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| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
The Poet's Zenith.
Night is heavy on the valley where the river mist is chill,
Heavy, where the cloud pavilion closes round the silent hill;
Every tiny light that glimmered from the windows near and far,
One by one in sudden darkness has vanished like a lonely star.
All but one, and that is shining where the midnight air creeps in,
Cooling with its clammy touch a burning brow and fingers thin;
Brow inscribed by graving tool of thought in life's deep colours dipped,
Fingers that are resting proudly on unfinished manuscript.
‘Finished! 'Tis my best, I take it,—best that bears my name as yet;
I am weary, but 'tis worth it, now my signature is set.
How the closing verses thrilled me! seemed that they were hardly mine,
Flashing up in bright succession at my summons line by line.
It has been as though my spirit leapt beyond herself, and left
Half her being yet entangled in a sombre earthly weft,
While her essence soared unfearing upward to the Infinite,
With a new and sudden power, with a new and sudden light.
Year by year have many listened to the truths I sought to teach,
But the work this night sees ended, many more shall surely reach.
It is farther, farther reaching, fond ideals nearing more
Than the last, yet that was stronger than the one that came before.
Finished! but I know my power, know that I have more to say,
Know that better work and deeper shall be done another day.’
Heavy, where the cloud pavilion closes round the silent hill;
Every tiny light that glimmered from the windows near and far,
One by one in sudden darkness has vanished like a lonely star.
All but one, and that is shining where the midnight air creeps in,
Cooling with its clammy touch a burning brow and fingers thin;
Brow inscribed by graving tool of thought in life's deep colours dipped,
Fingers that are resting proudly on unfinished manuscript.
219
I am weary, but 'tis worth it, now my signature is set.
How the closing verses thrilled me! seemed that they were hardly mine,
Flashing up in bright succession at my summons line by line.
It has been as though my spirit leapt beyond herself, and left
Half her being yet entangled in a sombre earthly weft,
While her essence soared unfearing upward to the Infinite,
With a new and sudden power, with a new and sudden light.
Year by year have many listened to the truths I sought to teach,
But the work this night sees ended, many more shall surely reach.
It is farther, farther reaching, fond ideals nearing more
Than the last, yet that was stronger than the one that came before.
Finished! but I know my power, know that I have more to say,
Know that better work and deeper shall be done another day.’
Was it so? The hair grew greyer, but the eye retained its light;
Year by year his shining fire-notes fell into the human night,
And his audience grew larger, more and more the souls he stirred,
Till the Poet's name had risen to become a household word.
Yet a whisper rose and mingled with the shoutings of his fame:
‘This or that is splendid, adding lustre to a lustrous name,
Some for tenderness and sweetness, some for favour and for force;
All his later works are fine, and so we read them—oh, of course!
But the focus of his power, in the poem we love best,
Stands alone for depth and beauty, far outweighing all the rest.
There's a vividness, a glory, something felt though not defined,
Making one forget the poet in that light and truth combined.
Not an old man, and experience adding treasure for his mint!
Yet his golden coin seems bearing less imperial imprint.
It is heresy, we know it, for his verse is all so good,
But why does he never write as once he did and surely could?’
Year by year his shining fire-notes fell into the human night,
And his audience grew larger, more and more the souls he stirred,
Till the Poet's name had risen to become a household word.
220
‘This or that is splendid, adding lustre to a lustrous name,
Some for tenderness and sweetness, some for favour and for force;
All his later works are fine, and so we read them—oh, of course!
But the focus of his power, in the poem we love best,
Stands alone for depth and beauty, far outweighing all the rest.
There's a vividness, a glory, something felt though not defined,
Making one forget the poet in that light and truth combined.
Not an old man, and experience adding treasure for his mint!
Yet his golden coin seems bearing less imperial imprint.
It is heresy, we know it, for his verse is all so good,
But why does he never write as once he did and surely could?’
Well, the fatal whisper reached him, floated like a seed of grief,
Thistle-down, that soon upspringing, wounded him with thorny leaf;
Slowly, surely, came the knowledge that the springtide of his power
All unknown had reached its zenith in the rapture of an hour;
That the ebbing and the flowing never reached the shining mark
Where the wave of life rose highest in that midnight still and dark.
Thistle-down, that soon upspringing, wounded him with thorny leaf;
Slowly, surely, came the knowledge that the springtide of his power
All unknown had reached its zenith in the rapture of an hour;
That the ebbing and the flowing never reached the shining mark
Where the wave of life rose highest in that midnight still and dark.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |