traced the sudden inspirations of movements, such
as we lately feel, not all due to the abrupt descent
into our midst of a new messenger, for the elder Brothers
work with law and foresee when nature, time, and the
awakening souls of men will aid them. Much may
now be done. On whosoever accepts, acknowledges
and does the will of the Light in these awakenings
the die and image of divinity is more firmly set,
his thought grows more consciously into the being of
the presiding god. Yet not while seeking for
ourselves can we lay hold of final truths, for then
what we perceive we retain but in thought and memory.
The Highest is a motion, a breath. We become
it only in the imparting. It is in all, for all
and goes out to all. It will not be restrained
in a narrow basin, but through the free-giver it freely
flows. There are throngs innumerable who await
this gift. Can we let this most ancient light
which again returns to us be felt by them only as
a vague emotion, a little peace of uncertain duration,
a passing sweetness of the heart? Can we not
do something to allay the sorrow of the world?
My brothers, the time of opportunity has come.
One day in the long-marshaled line of endless days
has dawned for our race, and the buried treasure-houses
in the bosom of the deep have been opened to endow
it with more light, to fill it with more power.
The divine ascetics stand with torches lit before the
temple of wisdom. Those who are nigh them have
caught the fire and offer to us in turn to light the
torch, the blazing torch of soul. Let us accept
the gift and pass it on, pointing out the prime givers.
We shall see in time the eager races of men starting
on their pilgrimage of return and facing the light.
So in the mystical past the call of light was seen
on the sacred hills; the rays were spread and gathered;
and returning with them the initiate-children were
buried in the Father-Flame.
—June 15, 1896
The Childhood of Apollo
It was long ago, so long that only the spirit of earth
remembers truly. The old shepherd Tithonius
sat before the door of his hut waiting for his grandson
to return. He watched with drowsy eyes the eve
gather, and the woods and mountains grow dark over
the isles— the isles of ancient Greece.
It was Greece before its day of beauty, and day was
never lovelier. The cloudy blossoms of smoke
curling upward from the valley sparkled a while high
up in the sunlit air, a vague memorial of the world
of men below. From that too the colour vanished,
and those other lights began to shine which to some
are the only lights of day. The skies dropped
close upon the mountains and the silver seas, like
a vast face brooding with intentness; there was enchantment,
mystery, and a living motion in its depths, the presence
of all-pervading Zeus enfolding his starry children
with the dark radiance of aether.
“Ah!” murmured the old man, looking upward,
“once it was living; once it spoke to me.
It speaks not now, but it speaks to others I know—to
the child who looks and longs and trembles in the dewy
night. Why does he linger now? He is beyond
his hour. Ah, there now are his footsteps!”