University of Virginia Library

Truly you tell me his faith is gone,
Truly I see only doubting in him:
He has buried the Christ, and sealed the stone,
And watches all night 'mid the shadows dim,
That none may quicken his soul again,
That none may quicken his hope anew;
And I have noted the sorrow and pain
Of the great love that was wasting you,
Lady, as slowly the cloud came down,
Slowly and coldly the mist was creeping
Over a soul that is dear as your own;
And angels were watching with you and weeping.
Yea, I have grieved for him, and I have prayed
Through the long night, as I watched afar,
Sign of the poor part in life that he played,
The lamp from his window that gleamed like a star;
There he is toiling, I said, for a bubble,
Which when he touches it, shall be no more,
Reaping the harvest of sorrow and trouble,—
Here I will pray till his labour is o'er:
Long as his lamp burns for folly of fame,
So long shall mine that his soul I may win;
Shall he unwearying toil for a name,
And I grow weary to save him from sin?
Thus have I stormed at the gates of heaven
All the more that he laughed at me,
Just that his soul might to me be given
All the more we could never agree.
I see that he mocks me, and flouts me, and jibes
At all the things that I honour most,
And seeks the lore of the clerks and scribes
More than the seal of the Holy Ghost.
He would put me into a book, I know,
That wits might crackle their jests so droll,
And laugh at the preaching smith whose blow
Could smite the iron, and miss the soul.
Yet I have loved him, oh so well!
Yet I have prayed for him, oh how long!
But he would risk all the terrors of hell
For the point of a jest, or the rhyme of a song.
Oh, he is just like a schoolboy that cares
Only to hear his whip go crack
In the dim streets, and the silent squares,
While the echo comes ringing back;
High in the heaven he would sit and brood,
With a flickering smile on his dubious lip;
And down in hell would find some good
In trying how loud he could crack his whip.

You are wroth with me now, for the truth that I speak;
You would have me to smile, and beck, and cringe,
And not let the gate of darkness creak,
But smoothly work on its well-oiled hinge,
And silently close on an erring soul,
With just a snap when the deed is done;
And then I must whimper and condole,
With a lying hope that the goal was won,
Although he never had run the race,
Never so much as made the start.
But I cannot be sweet before your face,
And false to you in my inmost heart.
Tell me not of his love of truth,
Kindly spirit, and thoughtful care,
Or the pure love of his noble youth—
Tell me of faith, if faith be there.
Water the coals, and they will burn,
Sun-dry the faggot, and it will flame;
So virtue or vice will serve your turn,
And make you ready for wrath and shame.
Faith alone is the master-key
To the strait gate and the narrow road;
The others but skeleton picklocks be,
And you never shall pick the locks of God.

But hush! His thunders are in the heaven,
Rumbling low through the clouded sky,
Like the roll of wheels that are swiftly driven
With flames from the whirling tires that fly.
Who knows? They are maybe sent for him,
To clothe his spirit with awe and fear:
Close we the windows and sing a hymn,
And pray while the Lord is plainly here.
Well to improve the solemn hour,
Well to smite while the bar is hot;
Surely the Lord is great in power,
Woe to him that believeth not.