Bird Parliament · 19 of 20

The Arrival at the Throne

After declaring what of this declared Must be, that all who went should be prepared, From his high Station ceased the Tajidar— And lo! the Terrors that, when told afar, Seem’d but as Shadows of a Noonday Sun, Now that the talkt-of Thing was to be done, Lengthening into those of closing Day Strode into utter Darkness: and Dismay Like Night on the husht Sea of Feathers lay, Late so elate—‘So terrible a Track! Endless—or, ending, never to come back!— Never to Country, Family, or Friend!’— In sooth no easy Bow for Birds to bend!— Even while he spoke, how many Wings and Crests Had slunk away to distant Woods and Nests; Others again in Preparation spent What little Strength they had, and never went: And others, after preparation due— When up the Veil of that first Valley drew From whose waste Wilderness of Darkness blew A Sarsar, whether edged of Flames or Snows, That through from Root to Tip their Feathers froze— Up went a Multitude that overhead A moment darken’d, then on all sides fled, Dwindling the World-assembled Caravan To less than half the Number that began. Of those who fled not, some in Dread and Doubt Sat without stirring: others who set out With frothy Force, or stupidly resign’d, Before a League, flew off or fell behind. And howsoever the more Brave and Strong In Courage, Wing, or Wisdom push’d along, Yet League by League the Road was thicklier spread By the fast falling Foliage of the Dead: Some spent with Travel over Wave and Ground; Scorcht, frozen, dead for Drought, or drinking drown’d. Famisht, or poison’d with the Food when found: By Weariness, or Hunger, or Affright Seduced to stop or stray, become the Bite Of Tiger howling round or hissing Snake, Or Crocodile that eyed them from the Lake: Or raving Mad, or in despair Self-slain: Or slaying one another for a Grain:—

Till of the mighty Host that fledged the Dome Of Heav’n and Floor of Earth on leaving Home, A Handful reach’d and scrambled up the Knees Of Kaf whose Feet dip in the Seven Seas; And of the few that up his Forest-sides Of Light and Darkness where The Presence hides, But Thirty—thirty desperate draggled Things, Half-dead, with scarce a Feather on their Wings, Stunn’d, blinded, deafen’d with the Crash and Craze Of Rock and Sea collapsing in a Blaze That struck the Sun to Cinder—fell upon The Threshold of the Everlasting One, With but enough of Life in each to cry, On THAT which all absorb’d— And suddenly Forth flash’d a winged Harbinger of Flame And Tongue of Fire, and ‘Who?’ and ‘Whence they came?’ And ‘Why?’ demanded. And the Tajidar For all the Thirty answer’d him—‘We are Those Fractions of the Sum of Being, far Dis-spent and foul disfigured, that once more Strike for Admission at the Treasury Door.’ To whom the Angel answer’d—‘Know ye not That He you seek recks little who or what Of Quantity and Kind—himself the Fount Of Being Universal needs no Count Of all the Drops o’erflowing from his Urn, In what Degree they issue or return?’

Then cried the Spokesman, ‘Be it even so: Let us but see the Fount from which we flow, ‘And, seeing, lose Ourselves therein!’ and, Lo! Before the Word was utter’d, or the Tongue Of Fire replied, or Portal open flung. They were within—they were before the Throne, Before the Majesty that sat thereon, But wrapt in so insufferable a Blaze Of Glory as beat down their baffled Gaze. Which, downward dropping, fell upon a Scroll That, Lightning-like, flash’d back on each the whole Past half-forgotten Story of his Soul: Like that which Yusuf in his Glory gave His Brethren as some Writing he would have Interpreted; and at a Glance, behold Their own Indenture for their Brother sold! And so with these poor Thirty: who, abasht In Memory all laid bare and Conscience lasht, By full Confession and Self-loathing flung The Rags of carnal Self that round them clung; And, their old selves self-knowledged and self-loathed, And in the Soul’s Integrity re-clothed, Once more they ventured from the Dust to raise Their Eyes—up to the Throne—into the Blaze, And in the Centre of the Glory there Beheld the Figure of—Themselves—as ’twere Transfigured—looking to Themselves, beheld The Figure on the Throne en-miracled, Until their Eyes themselves and That between Did hesitate which Seer was, which Seen; They That, That They: Another, yet the Same: Dividual, yet One: from whom there came A Voice of awful Answer, scarce discern’d From which to Aspiration whose return’d They scarcely knew; as when some Man apart Answers aloud the Question in his Heart— ‘The Sun of my Perfection is a Glass Wherein from Seeing into Being pass All who, reflecting as reflected see Themselves in Me, and Me in Them: not Me, But all of Me that a contracted Eye Is comprehensive of Infinity: Nor yet Themselves: no Selves, but of The All Fractions, from which they split and whither fall. As Water lifted from the Deep, again Falls back in individual Drops of Rain Then melts into the Universal Main. All you have been, and seen, and done, and thought, Not You but I, have seen and been and wrought: I was the Sin that from Myself rebell’d: I the Remorse that tow’rd Myself compell’d: I was the Tajidar who led the Track: I was the little Briar that pull’d you back: Sin and Contrition—Retribution owed, And cancell’d—Pilgrim, Pilgrimage, and Road, Was but Myself toward Myself: and Your Arrival but Myself at my own Door: Who in your Fraction of Myself behold Myself within the Mirror Myself hold To see Myself in, and each part of Me That sees himself, though drown’d, shall ever see. Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw, And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw: Rays that have wander’d into Darkness wide Return, and back into your Sun subside.’—