Hermetic.com | Crowley | Equinox | Vol I No iii

AN ORIGIN

IN fire of gold they set them out,

   The garlanded of old, who comb

The Mount of Evil, strong and stout

    To wrest from Venus' brow the comb.

The fiery wind, the web unspun,
> The nine stars and the circling sun.


Not theirs to wander lost and lone,

   Adream by mountain lake, and sea;

Not theirs to bear a face of stone

   Away from human mystery:

They pondered o'er the runes of time,

They slew the Serpent of the Slime.

The brutish brain, the nervous hands,

   The conscious power of thew and mind;

The agony of burning sands,

   The blithe salt breezes blowing blind ___

The birth-pangs of the Emperor Thought,

Of Earth and Pain the wonder-wrought.

They hurled them blindly on the breast

   Of foaming hate, of wild desire: {115}

From Time they held the old bequest,

   The passioned pangs, the flash of fire ___

Not through the gods they dreamed of ran

The stream that fired the veins of man.

They stanched the gaping wound with turf,

   With water slaked the burning maw;

Rolling within the boiling surf,

   They caught the brine in eye and jaw.

They roared and rushed with tangled mane

To rape and ruin in the rain.

The hours flew by all swift and red;

   They gorged, they slept within the shade:

They yelled in fear with muffled head

   When thunder made them sore afraid.

Loud laughed the gods to see the wild

Mad glory of their weanling child.

A flash of long-forgotten light ___

   I found again the men of old,

The wondering children of the night,

   The ravagers of hill and wold ___

Our sane, strong, savage satyr-sires.

In whom were born the artist-fires.

The scorching sun, the sleeping moon,

   The yelling wind that clave the trees,

The monsters that they fled, the croon

   Of squaws with babes upon their knees,

The wet woods' call, the insistent sea,

The blood-stained birth of mystery. {116}

The scream of passion, and the foam

   Upon the willing women's lips;

Green, dripping forests, love's dark home ___

   These were the god-enwroughten whips

That gave the eagle-cars of Art

First impulse in the cave-man's heart.

The artist-light is backward borne,

   Master within my brain to-night;

Back in the long-forgotten morn

   I see the dawn of Thee and light;

The men that made me stare and stare

Through the great wood-fire's lurid glare.

And through the haze of time and life

   Anew the dim, dark visions loom;

The matted bloody hair; the knife

   Of jagged stone; the reeking fume

Of purple blood; the gore and bones

Rotting beneath the straight-aimed stones.

The dream is past; the night returns,

   Old mother of the primal Fear;

Within me, Master, throbs and burns

   The old grey wonder. Yea, I hear ___

The heritage is mine; I take

The wand encircled by the snake.

Far in the night I wander; far

   Back in the forest of the Past,

Led by my sole and single star,

   Where I shall dwell in peace at last. {117}

But once again I see Thee stand

Guarding the old forgotten land. ___

A silent land dream and fear,

   Where thought-waves break upon the shore,

And reach the high gods' listening ear,

   And echo on for evermore

Through the dark ages, till they reach

Their long-sought goal, and burst in speech.
VICTOR B. NEUBURG.

 

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All copyrights on Aleister Crowley material are held by Ordo Templi Orientis. This site is not an official O.T.O. website, and is neither sponsored by nor controlled by Ordo Templi Orientis.

The text of this Aleister Crowley material is made available here only for personal and non-commercial use. This material is provided here in a convenient searchable form as a study resource for those seekers looking for it in their research. For any commercial use, please contact Ordo Templi Orientis.