 | Ernest |  |
How shallow then
The dreamy Turk, who asked and got that sad
Soul gift of insight, to scan thoro'ly
Each worldling's heart. Alas! that sight once seen
In its fair-seeming whited hideous
Foulness, no kindly man would look again.
Much rather would he tear the memory
From his mind, and fling it back where it belongs
To the soul-sewer, unknown, unregister'd.
But conscience hath no fellow, save itself—
Communes with none beside. God willed it so—
Else could belief ne'er be—for that means love,
And who can love what's hateful? drear were life?
If man with man were conscious: but now Faith
Covers our brethren's sins with seeming worth
For charity to cherish. Ignorance
Most blissful! for our faith in other men
Outwardly working doth reflect from them,
Tho' all unworthy, its radiance on ourselves.
For godliness and kindness as they work
So grow. 'Tis thus Faith leads wandering souls,
Others perhaps, howe'er its own, from the world
To God, with holy life quickens the dead,
Hallows that world itself to Eden, and hearts
From fiend to angel; spreading heaven-like,
O'er earth: for heaven is theirs who live from it.
The dreamy Turk, who asked and got that sad
Soul gift of insight, to scan thoro'ly
Each worldling's heart. Alas! that sight once seen
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Foulness, no kindly man would look again.
Much rather would he tear the memory
From his mind, and fling it back where it belongs
To the soul-sewer, unknown, unregister'd.
But conscience hath no fellow, save itself—
Communes with none beside. God willed it so—
Else could belief ne'er be—for that means love,
And who can love what's hateful? drear were life?
If man with man were conscious: but now Faith
Covers our brethren's sins with seeming worth
For charity to cherish. Ignorance
Most blissful! for our faith in other men
Outwardly working doth reflect from them,
Tho' all unworthy, its radiance on ourselves.
For godliness and kindness as they work
So grow. 'Tis thus Faith leads wandering souls,
Others perhaps, howe'er its own, from the world
To God, with holy life quickens the dead,
Hallows that world itself to Eden, and hearts
From fiend to angel; spreading heaven-like,
O'er earth: for heaven is theirs who live from it.
| Ernest | |