The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

On what a world of all-involving strife
Childhood opes day by day his wondering eyes;
Beauteous to him and new this mortal life,
But what dark mystery beneath it lies!
He looks to the blue vault above,—
Fair dome, and image true of all-surrounding love!
There some bright bird on blithe and buoyant wing
At morning's door doth sing;
But death is pois'd upon a stronger plume,
And hawks and ravening birds are battling in his room.

In beauteous Heaven above and earth below
One scene of conflict meets his thoughtful view;
The very clouds see making warlike show:
Now like encountering armies they pursue,
Now marring ether's blue repose
Castles and monstrous sights and battle-scenes disclose;
Then seem to pass away, and take afar
Some shape of giant war.
The very elements are all at strife;
War is coeval, war confederate with life.

And multitudinous tribes that come and go
On earth around some shape of warfare wage;
Beasts are with beasts contending to and fro;
War is the universal heritage,—
To be undone or to undo;
Insects in air around tumultuous war pursue;
E'en tribes in miniature beneath our feet
In deadly contest meet;
The life of each doth seem another's death,
And nothing hath repose but with its parting breath.

Nor less mankind, Creation's lords below,
Are still engaged in warfare from their birth;
All borne along whether we will or no,
In tide of battling nations, moving earth;
War takes, war sways, and swallows all,
And peace itself is but the breathing interval.
Their very being hangs on warlike power
When storms o'er nations lower.
Whate'er we have of calm communion sweet
'Tis in the middle space ere hosts encount'ring meet.

The fowler's, fisher's, hunter's, soldier's art
Are Childhood's first essays in mimic life,
To imitate pursuit and take his part
With siegers or besieg'd,—shapes of strife,—
Feats wherein art or strength secures
Prizes of arduous arms, and warlike forfeitures.
Howe'er innocuous the confederate sport
Where Boyhood holds his court,
In his instinctive breast some secret root
Still takes some varied form of warfare or pursuit.

If in oblivious sleep he seeks repose,
And shuts his eyes from this our world around,
To ope on scenes which sleeping thoughts disclose,
There is he toss'd, and hurried, and spell-bound
In strivings of a world unseen,
Unearthly sights that blend with things that here have been:
Pursuings and contendings, wars and fight,
Hair-breadth escape and flight,
Foes and affrays, are all he gathers thence,
Where Slumber lifts his latch beyond this world of sense.

Yea, e'en the very Gospel, which had birth
In songs of blessed Angels bringing peace,
In contact with the denizens of earth,
Hath gone forth as a sword which doth not cease:
What though the Saints have found a home
Within her peaceful shrines no longer thence to roam;
The posts of faith where they their watches hold
Are towers bequeath'd of old,
And for those citadels to fight and die
Is highest meed they claim of our mortality.

All things are full of strife, beyond we deem
Or sense can follow: sunshine from the skies,
Which in some chamber throws its slanting beam,
Gives semblance of the world which round us lies,
Where motes to sight and being press,
In revolutions strange encount'ring numberless;

And e'en the very waters are all rife
With feats of insect strife;
Where'er our light doth in their dwelling fall
It opes new scenes of war which fill their watery hall.

O awful Power, whose wisdom girds us round
With language so unspeakable, this scene
Past finding out, this world of sense and sound
Is but the parable of things unseen,
Which Thy deep omens doth rehearse!
Thy still small voice around is the vast universe.
Grant me to read this lesson of the skies
With Childhood's Heaven-taught eyes,
Lest I be swallow'd in this war of sense,
Nor learn the warning sent by Thy sweet Providence.—

That with us here and o'er us there doth close
A war that is in Heaven, which with our breath
Begins and ceases not, with viewless foes
A war for endless life or endless death;
That, though the contest we forego,
Yet wheresoe'er we be, whate'er we think or do,
Whether we wake or sleep, this deep turmoil
Wreathes round its serpent coil;
Nor can we 'scape the universal doom
Of all-contending war, but in the silent tomb.—

That spirits are contending with strange power
Leagued with us and against us, and with one
We take our part in this our destin'd hour,
While we ourselves are winning or are won;
O war-defying mortal thought,
Throughout all things of sense in wondrous semblance wrought,

Through nature's gradual steps replete with life
Presenting shapes of strife,
While here we climb to the eternal morn,—
The mirror of our state for ever round us borne!

Mark His own Word,—which as an optic glass
Opes to the spiritual eye in vision clear
Things of the world which here before it pass,
A key to the mysterious world they bear,
A hand that marks the eternal road
In semblances most dark that fill the earth abroad:—
There the accoutrements of warlike geer,
And battle of the spear,
The Lord of Hosts doth consecrate, to tell
The conflict here on earth of His own Israel.

What is e'en now the Christian's song of praise,
The storehouse of his prayers, the saint's delight,
The counsellor and guardian of his ways,
The pilgrim's staff, and lantern through the night!
The armoury of holy thought?
'Tis Israel's Psalm-book sweet by inspiration wrought.
Hopes, joys, and fears, which unto man belong,
There clothe themselves with song,
And speak the warrior's hate, the warrior's call,
To Him at whose “rebuke the horse and chariot fall.”

Yea, e'en this passing world's historic lore,
Chronicling deeds of arms, (could we the scroll
Unravel like good Spenser's fairy store,)
Speaks but the trial of the human soul.

E'en so immortal Homer's page,
Which pictur'd warring hosts encount'ring on the stage,
Portrayed the battle-field of this our lot,
Although he knew it not:
The lesson in his heart that breath'd so strong
Was something worthier far that ancient poet's song.

Well may the soldier's dauntless fortitude,
That serves for emblem of a thing so great,
Stand master of the world in Roman mood,
And seem upon this earth to govern fate.
This is thy spell, imperial Rome,
The magic of that power which found in thee a home:
Though such were but the semblance and the name
Of warfare which shall claim
Heaven its reward, and trample powers of hell,
In that great war which is to man invisible;—

Invisible, but which shall come to sight
When our great Captain is Himself reveal'd,
'Mid Angel hosts which with us fought the fight,
And Satan hath no more his shape conceal'd.
The palace of the strong shall fall around,
On that great sevenfold morn at the dread trumpet's sound.
Then lights in earthen vessels hidden now
Shall rise before the foe;
The Sun and Moon shall then stand still in Heaven;
Stars in their courses fight; victorious crowns be given.

In this Heaven's bidden wisdom half-reveal'd
We hail instinctive childhood: as the child
Mimics the feats of war with spear and shield,
E'en so the soul must wield throughout the wild
The armouries of God's own word,—
Take up the shield of faith, put on the Spirit's sword:
While all things teach us through our pilgrimage
Unceasing war to wage,
Yet not to trust in human panoply,
But strong in weakness, trust, O Lord of Hosts, in Thee.

O shame to him in this our trial state
Who “mingleth peace with war ,” and ease with strife,
Sleeping upon his post, while at the gate
The sleepless foes are watching for his life!
For if on the soft lap of ease
We sink to sleep, and dream of life's securities,
We thus lay down our arms before the foe,
And all our strength forego;
So may we sleep, and wake when nought remains,
Save dungeons of thick night and endless prison chains.

It is a strife and must be to the end,
And nature's shapes of war and hostile fight
Are the best images which Heaven could send
Of that invisible and watchful might,—
Of foes behind each earthly scene
Pursuing human souls, and lurking still unseen,

Walking in darkness, lying hid in wait,
And watching at the gate;
Now in one body vast they darkly brood,
And like a tempest sway the moving multitude.

And doubtless could we see with fleshly eye
Sins that encompass us, like shrouds from hell,
Wherein bad spirits walk, we should descry
Shapes more uncouth and foul and terrible
Than Nature's self e'er brought to sight,
In serpents, insect tribes, or beasts that prowl at night;
Or Fancy forms from all or each at will,
A whole more hideous still:
These will beset our path, and one by one
Come forward with their lures until the goal be won.

O scenes and tales that people classic lore
Which pleas'd our childhood; or Arabian tale;
Or chivalrous emprize and fabling store,
Which led us through some lone enchanted vale!
Of things in Heaven then childhood dream'd
When most in worldly eyes it fond and foolish seem'd.
A secret story in our being wrought
Spell-bound our wondering thought,
'Mid battles and escapes and snares and foes,
Through which some fabled wight sought long-denied repose.

And onward still our earnest eyes were bent
To know and see the issue crowning all,
The unravelling scene of long-drawn wonderment,
Of fights and restless travels long in thrall;—

Unconscious bodings of the soul
Which eagerly thus pored upon the opening scroll.
She in these images before her brought
Knew not her own deep thought;
A spirit in our spirit deeper lies,
And recognises still her secret destinies:—

And still looks out to catch the opening sky
Beyond the labyrinth, wherein around
Things that we see not sway our destiny.
Thus were our eager spirits deeply bound
With some famed Hector in the fray,
Or that long-wandering Chief upon the ocean way;
In breathless expectation for the end
Still did they forward bend;
For with the brave and good our sympathies
Are wrapt, as if in them our very being lies.

On their unfolding stories as our own
We gaze in wonder; for the soul divines,
Although she deems not, of the world unknown;
And thus instinctive yearnings intertwines,
Some secret thought of unseen war,
And wanderings from her home which is in Heaven afar.
In semblance of her lot made palpable
She finds a hidden spell,
And in the maze of an unreal state
Loves, grieves, and loathes with a mysterious hate.

And haply against others oft we turn
The war that should be with internal foes;
Crusaders erst would fix by warfare stern
The Cross on Calvary, and the peaceful rose

Of Sharon dyed with hostile blood;
Yet 'twas a worthy cause of holy fortitude,
Type of that holier war that shall regain
Palestine's promis'd plain,
By love and hope and godly discipline,
And plant upon the world the Cross's conquering sign.

The Gospel as a sword the earth must win
Through struggles, foes, and hate invisible;
But Christ's true soldier is at peace within,
In harmonies of Heaven he loves to dwell.
While wars without him still increase,
Within Angelic sounds are heard declaring peace.
And from the elements which rage around
Is music most profound;
While Persecution marks him for her own
And sets on all Beatitudes the last , the chief, the crown.

Amid surrounding storms he is in calm,
Or strives to be so, and advances on,
Seeking 'mid poisonous weeds the honied balm
Of wounded spirits; till his soul hath won
Something of the repose of Heaven,
To conquerors of the world, self-mastering spirits given,—
A something of the Everlasting chime,
Ethereal, calm, sublime:
And Christ at length within his soul is born,
Declaring His own peace and ever-cloudless Morn.

This subject is founded on one in “The Book of Nature.”

Hor., lib. iii. Od. 5. lin. 37.

St. Matt. v. 11.