Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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THE MIDGE AND ITS MAKER. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE MIDGE AND ITS MAKER.
I. The Midge.
Thou Being, whom I cannot know,
But dimly guess from far
In storied rock and star,
And feel in trumpet winds that blow
Or waters as they laugh and flow,
And witness what they are.
I am Thy creature, great God, still
And every feature shows Thy will;
But wherefore am I made so weak
And didst Thou masterfully wreak
Thy power in me, who scarce can speak
And tremble at each ill?
While Thou dost sit above this babble
So very grand and strong,
Untouched by any wrack and wrong
Wherein our wretched hour we dabble.
But dimly guess from far
In storied rock and star,
And feel in trumpet winds that blow
Or waters as they laugh and flow,
And witness what they are.
I am Thy creature, great God, still
And every feature shows Thy will;
But wherefore am I made so weak
And didst Thou masterfully wreak
Thy power in me, who scarce can speak
And tremble at each ill?
While Thou dost sit above this babble
So very grand and strong,
Untouched by any wrack and wrong
Wherein our wretched hour we dabble.
There seems no justice in the plan,
Which fashioned me so small;
I hardly live at all,
In this poor petty fleeting span;
And there the mountain and the man,
Rejoice and on Thee call!
And yet Thy moulding hand has wrought
Me, and is holding up in thought;
Though slender be my lot and slight
It would work out its reason right,
And shares in the same common Light
Which comes to us unsought.
And none is formed of diverse matter,
We issue from one Fount
Whate'er the last account—
If rays of dawn or death we scatter.
Which fashioned me so small;
I hardly live at all,
In this poor petty fleeting span;
And there the mountain and the man,
Rejoice and on Thee call!
And yet Thy moulding hand has wrought
Me, and is holding up in thought;
Though slender be my lot and slight
It would work out its reason right,
And shares in the same common Light
Which comes to us unsought.
And none is formed of diverse matter,
We issue from one Fount
Whate'er the last account—
If rays of dawn or death we scatter.
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Why is existence cut so short
For butterfly and bee,
That share alike in Thee
Though in Thy outside temple court;
When each is striving for the Port,
Where only are we free?
Why is the allotted time so mean,
With frailty spotted and unclean?
It could have spread for ages on
And with its splendour proudly shone
Or been a tower for kingdoms gone,
Whereon a world might lean;
But now in every breeze I flutter
And find the coming doom
Even in the morning's bloom,
And feel a woe I may not utter.
For butterfly and bee,
That share alike in Thee
Though in Thy outside temple court;
When each is striving for the Port,
Where only are we free?
Why is the allotted time so mean,
With frailty spotted and unclean?
It could have spread for ages on
And with its splendour proudly shone
Or been a tower for kingdoms gone,
Whereon a world might lean;
But now in every breeze I flutter
And find the coming doom
Even in the morning's bloom,
And feel a woe I may not utter.
II. The Maker.
O murmur not thy life is brief,
And others are so long;
The Maker does no wrong,
Who measures gladness out and grief
Which is its own divine relief
And wings thy hour with song.
For time no treasure is, and might
Withdraws its pleasures in the night;
And the amœba, which will lie
In mud and misery and vie
In age with me, can never die—
But lacks thy being bright;
I know not what ye call duration,
But mark the victory won
And duty hard yet done—
I work, within, the sole salvation.
And others are so long;
The Maker does no wrong,
Who measures gladness out and grief
Which is its own divine relief
And wings thy hour with song.
For time no treasure is, and might
Withdraws its pleasures in the night;
And the amœba, which will lie
In mud and misery and vie
In age with me, can never die—
But lacks thy being bright;
I know not what ye call duration,
But mark the victory won
And duty hard yet done—
I work, within, the sole salvation.
Nor pass thy office careless by,
Because it bulks not large;
Thou seeëst not the marge
Which broader is than earth and sky
And runs out to Infinity
With universes' charge;
The frame that reaches not a span
To eyes, yet preaches truth—as man;
The envelope is not the thing,
And life doth boast a deeper spring
Than vulgar size or width of wing—
It bears all angels can;
And if the shell be low, yet under
Its shadow in each part,
Beats My pervading Heart,
For kindred hope—as in the thunder.
Because it bulks not large;
Thou seeëst not the marge
Which broader is than earth and sky
And runs out to Infinity
With universes' charge;
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To eyes, yet preaches truth—as man;
The envelope is not the thing,
And life doth boast a deeper spring
Than vulgar size or width of wing—
It bears all angels can;
And if the shell be low, yet under
Its shadow in each part,
Beats My pervading Heart,
For kindred hope—as in the thunder.
Ah, nothing common is or poor
Or toils at useless task,
Which does whate'er I ask;
Behind the beast and in the boor
Or tiniest insect of the moor,
Eternal forces mask.
And times and spaces unto Me,
Write no more traces than on sea;
They are but modes, whereby the clod
And every breathing root and rod
At last discover they are God,
And labour to be free.
Yes, thou, if summer mite or vernal
And but a dying midge,
Art too my very bridge
From earth to Heaven and the Eternal.
Or toils at useless task,
Which does whate'er I ask;
Behind the beast and in the boor
Or tiniest insect of the moor,
Eternal forces mask.
And times and spaces unto Me,
Write no more traces than on sea;
They are but modes, whereby the clod
And every breathing root and rod
At last discover they are God,
And labour to be free.
Yes, thou, if summer mite or vernal
And but a dying midge,
Art too my very bridge
From earth to Heaven and the Eternal.
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