SHAMBALLAH
Have you heard of the
city Shamballah,
That marvellous place in
the North,
The home of the Masters
of Wisdom,
Whence the Sons of the
Word are sent forth?
In moments of vision we
see it,
For a moment we
understand,
Then it passes from
sense, unsubstantial
As the shadows of gulls
o'er the sand.
What Architect builded
Shamballah
As frail as the wondrous
new moon?
Its walls with the rose
tint of morning
From no earthly quarry
were hewn.
Before Him no Builder
took counsel
To fashion from dust of
the ground,
In beauty and order and
rhythm,
A palace of color and
sound.
It arose with the arches
of heaven
When the planets were
swung in a chime,
And those who look forth
from its windows
Have watched the
procession of time.
By the great Northern
light and the silence
Its inviolate portals
are barred.
On cold winter nights
you can see them
As they countermarch
changing guard.
Have you dreamed of the
mystic Shamballah,
The City under the Star,
Where the Sons of the
Fire-Mist gather
And the keys of all
mystery are?
When the white moon
rises in splendor,
Have you said, as it
lifts and gleams,
"They have lighted the
Silver Lantern
In the gate of the City
of Dreams."
Have you read of the
fabled Shamballah
In symbols or letters of
gold,
Whence issued the
Bringers of Knowledge
For the saving of
peoples untold?
They builded no temple
save beauty,
Save truth they
established no creed,
Great love was their
power and purpose,
As a flower in the heart
of a seed.
They heard the first
flute-note in Egypt
Uplifted in longing and
prayer.
When sunrise stole over
the desert
To break upon Thebes,
they were there.
In Babylon, Llassa, and
Sarnath,
Through Galilee, Athens
and Tyre
To thresholds unnamed
and unnumbered
They carried the Message
of Fire.
They kindled the flame
unconsuming
In souls that were quick
to receive,
They told of a truth
that should follow
Had love but the will to
believe.
From Patmos, Chaldea,
and Cumae
Their servants were
chosen anew,
To speak as the Logos
commanded,
That the Dream oŁ the
Good might come true,
The light-bearing sons
of Shamballah,
They spread the
ineffable word.
And spirits who mocked
it were broken,
And blessed were the
spirits that heard.
The birds knew the joy
of their gospel,
The windflower sprang
where they trod,
And the ages were
quickened to worship
Jehovah or Allah or God.
Have you heard of the
speech of Shamballah,
The language that all
men know
In township, pueblo, or
palace,
Wherever men rest or go?
It is clear in the tones
of friendship,
It is murmured in wind
and rain,
It is writ in the
painted desert,
And the sifting snow on
the plain.
It blooms in the high
Sierras,
It springs from the dust
of the trail,
It flowers in golden
silence
When all other speeches
fail.
There is never a hint of
kindness,
There is never an accent
of love,
But the firmament
thrills to its whisper
And the heavens are glad
thereof.
Forth from that Magian
City
What teachers and
avatars came,
To walk through our
streets in pity—
If so they might heal
our shame!
From Krishna, Gautama,
and Jesus
To Swedenborg, Blake,
and Delsarte,
They brought us the
message of brothers,
They labored and died
apart.
Untold are the sons of
Shamballah,
Who must carry the word
without rest,
And pass, with the joy
of their presence,
Like shadows of angels
unguessed.
They carry no mark of
their order,
No talisman men must
obey.
The street of the heart
is their highroad,
Their mission to lighten
the way.
They came with the music
of Orpheus,
With the hymns of Isaiah
and Job,
With the staff and bowl
of the beggar
Or the glory of
Solomon's robe.
Their task from Plotinus
to Browning
Was ever and never the
same,—
To replenish the altars
of wisdom
And guard the impalpable
flame.
In this mortal fabric
incarnate
What radiant souls have
had birth!
The visions they
cherished and quickened
Were not begotten of
earth.
In music or language or
color,
However their rapture
was caught,
Divine were the
instincts they followed,
Divine was the service
they wrought.
The sweep of Beethoven
and Handel
In majestical triumph or
dirge,
The glories of Raphael's
genius,
The splendor of Angelo's
urge,
The soaring Te Deums of
Gothic
Arrested in eloquent
stone,—
What are these but the
soul of the Ages
Immortal through color
and tone!
Pure wine of the spirit
they gave us,—
A gladness to make us
whole,—
But we trusted to
cunning to save us,
And cunning has cheated
our soul.
The brand of the beast
is upon us
In wantonness, folly and
greed.
We have trampled the
torch that should light us,
And our darkness is ours
indeed.
The Nations are gathered
to counsel,
In jealousy, envy, and
fear,
Forgetting the Judgment
of Karma,
And the Judgment of
Karma is here.
O'er Rome, over London
and Paris
The morrows of destiny
wait.
Yet who now seeks word
from Shamballah?
Who knocks at the Ivory
Gate? |
