University of Virginia Library

CORUISKEN SONNETS.

I. Lord, is it Thou?

Lord, is it Thou? God, do I touch indeed
Thy raiment hem, that rolls like vapour dark?
O homeless Spirit, that fleest us in our need,
Pause! answer! while I kneel, remain and mark. . .
Father! . . . Ere back they bear me, cold and stark,
Across Thy darken'd threshold,—ere I plead
For love no longer, pity me, and hark!
Surviving the long tale of craft and creed,
The dumb Hills gather round me, gaunt and gray,—
The Waters utter their monotonous moan,—
The immemorial Heavens, with no groan,
Bend dim eyes down, as on their natal day:
Cold are all these as snow, and still as stone;
But I have found a voice—to plead, to pray.

II. We are Fatherless.

I found Thee not by the starved widow's bed,
Nor in the sick-rooms where my dear ones died;
In Cities vast I hearken'd for Thy tread,
And heard a thousand call Thee, wretched-eyed,
Worn out, and bitter. But the Heavens denied
Their melancholy Maker. From the Dead!
Assurance came, nor answer. Then I fled
Into these wastes, and raised my hands, and cried:
‘The seasons pass—the sky is as a pall—
Thin wasted hands on withering hearts we press—
There is no God—in vain we plead and call,
In vain with weary eyes we search and guess—
Like children in an empty house sit all,
Cast-away children, lorn and fatherless.’

III. We are Children.

Children indeed are we—children that wait
Within a wondrous Dwelling, while on high
Stretch the sad vapours and the voiceless sky;
The House is fair, yet all is desolate
Because our Father comes not; clouds of fate
Sadden above us—shivering we espy
The passing rain, the cloud before the gate,
And cry to one another, ‘He is nigh!’
At early morning, with a shining Face,
He left us innocent and lily-crown'd;
And now 'tis late—night cometh on apace—
We hold each other's hands and look around,
Frighted at our own shades! Heaven send us grace!
When He returns, all will be sleeping sound.

IV. When we are all Asleep.

When He returns, and finds the World so drear—
All sleeping,—young and old, unfair and fair,
Will He stoop down and whisper in each ear,
‘Awaken!’ or for pity's sake forbear,—
Saying, ‘How shall I meet their frozen stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out, “Too late! let us sleep here”?’
Perchance He will not wake us up, but when
He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, ‘Poor dead women and dead men!
Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.
Wherefore awake them unto life again?
Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.’

V. But the Hills will bear Witness.

But ye,—ye Hills that gather round this day,
Ye Mountains, and ye Vapours, and ye Waves,
Ye will attest the wrongs of men of clay,
When, in a World all hush'd, sits on our graves
The melancholy Maker. From your caves
Strange echoes of our old lost life shall come;
With still eyes fixed on your vast architraves,
Nature shall speak, though mortal lips be dumb.
Then God will cry: ‘Sadly the Waters fall,
Sadly the Mountains keep their snowy state,
The Clouds pass on, the Winds and Echoes call,
The World is sweet, yet wearily I wait.
Though all is fair, and I am Lord of all,
Without my Children I am desolate.’

VI. Desolate!

Desolate! How the Peaks of ashen gray,
The smoky Mists that drift from hill to hill,
The Waters dark, anticipate this day
That sullen desolation. Oh, how still
The shadows come and vanish, with no will!
How still the Waters watch the heaven's array!
How still the melancholy vapours stray,
Mirror'd below, and drifting on, fulfil
Thy mandate as they mingle!—Not a sound,
Save that deep murmur of a torrent near,
Deepening silence. Hush! the dark profound
Groans, as some gray crag loosens and falls sheer
To the abyss. Wildly I look around,
O Spirit of the Human, are Thou here?

VII. Lord, art Thou here?

Lord, art Thou here? far from the citied zones,
Brooding in melancholy solitude;
Hushing Thy breath to awful undertones,
Darkening Thy face, if mortal foot intrude.
Father, how shall I meet Thee in this mood?
How shall I ask Thee why Thou dwell'st with stones,
While far away the world, like Lazarus, groans,
Sick for Thy healing. Father, if Thou be'st good,
And wise, and gentle, oh come down come down!
Come like an Angel with a human face,
Pass through the gates into the hungry Town,
Comfort the weary, send the afflicted grace,
Shine brighter on the Graves where we lay down
Our dear ones, cheer them in the narrow place!

VIII. God is Beautiful.

Oh, Thou art beautiful! and Thou dost bestow
Thy beauty on this stillness—still as sheep
The Hills lie under Thee; the Waters deep
Murmur for joy of Thee; the voids below
Mirror Thy strange fair Vapours as they flow;
And now, afar upon the barren height,
Thou sendest down a radiant look of light
So that the still Peaks glisten, and a glow
Rose-colour'd tints the little snowy cloud
That poises on the highest peak of all.
Oh, Thou art beautiful!—the Hills are bowed
Beneath Thee; on Thy name the soft Winds call—
The monstrous Ocean trumpets it aloud,
The Rains and Snows intone it as they fall.

IX. The Motion of the Mists.

Here by the sunless Lake there is no air,
Yet with how ceaseless motion, like a shower
Flowing and fading, do the high Mists lower
Amid the gorges of the Mountains bare.
Some weary breathing never ceases there,—
The barren peaks can feel it hour by hour;
The purple depths are darken'd by its power;
A soundless breath, a trouble all things share
That feel it come and go. See! onward swim
The ghostly Mists, from silent land to land,
From gulf to gulf; now the whole air grows dim—
Like living men, darkling a space, they stand.
But lo! a Sunbeam, like the Cherubim,
Scatters them onward with a flaming brand.

X. Coruisk.

I think this is the very stillest place
On all God's earth, and yet no rest is here.
The Vapours mirror'd in the black loch's face
Drift on like frantic shapes and disappear;
A never-ceasing murmur in mine ear
Tells me of Waters wild that flow and flow.
There is no rest at all afar or near,
Only a sense of things that moan and go.
And lo! the still small life these limbs contain
I feel flows on like those, restless and proud;
Before that breathing nought within my brain
Pauses, but all drifts on like mist and cloud;
Only the bald Peaks and the Stones remain,
Frozen before Thee, desolate and bowed.

XI. But Whither?

And whither, O ye Vapours! do ye wend?
Stirred by that weary breathing, whither away?
And whither, O ye Dreams! that night and day
Drift o'er the troublous life, tremble, and blend
To broken lineaments of that far Friend,
Whose strange breath's come and go ye must obey?
O sleepless Soul! in the world's waste astray,
Whither? and will thy wanderings ever end?
All things that be are full of a quick pain;
Onward we fleet, swift as the running rill,—
The vapours drift, the mists within the brain
Float on obscruingly and have no will.
Only the bare Peaks and the Stones remain;
These only,—and a God sublimely still.

XII. God is Pitiless.

Oh, Thou art pitiless! They call Thee Light,
Law, Justice, Love; but Thou art pitiless.
What thing of earth is precious in Thy sight,
But weary waiting on and soul's distress?
When dost Thou come with glorious hands to bless
The good man that dies cold for lack of Thee?
When bring'st Thou garlands for our happiness?
Whom dost Thou send but Death to set us free?
Blood runs like wine—foul spirits sit and rule—
The weak are crushed in every street and lane—
He who is generous becomes the fool
Of all the world, and gives his life in vain.
Wert Thou as good as Thou art beautiful,
Thou couldst not bear to look upon such pain.

XIII. Yea, Pitiless.

Yea, Thou art pitiless—Thou dost permit
The Priest to use Thee as a hangman's cord—
Thou proppest up the Layman's shallow wit,
Driving the Beggar from the laden board—
Thou art the easy text of those who hoard
Their gifts in secret chests for Death to see.
‘Mighty and strong and glorious is the Lord!’
The Prophet cries, gone mad for lack of Thee!
While good men dying deem Thy grace a dream,
While sick men wail for Thee and mad blaspheme,
A thousand forms of Thee the foolish preach—
Fair stretch Thy temples over all the lands,
In each of these some barbarous Image stands,
And men grow atheists in the shrine of each.

XIV. Could God be Judged.

Can I be calm, beholding everywhere
Disease and Anguish busy, early and late?
Can I be silent, nor compassionate
The evils that both Soul and Body bear?
Oh, what have sickly Children done, to share
Thy cup of sorrows? yet their dull, sad pain
Makes the earth awful;—on the, tomb's dark stair
Moan Idiots, with no glimmer in the brain.
No shrill Priest with his hangman's cord can beat
Thy mercy into these—ah nay, ah nay!
The Angels Thou hast sent to haunt the street
Are Hunger and Distortion and Decay.
Lord! that mad'st Man, and send'st him foes so fleet,
Who shall judge Thee upon Thy judgment-day?

XV. The Hills on their Thrones.

Ghostly and livid, robed with shadow, see!
Each mighty Mountain silent on its throne,
From foot to scalp one stretch of livid stone,
Without one gleam of grass or greenery.
Silent they take the immutable decree—
Darkness or sunlight come,—they do not stir;
Each bare brow lifted desolately free,
Keepeth the silence of a death-chamber.
Silent they watch each other until-doom;
They see each other's phantoms come and go,
Yet stir not. Now the stormy hour brings gloom,
Now all things grow confused and black below,
Specific through the cloudy Drift they loom,
And each accepts his individual woe.

XVI. King Blaabhein.

Monarch of these is Blaabhein. On his height
The lightning and the snow sleep side by side,
Like snake and lamb; he waiteth in a white
And wintry consecration. All his pride
Is husht this dimly-gleaming autumn day—
He broodeth o'er the things he hath beheld—
Beneath his feet the Rains crawl still and gray,
Like phantoms of the mighty men of eld.
A quiet awe the dreadful heights doth fill,
The high clouds pause and brood above their King;
The torrent murmurs gently as a rill;
Softly and low the winds are murmuring;
A small black speck above the snow, how still
Hovers the Eagle, with no stir of wing!

XVII. Blaabhein in the Mists.

Watch but a moment—all is changed! A moan
Breaketh the beauty of that noonday dream;
The hoary Titan darkens on his throne,
And with an indistinct and senile scream
Gazes at the wild Rains as past they stream,
Through vaporous air wild-blowing on his brow;
All black, from scalp to base there is no gleam,
Even his silent snows are faded now.
Watch yet!—and yet!— Behold, and all is done—
'Twas but the shallow shapes that come and go,
Troubling the mimic picture in the eye.
Still and untroubled sits the kingly one.
Yonder the Eagle floats—there sleeps the Snow
Against the pale green of the cloudless sky.

XVIII. The Fiery Birth of the Hills.

O hoary Hills, though ye look aged, ye
Are but the children of a latter time—
Methinks I see ye in that hour sublime
When from the hissing cauldron of the Sea
Ye were upheaven, while so terribly
The Clouds boiled, and the Lightning scorched ye bare.
Wild, new-born, blind, Titans in agony,
Ye glared at heaven through folds of fiery hair! . . .
Then, in an instant, while ye trembled thus
A Hand from heaven, white and luminous,
Pass'd o'er your brows, and husht your fiery breath.
Lo! one by one the still Stars gather'd round,
The great Deep glass'd itself, and with no sound
A cold Snow fell, and all was still as death.

XIX. The Changeless Hills.

All power, all virtue, is repression—ye
Are stationary, and God keeps ye great;
Around your heads the fretful winds play free;
Ye change not—ye are calm and desolate.
What seems to us a trouble and a 'ate
Is but the loose dust streaming from your feet
And drifting onward—early ye sit and late,
While unseen Winds waft past the things that fleet.
So sit for ever, still and passionless
As He that made you!—thought and soul's distress
Ye know not, though ye contemplate the strife;
Better to share the Spirit's bitterest aches—
Better to be the weakest Wave that breaks
On a wild Ocean of tempestuous Life.

XX. O Mountain Peak of a God.

Father, if Thou imperturbable art,
Passive as these, lords of a lonely land—
If, having laboured, Thou must sit apart—
If having once open'd the Void, and planned
This tragedy, Thou must impassive stand
Spectator of the scenic flow of things,
Then I—a drop of dew, a grain of sand—
Pity Thy lot, poor palsied King of Kings.
Better to fail and fail, to shriek and shriek,
Better to break, like any Wave, and go,—
Impotent godhead, let Thy slave be weak!—
Yea, do not freeze my Soul, but let it flow—
Oh, wherefore call to Thee, a mountain Peak
Impassive, beautiful, serene with snow?

XXI. God the Image.

Impassive, beautiful, and desolate,
Is this the Lord my God, whom I entreat?
Powerless to stay the ravages of fate—
Jove with his right hand palsied, Jove effete,
Fetter'd by frost upon a stony seat—
O dreadful apparition! Can this be?
Yonder He looms, where never a heart doth beat,
In the cold ether of theology.
Come down! come down! O Souls that wander there!
Cold are the snows, chill is the dreadful air—
Come down! come down into the Valleys deep;
Leave the wild Image to the stars, that rise
Around about it with affrighted eyes;
Come to green under-glooms, and sink, and sleep.

XXII. The Footprints.

Come to green under-glooms,—and in your hair
Weave nightshade, foxglove red, and rank wolfsbane,
And slumber and forget Him; if in vain
Ye try to slumber off your sorrow there,
Arise once more and openly repair
To busy haunts where men and women sigh,
And if all things but echo back your care,
Cry out aloud, ‘There is no God!’ and die.
But if upon a day when all is dark,
Thou, stooping in the public ways, shalt mark
Strange luminous footprints as of feet that shine—
Follow them! follow them! O soul bereaven!
God had a Son—He hath pass'd that way to heaven:
Follow, and look upon the Face divine!

XXIII. We are Deathless.

Yet hear me, Mountains! echo me, O Sea!
Murmur an answer, Winds, from out your caves;
Cry loudly, Torrents, Mountains, Winds, and Waves—
Hark to my crying all, and echo me—
All things that live are deathless—I and ye.
The Father could not slay us if He would;
The Elements in all their multitude
Will rise against their Master terribly,
If but one hair upon a human head
Should perish! . . . Darkness grows on crag and steep,
A hollow thunder fills the torrent's bed;
The wild Mists moan and threaten as they creep;
And hush! now, when all other cries are fled,
The warning murmur of the white-hair'd Deep.

XXIV. A Voice in the Whirlwind.

I heard a Whirlwind on the mountain peak
Pause for a space its furious flight and cry—
‘There is no Death!’ loudly it seemed to shriek;
‘Nothing that is, beneath the sun, shall die.’
The frail sick Vapours echoed, drifting by—
‘There is no Death, but change early and late;
Powerless were God's right Hand; full arm'd with fate,
To slay the meanest thing beneath the sky.’
Yea, even as tremulous foam-bells on the sea,
Coming and going, are all things of breath;
But evermore, deathless, and bright, and free,
We re-emerge, in spite of Change or Death.
Hearken, O Mountains! Waters, echo me!
O wild Wind, echo what the Man-Wind saith!

XXV. Cry of the Little Brook.

Christ help me! whither would my dark thoughts run,
I look around me, trembling fearfully;
The dreadful silence of the Silent One
Freezes my lips, and all is sad to see.
Hark! hark! what small voice murmurs ‘God made me!’
It is the Brooklet, singing all alone,
Sparkling with pleasure that is all its own,
And running, self-contented, sweet, and free.
O Brooklet, born where never grass is green,
Finding the stony hill and flowing fleet,
Thou comest as a Messenger serene,
With shining wings and silver-sandall'd feet;
Faint falls thy music on a Soul unclean,
And, in a moment, all the World looks sweet!

XXVI. The Happy Hearts of Earth.

Whence thou hast come, thou knowest not, little Brook,
Nor whither thou art bound. Yet wild and gay,
Pleased in thyself, and pleasing all that look,
Thou wendest, all the seasons, on thy way;
The lonely glen grows gladsome with thy play,
Thou glidest lamb-like through the ghostly shade;
To think of solemn things thou wast not made,
But to sing on, for pleasure, night and day.
Such happy hearts are wandering, crystal clear,
In the great world where men and women dwell;
Earth's mighty shows they neither love nor fear,
They are content to be, while I rebel,
Out of their own delight dispensing cheer,
And ever softly whispering, ‘All is well!’

XXVII. Father, forgive Thy Child.

Oh sing, clear Brook, sing on, while in a dream
I feel the sweetness of the years go by!
The crags and peaks are softened now, and seem
Gently to sleep against the gentle sky;
Old scenes and faces glimmer up and die,
With outlines of sweet thought obscured too long;
Like boys that shout at play far voices cry;
Oh sing! for I am weeping at the song.
I know not what I am, but only know
I have had glimpses tongue may never speak;
No more I balance human joy and woe,
But think of my transgressions, and am meek.
Father! forgive the child who fretted so,—
His proud heart yields,—the tears are on his cheek!

XXVIII. God's Loneliness.

When, in my strong affection, I have sought
To play at Providence with men of clay,
How hath my good come constantly to nought,
How hath my light and love been cast away,—
How hath my light been light to lead astray,
How hath my love become of sorry worth,
How feeble hath been all my soul's essay
To aid one single man on all God's earth!
Father in Heaven, when I think these things,
Helpless Thou seemest to redeem our plight—
Thy lamp shines on shut eyes—each Spirit springs
To its own stature still in Thy despite—
While haggard Nature round Thy footstool clings,
Pale, powerless, sitt'st Thou, in a Lonely Light.

XXIX. The Cup of Tears.

My God! my God! with passionate appeal,
Pardon I crave for these mad moods of mine,—
Can I remember, with no heart to feel,
The gift of Thy dear Son, the Man Divine—
My God! what agonies of love were Thine,
Sitting alone, forgotten, on Thy height,
Pale, powerless, awful in that Lonely Light,
While 'neath Thy feet the cloudy hyaline
Rain'd blood upon the darkness,—where Thine Own
Held the black Cup of all earth's tears, and cried!
Ev'n then, tho' Thou wert conscious of his groan,
Pale in that Lonely Light Thou did'st abide,
Nor dared, even then, tho' shaken on Thy throne,
To reach Thy hand and dash the Cup aside.

XXX. The Light of the World.

On the dark waters of man's thought still gleams
Softly and silvernly, from night to night,
That starlight Legend, though its substance seems
Consuming in the melancholy light
It sheddeth. Father, do I see aright?
Is it a truth or most divine of dreams?
That He, Thy Child, walk'd once in raiment white
With mortal men, and mused by Syrian streams?
O Life that puts our noblest life to shame,
Was it a Star, or light to lead astray?
Thought's waves grow husht beneath that silvern flame,
Our hopes pursue it and our doubts obey;
And whether truth or phantom, it became
The sweetest sphere that lights the World's black way.

XXXI. Earth's Eldest Born.

But He, the only One of mortal birth
Who raised the Veil and saw the Face behind,
While yet He wander'd footsore on the earth,
Beheld His Father's Eyes,—that they were kind.
Here in the dark I grope, confused, purblind;
I have not seen the glory and the peace;
But on the darken'd mirror of the mind
Strange glimmers fall, and shake me till they cease—
Then, wondering, dazzled, on Thy name I call,
And, like a child, reach empty hands and moan,
And broken accents from my wild lips fall,
And I implore Thee in this human tone;—
If such as I can follow Him at all
Into Thy presence, 'tis by love alone.

XXXII. What Spirit Cometh?

Who cometh wandering hither in my need?
What gentle Ghost from Heaven cometh now?—
Oh, I am broken to the rod indeed—
Father, my earthly father, is it thou?
The stooping shape with piteous human brow,
The dear quaint gesture, and the feeble pace,
The weary-eyed, world-worn, belovëd face,
Ev'n as they wildly faded, meet me now.
A gentle voice flows softly, saying plain:
‘From death comes light, from pain beatitude;
Chide not at loss, for out of loss comes gain;
Chide not at grief, for 'tis the Soul's best food—
Out of my death-chamber, out of wrong and pain,
Cometh a life and odour. God is good.’

XXXIII. Stay, O Spirit!

Father, my earthly father, stay, oh stay!
I know thou wert a man as others be;
Sore were thy feet upon the World's cold clay,
And thou didst stumble oft, and on thy knee
Knelt little; but thy gentle heart gleamed free
In cloud and shadow, giving its best cheer;
Thou had'st an open hand, and laugh'd for glee
When happy men or creatures dumb played near.
But in thy latter years God's scourge was sore
Upon thee—weary were thy wrongs and dire,—
Yet blessings on thee—until all was o'er,
Cheery thou wert beside a cheerless fire—
Till one red dawn the mark was on the door,
And thou wert dead to all the world's desire.

XXXIV. Quiet Waters.

O Rainbow, Rainbow, on the livid height,
Softening its ashen outlines into dream,
Dewy yet brilliant, delicately bright
As pink wild-roses' leaves, why dost thou gleam
So beckoningly? Whom dost thou invite
Still higher upward on the bitter quest?
What dost thou promise to the weary sight
In that strange region whence thou issuest?
Speakest thou of pensive runlets by whose side
Our dear ones wander sweet and gentle-eyed,
In the soft dawn of some diviner Day?
Art thou a promise? Come those hues and dyes
From heavenly Meads, near which thou dost arise,
Iris'd from Quiet Waters, far away!