 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
THE ANCIENT CROSS
“God at sundry times and in divers
manners spake in time past unto the
fathers.”—Heb. i. I.
There is a long, green spit of land
That juts into a loch; the sea
Not far off thuds upon the sand,
Or crashes where the red rocks be;
But here the peace is very great,
Small brooklets murmur as they list,
And, green with oft-enfolding mist,
The hills stand round in quiet state.
That juts into a loch; the sea
Not far off thuds upon the sand,
Or crashes where the red rocks be;
But here the peace is very great,
Small brooklets murmur as they list,
And, green with oft-enfolding mist,
The hills stand round in quiet state.
The lady-birch, with drooping bough,
Shows graceful by the sturdy pine;
And his red scales more ruddy glow
The more her silver branches shine;
And here and there the rough-kneed oak
Spreads its sharp-dinted glossy leaves
Where the slow fisher, oaring, cleaves
Its shadow with a lazy stroke.
Shows graceful by the sturdy pine;
And his red scales more ruddy glow
The more her silver branches shine;
And here and there the rough-kneed oak
Spreads its sharp-dinted glossy leaves
Where the slow fisher, oaring, cleaves
Its shadow with a lazy stroke.
And on the spit of land a stone,
With lichen tinted and with moss,
Stands on the tufted grass alone,
Its face graven with a simple Cross;
There is no word of pious lore,
Nor wreath, nor ring, nor ornament,
Nor sacred letters nicely blent—
A simple Cross, and nothing more.
With lichen tinted and with moss,
Stands on the tufted grass alone,
Its face graven with a simple Cross;
There is no word of pious lore,
Nor wreath, nor ring, nor ornament,
Nor sacred letters nicely blent—
A simple Cross, and nothing more.
237
Not other is the stone from those
That in the mystic circle stand;
An unhewn slab, and yet it shows
New light risen on a darkling land;
In monumental speech, it tells
The story of the ages gone,
The story of the Pagan stone
New-charmed with sacred Christian spells.
That in the mystic circle stand;
An unhewn slab, and yet it shows
New light risen on a darkling land;
In monumental speech, it tells
The story of the ages gone,
The story of the Pagan stone
New-charmed with sacred Christian spells.
Men had been giving blow for blow,
And wrath for wrath, and tears for tears,
And reaping duly grief and woe
Through the long tale of blood-stained years:
Still, with the summer, long ships steered
Up the calm loch with Norsemen fierce,
Whose gleaming swords were sharp to pierce,
And neither gods nor men they feared.
And wrath for wrath, and tears for tears,
And reaping duly grief and woe
Through the long tale of blood-stained years:
Still, with the summer, long ships steered
Up the calm loch with Norsemen fierce,
Whose gleaming swords were sharp to pierce,
And neither gods nor men they feared.
In vain the coracle was hid
In cove beneath the branching trees;
In vain they practised rites forbid,
Or sought the hills, and shunned the seas;
The Viking came with brass-beaked ship,
And wrath and sorrow came with him,
And many a shining eye grew dim,
And quivered many a smiling lip.
In cove beneath the branching trees;
In vain they practised rites forbid,
Or sought the hills, and shunned the seas;
The Viking came with brass-beaked ship,
And wrath and sorrow came with him,
And many a shining eye grew dim,
And quivered many a smiling lip.
Lo! then there travelled o'er the sea,
From the lone isle where saints were bred,
A peaceful, unarmed company
Who brought good news of God, they said:
They suffered much, yet did not grieve,
They laboured much, and wearied not,
They bore with joy a bitter lot,
And sang their hymn at morn and eve.
From the lone isle where saints were bred,
A peaceful, unarmed company
Who brought good news of God, they said:
They suffered much, yet did not grieve,
They laboured much, and wearied not,
They bore with joy a bitter lot,
And sang their hymn at morn and eve.
They sang about the dim grey seas,
And One that walked upon their wave;
They sang about the streams and trees
In a far land beyond the grave;
And when Norse axe, or wild kern's knife,
Unpitying, smote bare head or breast,
They sweetly sang themselves to rest
With songs about the Crown of Life.
And One that walked upon their wave;
They sang about the streams and trees
In a far land beyond the grave;
And when Norse axe, or wild kern's knife,
Unpitying, smote bare head or breast,
They sweetly sang themselves to rest
With songs about the Crown of Life.
By suffering thus subduing wrath,
They conquered those who vanquished them;
And corn grew on the waste war-path,
And nets dried where the long ships came,
And there was wealth where had been loss,
And ringing bells for clash of swords,
And needing no explaining words,
On the old stone they graved a Cross.
They conquered those who vanquished them;
And corn grew on the waste war-path,
And nets dried where the long ships came,
And there was wealth where had been loss,
And ringing bells for clash of swords,
And needing no explaining words,
On the old stone they graved a Cross.
They conquered; yet for many a day
The fierce old spirit lingered still,
And the hot passion had its sway,
And the old war-gods wrought their will,
And rites of fear and blood were done
Amid the mists, and on the moss;
They had but scratched a shallow Cross
Upon the grim old Pagan stone.
The fierce old spirit lingered still,
And the hot passion had its sway,
And the old war-gods wrought their will,
And rites of fear and blood were done
Amid the mists, and on the moss;
They had but scratched a shallow Cross
Upon the grim old Pagan stone.
Ah me! and still we hardly know
The depth and glory of the Faith
That opens life to man by slow,
Meek suffering, patient unto death;
We still are fain, with wrath and strife,
To seek for gain, to shrink from loss,
Content to scratch our shallow Cross
On the rough surface of old life.
The depth and glory of the Faith
That opens life to man by slow,
Meek suffering, patient unto death;
We still are fain, with wrath and strife,
To seek for gain, to shrink from loss,
Content to scratch our shallow Cross
On the rough surface of old life.
And there it stands, the cross-charmed stone,
On the green spit beyond the trees;
It hears by night the faint sea-moan,
By day the song-bird and the breeze,
And Christian bells, and sounding trains,
And the hard grinding of the wheels;
And now and then a pilgrim kneels,
And tells to it his griefs and pains.
On the green spit beyond the trees;
It hears by night the faint sea-moan,
By day the song-bird and the breeze,
And Christian bells, and sounding trains,
And the hard grinding of the wheels;
And now and then a pilgrim kneels,
And tells to it his griefs and pains.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |