William Wilfred Campbell (1861–1918)

LONG, long ago;

Ere these material days;

Ere man learned o’er much for the golden glow

Of Love’s divine amaze;

Ere faith was slain; there came to this sad earth

A high, immortal being of source divine,

And mingling with the upward climbing life,

Like crystal water in some fevered wine,

Wakened in one red blood mysterious strife,

Knowledge of good and ill, and that sad birth

Of splendour and woe for all who yearn and pine.

And this is why,

Down in the craving, remorseful human heart

There doth remain a dream that will not die,

An unassuagèd hunger, that o’er the smart

Of sorrow and shame and travail, clamours eterne

For some high goal, some vision of being superne,

Life doth not grant, earth doth not satisfy.

This is the secret of the heart of man

And his sad tragedy; his godlike powers;

His summer of vastness, and the wintry ban

Of all his greatness high which deity dowers,

Sunk to the yearnings of goat-footed Pan;

Hinted of Shakespeare and that mighty clan

Of earth’s high prophets, who in their brief day,

Holding the glory of the god in them,

Though chained to cravings of the lesser clay,

Dreamed earth’s high dreams, and wore love’s diadem.

Yea, this is why,

Through all earth’s travail and joy, her seasons brief

Through all her beauty and genius that will not die,

Surges a mighty grief,

Mingling with our heart’s best piety;—

A sadness, dread, divine,

Lifting us beyond the pagan wine

And dance of life,

The satyr clamour and strife,

Unto a dream of being, a yearning flame

Of that heredity whence our sorrowings came.