 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
221
THE CONFESSIONAL.
Mordear opprobriis falsis, mutemque colores?
I would not live at outrage with my kind,
Nor mock with moans the flitting mirth of man,
But offer on the altar of my mind
The love that thrilled me when the world began!
I have not struggled with the wave and wind
Vainly, nor sunk beneath the torturer's ban,
And, though the wild storm hath not ceased to roll,
Yet evil passion hath not soiled my soul.
Nor mock with moans the flitting mirth of man,
But offer on the altar of my mind
The love that thrilled me when the world began!
I have not struggled with the wave and wind
Vainly, nor sunk beneath the torturer's ban,
And, though the wild storm hath not ceased to roll,
Yet evil passion hath not soiled my soul.
The warlock power of midnight watching thought,
That dwells with spirits as it were their mate,
Abides, bold prophet, by the shrine it wrought,
O'erlooks pale envy and transfixes hate:
And courage, daring wrong, that feareth nought,
So guilt awake no fear of future fate,
Yet waves its banner o'er the trampled field
Where, 'mid a host, one stood and scorned to yield.
That dwells with spirits as it were their mate,
Abides, bold prophet, by the shrine it wrought,
O'erlooks pale envy and transfixes hate:
And courage, daring wrong, that feareth nought,
So guilt awake no fear of future fate,
Yet waves its banner o'er the trampled field
Where, 'mid a host, one stood and scorned to yield.
Still and deep orisons in my loneliness,
Thanks that God gave what men could not destroy,
Have oft ascended up, nor could I less,
To Him, who guards the widow's friendless boy;
And, in such fervencies, I e'en could bless
The ministers of wrath who taught me joy
In the unseen communion with my God,
Who, than mine own, a darker pathway trod.
Thanks that God gave what men could not destroy,
Have oft ascended up, nor could I less,
To Him, who guards the widow's friendless boy;
And, in such fervencies, I e'en could bless
The ministers of wrath who taught me joy
In the unseen communion with my God,
Who, than mine own, a darker pathway trod.
And shall I then, in mock'd prostration, crave
Mercy from merciless—from demons grace?
Time roams a desert, but it hath a wave
Well'd from a fount unseen by human face.
Earth hath not yet nor stained man made a slave
Of one whose soul exults to own his race,
And to my foes I shall not render now
The last pale light that wavers round my brow.
Mercy from merciless—from demons grace?
Time roams a desert, but it hath a wave
Well'd from a fount unseen by human face.
Earth hath not yet nor stained man made a slave
Of one whose soul exults to own his race,
And to my foes I shall not render now
The last pale light that wavers round my brow.
222
The solitary mountain when young Light
Came forth to drink the diamond dew of spring;
The voiceless vale, where in still grandeur, Night
Furled, like a thron'd archangel, her vast wing:
The fluctuating wood; the sea in might
And majesty matchless; each, all could bring
O'er me, from earliest hours, the Almighty Form
That grasps Eternities and stills the storm.
Came forth to drink the diamond dew of spring;
The voiceless vale, where in still grandeur, Night
Furled, like a thron'd archangel, her vast wing:
The fluctuating wood; the sea in might
And majesty matchless; each, all could bring
O'er me, from earliest hours, the Almighty Form
That grasps Eternities and stills the storm.
And when upon the cataract's quivering verge
Alone, remote, in silence I have stood,
Shook by the roar, bewildered by the surge,
Yet seeking wisdom from the maddened flood;
Oft have I deemed, thus whirlwind passions urge
Their victims o'er the precipice of blood—
Thus, like these waves, hath hate relentless passed
O'er me—yet I and these bold rocks stand fast.
Alone, remote, in silence I have stood,
Shook by the roar, bewildered by the surge,
Yet seeking wisdom from the maddened flood;
Oft have I deemed, thus whirlwind passions urge
Their victims o'er the precipice of blood—
Thus, like these waves, hath hate relentless passed
O'er me—yet I and these bold rocks stand fast.
Stand fast in conscious virtue of design,
Though worn and darkened by the wave and cloud,
In injury, thrice blest it is not mine,
In much love, happier than the world's vain crowd;
A hearth and home, though humble, and a shrine
Of hearts exalted, not exulting loud,
I have not failed to find in spite of scorn—
And thus I'm blest in all that I have borne.
Though worn and darkened by the wave and cloud,
In injury, thrice blest it is not mine,
In much love, happier than the world's vain crowd;
A hearth and home, though humble, and a shrine
Of hearts exalted, not exulting loud,
I have not failed to find in spite of scorn—
And thus I'm blest in all that I have borne.
As, to the giant minds of ages old,
All hopes, fears, holies thronged around the throne
Of Jove, the Olympian Thunderer, so unfold
The sanctities of nature when alone
I read the volume to my eye unrolled,
And catch the music of her gentle tone,
As she instructs me to forgive—and learn
Wisdom from dial, horoscope, and urn.
All hopes, fears, holies thronged around the throne
Of Jove, the Olympian Thunderer, so unfold
The sanctities of nature when alone
I read the volume to my eye unrolled,
And catch the music of her gentle tone,
As she instructs me to forgive—and learn
Wisdom from dial, horoscope, and urn.
Never to court the gladiator's wreath,
Nor crave the inconstant worship of the throng,
Nor seek the fame which hangs on human breath,
Nor stain my spirit by a conscious wrong;
Thus I commune with destiny and death,
And pour their spirit o'er my secret song,
Till earth's poor vanities and men's weak praise
Guide not, nor govern my devoted days.
Nor crave the inconstant worship of the throng,
Nor seek the fame which hangs on human breath,
Nor stain my spirit by a conscious wrong;
223
And pour their spirit o'er my secret song,
Till earth's poor vanities and men's weak praise
Guide not, nor govern my devoted days.
Thus hallowed sympathies with every charm
Of beauty, virtue, knowledge thrill within
The fount of immortality, and arm
The fortitude that faints 'mid human sin;
Thus hopes, that fill us with affections warm,
From every ill delicious pleasures win,
And float like seraphs, o'er the world, to bring
From paradise to earth eternal spring.
Of beauty, virtue, knowledge thrill within
The fount of immortality, and arm
The fortitude that faints 'mid human sin;
Thus hopes, that fill us with affections warm,
From every ill delicious pleasures win,
And float like seraphs, o'er the world, to bring
From paradise to earth eternal spring.
From summer greenness bliss, from every flower,
That gems the wood and wold, thought gushes forth,
And every breeze, that wafts the parting hour,
Should breathe our blessings o'er the lovely earth:
All are not evil, though the common dower
Be vanity and darkness and cold dearth;
With the tried chosen, truth, love, honour dwell,
That on them from ascending martyrs fell.
That gems the wood and wold, thought gushes forth,
And every breeze, that wafts the parting hour,
Should breathe our blessings o'er the lovely earth:
All are not evil, though the common dower
Be vanity and darkness and cold dearth;
With the tried chosen, truth, love, honour dwell,
That on them from ascending martyrs fell.
Pure mid corruption and in weakness strong,
True with the treacherous, with the changeling firm,
They soothe the trembler, hush remembered wrong,
And charm the gnawings of the poison-worm;
Blest in high duty that endureth long,
E'en their deep sufferings bless through life's brief term,
Exalt and purify the troubled heart,
And then like rainbows in blue heaven depart.
True with the treacherous, with the changeling firm,
They soothe the trembler, hush remembered wrong,
And charm the gnawings of the poison-worm;
Blest in high duty that endureth long,
E'en their deep sufferings bless through life's brief term,
Exalt and purify the troubled heart,
And then like rainbows in blue heaven depart.
Then, though my fortune hath been cast mid thorns,
And persecution hath assailed me sore,
With rapture still and radiant as the morn's,
I walk beside ye on this mortal shore,
Pilgrims! whose presence hallows while it warns,
As on to heaven ye tend, like saints of yore.
Ethereal gleams of Good yet flame abroad,
And light our pathway to the throne of God.
And persecution hath assailed me sore,
With rapture still and radiant as the morn's,
I walk beside ye on this mortal shore,
Pilgrims! whose presence hallows while it warns,
As on to heaven ye tend, like saints of yore.
Ethereal gleams of Good yet flame abroad,
And light our pathway to the throne of God.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |