? Must the gods not die? Nay, but what saw you, heard you, which is lost of those bright presences who fill with light, the heaven they live in, and the earth and sea, with life and love and loveliness? Ah, nay, it cannot be. Earth could not spare one god. The least of all who only leaves the ground. Rainer for his lightfootfall, or the wind, more music laden for his murmuring wings. Earth could not spare one god, if heaven could spare. Listen, and I will tell you. Nay, not thus, lay yourself to hand in mine, but gaze not so with those
love-kindling eyes, lest their soft fires fuse the sharp outlines of my memory. Two nights ago I sailed out set of sun out to the westward where the glory led, and when its sank and darkness fell I found the wide-plank sea that mirrored all the stars. Spread round me as a blind man feels the night, so to one star I steered that hangs in may, at midnight, over the heights of our dear hills. So steth fast I have deemed it was your love, my guiding star that is itself the heaven, to which it leads me, and it led me then. The dreaming lay the winds that drowsy night, the sails flout idly, and the very stars moved overhead scarce slower than I sailed. So have content, have vexed, to be so stayed, I laid me down beneath the unnumbered eyes, engaged and dreamed, and the gods sent me dreams.
Dreams not of sleep but of waking, temples rose out of the darkness, brightening as the bow upon the ring cloud, unlabourious fiends, unbuilded fabrics such as architects, envisions sea, and imitate in vain. With earth stuff, pundrous marble, garish paint, each loosened temple held a god within, that made its light and glory as the flame. Gleam's glories through the glasses of the lamp, the endless genealogies of heaven, were there the eldest born of gods whose years are countless and eternal as the stars. Zeus, Regent now, seemed youngest in the ranks, next grand-shire Saturn, and behind unnamed forgot of men or never known of men, long dynasties of horde of vinnities, crowned and discrowned by ancient wars in heaven. Or if her men were made or knew the gods, and behind all a glory that the eyes could not behold, that swallowed all the rest, the gods, the temples, the familiar stars, which still
shone faintly through the veil of light. But when amid the gods I found not, one, that most I sought amid the temples missed, the human god who loves the world of men, and still the human eyes reveals himself, though rarely as in happier ages past, our poets tell us all the gods were want, who now regard not men. Then as I sought, wondering with waxing trouble, suddenly there was a stir as when a wind begins in a still withland, from the temples all, arose a wailing, and the white robed gods came forth innumerable in multitude. Right in the midst was born a white dressed beer, and all behind in all in front the gods moved in procession, and no music snoped was needed for their very moving maid, and their melodious tread a funeral march, fuller than trumpets. To the pyre they came, built high from heaven to heaven above the stars, for every god had laid above their own, cypress or cedar or rich eastern woods, serian, lignalow,
santo wood from inn, deep in the dust of spices on the top, was laid the beer, and the flames leapt to it, and as they licked the mantle from the dead, the face I saw, and knew the face of pan. Loved, motionless, I lay in all in love, and sorrow for the god whom I had held, earth's one link left with heaven, and in my soul, despair rose sudden despot to usurp, the sovereignty of reason. When I looked, the pyre was all consumed, and from its heart the sacred ashes gathered, and again the slow procession moved. Again rose the noise of mourning. All the vast array took up one dirge as though the rolling waves all round the world took voice articulate, and sang in soft and thunder. Pam is dead. They chanted, this one burden, Pam is dead. But the miraculous virtue in the voice of gods made these self-words so eloquent that like a lovely picture in the mind rose memories of Whidland, Hill and Stream, once brightened
by his presence now for Lorne. Visions of fringed clefs untenanted, and weeping water nymphs by broken urns, slowly the pageant past like morning clouds, moving to eastward, fainted grue the voice, like distant murmuring thunder, and I looked and found the day was risen upon the sea. The fresh breeze quickened from the south, the sail filled, and with all the nirids at her prowl, my vessel flew with rippling laughter-home. But not the laugh of those invisible bands, nor the winds fresheness nor the dancing spray, nor all the brightness of the springing morning could lift the cloud of sorrow for my heart. As in a dream I landed, heard the cries of sailors and of fishers on the quay, new come to Haven from their nightly toil, as in a dream I passed them, bearing still, their vision in my soul, so that the crowds, the busy streets, the solemn temples, seemed, no worthier notice than the nests of ants upon a hillside whose fair height is snow. Even to this hour I walk as in a dream, earth, sea, and sky where unfamiliar looks, I move
like a child actor at a mask, he understands not, purposeless my path, as theirs who in mid journey meet the news, he whom ye seek is dead. Oh, I have heard amazed, seeing that vision through your eyes, and hearing through your ears the awful voice, yet oh, Leander, thank you that the gods were this no acting but reality, with us revealed a man that they could die. So darkest secrets be deeply sealed, and all the clouds that wander through wide heaven, close, they clothe from mortal eyes, writes so significant to mortal kind. I, where it one of the great gods who died, but pan was ever human, ever dwelt among us, with us of us God with man, as man with man, to death expectant eyes, revealing in the rainbow and the flower that mortal tenements might entertain immortal tenets love and loveliness.
How thank you then, did pan love men so well, that he put off his immortality, to dwell among them, what dreadpower is that? Inexorable, dealing thus the lots of mortal and immortal. Is there God above the gods? Could he not break his laws? Being his own and spare one kind God, I'll be at transgressing. Nay, we know him not, if there be God above the gods we know, it well might we, else wherefore was the earth and for whose sake created? Not for men, who vexed for its vulgar gold, and call mountain and more, where nature shows herself most lovely, wasted wilderness. And yet, if earth be the gods' pleasant, if for them, sleep on the hills, the sunlight, on the woods, like an azure veil, the evening air, why leave they, their fair garden, to be fouled by men whose life and death they hold as not? It well might be, there is some higher God, above the gods we know, have you not felt a
presence in the woods on April-Eves, a sudden sanctity in the earth, and thence an upward panting of the soul, a gasp of the most inward self to some unknown, unutterable joy, to which the life uplifts itself, searching the empty air, like the lean caterpillar? Long, I thought, such ecstasy's the effluence of pan, and sought him breathless down the branching glades, he was not there, surely had he been there to eyes so faithful and so fond as mine. Some glimpse had been vouchsafed, at last I came to think some higher than he must visit thus, invisible the earth, and in my heart, the long-round hunger for the sight of God grew more insistent, not indeed the thought to view that blessed one, whom so to feel transcended in vision, but my boyhood's hope, grown to a manhood's purpose to see pan. Ah, happy who have seen him whom the world calls madmen, these alone are poets, not the apt millifiless metrist, nor the deft industrious rimer, needs the fire of heaven, the earthquake,
the long lonely hour with God, before our flower-edged lyric rivulets flood or with the impetuous dithy ram. Ah, sorrow, sorrow, how doth harlot feet, granting our prayers fill not our desire, pan I have seen a darker secret learned than seers who have wandered to the another world, and low where I had looked for light, till night, and wherefore hope despair. What, have not loved light of his own and have not posy rich consolation, were it no high aim to win men's sensual souls by charm its song, to love the Imperian, the August, the golden, have you forgot your song of love? The maiden sing it and the adult for her, falters in his dark purpose as he hears, oh sing such songs again. Lure me not thus, though sweeter voice to then siren lest I make shipwreck upon some shallow vanity. The song and service may now more be loves, he is no poet who in woodland paths, where
first he learned sweet utterance lingers ever, repeating ever his one woodland note, forward the path leads, let him follow, up the steepest, down the deepest, till the end. What is it makes a poet's utterance strong, except the striving to make wings of words, and mount from apprehended thought to thought, unabriended, and what impulse moves to such ill-guarded labor, but the sense of things insensuous, the glint of rays, nibulous, indistinguished, which the eyes must gaze and gaze at till they fix the star, visions of water in the vacant sand, elision, islands in the waste of sea. Such have I seen, such fantasms on my life have followed, knowing somewhere they must lie, discoverable, in our eyes unreal, yet real somewhere. Such high thoughts have been bound ever with the holy name of Pam, and how if he be dead shall they not die, or prove as baseless as the world's belief. Yet have I drunk sweet comfort from your lips, part from the halftime of poet yet thrills
me, yet rather from a lightning flash of woman's insight in your words, did Pam put off his immortality. And so, surely immortals never were so kind, to mortals, never heart could sympathize, so well with human hearts that did not share the shadow of their death on daily life. This was his crime, that with Prometheus's once, that he loved men, and this his punishment to die like men. Then wherefore should the gods lament him who had fallen from God's estate? Oh, death, we'll reconcile the deadliest foes, if but they once have loved, and God to God is happily closer to him than man to man, and pity for a god may move the hearts of gods though they be pitiless to men. Sweet prophetess thou hast declared my dream, not all the gods must die, but only he who chose companionship with toiling man, rather than heaven's serene and human bliss, and here is comfort that the god I served was worthiest of service.
When in death he sent this vision, that his worshipper should not prolong vain service to the dead, alas, what other service left to seek. Loves for love dies not. It's not love enough. For the heart enough but not for the whole man. Do you not love me then with all you are? I love with heart and soul and with my whole self, but who by love lives only starves his soul, till the man grows unreasoning as the dog, who loves till death at scarce knows what or why, no use of little nature. Nay, I know, my nature grows complete in lovingly. Then is your life but mistletoe upon the boughs of love, where noble is the vine, I, and clings closelyer, that it has a life beside the tree's life? Yes, that is man's love, and mistletoe is woman's. But our love is deeper than all words and parables. I do confess me willful, woman like. Gelus one moment.
Love is not enough. I know it for the needs of noble souls. Singing. Ever to some horizon he must strain, that ever vanishes yet is not vain. Seeking the perilous palm that none attain. Love may attend him like the gentle air, that cools the athletes brow but let him care. For the end only, love shall greet him there. Now are you hopes on quiester, sweet love, and in your voice she visits me again? Said I, what other service left to seek? There is no other, I will seek the old. What if I follow to the furthest east, that wondrous funeral, I shall find at times some footprint of a god, where Philip torn, or fallen flower, or in some glen remote, a brighter, holier, more divine delight? On lawns and coopses, where they stayed a while, to rest if gods need rest, or to lament, such traces I shall find to lead me on, though like the patient hunter. Often at fault I roam the world as he the woodland threw, till either I shall find on some
far shore, untroddened save of gods, amount in tomb, worthy of god, or in some further climb, the lands elseian, where the dead abide, living in all things save the light of heaven, and gladness of God's presence. Happily pan has lightened somewhat there the somber souls, and sheared the thin, wind shadows as he want, did you hear the souls that walked in shadow here? Ah, will you leave me? Love, I must, I must, madness it may be so to trust a dream, yet if I trust it not, I must go mad. Fear not, sweet love, say I set out for gain, venturing a year-long voyage to win gold, you would not seek to stay me, stay me not. Now when I seek more precious gain than gold, knowledge and heart contentment, fear not love, for if I find I shall return to you, and if I find not, will there shall I turn, save to your love for comfort, let him care for the end only, love shall greet him there. Thus as they talked, their names were called below, and with one long embrace they turned
to go. The soft wind sighed to miss them from the grass, the branches stood to stay them as they pass. Now they are lost, and now once more the sail sweeps around the headland, leaving a long trail. The west behind them reddens, and their wake is rosy in the rushing water-break. Fainter the white sail grows, the tall black mast, or tops no more the mountains, all is passed. The wind sleeps and the sea, and over all in silence deep is drawn night's gleaming pole. End of Part 1 Part 2 of a Lost God by Francis William Bordelon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.
Part 2 The Quest There looks a lonely column or the sea, close to the cliff edge, where the Ionian land leans westward. Far below the hungry sea sucks ever at the cliff foot, and the temple, pillar and pediment and roof is fallen, this lonely column left. A wilding vine clasps it and clings, like woman's faithful love round the forsaken. At the pillar's foot, Leander lies, and watches wistfully, each white wing that flies westward. Each white sail that windals to the distant verge, and dips below the sea line, homeward bound for Greece. Two years he has wandered. For at first the heat of young enthusiasm had carried him heedless upon his visionary quest, counting not distance, hither, thither led, by shifting rumour like a thistle-seed, known by each crossing current down a glade.
From hill to hill, from shore to shore he went, from island onto island, till at last far off mid-Aleon men, despondency and doubt, long kept at bay, even as a foe that hangs on some impetuous conqueror, sullen, inexorable, fell on him, and all his fire and all his faith was lost. And as a climber, who in heedless haste has clambered halfway up a precipice, turning at last perceives the giddy gulf, his head swims, and his heart within him fails, so far away lies safety. Even so Leander turning knew the unmeasured leagues that lay between his longing eyes and home. I, many were the perils, land and sea alike, were hostile to the waifero, in those wild days. Hungry and hard-bested, he reached at last the sea, and there a crew of pirates seized
him, purposeing to sell his delicate limbs to slavery. But a storm and shipwreck rescued him, and he was cast friendless but free upon the Ionian shore. Was ever a Ulysses in sore straits that found not a colipso? Gentle hands suckered and saved him, and a gentle heart from pitting fell to loving, and from love to jealousy, finding his heart was fixed too firm on Helen to be wooed astray. Alas, alas colipso! In a heart so gentle, harbor such unjental thoughts, and kindness turned to torturing cruelty. For when for all her wooing, she perceived no step advanced, but that he ever chose, rather than be with her, to sit alone by that lone pillar, watching the wide sea and weeping. Then with love and jealousy tormented, she contrived a dire extreme.
For feigning she had planned a glad surprise to please him, and a secret message sent to know how Helen fared, she brought him news, with pitting size and tears and woeful words, that Helen had been wedded and was dead. And to confirm it showed him letters. Then so liked a madness was his agony, that she his torture a wept most tender tears, and had almost confessed the baseless lie. Then held her, till occasion off-blood slip seemed lost forever. Colmer too he grew, as sorrow like a petrifying surge, sank drop by drop through all the pores of being. And all the day, yay often all the night, he kept his lonely station on the cliff, soothed happily by the sea-wind, or the low, long murmur of the waves upon the beach. Till once as he sat solitary there, some breath of spring, some scent of flower or song
of far off woodbird, smote him like a lash to scathing recollection. All his life rose up before his eyes. His boyhood streams, his purpose to be poet, and the love so lightly left, so sweet, so wonderful, worthy to toss aside all purposes to win it truly. Oh, fool that left it one! Passionately he cried the words aloud. Oh, fool! When as an echo close at hand, his word came back to him. Fool, wherefore fool! Starting he turned, and half the pillar's length behind him, saw an unknown wayfarer, whose reverent aspect showed him sage or seer, crowned with the glory of a temperate life, white hair, and long white beard upon his breast. Again he spoke. Why fool! And in his eyes shone kindly light, as shine the fair twin stars in storm to sailors.
Rosely underup, crying, Oh, sir, if as I deen you are seer or philosopher, were prophet sage, help me, for I lie helpless, hedged within the ruins of a life planned loftily, and scarce can breathe, or free my hands to feel, if base beneath the ruins yet be left enough to build on, help me. How to help not knowing yet your nature or your need? Nay, but I have divine it. You are one, sighing for truth, as all are sighing now, who drown not reason in the slews of lust, nor poison her sweet nature with the taint of sending unbelief. Truth! What is truth? Will some God tell us? Nay the gods themselves are liars, since they send us lying dreams, and give not what they promise to our prayers. Hush, the gods here! And did the gods not hear, the sin would be greater, lacking even the species a show of
courage. While each coward seen thy sin unpunished, should take heart to send more boldly. So not unbelief, doubt in thyself, if vexed by such sore plague, but leave their faith to those who can believe, for all pure faith is nearer truth than doubt. Yet purest faith may be the most deceived. Save where your faith was fixed, wherein deceived. And God, my faith was, and by God deceived. Let not the poison flower of blasphemy blossom upon your lips. Rather lay bare its roots to me, if happily I have skilled to purge the noctious nature. For indeed often are grafted on the self-same stem, the poisonous and the wholesome, being kin as bitter as wheatappled. Only all your life, its bright hopes and its broken faith, as to where are nethers.
I will tell thee all. Mine was that happy boyhood which infields, and woodlands knows each nesting place of birds, each nuk of earliest flowers. My mother seemed herself a very nymph of mea's train. More careful of the moss built in the linnet's nest, than of majestic temples, loving more the breath of more nor meadows after rain, than Syrian perfumes in the myriad eyes of the lawn daisies than the looks of men. Nature was round me, as the river's breast to little water neslings, and I drank. Plate lived in her in ever-growing trust. Ever my mother taught me to adore, gods in the woodland, in the mountain gods, who made and kept the world in loveliness. Childlike in wonder more than awe, I asked if I might see them, and she smiled and said some say that they have seen them, and even now, unless our legends be but lovely lies, there is one lesser deity who clings, to his old haunts and helis, even pan, the goat-foot
god whom shepherd poets see. Then eager-flood my childish questionings, and much she told me, winnowing fair tales, which may be truth from fow, which must be lies, and ever afterwards I dreamt of pan, and thought to be a poet. Thus the years passed in perpetual springtime, till one year came too most dreadful, but undreamed of yet, in all my dreams of God, came death and love. Death came and smoked that life so knit with mine, as birth had only severed child and mother. Body from body but not soul from soul, and in my anguish seemed me that a soul so wounded must forcheryly bleed to death, and day by day and night by night I lay, waiting for death to fetch me as a thing forgotten and returned for, reason shook upon her throne, until a comforter came, not the death that I desired, but love a kinder death, and at love's dawn my life, as earth at morning, put away its pawl, and took for rope the rainbow.
Hopes and dreams clothed as of old my soul, and hopes and dreams still to one good looked only to see God. And learnt I first how life's great visiting, prayer's answer, hopes fulfillment came to us, at whilst we least expect them, and in ways which least we look for, in a dreadful dream the revelation came for which I prayed. He told his vision of the death of Pan, fainter for two years faded memory, yet still so clear it brought the ruddy blood to his pale forehead, and a quicker pulse into his lingwood veins. The sun was sunk, and heaven's wide arch was studded ore with stars, or air he ended. Silently the sage, smitten with his fervor, doubting not the dream, yet doubting of its import, loath to throw one chilling breath of doubt on the warm heart that glowed anew with half forgotten fires. At last he spoke. Yet it was not love still left.
What have you learnt? Ah, therefore, cried I fool, fool on myself, name at man, for I left my love, my anchor of calm reason, dreamed that airborne pageant was a thing my feet could follow, and by land and sea pursued, as children follow rainbows, love is lost, and hope, faith only after long eclipse gleams cloudly, since you have spoke with me. Are there no gods, no goal of life, no world, where in our grouping instincts shall find light? Help me if you can help, teach me if ought you know, for my old teachers fell me now. He ended earnestly as a lost child who asks the way of any way fairer. A while in silence his companion sat, fixing a far off gaze on one lone star, a little lamp amid large space of night. Then suddenly, your teachers fell you now. Mine too, who long had taught me, failed me once.
I too was like a vessel that long rode safely at anchor, till by sudden storm tossed from known harbor in safe anchorage. I too had such an anchor of the soul as your child faith in nature. Nor my faith proved firmer, fixed, though in a deeper sea, for I am an Athenian. I was born where Socrates was slain, where Plato taught, and I have trod the groves of Akadim, and I have worn the steps of Poisele for my first years. For my first years I loved these teachers, partly that I have believed their spirits haunted yet their ancient homes, and made that sweet mysterious charm I loved in street and temple. I too worshiped God, but not the gods, a little lower than man, who men have made mere images to each, ideal of his own yearnings good or bad. But the divinity that underlies all thought speech action in the world, in whom we live
and move and have our being, of whom men speak, saying if God will, or God ordains, or in their prayers for friends, our highest prayers being unsophish, as God go with you, God bless you. By no name I worshiped him, for who can know his nature or his name, or anything save this that he is good, since he has made the sunshine and the flowers, nor in much knowledge as my reason grew I sought to find him. Even his creator must transcend his creatures, even as man transcends the mechanism he makes. The counterparting God of human reason must be past the power of human thought to reason of. So mid the olives in the barbels went my life, and still I drank new knowledge in of natural things in high philosophy. Cold do you deem my life beside the fires you told me with such a fervor of your youth.
How do you deem my life? Nay, listen still. It had its core of tenderness, its days of music. Have you found at times a flint cold, hard, immealable, yet perchance broken across, and where you thought to see the heart dull as the rest, bright crystals gleamed with rainbow hues, the work of fires long dead. My life hides such a center. Would you hear? I fell a day of spring when weary grown of a long winter's pouring over books, and feeling as the caged-lark fields the spring calling to feed him. Fourth I went and took the road to seward. When I reached the shore fresh blew the breeze, and crispy breakers curled into the bay. My mood was idle, dreams were in my head, and reasoned half asleep. So, finding a lone boat upon the beach, in idleness not asking leave, alone I launched
it, stepped therein and hoisted the sail. The credulous thereafter said some god sailed with me, held the tiller, called the wind, that blew me softly, swiftly till the land grew but a dim grey outline. I know not. But on a sudden, gazing witlessly in reverie on the waters, I beheld some floating wreck, a broken mast with ropes, trailing like sea-snakes fascinating on its life. And as I looked, low wound amid the ropes, leapt gently by the water, yet half dry, and infant slept. Oh, wonder! Quick I seized an or and drew me to the spot, in haste unbound at the knotted ropes, and tenderly lifted the child. Oh, was it living or dead? Could it be living, sleeping gently, so amid such gaping mouths of hungry death? Yes, it was living, at my unused touch, tender, but even a tender hand unused, is rough,
that woke and looked with large dark eyes up in my face and laughed. Oh, happy laugh, that sweet laugh hailed me father, gave me heart kind as a father's, and a purpose fixed. And it's forth to be in this lost father's place. Homeward scarce knowing how I sailed and reached the shore. Then landed, heard the news of wreck, a rich finition merchantman. All hands save one who brought the tidings lost. My heart leapt as I thought, then none can claim the babe. Who are weary to tell how day by day life fared, though each day in my memory is clear as each year's ring in trunks of pine. But all my life was changed, rich sunlight poured where had been moonlight. No bluer were the heights, unless obscure the hollows. Strange it is this love that binds us to another life so little like our own.
But such strong love, first for the helpless thing that smiled on me, then for child lips that list me father. Last for a fair maiden slim and delicate, with wistful eyes that ever seemed aware of things we see not. Such a life-quickening love bound me to her, more dear than life itself. She seemed the unknown hope of my young dreams, the pure ideal of my philosophy, the answer of full blessing to my prayers. Just I then tell the end. Not all the years, not all the dreadful years have eaten yet into my soul so deeply as to loose the barbed grief that lodged there on the day when Naria died. The gods had need of her, she murmured with a smile and passed. Oh, God, because thou have need of her as I had need. My white wings saggy, leading me through life along the paths of flowers. Can you not guess what shipwreck those fair vessels hope and joy and reverence of
God and faith in man now suffered when the convoy love was lost? What goal, what guide, what comfort, what desire in all the deserts' seas of life? The lapse of major days restored in even pulse to fevered reason. The old habits came to their old place. Philosophy was left cold, clear, untroubled, bitterly, I said. As a star above the storm that founders us, I would be cold, untroubled, leaving dreams of God and goodness, love and loveliness. So locking all fair chambers I had loved, I sought my lodging in the four bare walls of stoicism, hardening all my heart against soft influences, the winds of spring, the sight of waters, the sweet voice of girls. Master, what gracious influence melted you from that hard mood to what I find you now,
patient and gentle ear to murmurings, compassionate and kindly heart-to-grief, soft voice to love, fearless rebuke of wrong. I scarce can tell you, drops so numerous of blessing, unperseed as dew came down, to the softened day by day my arid will. For first a lame child fallen in the street, where dark eyes were like nirias, strangely stirred my stoic humor. And her voice and thanks for being so moved I helped her to her home, sounded as sweet as falling waters, heard of desert wonders or the darkening sands. And once late passing by a lonely shrine, I heard a mother praying for her son, her only son far off, forgetful of her. I thought I had forgotten how to weep till then. Once the frozen river stirs, the break comes quickly. Most of all I found new founts of pity in unmermuring pain, passing the deeds of heroes.
By day my heart changed in me, and with open eyes seen that death and grief were to the world the law my grief not laws unwanted breach. I said, if man by imitating God can carve fair statues and ordain just laws shall not God's laws exceed our righteousness, even as his works are art, at night is light. Edness is gladness, death is life be good. So said I and so taught that God is good, all evil that we see is in our scene, even as the spots that dance before our eyes in the full sunlight. At such a simple lore the listener stared, then laughed, a Socrates, a Athenians hear the new philosophy. What always, when I heard some blatant voice preaching philosophies of life, I thought,
who'd life expounds and yet explain not death? He maps an island and omits the sea. Thus the sweet violet faith grew from the grave of joy, nor more I thought to understand, but just to take all blessing and all grief, blindly as good, and groped to inns unseen. And happily, for who knows, to find at last some clearer region at the back of death? The years went over, gently lapsed my life, as metal streams that once were waterfalls, with not to mark my days, save white ne'ing locks. Till as a trumpet-blown dead of night tidings came to me, for whose sake I now am wearing my old limbs, with journey long, sped onward by a fresh-need breeze of hope. What tidings? A new teacher in the world teaching what death is. Rumor, scant and dim, still held to this that he could raise the dead.
Oh, Miracle, what blessed above all lands, heard first his teaching, fills his footsteps now. Not from our Western wisdom this new light from Rome or Hellus, nay, nor Egypt old, has risen upon the world, an ancient race dark-browned, unvanquished, unvictorious, dwells south of Tyre. There say they is his home, and there I seek him. Will you go with me? Master, my feet are as your feet, my heart as your heart, I will follow to the end. End of Part 2 Part 3 of a Lost God by Francis William Bordeland. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org.
Part 3 Achievement All hills of Palestine, a sadness hangs on slope and summit, and in plain beneath broods as a meadow mist, the chilling ghost of lost occasion and long-perished hope. Oh land of promise, how art thou become to heart that love thee, land of bitterness? Yet not the measure of thy sins was full then when the things I tell of chance, and still some gleams of glory visited the soil, less hard than hearts that crucified the Christ. Lily's spring from it, gloriously arrayed, whose paler kindred in our bleak north climb we name windflowers. The land was rich with them, the unreaped harvest of the lavish spring, when Philo and Leander, rumor led from place to place, passed southward. The same way many were journeying, and they joined the crowd, who questioned not, but deemed
them helline Jews, happily from Alexandria or from Crete, who crossed the sea to keep the Passover. At last a hilltop gained, Jerusalem lay washed with mourning at their feet, and shouts rose from the multitude of joy and pride. But little stirred their greetion soles the sight, so unlike Greece. The white walled city blazed in pearl and topazs, beneath the orient blue. And like some gorgeous jewels central gem, flashed in the midst, the one vast golden shrine. And little moved them all the spectacle, the stirring crowds, the eager worshippers. One man they sought, one question asked of all. Here is the deetje of the new teacher. Much they marveled that so few had heard his fame, nor any knew if he were there or no. But one day, wandering from the city gate, they met slow winding down the dusty hill, a
strange procession. On the gentlest beast rode one the gentlest seaming of all men. And as he went, upon the road before, the crowds spread palms in triumph, or flung down their garments for the tread of those slow feet. And with a flash of joy, Leander turned to his companion. This is he, is he. Past the procession, and with wondering joy they followed to the city gate, and through the gate, unto the temple precincts. Therefor bid to enter, they were forced to turn, and unaccomplished, see their golden hopes, that yet burned brightly. For they said together, soon as the festival was passed, and stilled the unused stir and tumult of the streets, then should they find him. So day followed day, and solitary yet they dwelt, a loof in life and feeling from the alien
folk, and finding not amid the jealous Jews, the liberal human love of Helen Hartz. For the pure souls of hellis ever seem open as their own temples to the light of sea and land in sky, made beautiful as these with sculpture, by the memories of noble days and deeds, and heroes dead. Yet once again they saw the man they sought. Three days had passed, or four, and then a day came, memorable for mysterious awe, oppressed with dreadful dreams, and terrible for thick unnatural night, that at the noon hid earth and heaven. And when it lengthed past, and the mild evening, breathing consolation, brought calm and lucid the clear light again. On the hot streets they turned, and sought a hill hard by the city. As they gained the brow, a sudden horror shook again their souls. For gone against the silvery evening light, three crosses stretched their ghastly arms in
air, and on them, murdered in the barbarous mode of the world's masters, still three corpses hung. The public footway led beneath, and they, spite of repugnance, followed, murmuring low words of good omen to avert the ill. And nearer drawing, round the midmost cross, they marked a little crowd, women and men weeping, and one who clasped and kissed the feet, pallid and pierced with nails. The gracious Greeks, reverent to human sorrow, stepped aside, and lifted as they passed, their eyes to see what criminal was he, whose death of shame was by such love attended. And the face they saw, that none who looked on could forget, marred now by mortal suffering, yet supreme even in the pains of death, or death and pain. The face they saw, and knew, and like a flood surging or sunny fields, were all their
hopes, dark disappointment swelled, and dull despair. And like a mocking echo of their thoughts, fell from the scornful lips of one who passed, he saved others, himself he could not save. Our years off take their impress from one hour of joy or sorrow, and to these the light of many days was in one hour made dark. And as they drew near hellis, their sad hearts warmed with the love of home, and hand-in-hand, they clasped, and vowed to vex their souls no more, but live such quiet lives as all men live, and take their daily lot of sun and rain as others, and like others quietly give up the reading of the riddle death.
But Leander, as they drew near home, rose up in starlit sky and sun-let-see the face of Helen, and if ecstasy in some forgetful moment when the breeze blew freshly and the sun danced on the sea, soared to its natural heaven, then swift and sure, the arrow of remembrance reached it there, and like a wounded lark, it fell to earth, in torment unremediable. At last, on a calm even tide, when all day long to them slow sailing distant hills of Greece, had lain in shadowy purple on their lee. When night soft-hearted, soothing motherly, had laid her loving hand upon his head, no longer he forebore, but to his friend told of his life what he had left untold. How Helen had been wedded and was dead. But that large heart, grown wise with sympathy more than experience of the ways of men,
gently as he who probes a sufferer's wound to know if he may heal it, touched by touch, by artful questions answered artlessly, discerned the world-old tale of woman's skyle, ruthless in love. And first by meaning words dropped lightly, then by plainer hints, and last by open explanation, lifted highly and his heart to long forgotten hope. And now to him the wind swift wings were slow, and long the flying hours. But the good wind neither for hopes blew faster, nor for fears faltered, but ever bore them steadily, till out of a grey dawn flash like a star far off, a pillared temple on a height. His eyes the earliest hailed it, and his feet were first upon the land, but tremblingly he trod the well-known ways, and sick with doubt came to the doorway. Then, oh joy, joy, joy, for Helen lived, and with sweet woman's faith had wedded, and
with woman's hope had watched, and now with woman's love she welcomed him. Nor would those long-tried comrades part again, but in one tranquil home the three together lived peaceful days. Yet upon Philo's heart, and on Leambus, still a shadow lay, light brooding as the shadow of a cloud, but unremoving and unchangeable. The shadow of a life's high enterprise failed in, a great achievement unachieved. But in the slow years passing came a day that brought, how little hoped for, the fulfillment of their old dreams. It fell upon a day that Philo moved by ancient memories, grew feign once more to visit his old home in Athens, and he left his friends a while, and once again with unfamiliar feet trod the familiar ways, streets, temples, halls, amid the olives and the marbles, paced
Poe Sile, and the groves of Epidem. Saw yet again the shade of Plato rise, lived his old life again, and found his soul filled with four-lorn ghosts of forgotten days, and softened with most pitting tenderness to the young life that hardly seemed his own, whose iridescent dreams were grown so gray. And the days went, and they who watched at home wondered at his long terry. But at last he came, upon a golden even tide, that lit his face and his white locks with gold, and much they welcomed him and brought him in within the darkening house, and wondered then, because the fire was still upon his face, the sun set glow, or some diviner light. Master and friend. Leander cried at last. The rapture has relit your eyes with flame. They have not burned so brightly since the hour, when hope died in our hearts. What joy is this? What have you seen?
What heard? May we too hear and share your joy. I you and all the world. Well may a rapture reallum the eyes, that see the donning of an age of gold, fairer than fabled. Mind you him we saw dead hanging on the cross. His death that day crowned hope, not quested as we thought. He lives, risen from the dead. What have you seen him? Nay, but many saw him. I have spoken with one. Oh master, tell us step by step your tail. We need a stairway to such heights of joy. Climb me to air opagus one day. I came upon a crowd who pressed to hear some speaker. Very nearer I beheld one most noteworthy in the midst of look most lofty but of stature small, and raised on steps or statue-base for all to see. When first I caught his words articulate, he had drawn all eyes and stopped the smallest
stir by some arrested power of earnestness, or eloquent exhortion, and was saying, hath raised him from the dead. But at that word rose light laughter from the careless crowd of ritual-serving skeptics, and the most turned departed scourfully. But I, a certain wild hopes bringing in my heart, lingered, and sholdering through the ebb and throng, found some few others gathered around the man, eager to question of his wondrous news. And as shall I say, how in few words tell all? How make you understand what power there was, or in the man or in his message made to doubt impossible? While in our ears he told the story of the blameless life whose crown was crucifixion. But the sequel outmatched the rest in miracle. The tomb found vacant in the glimmering dawn, the vision of angels, and the visitant who
bore in living hands and feet the scars of death. Looked on by human eyes, by human hands touched for face token. Thus was taught the world that immortality is not the dream of ports, but the real life of man. The light we thought to spangle proves the star. The toy we lightly played with, or through by, proves treasure trusted till a reckoning day. Infinity to climb, eternity to spend in climbing. See you how this world pleasure in pain, loss gained in such a view sink into nothing. Good and evil mean to mortals little, to immortals all. Thus that foiled, painful life looked back upon, orbed into star-like glory, radiating a brightening revelation as they saw. They his disciples who had been with him, how every word in acting him had sent to that
one central truth, mysterious then, now manifest past doubt, since he that died was seen re-risen. Oh Master, as the light of sunset after a long day of rain, are you assuring words, yet bear with me, is all that I have worshipped in the world? Maybe the ETHER of the panting soul, art that half-sooths, half-quickens the soul's thirst, are these not worshipworthy? And the gods whom we have reverenced, are they gods no more? Rather I think that they were never gods, but lovely idols of the mind of man. As are their images, his handiwork, not the inhuman mullic and his like, that then be devils as the Jews believe. Out of our Helene gods, not all are base, adulterous, criminal, consider them evil and good together, or they not the likeness of the natural mind of man, each human attribute idealized.
The best of them, but earthly, and earthly things now dwindle in the expanse of opening heaven, yet with all fair things they may take fit place, with stars and flowers and statues let them be. Unmeat for worship, not unmeat for love. But we as men upon a misguirt aisle, have long enough been fooled with petty hills and mimic rivers. Long enough have played in earnestness with toys of flour and shell. What when the mist is rent and full reveal lies the vast ocean shall we turn our backs and shut our eyes and make believe again? What madman so deluded, when this life whose vanity are own philosophers have tired our ears with teaching, this brief life subject to death, this body for all to pain, are but for trial trusted as to prove if we be worthy and immortal life, a body passionless.
But those rare moods of exaltation in my dreams of pain, are they illusions only? Nay, not so. This Christ accomplishes your dreams of pain in ways beyond your dreaming. He put off his immortality to dwell with men. He labored with a laborer. He wept with those that mourned. For him the wild field flower shone fairer than the splinters of a king. And in all nature earthen sky and sea, he taught how near beneath the surface lies the golden ore of truth, which, shining through awaken such wild yearnings as to me, you, poet, have confessed. Pooet, take heart. All that makes nature fuller voice to man, poem or picture is of God, and lens is tiddle of help to his untiring work. Of lifting man above the mists of self, to see the vision of the eternal.
Christ has once for all done that tremendous thing, whose awful need had pressed for ages past, on souls clear-sighted, like a cloud of doom, and made of poets' prophets' menacing. His forth may they look forth with lighter heart, fulfill their natural order, and become nature's interpreters in all her ways, a verb or beast or star or humankind. So they give God the glory, and the first of aspiration, gladness, love to him, from whom all good gifts come. He ceased, and now scarce heated in their converse, night had fallen. So after some brief silence, Helen rose, and filled an ancient lamp with odorous oil. The soft light stole through all the darkened room. One breath of summer night just stirred the flame. And through the window one bright star looked in, then looking each on other, with one thought moving them, on the glimmering marble floor they knelt together, and prayed the prayer
of Christ.
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