Aleister Crowley
 
                         THE WIZARD WAY





                         THE WIZARD WAY

          VELVET soft the night-star glowed
          Over the untrodden road,
          Through the giant glades of yew
          Where its ray fell light as dew
          Lighting up the shimmering veil
          Maiden pure and aery frail
          That the spiders wove to hide
          Blushes of the sylvan bride
          Earth, that trembled with delight
          At the male caress of Night.

          Velvet soft the wizard trod
          To the Sabbath of his God.
          With his naked feet he made
          Starry blossoms in the glade,
          Softly, softly, as he went
          To the sombre sacrament,
          Stealthy stepping to the tryst
          In his gown of amethyst.

          Earlier yet his soul had come
          To the Hill of Martyrdom,
          Where the charred and crookŠd stake
          Like a black envenomed snake
          By the hangman's hands is thrust
          Through the wet and writhing dust,
          Never black and never dried
          Heart's blood of a suicide.

          He had plucked the hazel rod
          From the rude and goatish god,
          Even as the curved moon's waning ray
          Stolen from the King of Day.
          He had learnt the elvish sign;
          Given the Token of the Nine:
          Once to rave, and once to revel,
          Once to bow before the devil,
          Once to swing the thurible,
          Once to kiss the goat of hell,
          Once to dance the aspen spring,
          Once to croak, and once to sing,
          Once to oil the savoury thighs
          Of the witch with sea-green eyes
          With the unguents magical.
          Oh the honey and the gall
          Of that black enchanter's lips
          As he croons to the eclipse
          Mingling that most puissant spell
          Of the giant gods of hell
          With the four ingredients
          Of the evil elements;
          Ambergris from golden spar,
          Musk of ox from Mongol jar,
          Civet from a box of jade,
          Mixed with fat of many a maid
          Slain by the inchauntments cold
          Of the witches wild and old.

          He had crucified a toad
          In the basilisk abode,
          Muttering the Runes averse
          Mad with many a mocking curse.

          He had traced the serpent sigil
          In his ghastly virgin vigil.
"          "Sursum cor!" the elfin hill,
          Where the wind blows deadly chill
          From the world that wails beneath
          Death's black throat and lipless teeth.
          There he had stood -- his bosom bare ---
          Tracing Life upon the Air
          With the crook and with the flail
          Lashing forward on the gale,
          Till its blade that wavereth
          Like the flickering of Death
          Sank before his subtle fence
          To the starless sea of sense.

          Now at last the man is come
          Haply to his halidom.
          Surely as he waves his rod
          In a circle on the sod
          Springs the emerald chaste and clean
          From the duller paler green.
          Surely in the circle millions
          Of immaculate pavilions
          Flash upon the trembling turf
          Like the sea-stars in the surf ---
          Millions of bejewelled tents
          For the warrior sacraments.
          Vaster, vaster, vaster, vaster,
          Grows the stature of the master;
          All the ringed encampment vies
          With the infinite galaxies.
          In the midst a cubic stone
          With the Devil set thereon;
          Hath a lamb's virginal throat;
          Hath the body of a stoat;
          Hath the buttocks of a goat;
          Hath the sanguine face and rod
          Of a goddess and a god!

          Spell by spell and pace by pace!
          Mystic flashes swing and trace
          Velvet soft the sigils stepped
          By the silver-starred adept.
          Back and front, and to and fro,
          Soul and body sway and flow
          In vertiginous caresses
          To imponderable recesses,
          Till at last the spell is woven,
          And the faery veil is cloven
          That was Sequence, Space, and Stress
          Of the soul-sick consciousness.

          "Give thy body to the beasts!
          Give thy spirit to the priests!
          Break in twain the hazel rod
          On the virgin lips of God!
          Tear the Rosy Cross asunder!
          Shatter the black bolt of thunder!
          Such the swart ensanguine kiss
          Of the resolute abyss!"
          Wonder-weft the wizard heard
          This intolerable word.

          Smote the blasting hazel rod
          On the scarlet lips of God;
          Trampled Cross and rosy core;
          Brake the thunder-tool of Thor;
          Meek and holy acolyte
          Of the priestly hells of spite,
          Sleek and shameless catamite
          Of the beasts that prowl by night!

          Like a star that streams from heaven
          Through the virgin airs light-riven,
          From the lift there shot and fell
          An admirable miracle.
          Carved minute and clean, a key
          Of purest lapis-lazuli
          More blue than the blind sky that aches
          (Wreathed with the stars, her torturing snakes),
          For the dead god's kiss that never wakes;
          Shot with golden specks of fire
          Like a virgin with desire.
          Look, the levers! fern-frail fronds
          Of fantastic diamonds,
          Glimmering with ethereal azure
          In each exquisite embrasure.
          On the shaft the letters laced,
          As if dryads lunar-chaste
          With the satyrs were embraced,
          Spelled the secret of the key:
"          "Sic pervenias."  And he
          Went his wizard way, inweaving
          Dreams of things beyond believing.

          When he will, the weary world
          Of the senses closely curled
          Like a serpent round his heart
          Shakes herself and stands apart.
          So the heart's blood flames, expanding,
          Strenuous, urgent, and commanding;
          And the key unlocks the door
          Where his love lives evermore.

          She is of the faery blood;
          All smaragdine flows its flood.
          Glowing in the amber sky
          To ensorcelled porphyry.
          She hath eyes of glittering flake
          Like a cold grey water-snake.
          She hath naked breasts of amber
          Jetting wine in her bed-chanber,
          Whereof whoso stoops and drinks
          Rees the riddle of the Sphinx.

          She hath naked limbs of amber
          Whereupon her children clamber.
          She hath five navels rosy-red
          From the five wounds of God that bled;
          Each wound that mothered her still bleeding,
          And on that blood her babes are feeding.
          Oh!  like a rose-winged pelican
          She hath bred blessed babes to Pan!
          Oh!  like a lion-hued nightingale
          She hath torn her breast on thorns to avail
          The barren rose-tree to renew
          Her life with that disastrous dew,
          Building the rose o' the world alight
          With music out of the pale moonlight!
          O She is like the river of blood
          That broke from the lips of the bastard god,
          When he saw the sacred mother smile
          On the ibis that flew up the foam of Nile
          Bearing the limbs unblessed, unborn,
          That the lurking beast of Nile had torn!
          So (for the world is weary) I
          These dreadful souls of sense lay by.
          I sacrifice these impure shoon
          To the cold ray of the waning moon.
          I take the forkŠd hazel staff,
          And the rose of no terrene graff,
          And the lamp of no olive oil
          With heart's blood that alone may boil.
          With naked breast and feet unshod
          I follow the wizard way to God.

          Wherever he leads my foot shall follow;
          Over the height, into the hollow,
          Up to the caves of pure cold breath,
          Down to the deeps of foul hot death,
          Across the seas, through the fires,
          Past the palace of desires;
          Where he will, whether he will or no,
          If I go, I care not whither I go.

          For in me is the taint of the faery blood.
          Fast, fast, its emerald flood
          Leaps within me, violent rude
          Like a bestial faun's beatitude.
          In me the faery blood runs hard:
          My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard,
          A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr;
          For --- as my mother said --- what does it matter?
          She was a fay, pure of the faery;
          Queen Morgan's daughter by an aery
          Demon that came to Orkney once
          To pay the Beetle his orisons.

          So, it is I that writhe with the twitch
          Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch
          To attain a matter one may not utter
          Rather than sink in the greasy splutter
          Of Britons munching their bread and butter;
          Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls
          Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls.
          So, I am off with staff in hand
          To the endless light of the nameless land.

          Darkness spreads its sombre streams,
          Blotting out the elfin dreams.
          I might haply be afraid,
          Were it not the Feather-maid
          Leads me softly by the hand,
          Whispers me to understand.
          Now (when through the world of weeping
          Light at last starrily creeping
          Steals upon my babe-new sight,
          Light --- O light that is not light!)
          On my mouth the lips of her
          Like a stone on my sepulchre
          Seal my speech with ecstasy,
          Till a babe is born of me
          That is silent more than I;
          For its inarticulate cry
          Hushes as its mouth is pressed
          To the pearl, her honey breast;
          While its breath divinely ripples
          The rose-petals of her nipples,
          And the jetted milk he laps
          From the soft delicious paps,
          Sweeter than the bee-sweet showers
          In the chalice of the flowers,
          More intoxicating than
          All the purple grapes of Pan.

          Ah!  my proper lips are stilled.
          Only, all the world is filled
          With the Echo, that dips over
          Like the honey from the clover.
          Passion, penitence, and pain
          Seek their mother's womb again,
          And are born the triple treasure,
          Peace and purity and pleasure.

          --- Hush, my child, and come aloft
          Where the stars are velvet soft!

                                     ALEISTER CROWLEY.