BREAD AND WINE

For Heinse

(1801)

 

1

 

All around, in lamplight and quiet, the city subsides,

  As, torches ablaze, the carriages clatter away.

The citizens make their way home, replete now and drowsy.

  A businessman, frowning with thought, surveys his accounts,

Then smiles. And stillness descends on the stalls of the market,

  The flowers, the grapes, the knick-knacks all stashed out of sight.

But, listen – stringed music! Far off, in a garden maybe,

   Some lover is playing, or one who’s bereaved, left thinking

Of those not here, and missing their laughter. The fountains

   Splash, spilling out freshness into the sweet-scented air.

Bells chime, in the gloaming, one still stroke after another;

  And, punctual as ever, a watchman, now, calls out the hour.

Now, too, a breeze comes to rustle the tops of the coppice,

  And here, look! here comes our earth’s shadow image, the moon,

Ascendant in secret. Here comes fantastical Night,

   With starry concerns far removed from our petty cares,

A glittering wonder, to us an eternal enigma,

   Sad and magnificent, over the mountains above.

 

2

 

Marvellous, this high goddess’s favour, surpassing

   All explanation. Momentous, though always concealed,

Her effect on the world, as it tosses us backwards and forwards

   In ways that may disconcert even the wisest. For such

Is the will of the Highest; who loves you, my friend, and by whom

   Your sun-lit quest for Enlightenment’s led. Tired eyes,

After all, need their regular spells in the dark; and the mind,

   That relief which, alone, luxurious sleep may supply.

Therefore, honest men too may discover much good in the Night.

   And, indeed, to pay her due honour, in ritual and song,

Is to practise compassion for those, the spooky, or weird,

   Whom, although so serene in herself, she’s adopted.

And likewise, to us, when we are in trouble or wavering,

   Or when, on our way through the shadows, we want some support,

Let her grant our souls’ need: a holy, frenzied oblivion.

   Cup after cup, let her grant, of the on-rushing word.

Let her grant us, sleepless like lovers, life overflowing,

   With night-long holy remembrance, to keep us alert!

 

3

 

And the heart has no hiding place, there’s no containing its surge;

   But master and novice, alike, must cast prudence aside.

Nor can anyone (who would want to?) ban the delirium.

   Day and night we’re impelled, we’re fired by the heavenly

Fire, to break free. So, let’s go! Let’s head straight for the open,

   To seek what is ours, no matter how distant it be.

One thing is for sure: there are always the same basic standards,

   At midnight the same as at noon, whatever the hour.

Although callings may differ, still the truth never changes

   To which all our comings and goings most deeply attest.

So, away! Let wild extravagance scoff at the scoffers

   In jubilant song, Night’s sudden oracular gift. Come!

Come to the isthmus! There, where the sea’s voice swells

   Round Parnassos; or where, at Delphi, bright snow trims the rocks.

To Mount Olympos, come! Come to the heights of Kithairon,

   Come to the pines’ shade, the grape-covered slopes, the source

Of loud Thebe and Ismenos, down in the country of Kadmos!

   The God for whom we now wait hails from there, and points back.

 

4

 

Blesséd Greece! You house of the Heavenly, where they all dwell.

   So, it is true then, what once in our youth we were told?

Festive hall! With the sea for its floor! Whose tables are mountains!

   Founded in time immemorial, truly unique!

Oh, but – where? Where are those thrones, now? The temples, the vessels,

   The nectar-filled songs, which the gods loved, where have they gone?

Where, the luminous, lofty, straight-flying oracles?

   Where, now that Delphi’s asleep, is the world’s course foretold?

Where’s the lightning flash, out of the blue? Where’s the thunderous message,

   Delivered from heaven, of promise to all? Father Aether!

The cry rose and spread, of thousands assembled together,

   No one was left, to bear life as a burden, alone.

Such wealth requires sharing around, whilst the greatest of joys is

   To trade it with strangers. And now the world sleeps. But still,

Father! traditional wisdom, refreshed, is once again

   Ready to ring out, sharp and creative as ever.

For, so the Heavenly come, so they break, with their Daylight,

   Into our coverts, smashing our every defence.

 

5

 

As a stranger, at first, a demi-god sometimes appears.

   With a brightness so rare, only children can bear it. The adults

Shrink back, in helpless bemusement. Sensing the distance

   Between him and them, they quite simply cannot connect.

Or else, they take heart. And the genius then is ensnared by

   Their fervent élan. So much so, he loses control

Of himself; and, with wasteful abandon, mistakenly thinks

   That whatever he touches is, straight away, blessed. Until,

It may be, enough is enough, and the Highest, themselves,

   Intervene. Then, at last, the spirit of Daylight prevails.

So that people grow used to perfection, revealed, to seeing the

   Heavenly truth, ‘hen kai pan’ as in Greek it was called,

The one source, tacitly always, of all that we long for.

   But premature insight results in stagnation. It fades.

That’s the problem. Let a god look with favour upon one,

   Making life easy with gifts, one sees nothing, one drifts.

First, one must suffer. But now let us name our hearts’ treasure,

   Let us find words for it. Now we need blossoming words.

 

6

 

And so, one resolves to worship the sacred in earnest,

   To offer up genuine, thoughtful, resonant praise.

Whatever we do, the gods must approve it beforehand,

   Nor will they, happily, ever accept second best.

Hence, the peoples arise; each one outdoing the next

   As they seek to honour their patrons; and, in the sight

Of the gods, set to work, to build them beautiful temples,

   High-walled cities, great towers and excellent harbours.

Yet, where are they now? Where are the feasts? Where, the garlands?

   Athens and Thebes are all withered. No sword-play rings out

At Olympia. Gone are the glittering chariots. Wreaths

   Are no longer hung on Corinthian ships. – Why not?

And those old sacred theatres, why are they empty and silent?

   Those jubilant ritual dances, why aren’t they danced?

In times of old, a god might descend to a mortal,

   Singling one out, with a sign that was stamped on the brow.

Why not any more? Or would take human form, and visit,

   In person, the worshipping throng, to make all complete.

 

7

 

  But, my friend, we’re too late. For, whereas the gods still live on,

   Their home’s up above, far removed from human affairs.

There, they’ve not ceased. And yet, such is their gentle forbearance

   It seems they consider it best to leave us alone.

For we’re delicate vessels, we moderns, easily shattered.

   Their advent’s a crisis, for which we’re scarcely equipped.

Ever after, life is a dream. We stagger, we wander.

   May night and distress give us strength, the strength that we need!

May they cradle in bronze a fresh generation of heroes,

   With god-like, thunderous spirit, to build a new world

Once again! In the meantime, however, dispirited sometimes

   I envy the slumbering herd. What’s the point of such watching?

I wonder. What’s there to be said? Or, what’s there to be done?

   What earthly use are we poets, in lean years like these? But,

You’ll tell me, we ought to cut loose, like priests of the wine god,

   Roaming, hither and thither, all the holy Night long.

 

8

 

For, when (to us it seems ages ago) the day came

   That the life-gladdening powers returned to heaven above,

When the Father averted his face from worldly affairs,

   And when, rightly, all over the earth the grieving began,

At length a quiet Spirit appeared, with a gospel

   Of comfort. So, he proclaimed the Day’s end. And departed,

Leaving, by way of a sign that they’d once been amongst us,

   And would be again, some gifts from the heavenly choir:

Little spiritual tokens, still giving some pleasure, at least,

   Even now, to those who, like us, are devoid of the zest

Or the sheer magnanimity that would be needed for anything

   Fuller. And so, it is proper that we should give thanks!

Bread, though a fruit of the earth, has been blessed by the sunlight,

   Whilst the savour of wine is a gift of the rain-storm.

Thus, they serve as mementoes, to us, of the Heavenly:

   How they were here. How, when the right time comes,

They’ll return. Indeed, we’ve good reason to sing to the wine-god.

   That ancient one never disdains a true-hearted song.

 

9

 

Yes! and it’s true that his is the grace which can reconcile

   Daylight with darkness; conducting the stars up and down,

Forever the same. Always blithe, like the evergreen fir,

   Which he loves, or the ivy-crown wreath; such things as endure,

Thereby bearing some trace of the gods – such symbols of hope –

   Down to us, the forsaken, us stuck, trapped, in the gloom.

And, what the far-seeing prophets foretold for God’s children –

   See, here it is! That we might fulfil it: Hesperia’s

Fruit. Already, the prospect’s opening up! Only see,

   And believe! But, still, we ignore so much that’s revealed,

We’re so vapid. So heartless. Mere wavering shadows, until

   Father Aether returns. Now, though, the Son of the Highest

Descends, the Syrian, bearing his torch, down here,

   To lighten these cavernous depths. Those blessed with wisdom

Perceive it. Imprisoned souls flicker to life with a smile.

   Eyes thaw, in response to the gleam. The titan, asleep

In the arms of the earth, dreams gentler dreams. Why, even

   That mean brute Cerberus pauses to drink. And nods off!