From the Book of the Eagle

--[St. John, i. 1-33]               In the mighty Mother's bosom was the Wise     With the mystic Father in aeonian night;     Aye, for ever one with them though it arise         Going forth to sound its hymn of light.          At its incantation rose the starry fane;     At its magic thronged the myriad race of men;     Life awoke that in the womb so long had lain         To its cyclic labours once again.          'Tis the soul of fire within the heart of life;     From its fiery fountain spring the will and thought;     All the strength of man for deeds of love or strife,         Though the darkness comprehend it not.          In the mystery written here     John is but the life, the seer;     Outcast from the life of light,     Inly with reverted sight     Still he scans with eager eyes     The celestial mysteries.     Poet of all far-seen things     At his word the soul has wings,     Revelations, symbols, dreams     Of the inmost light which gleams.          The winds, the stars, and the skies though wrought     By the one Fire-Self still know it not;     And man who moves in the twilight dim     Feels not the love that encircles him,     Though in heart, on bosom, and eyelids press     Lips of an infinite tenderness,     He turns away through the dark to roam     Nor heeds the fire in his hearth and home.          They whose wisdom everywhere     Sees as through a crystal air     The lamp by which the world is lit,     And themselves as one with it;     In whom the eye of vision swells,     Who have in entranced hours     Caught the word whose might compels     All the elemental powers;     They arise as Gods from men     Like the morning stars again.     They who seek the place of rest     Quench the blood-heat of the breast,     Grow ascetic, inward turning     Trample down the lust from burning,     Silence in the self the will     For a power diviner still;     To the fire-born Self alone     The ancestral spheres are known.          Unto the poor dead shadows came     Wisdom mantled about with flame;     We had eyes that could see the light     Born of the mystic Father's might.     Glory radiant with powers untold     And the breath of God around it rolled.          Life that moved in the deeps below     Felt the fire in its bosom glow;     Life awoke with the Light allied,     Grew divinely stirred, and cried:     "This is the Ancient of Days within,     Light that is ere our days begin.          "Every power in the spirit's ken     Springs anew in our lives again.     We had but dreams of the heart's desire     Beauty thrilled with the mystic fire.     The white-fire breath whence springs the power     Flows alone in the spirit's hour."          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