Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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A MEDITATION. |
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231
A MEDITATION.
“I believe in the Communion of Saints.”
The World doth love its own,
Doth praise its own, doth keep their memories young;
Where warrior once hath bled, where poet sung,
Time's dust may never gather,—hill and stream
Catch up heroic echoes, and the lone
Vaucluse still murmurs of the music thrown
Around it by one fervid Lover's dream.
Doth praise its own, doth keep their memories young;
Where warrior once hath bled, where poet sung,
Time's dust may never gather,—hill and stream
Catch up heroic echoes, and the lone
Vaucluse still murmurs of the music thrown
Around it by one fervid Lover's dream.
The World doth love its own,
But unto you that loved it, hath it proved
It was not worthy of ye! little loved
Or loved amiss, how hard hath been your lot!
Followed with worship that ye had disclaimed
And warned each suppliant, “See thou do it not,”
Or like to cherished friends that on its throne
The heart hath lifted, till too rudely blamed
For overprizing, it hath grown ashamed,
And taken from them that which was their own,
So are ye little treasured, coldly named,
Remembered with vain honours, or forgot!
But unto you that loved it, hath it proved
It was not worthy of ye! little loved
Or loved amiss, how hard hath been your lot!
Followed with worship that ye had disclaimed
And warned each suppliant, “See thou do it not,”
Or like to cherished friends that on its throne
The heart hath lifted, till too rudely blamed
For overprizing, it hath grown ashamed,
And taken from them that which was their own,
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Remembered with vain honours, or forgot!
And ours hath been the loss:
Our silence grieves you not, our erring praise
Perchance doth never reach you where you raise
Your fuller, sweeter song to Him whose brow
Doth wear the Many Crowns upon it, “Thou
Art only worthy, Thou who art our Praise.”
Yes! ours hath been the loss,
For ye are ours! the lives ye held not dear
Were given for us! strong champions of the Cross
Who went before us in God's faith and fear,
Your blood makes rich our heritage; no tear
Of yours but lies upon it still like dew,
No word of yours but yet hath power to cheer—
Ye have not need of us, but we of you!
Our silence grieves you not, our erring praise
Perchance doth never reach you where you raise
Your fuller, sweeter song to Him whose brow
Doth wear the Many Crowns upon it, “Thou
Art only worthy, Thou who art our Praise.”
Yes! ours hath been the loss,
For ye are ours! the lives ye held not dear
Were given for us! strong champions of the Cross
Who went before us in God's faith and fear,
Your blood makes rich our heritage; no tear
Of yours but lies upon it still like dew,
No word of yours but yet hath power to cheer—
Ye have not need of us, but we of you!
And oh, Beloved ones, my lips are fain
To speak of you! this heart of mine so long
Hath communed with you, they may not refrain
To pay you honour in a guileless song;
I will not fear to do the Master wrong
In praising you, His servants, whom, unseen,
I love in Him. As oft a stranger's mien
Grows sudden dear through summoning the face
Of friend beloved, so have I joyed to trace
Your features back to His, and in the tone
Ye use, a sweeter voice hath still been known;
Nor read I blame within their ardent eyes,
Our elder, stronger Brethren of the skies,
That unto me their names, their effigies
Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! Ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest,
That it might fare the sweeter ye did wake
Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,
But bound on rugged paths where once of old
Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!
For oft, methinks, true Lovers! loved the less
For more abundant loving, bitterness
Was wrung within your cup while ye did strain
Thereout your balms of healing; yea, the Vine
Was bruised within your souls to make them wine
That trampled down its tendrils! yet this pain
Ye took in meekness, nor of outward foe
Made much account that knew a subtler foe,
A sorer strife, a plague-spot lying bare
To one loved eye, and fain ye would be fair
To meet that only eye;—so, faint yet still
Pursuing, oft ye look unto the hill
From thence expecting aid, and not in vain.
Now have ye reached the Mount of God! no stain
Lies on your robes, and all your faces shine
As shone they never here, while yet in frail
Coarse vessels all your heaven-won treasure lay,
While oft the light within would pale and pine
Because the lamp that bore it was of clay—
Now, far behind the shrouding veil, your way
Leads on from grace to grace, and yet you say
To speak of you! this heart of mine so long
Hath communed with you, they may not refrain
To pay you honour in a guileless song;
I will not fear to do the Master wrong
In praising you, His servants, whom, unseen,
I love in Him. As oft a stranger's mien
Grows sudden dear through summoning the face
Of friend beloved, so have I joyed to trace
Your features back to His, and in the tone
Ye use, a sweeter voice hath still been known;
Nor read I blame within their ardent eyes,
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That unto me their names, their effigies
Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! Ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest,
That it might fare the sweeter ye did wake
Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,
“Elias was a man of like passions as we are,” says St. James, “to wean Christians from that false idea which makes us reject the examples of the saints as disproportioned to our own condition; these were saints, we cry, and not men like us. We look on them as being crowned in glory; and now that time has cleared up things, it does really appear so. But at the time when the great Athanasius was persecuted, he was a man who bore that name; and St. Teresa, in her day, was like the other religious sisters of her order.”—Pascal.
But bound on rugged paths where once of old
Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!
For oft, methinks, true Lovers! loved the less
For more abundant loving, bitterness
Was wrung within your cup while ye did strain
Thereout your balms of healing; yea, the Vine
Was bruised within your souls to make them wine
That trampled down its tendrils! yet this pain
Ye took in meekness, nor of outward foe
Made much account that knew a subtler foe,
A sorer strife, a plague-spot lying bare
To one loved eye, and fain ye would be fair
234
Pursuing, oft ye look unto the hill
From thence expecting aid, and not in vain.
Now have ye reached the Mount of God! no stain
Lies on your robes, and all your faces shine
As shone they never here, while yet in frail
Coarse vessels all your heaven-won treasure lay,
While oft the light within would pale and pine
Because the lamp that bore it was of clay—
Now, far behind the shrouding veil, your way
Leads on from grace to grace, and yet you say
“Here it is good to be:” of this your state
We know not now, but this still doth appear;
Though none have left the chambers where ye wait
To tell us if their light be dark or clear,
And he who looked upon you there, the Seer
Beloved, hath spoken little, if ye wake—
Or sleeping, where you take your solemn rest—
Yet hath a voice from Heaven proclaimed you surely blest!
We know not now, but this still doth appear;
Though none have left the chambers where ye wait
To tell us if their light be dark or clear,
And he who looked upon you there, the Seer
Beloved, hath spoken little, if ye wake—
Or sleeping, where you take your solemn rest—
Yet hath a voice from Heaven proclaimed you surely blest!
And if ye wake or sleep,
Or wrapt yet conscious in a Calm between
That stealeth not on Earth, ye lie serene,
Doth matter little—solemn, sweet and deep
Must be your rest with Him whose eyelids keep
Their watch above, for He can bless in sleep
His own beloved ones;
Or wrapt yet conscious in a Calm between
That stealeth not on Earth, ye lie serene,
Doth matter little—solemn, sweet and deep
Must be your rest with Him whose eyelids keep
Their watch above, for He can bless in sleep
His own beloved ones;
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But is there prayer
Within your quiet Homes, and is there care
For those ye leave behind? I would address
My spirit to this theme in humbleness:
No tongue nor pen hath uttered or made known
This mystery, and thus I do but guess
At clearer types through lowlier patterns shown;—
Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own?
Ye may not quit your sweetness, in the Vine
More firmly rooted than of old, your wine
Hath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grown
To fuller stature; though the shock was keen
That severed you from us, how oft below,
Hath sorest parting smitten but to show
True hearts their hidden wealth that quickly grow
The closer for that anguish,—friend to friend
Revealed more clear,—and what is Death to rend
The ties of life and love, when He must fade
In light of very Life, when He must bend
To Love, that loving, loveth to the end?
Within your quiet Homes, and is there care
For those ye leave behind? I would address
My spirit to this theme in humbleness:
No tongue nor pen hath uttered or made known
This mystery, and thus I do but guess
At clearer types through lowlier patterns shown;—
Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own?
“Fain would I know thy present feelings towards thy Broher, thy beloved, if indeed it is permitted to one bathing in the floods of Divine radiance, and transported with the happiness of eternity, to call to mind our misery, to be occupied with our grief. For perhaps though thou hast hitherto known us according to the flesh, yet now thou knowest us no longer. He who is joined to God is one spirit with God; he can have no thought, no desire, save for God and for the things of God, with whose fulness he is filled. Yet ‘God is love,’ and the more closely a soul is bound to God, the more does it abound in love. It is true that God is impassible, but He is not insensible, for His ‘nature is to have mercy and to forgive;’ so then, thou must be merciful, since thou art joined to Him who showeth mercy, and thine affection, though transformed, is no whit diminished. Thou hast laid aside thine infirmities, but not thy love, for ‘love abideth,’ saith the Apostle, and throughout cternity thou wilt not forget me. It seems to me that I hear my Brother saying, ‘Can a woman forget her sucking child? Yea, they may forget, yet will I never forget thee.’ Truly it is not expedient. Thou hast found greater consolations. Thou art in the everlasting presence of the Lord Jesus, and hast angels for thy companions; but what have I to fill up the void thou hast left? In all that has since happened I have looked to Gerard as I had been wont, and he is not.”—St. Bernard on the death of his Brother.
Ye may not quit your sweetness, in the Vine
More firmly rooted than of old, your wine
Hath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grown
To fuller stature; though the shock was keen
That severed you from us, how oft below,
Hath sorest parting smitten but to show
True hearts their hidden wealth that quickly grow
The closer for that anguish,—friend to friend
Revealed more clear,—and what is Death to rend
The ties of life and love, when He must fade
In light of very Life, when He must bend
To Love, that loving, loveth to the end?
I do not deem ye look
Upon us now, for be it that your eyes
Are sealed or clear, a burden on them lies
Too deep and blissful for their gaze to brook
Our troubled strife; enough that once ye dwelt
Where now we dwell, enough that once ye felt
As now we feel, to bid you recognise
Our claim of kindred cherished though unseen;
And Love that is to you for eye and ear
Hath ways unknown to us to bring you near,—
To keep you near for all that comes between;
As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer,
As distant friends, that see not, and yet share
(I speak of what I know) each other's care,
So may your spirits blend with ours! above
Ye know not haply of our state, yet Love
Acquaints you with our need, and through a way
More sure than that of knowledge—so ye pray!
Upon us now, for be it that your eyes
Are sealed or clear, a burden on them lies
Too deep and blissful for their gaze to brook
Our troubled strife; enough that once ye dwelt
Where now we dwell, enough that once ye felt
As now we feel, to bid you recognise
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And Love that is to you for eye and ear
Hath ways unknown to us to bring you near,—
To keep you near for all that comes between;
As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer,
As distant friends, that see not, and yet share
(I speak of what I know) each other's care,
So may your spirits blend with ours! above
Ye know not haply of our state, yet Love
Acquaints you with our need, and through a way
More sure than that of knowledge—so ye pray!
And even thus we meet,
And even thus we commune! spirits freed
And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need
To seek a common atmosphere, the air
Is meet for either in this olden, sweet,
Primeval breathing of Man's spirit—Prayer!
And even thus we commune! spirits freed
And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need
To seek a common atmosphere, the air
Is meet for either in this olden, sweet,
Primeval breathing of Man's spirit—Prayer!
And now your prayers are free,
Not hindered oft, as in this field below
By One himself unblest, that envieth so
The bonds of Brotherhood he may not know,
He joys to fling a seed of enmity
'Twixt very friends;—with anxious hearts, with hands
That rested not, ye wrought in scattered bands
Apart; intent upon your work, a word
Would reach you from the distance, faintly heard,
That moved to anger; yet the speech that vexed
The sorest, often was but Love perplext
To find one common tongue; but now the sun
Hath fallen on you, all your task is done;
Ye sit within the House with One whose kind
Prevailing counsels bring unto one mind
Its inmates, making Brethren to agree,
And oft ye marvel that ye did not find
Each other sooner, soul in soul doth see
One kindred image shine, no longer dim
Through contact of its gold with baser clay—
The fruit is ripe, its husks have dropt away,
And ye are only what ye were in Him!
Not hindered oft, as in this field below
By One himself unblest, that envieth so
The bonds of Brotherhood he may not know,
He joys to fling a seed of enmity
'Twixt very friends;—with anxious hearts, with hands
That rested not, ye wrought in scattered bands
Apart; intent upon your work, a word
Would reach you from the distance, faintly heard,
237
The sorest, often was but Love perplext
To find one common tongue; but now the sun
Hath fallen on you, all your task is done;
Ye sit within the House with One whose kind
Prevailing counsels bring unto one mind
Its inmates, making Brethren to agree,
And oft ye marvel that ye did not find
Each other sooner, soul in soul doth see
One kindred image shine, no longer dim
Through contact of its gold with baser clay—
The fruit is ripe, its husks have dropt away,
And ye are only what ye were in Him!
Oh! Virgin Lilies rayed
With light and loveliness, that did declare
His perfect beauty here, that grew so fair
By only gazing on Him! from the shade
Where God hath planted me I have essayed
To reach unto your sunshine! though you keep
Your silence even from good words, I miss
No sign of greeting, nor have need of kiss
For sealing of our love, for this is clear
That ye are near me when I draw most near
To Him in Whom we meet: I see you shine
In Christ, as once I marked above a shrine
By midnight clear, yet moonless, pictured fair
A Virgin Mother in a lowly place
Bend o'er a sleeping infant; full of grace
His brow and lip; with gifts and odours rare
Came Kings adoring, lowly Shepherds there
Rejoicing knelt, and all the canvas dim
Was crowded up behind with Seraphim
In goodly ranks; yet Mother-maid serene,
Sage, Seraph, lowly Shepherd, all were seen
By Light that streamed from out the Babe divine!
With light and loveliness, that did declare
His perfect beauty here, that grew so fair
By only gazing on Him! from the shade
Where God hath planted me I have essayed
To reach unto your sunshine! though you keep
Your silence even from good words, I miss
No sign of greeting, nor have need of kiss
For sealing of our love, for this is clear
That ye are near me when I draw most near
To Him in Whom we meet: I see you shine
In Christ, as once I marked above a shrine
By midnight clear, yet moonless, pictured fair
A Virgin Mother in a lowly place
Bend o'er a sleeping infant; full of grace
His brow and lip; with gifts and odours rare
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Rejoicing knelt, and all the canvas dim
Was crowded up behind with Seraphim
In goodly ranks; yet Mother-maid serene,
Sage, Seraph, lowly Shepherd, all were seen
By Light that streamed from out the Babe divine!
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