Songs Old and New :: :: University of Virginia Library

—The poet-child plays on the margin of the river of Life. There the First Trance overpowers him. He awakens from it to the wonderful beauty of the universe. The magic boat bears him away from the broad stream of life to the regions of fancy. There the Second Trance overshadows him. In it he is aroused to the sense of duty and the necessity of work. He girds himself for the strife. In the flush of the triumph which succeeds it, he is overcome by the Third Trance. In it are revealed to him the grace of God, redemption, and the free service of love.

I.

Beside the ancient river
The infant poet played;
The grave old rocks above him
Laughed at the mirth he made.

The boat that bore him thither
Lay idle on the shore,

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His pearly boat that fast could float
Without or sail or oar.

The fresh young leaves on the hoar old trees
Quivered and fluttered in glee,
And the merry rills from the mighty hills
Shouted as loud as he.

The birds poured joyous welcomes,
For they deemed him one of them;
And the snowdrop laughed in her quiet joy,
Till she shook on her delicate stem.

Broad is that ancient river,
And its depths no sailor knows;
It comes from a place no foot can trace,
'Mid the clouds and the ancient snows;

And on its breast is bounding
Many a gallant bark;—
(Do they know that at last o'er a chasm vast
It leaps into the dark?)

But to the child its waters
Were his playmates glad and sweet,

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Chasing each other merrily
To bathe his snowy feet;

The starry hosts above him
Were the flowers of the sky,—
Too high, perhaps, to gather,
But too beautiful to die;

The world with all its wonders,
Its heavens and its sea,
Was his play-room, full of play-mates,
Each one as glad as he.

But as he laughed and gambolled
Strange languor o'er him stole;
His eyes grew dim, and faint each limb,
And dark the sunny soul,

Till the green earth in pity
Folded him to her breast,
And birds and waves and breezes
Lulled him to quiet rest.

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II.

Sweet Spring the earth was treading
When he broke that magic trance,
Rose from the ground, and gazed around
With a new and rapturous glance.

Had the bright earth and heavens
Expanded as he slept,
That such a tide of light and joy
Around his senses swept?

Not a leaf nor a wing could quiver—
Not a breeze the waters moved,
But it thrilled through sense and spirit,
Like the voice of one beloved.

The sun in his robes of glory
From his depths of light on high—
Each lowly flower from its dewy bower,—
Beamed like a loving eye.

He sate at the feet of Nature
In love and wonder meek;

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Had he then learned to listen,
Or had she learned to speak?

The world was a royal palace,
And no stranger guest was he:
As the silvery fish in the silvery brook
Leaps in its wanton glee,

As the lark in the air and sunshine
When the early mists are curled,—
His spirit bathed and revelled
In the beauty of the world.

He sought not his joy to utter
He was content to see;
It was enough to listen—
It was enough to be!

He had rejoiced for ever
In this Eden to abide,
But the pearly boat began to float
Languidly down the tide.

It left the ancient river
Where the great navies lay,

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And glided up a quiet stream
From the din and strife away.

The waves its prow disparted
Made music as it went,
Like lyres and lutes and silvery flutes,
In sweet confusion blent;

Till they came through a rocky portal
Roofed with many a gem,
(But one of the countless number
Had graced a diadem);

Into a world of wonders,
Where reigned nor sun nor moon,
But a magic light as still as night,
And warm as the softest noon.

Onward and onward gliding
By those shores of wondrous things,
'Mid the murmur of dreamy voices,
And the waving of viewless wings;

Beneath Aladdin's palace,
Where the gems lay thick as flowers,

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And the languid day trickled away
Like the fountain 'midst leafy bowers;

Amidst the tangled woodland,
Where, in the chequered glade,
With wild but tuneful laughter,
The fairy people played;

Beneath the cliffs he glided,
And the unclouded sky,
Where the stately Attic temple
Reared its white shafts on high;

And kingly men and women,
The brave and wise and strong,
Earth's loftiest and sweetest souls,
Lived and made life a song;

Beneath the Northern forest,
Where the thunderbolts were made,
And spirits and gods and mighty men
Met in the mystic shade.

And the hero and the poet
Smiled brotherly on him;

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But again that languid slumber
Crept over soul and limb.

The weight of a first sorrow
Lay heavy on his breath,
And the fair world was shadowed o'er
With a darkness as of death;

And he longed for familiar voices
And the light of the common day,
And the common air on his fevered brow,
And the fields of his childish play;

Till by a lonely islet
The vessel moored at last,
And he stept on the bank, and languidly sank
'Mid the graves of the great that were past.

III.

He woke. The world of faëry,
With its soft and gorgeous light,

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Was dissolved and gone, and he lay alone,
Beneath the solemn night;

Beneath the hosts of heaven
In their grand reality;
'Mid the shadowy glooms of many tombs,
On the shores of a heaving sea.

A suit of polished armour
Lay glittering by his side;
Breastplate and casque and girdle,
And a sword of temper tried.

Furrows of inward conflict
On his brow were dented deep;
And he woke to a steadfast purpose
From the night of that awful sleep;

For a strange and solemn Visitant
Beside his couch had been,
Clad in the old prophetic garb
And stern with the prophet's mien.

“What dost thou here?” she murmured;
“What is outshines what seems;

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Earth has no room for idlers;
Life has no time for dreams.

“Seest thou nought of suffering?
Knowest thou nought of sin?
Hast thou not heard the groans without,
Or felt the sting within?

“Thy brethren die in prisons,—
Thy brethren toil in chains;
The body is racked by hunger,
And the heart has sharper pains.

“Gray heads 'neath the weight of labour
Are sinking into the grave;
And tender hearts are growing hard
For the want of a hand to save.

“Thousands of men, thy brethren,
Are perishing around;
And thou pourest out thy cup of life
Upon the barren ground.

“Rise, gird thee for true labour;
Rise, arm thee for the fight;

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Go forth to earth's old battle-field;
Strike boldly for the right!

“Rise, cast thy dreamings from thee;
Rise, clothed with vigour new:
This fallen earth is no place for mirth;
Arise, go forth and do!”

A thrill of fervent purpose
Through all his nature ran,
And from that sleep of visions deep
The Boy awoke a Man.

He trod with a steadfast aspect
Through beauty and weal and ill,
And his eyes were lit, and his frame was knit
By the strength of a fixëd will.

And the sun to his strong purpose
Was but the lamp of life;
The abounding earth, in her beauty and mirth,
But the field of the mortal strife.

Where the nations lay cold and torpid,
'Neath ages of wrong and shame,

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With the patience of love the poet toiled
Till life to the stiff limbs came.

In the thick of the ancient battle,
Where the strong bear down the weak,
With the flaming swords of living words,
He fought for the poor and meek.

Wherever were wrongs to be righted,
Or sick to be soothed and upheld;
Or a generous deed lay hidden,
Or a generous purpose quelled;

Or a noble heart lay sinking,
For the want of a cheering word;—
The music of his earnest voice
Above the din was heard;

Till the sneer of scorn was silenced,
And the tongue of envy hushed,
And a tumult of wild, exulting praise
Throughout the nations rushed.

And they hailed him King and Hero,
And hasted his steps to greet;

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And they crowned him with a golden crown,
And bowed beneath his feet.

But yet once more the shadow
Over his soul was thrown,
And he on the height of his human might
Lay desolate and lone;

Till, in his helpless anguish,
His spirit turned on high,
And he called on the God of his childhood
With a loud and bitter cry:

“O God, they call me Hero,
And bow the reverent knee;
But I am not God, nor a godlike man,
That thus they kneel to me.

“They call me Lord and Master;
They call me just and good;
And I cannot stay my failing breath,
Nor do the things I would.

“They cry on me for succour,
But in me is no might to save;

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They hail me as one immortal,
And I sink into the grave.

“Thou—only Thou—art Holy;
With Thee, with Thee, is might;
O stay me with Thy love and strength,
O clothe me with Thy light!”

IV.

It was no spell of slumber
Which came upon him then,
No fitful gleams of a land of dreams
Which burst on his dazzled ken;

But he stood upon the borders
Of the land which we see afar,
Where earth's firmest ground dissolves away,
And men see things as they are.

He saw a young child standing
In a famine-stricken land,

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Intrusted with a bounteous store,
The gifts of a gracious hand.

He saw it scatter its treasures
In idle and thankless waste;
And when from its idlesse startled,
It gave away the rest,

And the grateful people hastened
To garland its guilty head,—
It took the homage as its due,
Then cried like the rest for bread.

And stung with shame and anguish,
He cried, “It is I; it is I;
Father, forgive, forgive my sin!”
And he cried with a bitter cry.

That cry reached the heart of the Father:
Once more he looked on high,
And in the depths of heaven,—
In the calm of the upper sky,—

He saw 'midst the sea of glory,—
A glory surpassing bright,

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One crowned with a Crown of Inheritance,
Clad in unborrowed light.

He saw Him leave the glory,
And lay aside the crown,
And to that land of famine
Come, touched with pity, down;

And gird Himself for service,
And minister to all:
No service was for Him too mean,
No care of love too small.

But men paid Him no homage,
They crowned Him with no crown;
And the dying bed they made for Him
Was not a bed of down.

What more then met his vision
Falls dimly on mortal ears;
The angels were mute with wonder,
And the poet with grateful tears.

The rebel will was broken,
The captive heart was free,—

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“O Lord of all, who servedst all,
Let me Thy servant be!”

He woke: once more he found him
In the home where he played a child;
His mother held his feverish hand,
His sisters wept and smiled.

He loved them more than ever,
With a pure and fervent love;
He loved God's sun and earth and skies,
Though his home lay far above.

His poet's crown lay near him
Fused to a golden cup;
It would carry water for parched lips,
So he thankfully took it up.

He went in the strength of dependence
To tread where his Master trod,
To gather and knit together
The family of God:

Awhile as a heaven-born stranger
To pass through this world of sin,

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With a heart diffusing the balm of peace
From the place of peace within;

With a conscience freed from burdens,
And a heart set free from care,
To minister to every one
Always and everywhere.

No more on the heights of glory
A lonely man he stood;
Around him gathered tenderly
A lowly brotherhood.

They spent their lives for others,
Yet the world knew them not;
It had not known their Master,—
And they sought no higher lot.

But the angels of heaven knew them,
And He knew them Who died and rose;
And the poet knew that the lowest place
Was that which the Highest chose.