My Old Letters By Horatius Bonar ... Second Edition |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | BOOK IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
 | My Old Letters |  |
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BOOK IV.
‘You say I went to dig for gold, and found
But silver, or perhaps the viler clay.
No; I set forth a poor man, and returned
A poorer, as men reckon poverty.
But in that land of strangers I have found
The wealth I had not thought of going for;
And I am rich in the eternal gold.’
So runs the letter that lies open now.
But silver, or perhaps the viler clay.
No; I set forth a poor man, and returned
A poorer, as men reckon poverty.
But in that land of strangers I have found
The wealth I had not thought of going for;
And I am rich in the eternal gold.’
So runs the letter that lies open now.
‘The mist had fallen upon the August moor;
Long miles of ruddy heath that spread around
Had disappeared. The diamond arch of heaven
Seemed all dissolved in vapour; the bold hills
Melted away; the forest and the stream
Became invisible; only the sound
Of the not distant waterfall, or wind
Struggling among the trees, reminded me
There was a world without, altho' I could
No longer see it. Scarce an hour had passed,
When the dull mist began to raise its wreaths,
And the old world stood out again, all fair.
Long miles of ruddy heath that spread around
Had disappeared. The diamond arch of heaven
Seemed all dissolved in vapour; the bold hills
Melted away; the forest and the stream
Became invisible; only the sound
Of the not distant waterfall, or wind
Struggling among the trees, reminded me
There was a world without, altho' I could
No longer see it. Scarce an hour had passed,
When the dull mist began to raise its wreaths,
And the old world stood out again, all fair.
‘So was it with me once, when, girt with mist,
I knew no world but the few feet of earth
On which I trod, and which ere long would be
My grave. But now the vapour has arisen,
And the new world which has come out in beauty
Has made me rich, for I am heir of all.
I knew no world but the few feet of earth
On which I trod, and which ere long would be
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And the new world which has come out in beauty
Has made me rich, for I am heir of all.
‘Men said to me, Your life is but an hour;
Go and enjoy it while you may; 'tis poor
And brief. They said to me, You are yourself
A mist, a shadow; go and dig for gold,
And with that gold buy pleasure while you may.
I went, and found not that which I had gone
To seek. I went, and found what I had not
Been seeking: mines of gold and rocks of gems,
Tho' not of earth, beyond the hills of time.
That which had once appeared to me so full
Was empty now; and that which once seemed void
Was full. The beautiful had come at last,
And it was mine for ever. Men may say,
We are but vapours, and our life a cloud;
We are but dreamers, and our life a dream:
The deep dumb future, into whose abyss
We drop when our last sigh is sighed, is nought
But the dark dissolution of the mist
Which had made up our poor existence here.
Not such am I, however poor my life;
Not such, by Him who made me, was I meant
To be. My being is no vapour-drift,
That rises, spreads, and then evanishes
In air. My future is not nothingness,
Nor dead oblivion; all my past yet liveth,
And shall live evermore, refined from dross,
And purged from the sad evil that has stained it.
I cannot wholly part with the bright love,
The scenes of beauty, sights and sounds of joy,
That made it what it was, a heritage
Peculiarly my own, the mystic fount
And parent of my vast eternity.
When I have reached the resting-place beyond
(Cloudland and wonderland all wandered thro',
Filled with the untrue and the true, the hues
Of unsubstantial and substantial sunshine
Still brightening or mellowing the long
Dim vistas of my threescore years and ten),
And stand upon the stable hills above,
I shall look back upon my winding way,
Upon the heights and depths of all my being,
Seeking to gather from the wreck or drift
Gems for eternity; for all things here
Have treasures hid in them which cannot perish,
And which shall one day be restored to us.
Be it our life is but a mist, a cloud,
Or fragment of a cloud, yet still 'tis such
As hides a never-setting star behind,
Which will shine forth when all the cloud is gone.
Go and enjoy it while you may; 'tis poor
And brief. They said to me, You are yourself
A mist, a shadow; go and dig for gold,
And with that gold buy pleasure while you may.
I went, and found not that which I had gone
To seek. I went, and found what I had not
Been seeking: mines of gold and rocks of gems,
Tho' not of earth, beyond the hills of time.
That which had once appeared to me so full
Was empty now; and that which once seemed void
Was full. The beautiful had come at last,
And it was mine for ever. Men may say,
We are but vapours, and our life a cloud;
We are but dreamers, and our life a dream:
The deep dumb future, into whose abyss
We drop when our last sigh is sighed, is nought
But the dark dissolution of the mist
Which had made up our poor existence here.
Not such am I, however poor my life;
Not such, by Him who made me, was I meant
To be. My being is no vapour-drift,
That rises, spreads, and then evanishes
In air. My future is not nothingness,
Nor dead oblivion; all my past yet liveth,
And shall live evermore, refined from dross,
And purged from the sad evil that has stained it.
I cannot wholly part with the bright love,
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That made it what it was, a heritage
Peculiarly my own, the mystic fount
And parent of my vast eternity.
When I have reached the resting-place beyond
(Cloudland and wonderland all wandered thro',
Filled with the untrue and the true, the hues
Of unsubstantial and substantial sunshine
Still brightening or mellowing the long
Dim vistas of my threescore years and ten),
And stand upon the stable hills above,
I shall look back upon my winding way,
Upon the heights and depths of all my being,
Seeking to gather from the wreck or drift
Gems for eternity; for all things here
Have treasures hid in them which cannot perish,
And which shall one day be restored to us.
Be it our life is but a mist, a cloud,
Or fragment of a cloud, yet still 'tis such
As hides a never-setting star behind,
Which will shine forth when all the cloud is gone.
‘O wondrous air above me and around!
Thou upper sea, at whose deep bottom lies
This buried earth with all thy shipwrecked stores!
They speak of ocean paved with silent gems,
Ages of treasure, gold and silver, dropt
Into its depths by those who sail the seas,
And over which the cold and covetous wave
Rolls to and fro, hugging its guarded wealth.
But when I think upon the myriad gems
Of mild or mighty song that since the youth
Of Time have poured into thy deeper depths
From lip or lyre, O all-containing air,
With thy transparent girdle compassing
This globe, I ask amazed, What has become
Of the far more than pearls cast into thee,—
The treasures of ten thousand melodies,
Ruffling or soothing thy wide-wandering waves
Hour after hour? Say, whither have they gone?
Drift they like derelicts, or have they sunk
For ever, or perhaps sweetly dissolved,
Like Cleopatra's gem? Say, is there not
Some dauntless diver that can cunningly
Descend into thy gloom and gather up
That wealth of melody, more precious far
Than pearls of Taprobanè, or the gold
Dark hidden in the unsearched mines afar?
Thou upper sea, at whose deep bottom lies
This buried earth with all thy shipwrecked stores!
They speak of ocean paved with silent gems,
Ages of treasure, gold and silver, dropt
Into its depths by those who sail the seas,
And over which the cold and covetous wave
Rolls to and fro, hugging its guarded wealth.
But when I think upon the myriad gems
Of mild or mighty song that since the youth
85
From lip or lyre, O all-containing air,
With thy transparent girdle compassing
This globe, I ask amazed, What has become
Of the far more than pearls cast into thee,—
The treasures of ten thousand melodies,
Ruffling or soothing thy wide-wandering waves
Hour after hour? Say, whither have they gone?
Drift they like derelicts, or have they sunk
For ever, or perhaps sweetly dissolved,
Like Cleopatra's gem? Say, is there not
Some dauntless diver that can cunningly
Descend into thy gloom and gather up
That wealth of melody, more precious far
Than pearls of Taprobanè, or the gold
Dark hidden in the unsearched mines afar?
‘Of all that real which is or is to be,
Which makes this life of mine no cloud nor dream,
I am not master; it o'ermasters me.
I mould it, and it mouldeth me; I live
In it, and in me does it also live;
It is a part of me, and I of it,
And in the midst of that invisible force
Which it contains, how helpless I; but still
It is not fate, 'tis living law and power
Which compass me around and make my life
Most free, and yet controlled by life as free
Without me and above me every hour.
What this strange being's depths contain I know not;
Each day's events and words dissolve in it
Like music in the air, and pass away;
And what of these may yet be gathered up
Like squandered gold, we cannot here foretell:
All true things of the past shall rise again.
Which makes this life of mine no cloud nor dream,
I am not master; it o'ermasters me.
I mould it, and it mouldeth me; I live
In it, and in me does it also live;
It is a part of me, and I of it,
And in the midst of that invisible force
Which it contains, how helpless I; but still
It is not fate, 'tis living law and power
Which compass me around and make my life
Most free, and yet controlled by life as free
Without me and above me every hour.
What this strange being's depths contain I know not;
Each day's events and words dissolve in it
Like music in the air, and pass away;
86
Like squandered gold, we cannot here foretell:
All true things of the past shall rise again.
‘Men hate the definite belief, because
It binds; but binding is not bondage. See
How free yon planets sweep and shine and wheel
Hither and thither in their May-day dance!
See how yon free winds sport, yon rivers flow,
Each in its sphere the freest of the free!
Yet law is on them, and their freedom springs
From their acceptance of majestic law,
Which binds to liberate; for law is but
The divine outcome of the true and perfect.
Men scorn submission to another, yet
Somewhere there must be mastership, a will
Bearing on other wills, a helmsman steering
The helpless sail thro' the enslaving breeze,
And giving freedom to the barque he steers;
All order else and progress cannot be.
Obedience, said the ancient Greek, of blessing
Is the great mother; I must hourly watch
My self-will, which like a rebellious demon
Lurks deep within me, ready to spring forth,
And break up order, ruining my peace;
Nor mine alone, but that of all around.
Of pride-begotten strife, the history
Of this disordered earth is sadly full.
There is a virtue in obedience,
Obedience pure and simple, like to that
Which angels yield; yet man repudiates
The joy of meekness and the calm of order,
Too proud to be dependent, and forgetting
That to obey is more than sacrifice.
It binds; but binding is not bondage. See
How free yon planets sweep and shine and wheel
Hither and thither in their May-day dance!
See how yon free winds sport, yon rivers flow,
Each in its sphere the freest of the free!
Yet law is on them, and their freedom springs
From their acceptance of majestic law,
Which binds to liberate; for law is but
The divine outcome of the true and perfect.
Men scorn submission to another, yet
Somewhere there must be mastership, a will
Bearing on other wills, a helmsman steering
The helpless sail thro' the enslaving breeze,
And giving freedom to the barque he steers;
All order else and progress cannot be.
Obedience, said the ancient Greek, of blessing
Is the great mother; I must hourly watch
My self-will, which like a rebellious demon
Lurks deep within me, ready to spring forth,
And break up order, ruining my peace;
Nor mine alone, but that of all around.
Of pride-begotten strife, the history
Of this disordered earth is sadly full.
There is a virtue in obedience,
Obedience pure and simple, like to that
Which angels yield; yet man repudiates
The joy of meekness and the calm of order,
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That to obey is more than sacrifice.
‘The pilot is the servant of the gale,
And not the master. Nature's passive power,
Or active but unconscious energy,
Defies the human will; man must ally
Himself with matter to subdue or mould it,
And, yoking to his chariot-pole the strength
Of fire, o'erpower the all-resisting force
Which hems him in on every side, and makes
Him feel the helplessness of will, as now,
Like a maimed eagle, it attempts to soar,
But cannot, for its hour is not yet come.
Will yon bright sea-bird with the crescent wing
Drop down upon the wave when I command it?
Its will obeys not mine, nor owneth yet
A sway which one day will belong to man.
Will yon slow cloud dissolve itself in sunshine,
Or will that sunshine linger, when I bid it?
Will July come in haste because I call,
Or will its dying roses bloom again
Because I say, O roses, wither not?
Will midnight melt away and morn come up,
Because I throw my window wide and say,
O dayspring, dawn, and bring with thee the scent
Of happy flowers, the song of happier birds?
Will these twin-stars, that faintly gleam above me
As sisters' faces, like and yet unlike,
Draw near to me, that I may see and touch
Their silver crests, because I bid them come?
Will death ungrasp his hard-locked treasure, when
I shout in his deaf ear and say, Restore
My stolen gold, and give me back my gems?
Will the turf pity me, when one by one
Recounting all my blanks, and pointing round
To the thinned circle of my once full hearth,
I plead to see the blue, blue eyes again,
And drink the softness of the tender breath,
Sweeter than sweetness, that breathed on me once,
When lip met lip, in pure and soft delight,
As morning rose or as the evening fell?
And not the master. Nature's passive power,
Or active but unconscious energy,
Defies the human will; man must ally
Himself with matter to subdue or mould it,
And, yoking to his chariot-pole the strength
Of fire, o'erpower the all-resisting force
Which hems him in on every side, and makes
Him feel the helplessness of will, as now,
Like a maimed eagle, it attempts to soar,
But cannot, for its hour is not yet come.
Will yon bright sea-bird with the crescent wing
Drop down upon the wave when I command it?
Its will obeys not mine, nor owneth yet
A sway which one day will belong to man.
Will yon slow cloud dissolve itself in sunshine,
Or will that sunshine linger, when I bid it?
Will July come in haste because I call,
Or will its dying roses bloom again
Because I say, O roses, wither not?
Will midnight melt away and morn come up,
Because I throw my window wide and say,
O dayspring, dawn, and bring with thee the scent
Of happy flowers, the song of happier birds?
Will these twin-stars, that faintly gleam above me
As sisters' faces, like and yet unlike,
Draw near to me, that I may see and touch
Their silver crests, because I bid them come?
Will death ungrasp his hard-locked treasure, when
88
My stolen gold, and give me back my gems?
Will the turf pity me, when one by one
Recounting all my blanks, and pointing round
To the thinned circle of my once full hearth,
I plead to see the blue, blue eyes again,
And drink the softness of the tender breath,
Sweeter than sweetness, that breathed on me once,
When lip met lip, in pure and soft delight,
As morning rose or as the evening fell?
‘In a calm dream, one mellow August morn,
Methought that suddenly I came upon
An old and long-neglected garden, once
Rich with the radiance of a thousand flowers,
Now desolate and hoary; all its walks
And well-divided borders still the same;
Tall cypresses its girdle, and within,
Each odorous shrub that flourishes apace
In green old age, when the blithe-beaming flowers,
Which with their delicate purple wooed the dew,
Have all long since died down, and left behind
This waste of withered leaves on which I walk,—
This wilderness of melancholy fragrance.
Here the blue lavender shoots up its stalk,
And there the thyme its tiny blossoms spreads;
The aged box-tree and the sable yew,
With branches lopped into a shady bower,
In which there was the broken seat where once
The children gathered when the noon was hot,
And played or prattled or wove daisy-wreaths.
The ivy, too, was clustering on the wall,
And the old nests were in its tangles still,
Filled with sere leaflets, but the nestlings fled.
Some fragments, too, of boyhood's broken toys
Were strewed upon the unmown grass, or lay
Upon the moss-grown walks, their owners gone.
The scene was sadness, the remembrance sweet.
I stood and gazed, and wished that by a word
I could bring back the days and forms and faces
Linked with the dreamy scene! I would have said,
“Come back, ye lost ones, and re-people this
Your place of mirth and love, and let all be
As it was then when I was one of you!”
But what were words or wishes? That fair past
Lies far behind me; and the power that might
Take me to it or bring it back to me
Is not in angel or in man. In fancy
I can be there again, and light up all
With recollections which bring only tears.
But the bright joy, the laughter and the song,
The busy feet, the lips of love, the eyes
From which time's future was shut out, to which
Life was one long glad present and no more,—
I have no power to make them what they are not,
No spell to bring the dreams of fancy true.
Methought that suddenly I came upon
An old and long-neglected garden, once
Rich with the radiance of a thousand flowers,
Now desolate and hoary; all its walks
And well-divided borders still the same;
Tall cypresses its girdle, and within,
Each odorous shrub that flourishes apace
In green old age, when the blithe-beaming flowers,
Which with their delicate purple wooed the dew,
Have all long since died down, and left behind
This waste of withered leaves on which I walk,—
This wilderness of melancholy fragrance.
Here the blue lavender shoots up its stalk,
And there the thyme its tiny blossoms spreads;
The aged box-tree and the sable yew,
With branches lopped into a shady bower,
In which there was the broken seat where once
The children gathered when the noon was hot,
And played or prattled or wove daisy-wreaths.
The ivy, too, was clustering on the wall,
89
Filled with sere leaflets, but the nestlings fled.
Some fragments, too, of boyhood's broken toys
Were strewed upon the unmown grass, or lay
Upon the moss-grown walks, their owners gone.
The scene was sadness, the remembrance sweet.
I stood and gazed, and wished that by a word
I could bring back the days and forms and faces
Linked with the dreamy scene! I would have said,
“Come back, ye lost ones, and re-people this
Your place of mirth and love, and let all be
As it was then when I was one of you!”
But what were words or wishes? That fair past
Lies far behind me; and the power that might
Take me to it or bring it back to me
Is not in angel or in man. In fancy
I can be there again, and light up all
With recollections which bring only tears.
But the bright joy, the laughter and the song,
The busy feet, the lips of love, the eyes
From which time's future was shut out, to which
Life was one long glad present and no more,—
I have no power to make them what they are not,
No spell to bring the dreams of fancy true.
‘Life goes and comes not; so I thought and said.
Joy ebbs, but flows not; how shall I secure
The joy that never ebbs, the life that ne'er
Departs, abiding like the constant sky
Or everlasting hills? I must be filled
Out of a fountain which is always full;
So shall my life be life indeed, my joy
Be deep and tideless. Poor, I knit myself
To the eternal treasure; weak, I bind myself
To the eternal strength; imperfect, I
Put on divine perfection; steeped in evil,
I clasp the eternal goodness; sad and empty,
I claim the fulness and the joy which from
The heaven of heavens have visited this earth,
That men might be as God, and earth as heaven.
Joy ebbs, but flows not; how shall I secure
The joy that never ebbs, the life that ne'er
Departs, abiding like the constant sky
Or everlasting hills? I must be filled
Out of a fountain which is always full;
So shall my life be life indeed, my joy
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To the eternal treasure; weak, I bind myself
To the eternal strength; imperfect, I
Put on divine perfection; steeped in evil,
I clasp the eternal goodness; sad and empty,
I claim the fulness and the joy which from
The heaven of heavens have visited this earth,
That men might be as God, and earth as heaven.
‘I seemed to see, on one hand and the other,
The double infinite, far spread and dim,
The two eternities of time and space,—
So like each other, yet so diverse too;
So simple, and yet so inscrutable.
I but a speck between them, yet as great,
Nay, greater sure than both of them; to me
Their vastness does belong; and I must know
What all that vastness is to be to me,—
Riches or want, the famine or the feast?
Is it to be a living on and on,
As I do now, in weakness and in change,—
Perpetual climbing of these splintered hills,
And yet no summit reached, no resting-place,
When time's rough work is done, and the tall shadows
Tell of the setting of life's latest sun?
Perpetual drifting thro' these sullen seas,
Without an anchorage or haven in view?
The always seeking and the never finding;
The daily strife with evil and with pain;
The hope, the failure, and the broken heart?
The double infinite, far spread and dim,
The two eternities of time and space,—
So like each other, yet so diverse too;
So simple, and yet so inscrutable.
I but a speck between them, yet as great,
Nay, greater sure than both of them; to me
Their vastness does belong; and I must know
What all that vastness is to be to me,—
Riches or want, the famine or the feast?
Is it to be a living on and on,
As I do now, in weakness and in change,—
Perpetual climbing of these splintered hills,
And yet no summit reached, no resting-place,
When time's rough work is done, and the tall shadows
Tell of the setting of life's latest sun?
Perpetual drifting thro' these sullen seas,
Without an anchorage or haven in view?
The always seeking and the never finding;
The daily strife with evil and with pain;
The hope, the failure, and the broken heart?
‘So did I muse, still groping wearily,
Till through the mist the true sweet morning broke;
Soft light from a new sun beyond these hills
Stole down upon me, and the darkness fled.
Beneath the wing of Him to whom alone
These infinites belong with all their treasures,
I found myself;—and all these riches mine.
Till through the mist the true sweet morning broke;
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Stole down upon me, and the darkness fled.
Beneath the wing of Him to whom alone
These infinites belong with all their treasures,
I found myself;—and all these riches mine.
‘For weakness is the heritage of man;
He is, and is not. Tho' he fain would be
King of an empire that he cannot rule,
Lord of a heritage no part of which
Will do him homage or obey his will.
The outgrowth of his best-thought plans is not
What he had purposed; 'tis the indirect,
The unpurposed issues of each change or motion
That are the mightiest and the most enduring.
The helm remonstrates with the pilot, thwarts
The wisest steerage; thus man's master-strokes
Are oft his follies,—in the dark he moves,
Even when he seems the most to move in light.
He is, and is not. Tho' he fain would be
King of an empire that he cannot rule,
Lord of a heritage no part of which
Will do him homage or obey his will.
The outgrowth of his best-thought plans is not
What he had purposed; 'tis the indirect,
The unpurposed issues of each change or motion
That are the mightiest and the most enduring.
The helm remonstrates with the pilot, thwarts
The wisest steerage; thus man's master-strokes
Are oft his follies,—in the dark he moves,
Even when he seems the most to move in light.
‘There once upon the earth was One by whom
Great things were done: it seemed as if His hand
Were framed to wield the sceptre of the world,
And stay the anarchy which long had made
This earth a waste. He bade the breeze be still,
And it was calm; he seized the robber Death
When on his way to hide his spoil, where Nain
Looks out on Esdraëlon's plain, and up
Old Nazareth's brown hills, and with a word
Compelled him to give back the widow's treasure;
He plucked the demon from the tortured soul
Of him who wandered 'mid Gadara's tombs;
He poured His light into the darkened eye,
And sounds, before unheard, into the ear;
He smoothed the writhing wave, and bade the storm
Lie down in peace; He touched the burning hand
Of fever, and the blood once more ran cool;
He went in weakness to the Roman cross,
And from the tree of blood where He was nailed
Returned to Paradise, and took with Him
The robber at His side; into the home
Of death He calmly entered, and came forth
In triumph,—every foe beneath His feet.
Great things were done: it seemed as if His hand
Were framed to wield the sceptre of the world,
And stay the anarchy which long had made
This earth a waste. He bade the breeze be still,
And it was calm; he seized the robber Death
When on his way to hide his spoil, where Nain
Looks out on Esdraëlon's plain, and up
Old Nazareth's brown hills, and with a word
Compelled him to give back the widow's treasure;
He plucked the demon from the tortured soul
Of him who wandered 'mid Gadara's tombs;
He poured His light into the darkened eye,
92
He smoothed the writhing wave, and bade the storm
Lie down in peace; He touched the burning hand
Of fever, and the blood once more ran cool;
He went in weakness to the Roman cross,
And from the tree of blood where He was nailed
Returned to Paradise, and took with Him
The robber at His side; into the home
Of death He calmly entered, and came forth
In triumph,—every foe beneath His feet.
‘His will was all-constraining law; His look,
Like light, was silent power; His words contained
Divine omnipotence. But man's poor will,
Even at its strongest, what is it on earth?
What can his words effect? Come, let me try.
Silence, hoarse ocean! Let me muse in peace,
Unruffled by the stormy dissonance,
The jar of battling billows round this rock;
Silence, dark ocean! once again I say.
It hears not, and my passionate words are vain;
My will, my power, my reason profit nought
'Gainst that which has no reason, power, nor will.
I cannot calm one wave, nor speak to rest
One ripple yonder or one eddy here.
I have no power o'er sea or slenderer air,
Save when I set them one against the other;
Then I divide and conquer; without that,
I am as helpless as a new-born child.
Yet I have soul, and these are soulless all:
Dead nature mocks the living. “Peace, be still!”
From man is but a breath. That breeze which goes
We know not whither, and which came to us
We know not whence, is stronger than the strong.
Man speaks in vain. He is, and yet he is not
Monarch of nature. There is still behind,
Innate, invisible, and uncontrolled,
A something mightier than a human will,
A something farther down or higher up
Than man or chance or nature's ancient forms.
The laws of restoration or of ruin,
Of living and of dying, are too simple,
Yet too imperious and inexorable,
Too self-executive and too resistless,
To have come forth from earthly parliament;
Untainted with the feebleness of man,
They each go out to do the work of God,
And with authority to speak His will;
For deep within the being of those things
Which we call laws there is contained a power,
A living power, that shows all Godhead near.
Like light, was silent power; His words contained
Divine omnipotence. But man's poor will,
Even at its strongest, what is it on earth?
What can his words effect? Come, let me try.
Silence, hoarse ocean! Let me muse in peace,
Unruffled by the stormy dissonance,
The jar of battling billows round this rock;
Silence, dark ocean! once again I say.
It hears not, and my passionate words are vain;
My will, my power, my reason profit nought
'Gainst that which has no reason, power, nor will.
I cannot calm one wave, nor speak to rest
One ripple yonder or one eddy here.
I have no power o'er sea or slenderer air,
Save when I set them one against the other;
Then I divide and conquer; without that,
I am as helpless as a new-born child.
Yet I have soul, and these are soulless all:
Dead nature mocks the living. “Peace, be still!”
From man is but a breath. That breeze which goes
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We know not whence, is stronger than the strong.
Man speaks in vain. He is, and yet he is not
Monarch of nature. There is still behind,
Innate, invisible, and uncontrolled,
A something mightier than a human will,
A something farther down or higher up
Than man or chance or nature's ancient forms.
The laws of restoration or of ruin,
Of living and of dying, are too simple,
Yet too imperious and inexorable,
Too self-executive and too resistless,
To have come forth from earthly parliament;
Untainted with the feebleness of man,
They each go out to do the work of God,
And with authority to speak His will;
For deep within the being of those things
Which we call laws there is contained a power,
A living power, that shows all Godhead near.
‘Who spiked the royal Andes, buckled on
Their brigandines of snow? Who called the stream
From under the deep glacier, bade it flash
From the lone rock-clift to the thirsty plain?
Who tinted sky and sea with the one blue
That maketh both so passing beautiful,—
The upper hyaline,—of the two fair
The fairer and the calmer,—far beyond
The reach of storm to ruffle or to stain;
The lower hyaline so vast, yet oft
Troubled and broken by the unbridled gale?
Who lavishes the gold of daily noon,
Or showers the silver rain of brilliant night?
Who bids the tides with soft and measured tread
Keep step to the mild music of the moon?
Who lays the earth down to her winter sleep,
And wakes her up again when April comes?
Who leads the sea-bird o'er the autumn main,
And brings it back when summer warms the wave?
Instinct with life, beyond what man has dreamed,
Each statute does its office, sure and true,
As if an angel dwelt in it unseen.
There is no feebleness nor failure in it,
And ages cannot make it obsolete.
It was, it is, it shall be, until He
Who made it law and filled it with His life
Shall cancel it, or with a higher law
Supplant it in the wisdom of His will.
Their brigandines of snow? Who called the stream
From under the deep glacier, bade it flash
From the lone rock-clift to the thirsty plain?
Who tinted sky and sea with the one blue
That maketh both so passing beautiful,—
The upper hyaline,—of the two fair
The fairer and the calmer,—far beyond
The reach of storm to ruffle or to stain;
The lower hyaline so vast, yet oft
Troubled and broken by the unbridled gale?
Who lavishes the gold of daily noon,
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Who bids the tides with soft and measured tread
Keep step to the mild music of the moon?
Who lays the earth down to her winter sleep,
And wakes her up again when April comes?
Who leads the sea-bird o'er the autumn main,
And brings it back when summer warms the wave?
Instinct with life, beyond what man has dreamed,
Each statute does its office, sure and true,
As if an angel dwelt in it unseen.
There is no feebleness nor failure in it,
And ages cannot make it obsolete.
It was, it is, it shall be, until He
Who made it law and filled it with His life
Shall cancel it, or with a higher law
Supplant it in the wisdom of His will.
‘The laws of this old universe of ours
I cannot make or unmake; each of them
Is far beyond me in its energy
For good or ill; and if I cannot say
To death, Give up thy prey, nor to the grave,
Restore thy captive dust; to winter, Go,
And let sweet spring return; to the east wind, Leave,
And let the bland south breathe with healing balm;
To the May-rose, Bloom round the golden year;
To the warm leaf, Heed not October's frost;
To this depressive heartache, Pain me not;
To the old smile, Come back to faded lips;
To love's lost lustre, Re-illume the eye
That death has dimmed: if I am impotent
Amid this network vast of living law,
I must strike friendship with it, that the love,
The wisdom, and the power which dwell in it
May side with me and bear me nobly through.
All law must be upon my side, or else
I must do battle with the universe,
With every atom of it for my foe.
Law is the utterance of potent will,
Holy and wise and loving. With this will,
This royal will, my will must be at one,
Or else I sink, without a hope of rising,
My being all undone, and I a waif
Or wandering leaf on some deserted shore,
Tossed from the sand to the cold wave, and from
The wave to the unsympathizing sand.
I cannot make or unmake; each of them
Is far beyond me in its energy
For good or ill; and if I cannot say
To death, Give up thy prey, nor to the grave,
Restore thy captive dust; to winter, Go,
And let sweet spring return; to the east wind, Leave,
And let the bland south breathe with healing balm;
To the May-rose, Bloom round the golden year;
To the warm leaf, Heed not October's frost;
To this depressive heartache, Pain me not;
To the old smile, Come back to faded lips;
To love's lost lustre, Re-illume the eye
That death has dimmed: if I am impotent
Amid this network vast of living law,
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The wisdom, and the power which dwell in it
May side with me and bear me nobly through.
All law must be upon my side, or else
I must do battle with the universe,
With every atom of it for my foe.
Law is the utterance of potent will,
Holy and wise and loving. With this will,
This royal will, my will must be at one,
Or else I sink, without a hope of rising,
My being all undone, and I a waif
Or wandering leaf on some deserted shore,
Tossed from the sand to the cold wave, and from
The wave to the unsympathizing sand.
‘O sound and shape and colour! what were earth
Without your harmonies? All life and love
Are in you, and without you all is chaos.
In you I see what law is, and how law
Pervades all being, sweetly permeates
All creaturehood, the lifeless and the living.
Yon ocean, as it smooths itself to rest
When suns are sinking o'er its golden brow,
Or as it gathers round it its green waves,
Like a rich mantle studded o'er with pearls,
When storms are rising, bends in matchless curves,
And brightens in each colour of the bow.
The air, the solid earth, the delicate sunbeam
Contain your riches, and each day unfold them.
Hue, beauty, melody, thus deeply stored,
Come forth in wide profusion without end,
Some bidden, some unbid, by human skill.
Without your harmonies? All life and love
Are in you, and without you all is chaos.
In you I see what law is, and how law
Pervades all being, sweetly permeates
All creaturehood, the lifeless and the living.
Yon ocean, as it smooths itself to rest
When suns are sinking o'er its golden brow,
Or as it gathers round it its green waves,
Like a rich mantle studded o'er with pearls,
When storms are rising, bends in matchless curves,
And brightens in each colour of the bow.
The air, the solid earth, the delicate sunbeam
Contain your riches, and each day unfold them.
Hue, beauty, melody, thus deeply stored,
Come forth in wide profusion without end,
Some bidden, some unbid, by human skill.
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‘The law that does or undoes is beyond
The present sovereignty of creaturehood.
Hereafter human will shall be a power,
Like His who made it what it is; and then
Each mute volition of the will may be
Of all earth's finite potencies the most
Potent and swift. But now the will is nought;
Powerless as childhood; nature owns it not;
Dead matter mocks its bidding; death and life
Alike refuse it love or reverence.
The present sovereignty of creaturehood.
Hereafter human will shall be a power,
Like His who made it what it is; and then
Each mute volition of the will may be
Of all earth's finite potencies the most
Potent and swift. But now the will is nought;
Powerless as childhood; nature owns it not;
Dead matter mocks its bidding; death and life
Alike refuse it love or reverence.
‘I would go out beyond this narrow cage
Of individual being, and look round
Upon the many-peopled world of men,
For self is narrow and the world is broad;
Small is the drop, the ocean infinite:
Part of that marvellous human sea am I,
A drop, a wave, a fragment of its foam.
To me all men belong, and I to all.
This earth is every man's; this earth is mine:
Its many-storied nations, far and near;
Its subtleties of mind and will and heart;
Its thoughts and dreams and fantasies, the true
Or false; its tides, its tempests, and its calms;
The living multitudes that move across
Its plains, or crowd its ever-seething cities,—
Offspring and workmanship of one great Father,
Vessels of noble measure, clay or gold,
Made to contain all sorrow or all joy,
And filled alternately with either, as
The bitter or the sweet of time distils
From the events of each day's changing hours.
Each life a treasure-house of hopes and fears,
A garden crowded o'er with weeds and flowers,
A chamber with dissolving views all round,
A great existence, whose capacities
Are beyond measure and conception vast,
Each in itself an immortality.
Of individual being, and look round
Upon the many-peopled world of men,
For self is narrow and the world is broad;
Small is the drop, the ocean infinite:
Part of that marvellous human sea am I,
A drop, a wave, a fragment of its foam.
To me all men belong, and I to all.
This earth is every man's; this earth is mine:
Its many-storied nations, far and near;
Its subtleties of mind and will and heart;
Its thoughts and dreams and fantasies, the true
Or false; its tides, its tempests, and its calms;
The living multitudes that move across
Its plains, or crowd its ever-seething cities,—
Offspring and workmanship of one great Father,
Vessels of noble measure, clay or gold,
Made to contain all sorrow or all joy,
And filled alternately with either, as
The bitter or the sweet of time distils
From the events of each day's changing hours.
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A garden crowded o'er with weeds and flowers,
A chamber with dissolving views all round,
A great existence, whose capacities
Are beyond measure and conception vast,
Each in itself an immortality.
‘I would shut out this little life of mine,
Or see it as a leaf on Time's one tree,
A portion of the awful universe.
I am but one of myriads, who have all
A life to live under the common sky,
As pregnant with a hidden destiny,
As great and full of meaning as my own.
Or see it as a leaf on Time's one tree,
A portion of the awful universe.
I am but one of myriads, who have all
A life to live under the common sky,
As pregnant with a hidden destiny,
As great and full of meaning as my own.
‘Upon this turf I would sit down, and feel
The silent benedictions of the clouds
Descending softly on our summer tilth.
The breath of the bright wind goes by in balm,
Fondling the forest-leaves, and from the pines
Bringing mysterious odours never stale;
The light mists flit thro' the fair sky like dreams,
And every bird is at its height of song.
I would go far apart from cities, where
Life with its thousand-tissued nerves and sinews
Works at high pressure, self its spring and aim.
Too steep the gradients of this headlong age,
Too sharp its curves for safety or for strength,
Too swift the motion, and too reckless of
Or law or life: so said I to myself,
As, looking down upon the smoke and fire
Of forges clouding the clear sky with gloom,
I heard the sigh and saw the sweat of toil.
The silent benedictions of the clouds
Descending softly on our summer tilth.
The breath of the bright wind goes by in balm,
Fondling the forest-leaves, and from the pines
Bringing mysterious odours never stale;
The light mists flit thro' the fair sky like dreams,
And every bird is at its height of song.
I would go far apart from cities, where
Life with its thousand-tissued nerves and sinews
Works at high pressure, self its spring and aim.
Too steep the gradients of this headlong age,
Too sharp its curves for safety or for strength,
Too swift the motion, and too reckless of
Or law or life: so said I to myself,
As, looking down upon the smoke and fire
Of forges clouding the clear sky with gloom,
I heard the sigh and saw the sweat of toil.
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‘Here, beyond sound of the tumultuous street,
That knows no rest, I muse upon the wrongs,
The sadnesses, and sins that shade the earth,
And make us weary of its history;
In spirit pondering how love and law,
The double keystone of the world's strong arch,
Fast crumbling down, may be upreared again;
Asking what means the age, its words and deeds,
And whither it is drifting, or what is
Its one prevailing spirit? Is it not
To unitize, but not to unify?
To force discordances together, leaving out
Their most essential parts or truths, and then
To call it universal harmony?
To give self-will its widest, largest scope?
To level earth's old inequalities
Of matter and of men, and roll them out
Into a plain, monotonous and vast,
According to its thoughts of rank and right?
Destructive not constructive in its aims,
It breaks the great humanity in pieces
Which God created a cohesive whole,
But re-cementeth not its shattered parts;
It makes each man yet more and more a unit,
A separate atom of mortality,
Knit to no fellow, and existing only
For self, and for some narrow circle round him,
A solitary sand-grain, wearing down
To less and less as the sharp sea-wind stirs it.
That knows no rest, I muse upon the wrongs,
The sadnesses, and sins that shade the earth,
And make us weary of its history;
In spirit pondering how love and law,
The double keystone of the world's strong arch,
Fast crumbling down, may be upreared again;
Asking what means the age, its words and deeds,
And whither it is drifting, or what is
Its one prevailing spirit? Is it not
To unitize, but not to unify?
To force discordances together, leaving out
Their most essential parts or truths, and then
To call it universal harmony?
To give self-will its widest, largest scope?
To level earth's old inequalities
Of matter and of men, and roll them out
Into a plain, monotonous and vast,
According to its thoughts of rank and right?
Destructive not constructive in its aims,
It breaks the great humanity in pieces
Which God created a cohesive whole,
But re-cementeth not its shattered parts;
It makes each man yet more and more a unit,
A separate atom of mortality,
Knit to no fellow, and existing only
For self, and for some narrow circle round him,
A solitary sand-grain, wearing down
To less and less as the sharp sea-wind stirs it.
‘This is the day of overthrow: I see
The nations ground to pieces, and the crowns
All melted down, the purple torn to shreds.
The chrysm of ancient royalty is drained,
Each fragrant drop exhausted, not to be
Replenished till the great anointing comes
Of the new dynasty, which all the earth,
Weary with endless change, shall gladly own.
The tempest has gone out, and the fixed earth
Rocks to its centre. The uplifted axe
Is brandished everywhere, and does its work.
The sword has left its scabbard, and will not
Return to it until its blade is dim.
Strike, thou blind sword,—strike quick, and do thy work;
Level alike the evil and the good,—
The day of the upbuilding draweth nigh.
Earth has been long unjudged, He comes to judge;
Earth has been long misruled, He comes to rule.
The nations ground to pieces, and the crowns
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The chrysm of ancient royalty is drained,
Each fragrant drop exhausted, not to be
Replenished till the great anointing comes
Of the new dynasty, which all the earth,
Weary with endless change, shall gladly own.
The tempest has gone out, and the fixed earth
Rocks to its centre. The uplifted axe
Is brandished everywhere, and does its work.
The sword has left its scabbard, and will not
Return to it until its blade is dim.
Strike, thou blind sword,—strike quick, and do thy work;
Level alike the evil and the good,—
The day of the upbuilding draweth nigh.
Earth has been long unjudged, He comes to judge;
Earth has been long misruled, He comes to rule.
‘Error and truth are now at last alive,
Both putting on their armour and their strength.
Their day of dormancy is past; they raise
Themselves to their full height, and face to face
Equip themselves for battle and for work.
But of that work and battle who can tell
The issues?—who forecast the fears and hopes,
The weariness, the wounds, the broken hearts,
The passion, and the folly, and the sin,
That shall fill up our human history,
As field on field is fought, and lost, and won,
As ruin spreads itself abroad o'er earth?
For living truth and living error oft
Work (as they go upon their earnest way
All thro' the ages) similar effects
Of demolition and commotion dire.
Both putting on their armour and their strength.
Their day of dormancy is past; they raise
Themselves to their full height, and face to face
Equip themselves for battle and for work.
But of that work and battle who can tell
The issues?—who forecast the fears and hopes,
The weariness, the wounds, the broken hearts,
The passion, and the folly, and the sin,
That shall fill up our human history,
As field on field is fought, and lost, and won,
As ruin spreads itself abroad o'er earth?
For living truth and living error oft
Work (as they go upon their earnest way
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Of demolition and commotion dire.
‘Asleep, the warrior wins no victory,
But is led captive in ignoble chains;
The drowsy sentinel betrays the fort:
So sleeping truth (and often has it slept)
Invites defeat and wins the coward's shame.
Asleep, the serpent is innocuous
As the young lamb; awake, it wounds and slays:
So sleeping error seems to unskilled eyes
Harmless, nay, beautiful, no thing of fear;
Like the coiled basilisk, it spreadeth out
Its glowing links, alluring all who gaze,—
Then wakes, and with its mortal poison stings.
But is led captive in ignoble chains;
The drowsy sentinel betrays the fort:
So sleeping truth (and often has it slept)
Invites defeat and wins the coward's shame.
Asleep, the serpent is innocuous
As the young lamb; awake, it wounds and slays:
So sleeping error seems to unskilled eyes
Harmless, nay, beautiful, no thing of fear;
Like the coiled basilisk, it spreadeth out
Its glowing links, alluring all who gaze,—
Then wakes, and with its mortal poison stings.
‘The battle of two wills is useless strife,
Ambitious wrestling for the mastery,
Whose course is havoc, and whose end is hate.
The battle of two minds is noble war,
Whose end is truth, whose trophies peace and love.
Ambitious wrestling for the mastery,
Whose course is havoc, and whose end is hate.
The battle of two minds is noble war,
Whose end is truth, whose trophies peace and love.
‘Day fights with night, and night contends with day;
Each is alternate victor; each has won,
And each has lost. No trophy crowns the brow
Of the victorious host. So would I not
That such, my friend, should be thy life-long war;
Half shame, half glory. 'Tis to him that conquers
The crown belongs; fight on and slack not;
The strife is sore, but the reward is bright.
Wreathe not thy sword with roses; let the edge
Be bare and penetrating; double up
The well-strung bow, and let the shaft go free,
Like the white lightning from the ragged cloud,
Pregnant with fire. Strike home, and hew thy way
Thro' the thick hosts of evil; or be what
The old Greek called the warrior, the spear-anvil,
Calm mid the raining dart-shower; so shalt thou
Do thy one work, which thou alone canst do,—
Win the one battle thou alone canst win.
Each is alternate victor; each has won,
And each has lost. No trophy crowns the brow
Of the victorious host. So would I not
That such, my friend, should be thy life-long war;
Half shame, half glory. 'Tis to him that conquers
The crown belongs; fight on and slack not;
The strife is sore, but the reward is bright.
Wreathe not thy sword with roses; let the edge
Be bare and penetrating; double up
The well-strung bow, and let the shaft go free,
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Pregnant with fire. Strike home, and hew thy way
Thro' the thick hosts of evil; or be what
The old Greek called the warrior, the spear-anvil,
Calm mid the raining dart-shower; so shalt thou
Do thy one work, which thou alone canst do,—
Win the one battle thou alone canst win.
‘Men quarrel, and then seek to justify
Their variance, and each taunts the other with
“'Twas you began it all;” the weaker side,
However just and honest, must go down:
The pitcher strikes the stone, the stone the pitcher,
It boots not which, the pitcher goes to pieces.
Might knows not right, and seldom have the many
Been generous to the few. When did the wolf
Pity the lamb, or when the kestrel stretch
Its wings above the dove save to devour?
“Woe to the vanquished” is the history
Of human warfare here; revenge and power
Are not for man. With neither can he be
Entrusted for a day; and least with power.
Stronger than love of fame or love of woman
Is love of power,—power o'er our fellow-men;
And power intoxicates, but most of all
Power spiritual, rule over souls, by what
Soft name we please to call it. The ideal
Authority, like that of God, the power
To bless, still more the power to curse,
Whether thro' priestly touch, or magic rite,
Or awful voice, how coveted by man!
This double spur, how it has pricked ambition
On and still on, remorselessly beneath
Its iron hoof all truth and charity
To trample down, crushing the noble will,
The tender conscience, and the loving heart.
Woe to the weak, has been the battle-cry.
Their variance, and each taunts the other with
“'Twas you began it all;” the weaker side,
However just and honest, must go down:
The pitcher strikes the stone, the stone the pitcher,
It boots not which, the pitcher goes to pieces.
Might knows not right, and seldom have the many
Been generous to the few. When did the wolf
Pity the lamb, or when the kestrel stretch
Its wings above the dove save to devour?
“Woe to the vanquished” is the history
Of human warfare here; revenge and power
Are not for man. With neither can he be
Entrusted for a day; and least with power.
Stronger than love of fame or love of woman
Is love of power,—power o'er our fellow-men;
And power intoxicates, but most of all
Power spiritual, rule over souls, by what
Soft name we please to call it. The ideal
Authority, like that of God, the power
To bless, still more the power to curse,
Whether thro' priestly touch, or magic rite,
Or awful voice, how coveted by man!
This double spur, how it has pricked ambition
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Its iron hoof all truth and charity
To trample down, crushing the noble will,
The tender conscience, and the loving heart.
Woe to the weak, has been the battle-cry.
‘The mystic cup of power inebriates;
And he who lacks it rests not till he finds it,
He who has got it thirsts for more and more.
Woe to the man who throws himself between
Ambition and its object; sword and fire
(If sword and fire be weapons of the age;
If not, some sure and palpable revenge)
Shall strike him down and see him vilely laid,
Broken in reputation and in heart,
A victim to the hungry lust of power.
And he who lacks it rests not till he finds it,
He who has got it thirsts for more and more.
Woe to the man who throws himself between
Ambition and its object; sword and fire
(If sword and fire be weapons of the age;
If not, some sure and palpable revenge)
Shall strike him down and see him vilely laid,
Broken in reputation and in heart,
A victim to the hungry lust of power.
‘But shall I thus forecast the day of evil,
When every lip beside me whispers peace,
When every lyre is strung to notes of triumph,
And all the prophets of the earth foresing
The coming progress? When the heavens are clear,
And the bright planet of humanity
Is in the ascendant, shall I dare to speak
Of lurking thunder? Yet can I forget
That the long calm is parent of the storm?
In the clear sky the thunderbolt is forged,
And thro' the silent air on silent wing
The eagle swoops to seize his far-seen prey:
So bursts the last dread hurricane upon
The sons of men, when all is mirth and song.
The wildest, widest storm these eyes have seen
Was once at dawn, after a tranquil night,
When not a whisper broke the breathless air,
To speak of peril or betray the foe.
Ocean was still in its serenest sleep,
The slow wave's sigh swept round the curving strand,
When, as from ambush, sprang the ragged cloud,
Startling the sea-bird with its sudden gloom.
The lightning, like a sword of sinuous fire,
Leaped from its scabbard, scourging earth and sea,
Seaming the cliff, sinking the helpless barque,
Filling the vacant sky with lurid light,
Till the broad billows glowed, one scroll of flame.
The red gale rode the ocean, rushed across
The writhing foam, breasting the fretful surf,
Flushed with the splendour of the tremulous bolt,
That went and came, like living minister
Of pent-up anger, from the solemn heavens.
The thunder, shouting from the stedfast rocks,
And sweeping round the concave of the hills
Whose sleep it had awakened, shook the shore.
In one quick moment every object changed;
Chaos and darkness seemed to come again,
Deep calling unto deep with sullen throat,
Like minute-guns at Nature's funeral.
When every lip beside me whispers peace,
When every lyre is strung to notes of triumph,
And all the prophets of the earth foresing
The coming progress? When the heavens are clear,
And the bright planet of humanity
Is in the ascendant, shall I dare to speak
Of lurking thunder? Yet can I forget
That the long calm is parent of the storm?
In the clear sky the thunderbolt is forged,
And thro' the silent air on silent wing
The eagle swoops to seize his far-seen prey:
So bursts the last dread hurricane upon
The sons of men, when all is mirth and song.
The wildest, widest storm these eyes have seen
Was once at dawn, after a tranquil night,
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To speak of peril or betray the foe.
Ocean was still in its serenest sleep,
The slow wave's sigh swept round the curving strand,
When, as from ambush, sprang the ragged cloud,
Startling the sea-bird with its sudden gloom.
The lightning, like a sword of sinuous fire,
Leaped from its scabbard, scourging earth and sea,
Seaming the cliff, sinking the helpless barque,
Filling the vacant sky with lurid light,
Till the broad billows glowed, one scroll of flame.
The red gale rode the ocean, rushed across
The writhing foam, breasting the fretful surf,
Flushed with the splendour of the tremulous bolt,
That went and came, like living minister
Of pent-up anger, from the solemn heavens.
The thunder, shouting from the stedfast rocks,
And sweeping round the concave of the hills
Whose sleep it had awakened, shook the shore.
In one quick moment every object changed;
Chaos and darkness seemed to come again,
Deep calling unto deep with sullen throat,
Like minute-guns at Nature's funeral.
‘So breaks the last tornado over man,
Disturbing his gay dream of human progress,
And levelling the tower he would have built
To scale the heavens and seat humanity
Upon the throne of God. So, when he thinks not,
The desolation cometh, and the hope
Sinks like the sand-built shieling in an hour.
Disturbing his gay dream of human progress,
And levelling the tower he would have built
To scale the heavens and seat humanity
Upon the throne of God. So, when he thinks not,
The desolation cometh, and the hope
Sinks like the sand-built shieling in an hour.
‘All that high science, soaring to the sun,
Or searching the profundities beneath,—
All that philosophy, with thoughtful lip,
Has spoken to the eager sons of men,—
All that bright poesy, adorning fact
Or summoning fiction to her aid, can do,
To heal earth's sickness or to soothe her fret,—
All that fond pleasure, in her gayest mood,
Has forged to fascinate or cheer the soul,—
All has been tried, but ever tried in vain.
These are but anodynes, whose opiate-draught
Lulls for a moment the deep-seated pain;
They bring no restoration of the health,
No styptics for the world's still bleeding wounds.
104
All that philosophy, with thoughtful lip,
Has spoken to the eager sons of men,—
All that bright poesy, adorning fact
Or summoning fiction to her aid, can do,
To heal earth's sickness or to soothe her fret,—
All that fond pleasure, in her gayest mood,
Has forged to fascinate or cheer the soul,—
All has been tried, but ever tried in vain.
These are but anodynes, whose opiate-draught
Lulls for a moment the deep-seated pain;
They bring no restoration of the health,
No styptics for the world's still bleeding wounds.
‘O good Samaritan, draw near at length
(Levite and priest have passed in coldness by),
Come with thy oil and wine to heal and cheer!
Humanity lies sick, all pierced with wounds,
Bleeding to death upon the rugged road
Of this strange life, and thou alone canst cure.’
(Levite and priest have passed in coldness by),
Come with thy oil and wine to heal and cheer!
Humanity lies sick, all pierced with wounds,
Bleeding to death upon the rugged road
Of this strange life, and thou alone canst cure.’
The day leans down, and the light lessens fast,
The mountains into shadows melt away;
Twilight is creeping softly o'er the shore
And winding round the rocks. We anchor here;
For the great currents of the world sweep by,
Too strong for us without an anchorage
That will hold out against both tide and wind.
Ofttimes, I know, beneath a ruffled surface
Sleeps the deep under-calm; but here, beneath
A tranquil face, I dread the under-storm.
The mountains into shadows melt away;
Twilight is creeping softly o'er the shore
And winding round the rocks. We anchor here;
For the great currents of the world sweep by,
Too strong for us without an anchorage
That will hold out against both tide and wind.
Ofttimes, I know, beneath a ruffled surface
Sleeps the deep under-calm; but here, beneath
A tranquil face, I dread the under-storm.
Time's depths are now behind us, and our skiff
Has touched the shallows; we let down the lead,
And find the fathoms few; these breakers mark
The lessening depths; a few more strokes, and then
We shall be resting on the safe, safe shore,—
The peaceful seaboard, where no beacon-light
Is needed to protect the midnight barque
From perilous cliffs; and where (thrice happy they!)
So many of the loving and the loved
Have landed long ago, enskied and safe
Beyond mortality's corroding touch
Or death's unsparing sting; rejoicing now
O'er sorrows past and glory yet to come,
And in the new and never-ending song
Praising the love that steered them thro' the storm,—
The love which, sweeping from their sky the clouds,
Showed them afar the signal-star of dawn.
105
And find the fathoms few; these breakers mark
The lessening depths; a few more strokes, and then
We shall be resting on the safe, safe shore,—
The peaceful seaboard, where no beacon-light
Is needed to protect the midnight barque
From perilous cliffs; and where (thrice happy they!)
So many of the loving and the loved
Have landed long ago, enskied and safe
Beyond mortality's corroding touch
Or death's unsparing sting; rejoicing now
O'er sorrows past and glory yet to come,
And in the new and never-ending song
Praising the love that steered them thro' the storm,—
The love which, sweeping from their sky the clouds,
Showed them afar the signal-star of dawn.
Swiftly we steal along our orbit here,
Moving, and yet unconscious of the motion.
Earth rushes on in awful haste thro' space,
And yet no sound is heard, no quivering feet;
No snowflake drops from off the mountain-pine,
No dewdrop trembles on the slender spray.
Swiftness is silence, planet-speed is dumb;
Or if it utter sound to us, it is
The melody of motion; not a jar
Or broken note in its perennial song.
Moving, and yet unconscious of the motion.
Earth rushes on in awful haste thro' space,
And yet no sound is heard, no quivering feet;
No snowflake drops from off the mountain-pine,
No dewdrop trembles on the slender spray.
Swiftness is silence, planet-speed is dumb;
Or if it utter sound to us, it is
The melody of motion; not a jar
Or broken note in its perennial song.
So shall it be in the great age to come,
When the eternal orbit, not of earth,
But of all being, shall be entered on
With a fresh impulse from the hand that gave
Its motion to the universe at first,
As from the throne projected into space,
All weighed and measured in the unerring scale,
Each star and planet took its separate way,
Timed for the wondrous journey, which with all
Dumb nature's swift obedience they fulfil
In the calm willingness of happy service,
Which knoweth neither murmur nor mistake.
When the eternal orbit, not of earth,
But of all being, shall be entered on
With a fresh impulse from the hand that gave
Its motion to the universe at first,
106
All weighed and measured in the unerring scale,
Each star and planet took its separate way,
Timed for the wondrous journey, which with all
Dumb nature's swift obedience they fulfil
In the calm willingness of happy service,
Which knoweth neither murmur nor mistake.
Content to do our work and battle on
In midst of disappointment, making head
Against the merciless hosts of evil, sure
Of victory nowhere now, yet ever sure
Of victory at last, tho' knowing not
Or how or when that triumph is to come;
Armed only with the weapons forged upon
No earthly anvil, by no mortal hands,
And clad in armour which no spear can pierce;
True to our Captain and our colours, here
We fight the battle till our day is done,
And the glad trumpet bids us quit the strife,
One against many, weary, yet full of hope.
In midst of disappointment, making head
Against the merciless hosts of evil, sure
Of victory nowhere now, yet ever sure
Of victory at last, tho' knowing not
Or how or when that triumph is to come;
Armed only with the weapons forged upon
No earthly anvil, by no mortal hands,
And clad in armour which no spear can pierce;
True to our Captain and our colours, here
We fight the battle till our day is done,
And the glad trumpet bids us quit the strife,
One against many, weary, yet full of hope.
The evening brings all home. For that we wait,
Which is at once our evening and our morn,
The end of evil and the dawn of good.
October sheds the leaf and April brings it;
So one flower fadeth and another springs;
Earth renovates itself. When we are gone,
Our homes will not be vacant; and the crowds
Will swell our cities as when we were there.
Earth liveth on and on amid this change,
Or with us or without us to the end.
Which is at once our evening and our morn,
The end of evil and the dawn of good.
October sheds the leaf and April brings it;
So one flower fadeth and another springs;
Earth renovates itself. When we are gone,
Our homes will not be vacant; and the crowds
Will swell our cities as when we were there.
Earth liveth on and on amid this change,
Or with us or without us to the end.
That end, ah, would that it were come! All things
Press forward to it, and cry out, Delay not;
For hope deferred has sickened the sad heart,
And men are asking, Shall it ever come?
107
For hope deferred has sickened the sad heart,
And men are asking, Shall it ever come?
Shake down your leaves, O many-tinted trees
Of dying autumn; let the forest gale
Of the unsparing north search through and through
Your desolate boughs, and heap the earth with sackcloth.
Another winter soon will lie behind us,—
One winter less to come ere the long spring
Shall o'er us shed its beauty and its balm!
Fling down your stars, O skies! O waiting earth!
Heave with thy final earthquake; and, O sea!
Let loose thy last stern tempest for the day
Of nature's shock, above us and beneath;
Speed on Creation's travail-throes, from which
There comes at last the perfect and the fair.
Of dying autumn; let the forest gale
Of the unsparing north search through and through
Your desolate boughs, and heap the earth with sackcloth.
Another winter soon will lie behind us,—
One winter less to come ere the long spring
Shall o'er us shed its beauty and its balm!
Fling down your stars, O skies! O waiting earth!
Heave with thy final earthquake; and, O sea!
Let loose thy last stern tempest for the day
Of nature's shock, above us and beneath;
Speed on Creation's travail-throes, from which
There comes at last the perfect and the fair.
| My Old Letters | |