A VISION OF LIFE

A VISION OF LIFE
POEMS. BY DARRELL FIGGIS
WITH AN INTRODUCTION

BY GILBERT K. CHESTERTON

LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMIX

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

TO
MY WIFE

For nigh four years now have these poems sought to snuff the open breeze, returning ever to me broken and disappointed. What bitterness was in this—how deep you alone know!—was yours also; but I alone knew that rarer bounty of your instant and unfailing comfort. Therefore, dear, these poems are dedicate to you beyond my power to alter or avert; and it lies for me now but to confirm the finding of the years.

INTRODUCTION
BY G. K. CHESTERTON

There are signs of a certain stirring in English poetry, a minor Renaissance of which Francis Thompson may be regarded as the chief ensign and example. It is partly the Elizabethan spirit, that permanent English thing working its way again to the surface; but, of course, like every Renaissance, it is in many ways unlike its origin and model. It is as true in art as it is in religion, that when a man is born again, he is born different. And the latest Elizabethanism has differed not only from the actual Elizabethan work, but from other revivals of it. The great romantic movement which was at its height about the beginning of the nineteenth century, the movement of which Coleridge is perhaps the most typical product, this movement was and even claimed to be a return to the Elizabethan inspiration. This, of course, it was in its revolt against the rhymed rationalism of Pope, in its claim that poetry was a sort of super-sense which Pope would have called nonsense. But there were two elements in the Coleridge and Wordsworth movement which prevented it, splendid as it was, from being perfectly Elizabethan.

The first was a certain craze for simplicity, even for a somewhat barbaric simplicity; a craze which was much connected with the growing influence of Germany and the purely Northern theory of our national origin. People were trying to be Anglo-Saxon instead of English. In style and diction this produced an almost pedantic plainness and love of Teutonic roots which, whatever else it was, was utterly antagonistic to the spirit of the Elizabethans. This business of the plain Saxon speech is entirely appropriate as eulogy on certain suitable things, such as the translation of the Bible; it is permissible as eulogy, but it is intolerable as condemnation. It is certainly part of the beauty of Bunyan’s work that it is built out of plain words, just as it is part of the beauty of Westminster Cathedral that it is built out of plain bricks. But as for saying that no building shall be built out of stone or marble or timber, that is quite another matter, and quite an unreasonable one. Coleridge, in the Ancient Mariner, did frequently manage strange and fine effects with the bald words of a ballad. But because I will not go without—

“They fixed on me their stony eyes

That in the moon did glitter,”

is no reason at all why I should go without—

“Re-visits thus the glimpses of the moon.”

The richness and variegation of the old Elizabethan style permitted peculiar and poignant effects which the Wordsworthian ballad, and even the Tennysonian lyric, did not attempt to revive. The principal objection to writing Anglo-Saxon instead of English is, after all, a very simple one: it is that the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary is one of the smallest in the world, while the English vocabulary is one of the largest.

Mr. Darrell Figgis is one of those who give this impression of a latter-day return to the Elizabethan spirit; that is, to the real Elizabethan spirit which the romantic movement omitted—the spirit of Elizabethan enrichment and involution. The element to which I refer is already sufficiently well known in the work of Francis Thompson, in whom it could be, and indeed has been, called, not only Elizabethan complexity, but even Elizabethan affectation. The work of Mr. Darrell Figgis is less elaborate than that extreme though triumphant example; but it has the same essential qualities of sustained and systematic metrical style, of line linked with line in a process requiring the reader’s attention, and remote in its very nature from the startling simplicity of the old romantic ballad. If this kind of poetry prevails, people will have to listen to it rather as they listen to good and rather difficult music, not as they listen to scattered brilliancies in a speech by Mr. Bernard Shaw. Mr. Figgis is even Elizabethan (as was Francis Thompson also) in attempts at abrupt lyric metres, not always easy to achieve. But there was, indeed, another respect in which the early nineteenth century failed to be fully renaissant of the Renaissance. I mean that taste of sickness and aimless revolt which dominated Byron and even Shelley, and discoloured the moods of Coleridge. I am well aware of how much of strong art, of mercy, and egalitarian justice there was in the revolt, and those men in England who were its essential and spiritual enemies (such as Gifford in literature and Castlereagh in politics) are now covered with a contempt which can never be wiped away. Yet, when all is said, the weakness of the indispensable Revolution was in its artistic voices, in their notes of negation, of license, and of despair. When all is said, the Revolution succeeded in France, because it was chiefly an affair of soldiers; the Revolution failed in England, because it was chiefly an affair of poets. If any twopenny placeman could call it mere anarchy, if any tenth-rate Tory can say that it hated God and man, the blame does not lie with the stoical religion of Robespierre or the enormous common sense of Danton; it lies with Byron or Shelley or their belated brother Swinburne.

In this connection it is pleasant to feel that the new stirrings of the old influence are without any recurrence to the mere sentiment of ruin. In this respect the rising men rather follow Browning, who had the hope and heartiness of the Elizabethans, as well as their mystification and elaborate wit; indeed, he had everything of the Elizabethans, except their ease. Francis Thompson spoke from a secure tower of faith. Mr. Darrell Figgis is on the side of the angels. Nothing is more satisfying in his poetry, apart from its many incidental beauties, than the evidence it offers of a certain return to right feeling and faith in life, not as an early dream of transcendentalism, but as an ultimate result of experience. The thing which tired people call optimism is growing in many as a matter of mere fair-mindedness, and the fact is that at last a man of the world may be permitted to admire the world. I will not deny that much of my pleasure in Mr. Figgis’ work arises from a sympathy with his serious and sincere enjoyment of beauty and the great things that life begets. I should like to have quoted more than one line from his Vision of Life. But, after all, the ground of my gratitude and mental kinship is mostly in this: that it really is a vision of life, and not merely a vision of destruction.

G. K. CHESTERTON.

CONTENTS

A VISION OF LIFE

A VISION OF LIFE

I sat brewing awhile, one even’s close,

Life’s Destiny and Purpose. In the grate

A flickering fire shone,

Withered and wan,

Dishevelled as a hectic Autumn rose.

So, as I sate,

With elfish toe leaping the shrinking embers

A spiritous Presence passed, and on my thought

Visions of faded days, paled friendships, dreams

Of rapturous Mays smitten to drear Decembers,

In evanescent postures wrought

From forth the flickering gleams.

So death-still ranged the Night athwart the gloom

Icy and cavernous, that the embers’ tune

Spake sharp and sudden, chasing the shade and flame

In elfish gambol round the sombre room.

So stepped the Night’s high noon;

While Time, steady of sinew and of brow

Implacable, upwound upon its spool

The fitful hours of innocence and shame.

Nor solitary, Night in its high rule,

Reigned, for from forth the frosty bowers

Deft messengers of airy fashion came

The rude Earth to endow

With heavenly mysteries of flowers.

So sat I, and my mood grew calm and still:

Irk fretted away; care, soilure, and distress,

The smutch of strife, at the gaunt Night’s caress

Unruffled into lofty peace. A will

Ineffable, previsionary, swelled

My thought to something of a twilit mood.

Earth faded awhile; the frame of sensible things

Obliviously smote my sensitive touch;

The populous warm walls, the grate that held

Ashes and smoulderings,

The frore behoof, and all of fashion such,

Transmuted were unto the larger scope

Of visionary aspect. Thus on wings

Of guideless flight, and thought I fain would cope,

A Vision fared on me whate’er I would.

Then seemed the twilight heavy with filmy glows:

Forth from before my sight two several ways

In opposite invitation rose,

Oweing no kith, diverse of hue as aim.

Darkling the Right ran, thro’ a drear amaze

Craggy and barren, fulfilled of sloughs and mire;

Most straitly was it limned, and oft each side

Fell sheer to plumbless horror steep, that swept

Spaceless, in ebon vastiness awide.

Surmounted it thus dizzily; o’erleapt

Fell chasms perilously athwart; abysms gaunt,

Remorseless bracken tarns, the desert’s haunt,

Each slippery spiss and slough, it overcame,

Winding and wending ever higher and higher

Tortuous yet steady-sure.

Even so, despite I could not see

Aught goal, withal its callow brow to daunt

The hazardous soul, it bore a subtle lure

Touching the deepest founts of high desire.

Stretched on my Left, thus did it seem to me,

Broadly a rich demesne lay, liberal

And affluent, in spacious festival

Arrayed. Mirth and the wealth of song

Swelled thro’ its gaily caparisoned cope,

Whose portals swung wide ope—

Falling upon my ears in ribaldry

And merry laughter lewd:

Nowhither led it seemingly; soft and strong

Giddily sprang its mirth and ultimate hope.

Yet scarce could I resolve it, for its air

Quivered and scintillated glamours dense,

A palpable mist of golden vapour, whence,

On my amazing sight, there flitted nude

The flash of forms voluptuous and rare,

Whose ruby lips soft ruddy juices woo’d.

Pondering I hovered; each the several ways

Touched its responsive motion: this, that wound

Whither I knew not, travail amid and stain,

Awoke the fount of thought; that, the sheer gain

Of liberal ecstasy, of flowing days

And nightless hours forgetful, bound around

Of irkless ease: this spake Olympus found,

Endeavour’s glowing thew, Achievement high;

That struck all blood to fever, till I fain

Had slipped the leash. Perplexedly sat I.

Then from the mirth and ribaldry outstept

Beauty her very self: Of motion free,

In grace voluptuous she swam on me,

Her pursed lips murmurous of a mellow strain.

Soft as the stars at evenfall

Smiled her rare eyes from forth the shimmering air

Hanging about her yet—her veriest pall,

Save that an all-exuberant tide of hair

Entwound her soft and sensuous flesh. So swept

She, gracious; I her other-heedless thane.

Rare love, mellow voluptuous love,

Shone from her wondrous eyes, fell from her tongue

Melodious, dwelt on the delicate bloom

Of her seductive limbs: munificence

Of love rioted in her wayward hair

Falling heedlessly, and clung

Ecstatic in the tremulous air’s perfume.

Visionary I gazed; my mutinous blood,

Each drop particularly fraught with so

Complete an ecstasy, coursed thro’ my sense

With populous colloquy, pouring a vast flood

Of dizzy whispers on my ears awhile.

Invitingly oped she her arms; a smile

Broke her soft lips; then, rapturously and low,

Fluted this murmurous music thro’ the air,

In woven assonances, liquid measures,

Her blissful syllables spelling the pleasures

Her wares that were.

“Sweet, come with me; learn out my rare requite!

Sweet, come to me, so shall I be to thee

A passionate delight!

Let us enwrap us in the robes of Pleasure;

Owe no confining marge, but full and free

Hold Love’s exultant measure.

Claim lordship on these lips; make this embrace

Of strenuous limbs thine to the tilth of days;

The exquisitry of this face,

If so to thee, scan with thine eager eyes:

Flash linking flash, all in a wondering gaze,

Twin in our ecstasies.

The fragrant largess of this liberal hair

Shall twine us twain about as we shall twine

Hid in Love’s secret lair;

Or mantle down thy shoulder as I lay

This peach-soft bloom of loveliness on thine

And Love’s low message say.

Then come to me; yea, let me be to thee

Love’s veriest scope of all; in these soft eyes

Spell thine Eternity.

Ah, wherefore hesitant hang? These plenteous halls

Hunger for thee, as I, with full surmise:

Lords be we all, not thralls!”

So ceased she: flashing from her challenging eyes

Arch invitations, boldly coy. The air,

Loth to let slip such bliss,

Clung to its echoing whispers, murmurous-wise,

In passionate ecstasy. And yet, howe’er

Each swollen vein of mine with knotted strain

Stood high, content for one celestial kiss

To cheapen Life and Thought, a distant pain

Fettered me with disturbed uncertainty.

Hesitant I glanced away; held of a doubt;

Tost ’twixt passion and fear: tentatively

My eye shot roundabout,

Each freighting all my venture on a thought.

Then from the silvery glooms, a wizardry, fraught

With an imperative touch, fell on my soul,

Drawing all my thought thither with harsh control.

So, as I glowered upon its portals, wan,

Gaunt, lofty, lifting up a parlous height

Of shadowy phantasy, before its brink

Palely the air shivered, and its atoms shone

Pregnant with waking light.

Unknowing what its purport, what to think

Scarce dared I hazard—gazing, smote to trance,

Riveted there with every thought and glance.

The pallid atoms, hither-thither mazed,

Smitten with iridescent rigours, shaped

As to an outline—gaunt and leanly draped

With flowing vesture, bony arms upraised

Talon-befingered. Its Visage all was wan,

Harrowed and sexless, like some skeleton

Draped o’er with lifeless skin. Its Brow, or what

Seemed like to Brow, hungered the heavy skies.

Its glittering eyes

Gleamed coldly in great orbs. ’Twas steely-lipped.

Its Trunk, Its ruinous Midst—oh, tell it not!

Most like ’twas to a livid dream forgot,

And waked to horror at fell Memory’s whims!

A sweaty Terror sat upon my limbs;

My natural Fell awoke to life, and stood

Erect with palpable horror; and all my blood

Crowded its mart of motion, fear-begot,

Thither to escape. Then from the Phantom chill

Upon the palpitant air these measures dripped

In numbers ill.

“Mortal, be not deceived!

Despise these cloying measures, they are false!

Withhold imagination from the calls

Of sensuous privilege. Straightway be cleaved

Thence, and away! And hearken now to me.

Heed these rare strictures! Prize not thy frail self:

Strive for a larger Weal; Felicity

Foots only thus. Perplex thy brain for Man,

And his complacent peace: eschew the pelf

Of isolate happiness; so shall thy span

Compound the highest achievement. Manacles

Spell subtler bliss than liberty; in sooth

Are veriest liberty; yet if not so,

Thine the dear joy of conning out the cells

Of worthier constraint. Scan virtuous Truth;

Search out her compeers with a quickening throe

Of ecstasied thought. Love Justice. Knowledge sue

And track, following on tho’ dark disruth

Dog all thy painful way. Think nobly true;

Compassionately soothe the sick of soul,

Life’s troubled children. Learn a high control,

And abdicate thyself, Love’s grace to woo.

Let Equity thine equal fingers turn

On low and lofty, sleek and lean alike,

Achievement’s sons and whoso hungering yearn:

Discriminate not ’twixt, for all are one

And indivisible. Base passions shun

And flee: strike not at all; yet if thou strike,

Strike for the high and meritorious claim,

As thou may’st judge: let not thy wrath

Abide the twilight fall; nor let thy shame

Of liverous passions issue forth

On days that step not yet, sullying thy thought

And others’ peace—weightier these than thine!

Be kind, be true, be sweet, to all and aught.

Ponder these principles; deep at thy soul

Will commendation leap in greeting; lo,

Even now bestirs thy thought. Arise, divine

Life as a loftier scroll

To trace thy character on, come weal or woe.

Passion is soon be-charred; but elevate thought

Strews an increasing largess. Turn aside

Yon ruddy Whore mellisonant; malign

She and her subtle craft are, howsoe’er

Deceit encompasses her feverous lair.

This thy true lot of life, withal ’tis fraught

With hardihood and hazard so: abide

Its mandate to thee, tread it dauntlessly.

’Tis its abundant recompense; and a court

All-continent. As is my tongue allied

With thy quick thought, so hearken thou to me,

Fearful of nought!”

Joint with its utterance so,

Twisting, It thrust Its talon fingers thro’

The misty portals, spare and gaunt. Below

Fearfully sat I then, tho’ less of fear

Shook o’er my limbs; for thought had spurned the soil,

Touched by the words, and broken on my ear

A callow incongruity betwixt

The lips that uttered what the words did woo.

The pale air drank the silence, as the coil

Of tortuous precepts ceased. Then, intermixt,

Dizzy, as was each thought and riotous sense,

There unwound thence

Vivid upon my soul this nucleus clear:

So forth I uttered:—

“Tell, tell me thy Name!

Who art thou that so bidd’st me? Whence thy claim:

Wherefrom derives it? Whither its purport high?

Art thou thine own? If so, declare me now

What rare enfranchisement shall bondage ply

At thy behest? Else, forth produce thy script;

Unwind thy high commission, whereto bow

Perforce I need, heedless of pleasures clipt,

Or purple rapture, on yon path awry

To attempt a hazardous snare!”

Toward me then turned It; and with baneful stare

Struck chill my mood defiant. Irked with thought,

Fear, and the lees of passion, sat I thus;

While the dim Spectre touched Its answer, wrought

Icily dolorous.

“I am Duty: I

Sway all the lot of man. His tentative life

Steps subtly to my measures; in fine deed

Is my attenuate speech:—at very strife

His tongue invokes mine arm. I ratify

His hesitant counsels, troublous thoughts, with thrall

And edict; or annul his querulous creed.

Evanishment were very loss of all:

It would evacuate the World of what

Coheres its several elements; social peace,

Concord and Amity, the common lot

Of neighbourly calm, would rot and palter. Cease

Rebellious queries; heed my formulate call:

Strip to it, and proceed!”

Then borne upon a breath