Tannhäuser : $b A story of all time

“One birth of my bosom; One beam of mine eye; One topmost blossom That scales the sky. Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I.” _Hertha._

_A desolate and melancholy wood. Nightfall._

Heinrich. Well, I am lost! The whistle brings no hound, The horn no hunter! North and South are mixed In this low twilight and the hanging boughs. I have slept worse than this. Poor Tannhäuser! I met him walking, as in dream, across The courtyard, while behind him skulked that crew That lurked, and itched to kill him, him unarmed, Not daring! But he reached his hand to me! “Good luck, old friend!” and, smiling, he was gone. Gone to the Pope—Great soul to mountebank! It was her wish, they whisper. Well-a-day! He’s gone, and not a friend have I again. This bank is soft with delicate white moss, No pillow better in broad Germany. Were Madeline but here! What rustle stirs These leaves? A strong man sobbing! The earth quakes Responsive. Hillo-ho! Who comes by there?

[_Tannhäuser enters. He appears old and worn; but from his whole body radiates a dazzling light, and his face is that of the Christ crucified._

Save us, Saints, save us! I have looked on God!

Tannhäuser. Heinrich! my friend, my old true-hearted friend! Fear not! I am not ghost, but living man! Ah me, ah me, the sorrow of the world!

Heinrich. Thou, Tannhäuser! what miracle is this? Your body glows—with what unearthly light?

Tannhäuser. I did not know. Ah! sorrow of this earth! What tears are falling from the Pleiades! What sobs tear out Orion’s jewelled heart! Ah me! As these, as these!

Heinrich. Speak, speak to me! Else, I am feared. Why run these tears to earth? Why shakes your bosom? Why does glory flame A crown, a cincture? What befell you there?

Tannhäuser. I came to Rome across the winter snows Barefoot, and through the lovely watered land Rich in the sunshine—even unto Rome. There knelt I with the other sinful folk At the great chair of Peter. Sobbed they out From full repentant hearts their menial sins, And got them peace. But I told brutally (Cynical phrase, contempt of self and him) My sojourn in the Venusberg; then he Rose in his wrath, and shook the barren staff Over my head, and cried—I heard his voice Most like the dweller of the hurricane Calm, small, and still, directing desolation; Death to the world athwart its path.—So he Cried out upon me “Till this barren staff Take life, and bud, and blossom, and bear fruit, And shed sweet scent—so long God casteth thee Out from His glory!” Stricken, smitten, slain— When—one unknown, a pilgrim with the rest, Darting long rugged fingers and deep eyes, Reached to the sceptre with his word and will— Buds, roses, blossoms! Lilies of the Light! Bloom, bloom, the fragrance shed upon the air! Out flames the miracle of life and love! Out, out the lights! Flame, flame, the rushing storm! Darkness and death, and glory in my soul! Swept, swept away are pope and cardinal, Palace and city! There I lay beneath The golden roof of the eternal stars, Borne up on some irremeable sea That glowed with most internal brilliance; Borne up, borne up by hands invisible Into a firmament of secret light Manifest, open, permeating me! Then, then, I cried upon the mystic Word! (That once begot in me the Venusberg) And lo! that light was darkness—in the face Of That which gleamed above. And verily My life was borne on the dark stream of death Down whirling aeons, linked abysses, columns Built of essential time. And lo! the light Shed from Her shoulders whom I dimly saw; Crowned with twelve stars and hornéd as the moon; Clothed with a sun to which the sun of earth Were tinsel; and the moon was at Her feet— A moon whose brilliance breaks the sword of song Into a million fragments; so transcends Music, that starlight-sandalled majesty! Then—shall I contemplate the face of Her? O Nature! Self-begotten! Spouse of God, The Glory of thy Countenance unveiled! Thy face, O mother! Splendour of the Gods! Behold! amid the glory of her hair And light shed over from the crown thereof, Wonderful eyes less passionate than Peace That wept! That wept! O mystery of Love! Clasping my hands upon the scarlet rose That flamed upon my bosom, the keen thorns Pierced me and slew! My spirit was withdrawn Into Her godhead, and my soul made One With the Great Sorrow of the Universe, The Love of Isis! Then I fell away Into some old mysterious abyss Rolling between the heights of starry space; Flaming above, beyond the Tomb of Time, Blending the darkness into the profound Chasms of matter—so I fell away Through many strange eternities of Space, Limitless fields of Time. I knew in me That I must fall into the ground and die; Dwell in the deep a-many years, at last To rise again—Osiris, slain and risen! Light of the Cross, I see Thee in the sky, My future! I must perish from the earth, Abide in desolate halls, until the hour When a new Christ must needs be crucified.— So weep I ever with Our Lady’s tears, Weep for the pain, the travail, the old curse; Weep, weep, and die. So dawns at last the Grail, The Glory of the Crucified! Dear friend, Be happy, for my heart goes out to you, And most to that poor pale Elizabeth— Were it not only that the selflessness That fills me now, forbids the personal, Casts out the individual, and weeps on For the united sorrow of all things. For if I die, it is not Tannhäuser, Rather a spark of the supreme white light That dwelt and flickered in him in old time; That Light, I say, that hides its flame awhile To shine more fully—to redeem the world! I say, then, “I”; and yet it is not “I” Distinct, but “I” incorporate in All. I am, the Resurrection and the Life! The Work is finished, and the Night rolled back! I am the Rising Sun of Life and Light, The Glory of the Shining of the Dawn! I am Osiris! I the Lord of Life Triumphant over death.—

O Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow of the World!

Heinrich. This was my friend. Deep night descends, perfused With unsubstantial glory from beyond. The stars are buried in the mist of light. Beyond the hill the world is, and laments Existence—the wide firmament of woe! And he—his heart was great enough for all, The fall of sparrows as the crash of stars, The tears of lonely forests, and the pain Of the least atom—all were in his heart. Was that indeed the truth? that he should come At last a Christ upon the waiting world, Redeem it to more purpose than the last! So fills his sorrow, and Her sympathy, My common soul, that I am fain to fall Upon my face, and cry aloud to God: “O Thou, Sole Wise, Sole Pure, Sole Merciful, Who hast thus shewn Thy mystery to man: Grant that his coming may be very soon!” See, the sobs shake me like a little child. The moon is crescent, waxing in the West. Take the last kiss, dear.

What is the strange song?

[_The great Goddess ariseth, weeping for the slain Osiris Tannhäuser._

ISIS. Isis am I, and from my life are fed All stars and suns, all moons that wax and wane, Create and uncreate, living and dead, The Mystery of Pain. I am the Mother, I the silent Sea, The Earth, its travail, its fertility. Life, death, love, hatred, light, darkness, return to me— To Me!

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

ACELDAMA. [_Out of print_. SONGS OF THE SPIRIT. THE TALE OF ARCHAIS. JEPHTHAH AND OTHER MYSTERIES, &c. JEZEBEL. [_Out of print_. AN APPEAL TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE. THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY, &c. (_Privately Printed._) CARMEN SAECULARE. THE SOUL OF OSIRIS.

PRESS NOTICES

“GOLDEN OPINIONS FROM ALL SORTS OF PEOPLE”

“A windbag foaming at the mouth.”

“How rich and melodious are many of his poems, besides being full of powerful and original thought.”

“Exquisite stanzas ... many faults.”

“Remarkable mastery of form.”

“Nearly akin to verbiage ... he has imagination and not infrequently the poet’s touch.”

“Intense spirituality ... technical superiorities ... an utterance at once mysterious and vivid ... an impressive and original voice ... fiery and clear measured and easy of phrasing.”

“Always melodiously ... sometimes nonsensically.”

“A sinister rival to the mutoscope.”

“Self-revelation of an intensely passionate nature, expressed with a rare command of poetic form ... largely Pagan in sentiment.”

“Clever imitations of a brilliant yet somewhat leprous style ... gilded nastiness.”

“Veils a morbidly exaggerated Catholicism under an ultra-Egyptian passion for death.... Aleister Crowley is a true poet.”

“We quote ... There is a good deal of similar drivel further on.”

“Real and striking gifts both of imagination and expression.”

“Mr Crowley out-Swinburne’s Mr Swinburne.... Shows no mean technical accomplishment.”

“The pupil is in some ways greater than the master (Mr Swinburne).”

“Most exalted moods of mysticism ... richness and visionary splendour of the imagery and the aptness and transfiguring power of the rhythms ... plastic and intensely dramatic ... this poet is authentic and will reveal to the world much new beauty....”

“A kind of middle-class Swinburne at second-hand ... morbid unpleasantness of Mr Crowley’s taste.”

“Much to attract and not a little to repel. A very singular and striking piece of work ... undoubted power and originality ... vigorous mastery and daring conception ... we are compelled to read even where the subject matter fails to attract ... several glaring crudities and much banality.”

“An unusual number of gory phantoms.”

“A trifle ludicrous and monotonous.”

“A riot of words without much thought at the back of them ... windy and boyish in over-emphasis ... very respectable verse.”

“Earliest and worst manner of Keats ... no new note here. Even the epithets are conventional....”

“Lacks utterly originality ... echoes of Mr Swinburne, Tennyson, and sometimes of Mr Gilbert.”

“Sickly, sensuous vein.”

“Holds the first place among the latter-day poets.”

“The fairest promise of not only good but great work to come ... has the prophet’s vision ... verse worthy of the greatness of his theme ... all the attributes of a true poet.”

“Elaborate and perverse ... the most irresistible trait he can find in a maiden is that she should bite like a mad dog ... Mr Crowley is a strong and genuine poet.”