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Title: The Land's End
Author: Walter R. Cassels [
More Titles by Cassels]
I stood on the Land's End, alone and still.
Man might have been unmade, for no frail trace
Of mortal labour startled the wild place,
And only sea-mews with their wailing shrill,
Circled beneath me over the dark sea,
Flashing the waves with pinions snowy white,
That glimmer'd faintly in the gloomy light
Betwixt the foaming furrows constantly.
It was a mighty cape, that proudly rose
Above the world of waters, high and steep,
With many a scar and fissure fathoms deep,
Upon whose ledges lodged the endless snows;
A noble brow to a firm-founded world,
That at the limits of its empire stood,
Fronting the ocean in its roughest mood,
And all its fury calmly backward hurl'd.
The Midnight Sun rose like an angry god,
Girt round with clouds, through which a lurid glow
Fev'rously trembled to the waves below,
And smote the waters with a fiery rod;
Above, the glory circled up the sky,
Fainter and fainter to the sullen grey,
Till the black under-drift of clouds away
Went with the gathering wind, and let it die.
A moaning sound swept o'er the heaving ocean,
Toss'd hoarsely on from angry crest to crest,
Like groans from a great soul in its unrest,
Stirring the ranks of men to fierce commotion.
My longing vision measured the wide waste,
"This cannot be the end of things; that man
Should see his path lead on so short a span,
And then the unstable ocean mock his haste!
Better have stay'd where I could still look on,
And see a sturdy world to bear my feet,
Than thus outstrip the multitude to cheat
Earth of its knowledge, and here find it gone."
A Shadow rose betwixt me and the sky,
Out of the Ocean, as it seem'd, that set
A perfect shape before mine eyes, and yet
Hid not the sky that did behind it lie;
But, through its misty substance, all things grew
Faint, pale, and ghostly, and the risen sun
Gleam'd like a fiery globe half quench'd and dun,
Through the sere shadow which the spectre threw:
It answer'd me, "Man! this is not the end;
Progression ceaseth not until the goal
Of all perfection stop the running soul,
Whither through life its aspirations tend.
Spring from thy height, then, for till thou art free
From earth, thy course is narrow and restrain'd!"
I said, "No! Spirit, nought were thus attain'd;
Better pause here than perish in the sea;
Man can but do his utmost--there's a length
He cannot overleap." The spectre smiled,
"Then trust to me; for though the sea be wild,
It cannot shake the sinews of my strength,--
Within my breast the fearful fall asleep,
And wake out of their terrors, calm and still,
Having outstripp'd the speed of time and ill,
And pass'd unconsciously the stormy deep."
Quicker and quicker drew I in my breath,
"If there be land beyond, receive me now;
I'll trust in thee--but, Spirit, who art thou?"
The winds bore on a murmur, "I am Death!"
[The end]
Walter R. Cassels's poem: Land's End
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