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. That is the quality of the pioneer, the man who is up Was it that only so this soul might passagainst nature and determined to impose his will upon it, the Beyond its bonds? That in the wizard s glassman of ideals painfully stern and impracticable, it may be, but Creation, it might learn to look uponworthy of respect in a certain sense even for that fantastic qual- The face of its creator, eye to eye,ity. For he that gazeth upon God shall die Lincoln himself was just such an American.But the spirit of I see thee, and I live, Hilarion!379 380 THE INTERNATIONALTHE PLAINT OF EVEDedicated to All Valiant Women EndungeonedBy GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECKWhen this poem was first written it seemed to me somewhat pale and academic, but recent events in Washington and in New York have given it a newbirth and a new life.Originally his poem was dedicated to a woman of great gifts who is now engaged in driving an ambulance in France.I re-dedicate ittoday to the brave women who are battling to make America safe for Democracy. Man s mate was I in Paradise, The swallow was my singing mate,Since of the fruit we twain did eat, My lyric sisters still prolongThrough the slow toiling days his slave.My strain more strange than sea or fate.Because I asked for truth, God gave Though Shakespeare s sonnets, sweet as wine,All the world s anguish and the grave.Were not more sugared than were mine,But, being merciful and wise, Ye who with myrtle crown my brow,He bade His angel bathe mine eyes Withhold the laurel even now. With the salt dew of sorrow.Sweet The world s intolerable scornHad been the dew of Paradise. Still falls to every woman born.Yet through the immemorial years, Strong to inspire, strong to please,Has she not healed us with her tears? My love was unto Pericles; Albeit upon my lips I wore The Corsican, the demigodA smile, my heart was ever sore.Whose feet upon the nation trod,Because I heard the Serpent hiss, Shrunk from my wit as from a rod.Therefore I suffered patiently.The number and its secret trainBut now I pray for bread, and ye Eluded not my restless brain.Give me a stone or worse a kiss. Beyond the ken of man I saw,Shall not the stone rebound on us? With Colon s eyes, America.Shall not the kiss prove venomous? Into the heart of mystery, No expiation dearly won, Of light and earth I plunged, to meCan turn the ancient loss to gain, The atom bared its perfect plot. The Son of Man was Mary s Son.What gifts have we, that she has not?Have I not borne the child in pain? Was I not lord of life and deathMy sighs were mingled with His breaths! In Egypt and in Ninevah?Yet, though I died a thousand deaths, Clothed with Saint Stephen s majestyA thousand times a thousandfold, My arm dealt justice mightily.With Him, my babe, upon the Cross, Men that beheld me caught their breathMy bloody sweats are never told, With awe.I was ElizabethAnd still the world s gain is my loss. I was the Maid of God.Mine wasHas she not suffered, has not died, The sway of all the Russias.With every creature crucified? What was my guerdon, mine to take? The hallowed light of Mary s eyes A crown of slander, and the stake! Within my bosom never dies.How shall we comfort her, how easeThe learned Faust, for all his pride, The pang of thousand centuries?Was saved by Gretchen glorified Back from my aspiration hurled,To God, his master, thrice denied.I was the harlot of the world.Love s smallest holy offices The levelled walls of Troy confessWhen have I shirked them, even these? My devastating loveliness.From the grey dawn when time began Upon my bosom burns the scarTo the Crimean battle-field, Eternal as the sexes are.By every wounded soldier s side I was Prince Borgia s concubine,With cool and soothing hand I kneeled. Phryne I was, and Messaline,She is the good Samaritan And Circe, who turned men to swine. Upon life s every battle-field.But shall they be forgotten, then, The secret book of Beauty was Whom she has turned from swine to men?Unlocked through me to Phidias. New creeds unto the world I gave,Petrarcha s dream and Raphael s, But my own self I could not save.Rossetti s blessd damozels, For all mankind one Christ has sighedAnd all men s visions live in me.Upon the Cross, but hourlyThe shadow queens of Maeterlinck, Is every woman crucified!Clothed with my soft flesh, cross the brink The iron stake of destinyOf utter unreality.Is plunged into my living side.Rautendelein and Juliet, To Him that died upon the TreeWho shall their wistful smile forget? Love held out trembling hands to lendThe leader of my boyish band Its reverential ministry,I rule in Neverneverland. And then came Death, the kindest friend Hers is the sweetest voice in France, Shall my long road to Calvary,And hers the sob that like a lance And man s injustice, have no end? Has pierced the heart of Italy.O sons of mothers, shall the pain With stylus, brush and angelot, Of all child-bearing be in vain?I seize life s pulses, fierce and hot.Shall we drive nails, to wound her thus,In Greece, a suzerain of song, Into the hands that fondled us?380 THE INTERNATIONAL 381AUGUSTE RODIN.Just ten years ago, Mr.Aleister Crowley published a chaplet of verse which accompanied seven lithographs of Clot from the watercolors ofAuguste Rodin.The book created somewhat of a sensation in England and France.We reprint Mr.Crowley s poem to Rodin, together with anexcellent translation by Marcel Schwob.Also Mr.Rodin s letter to Mr.Crowley, a poem in prose.J.B.R.182, Rue de L Universit.bienfaisante.Mon Cher Crowley, Votre posie est donc violente, et me plait par ce ct aussi.Vos posies ont cette fleur violente, ce bon sens, et cette Je suis honor que vous m ayiez pris mes dessins et ainsiironie qui en soit inattendue.honor dans votre livre.C est d un charme puissant et cela ressemble a une attaque Votre, AUG.RODIN.RODIN.RODIN.Un homme. Spectacle de l Univers,Here is a man! For all the world to seeL Oeuvre se dresse et affronte la Nature: perception et mlange,His work stands, shaming Nature.Clutched, combinedAu seul centre silencieux d une me magistraleIn the sole still centre of a master-mind,De la Force gytienne, de la simplicit grecqueThe Egyptian force, the Greek simplicity,De la Subtilit celte. Liber par la souffranceThe Celtic subtlety.Through suffering free,Le grande courage calme de l Art Futur, raffinEn sa nerveuse majest, glisse, profond,The calm great courage of new art, refinedSous la beaut de chaque rayon d harmonie.In nervous majesty, indwells behindThe beauty of each radiant harmony.Titan! Les Sicles amoindris s enfoncent,S enfoncent l horizon des contemplations
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