The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

So he forsook the priesthood just in time,
And only just in time; for there had been
Ominous whispers, here and there, about
Doctrine unsound, unsettling, dangerous,
In rural manses, and at cleric meetings;
In smithies too, and where the shuttle clicked,
Sharp wits discussed him, and the ploughman even
Ceased whistling in the furrow, brooding o'er
The thoughts that came to him, and drove his soul
From its old furrow into a fresh soil.

245

Unsettling and alarming! There was peace
While the tea-table gossiped, and the smith
Told his coarse stories to the laughing clowns
(Heard also by the maids that bleached the linen
Upon the green hard by)—peace when the weaver
Talked treason with his thin and blood-less lips,
Starved into revolutionary dreams—
And peace while men grew brutal as the steer
They harnessed to their plough! Then all went well;
There was no danger to alarm the Church!
But thought disturbs the world, and thought of God
Unsettles most of all; for it is life,
And only life can comprehend its force,
Or guide it. 'Tis as lightning in the cloud;
We know not what, or where its bolt may strike,
But fear for the church-steeples, and ourselves,
Nor dream there may be blessing even in it.
Yet there are surely times when there is nought
So needed as unsettling, just to get
Out of old ruts, and seek a nobler life.
Raban forsook the Church, whose service once
Had been his fond ambition. But ere that
There had been meetings of the cardinals
At the headquarters, moved thereto by letters,
Representations, visits, urging them
That something must be done to save the Faith
Which stood in peril from the hand of one
Who should have stayed the ark.

High Cardinals
Bourgeon in all the churches; there red-stockinged,
And crimson-hatted — here in sober black;
Now bald with age, now shaven to look like age
And gravity; and mostly portly men
Of large discourse, and excellent taste in wines.
They cultivate the wisdom of the serpent,
And leave the rest to play the harmless dove,
Fulfilling thus the scripture by division
Of labour, as the modern law requires:—
You do the simple dove, as Christ enjoins,
And I will do the serpent. For the Church,
As a world-kingdom, they are worldly-wise,
Subtle diplomatists, far-seeing schemers
Of crafty policy, yet often men
Who would not sacrifice a dearest friend
For its advantage, sooner than themselves
Would bleed at the same altar; yet alas
They offer sometimes, what is holier still,
That charity which is the Church's life
For the world-kingdom which they call God's Church.

Men of long silence, they will seldom speak
Till they are ready to strike; and so they held
Many a quiet meeting, letting not
A whisper of its purport from their lips,
Only they looked more grave than customary,

246

As they who have grave business on their hands.
In truth, they wist not what they ought to do:
The evil might be great; but then he was
So slight a man, so inconsiderable,
Unbeneficed, unpopular; and to break
A fly upon the wheel was apt to rouse
Unreasonable laughter, and such men
Like not such mirth. And then as to these views—
Who could pin down a shadow to the ground,
And take its measure? Who could try the notes
Of a wild bird by proper rhythmic laws?
Or say if the wind whistled by the gamut?
They understood not what he would be at:
A mystic, vague and unsubstantial, true
To no laws that they knew; but they were sure
That he was vain and foolish, and would melt
Like sugar in the mouth, and be forgot
Save by some sweet-toothed children. Let him be;
Contempt would kill that, like a nipping frost,
Which, grown notorious, might live on a while,
And work some mischief. They were very wise,
The portly cardinals, and yet they knew not
All that the future knew, and how the truth
Works sometimes from without as from within.
Meanwhile, he wist not what they communed of;
None spake to him of trouble in the air,
Of ill reports, of plans to wreck his hopes,
If hope still clung to him; nor any brother
Came in a brother's love to him, and said:
Lo! we will reason it together; then
God will give light perchance, and thou shalt be
Saved from much sorrow, and I shall be blessed.
They looked askance at him; they crossed the road,
And passed on the other side; they lifted up
Their eyes to heaven, and saw him not; or with
Broad, brazen stare they silently wenton.
He noted them, but heeded not, or thought
But how the herd sweep past the stricken deer,
Or how the wild wolves, padding o'er the waste,
Eyeing a wounded comrade, note how soon
The time may come when they shall lap his blood,
Or gnaw his bones. But nothing then he knew
Of their complaints, or of the storm a-brewing;
He only thought that people had not loved
His preaching, and would hear his voice no more;
Else had he stayed it out to fight the fight,
For sound of trumpet and the clash of swords
Roused in him joy of battle, even then
When hope of victory was none in him.
So, wotting not his peril, he forsook
The pulpit where they welcomed him no more—

247

The wandering life that, weekly, pitched its tent
In some fresh home, where children laughed and sang,
And all the hopes that like the ivy grew
Green about old church towers: and sat him down
In a small garret with a new-made pen.
Once they complained his sermons were like books,
Essays original and quaint, which men
Might read in print, and wisely meditate;
And now they said his books did somewhat smack
Of homely preaching, such as long ago
Spoke to the times. He brought a sacred spirit
Unto the secular task, and called on men
To follow lofty aims and noble deeds.
Even when he laughed at fools, his mirth would be
Pitiful, and when he would edge his tool
Sharper to smite the wooden wit o' the time,
Yet was it in some cause of righteousness,
Or large humanity, that might have been
Theme of a prophet mocking at the devil.
And thus he breathed into our common life,
And round about the church, an atmosphere
That changed them both, and loosed their bonds, and wrought
As none might work within the Temple gate;
For oft the Church must learn from those without
Who paste the prophet-broadside on its wall,
Or sing their burden on the busy street.