Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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| III. |
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| V. |
| VI. |
THE CRY OF THE WORM. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE CRY OF THE WORM.
“Here lies poor old John Hildebrod;
Have mercy on his soul, Lord God,
As he would do were he Lord God,
And Thou but poor John Hildebrod.”
Epitaph.
Be merciful to me, Lord God, as I would pity Thee,
Wert Thou as I a crumbling clod with scarce a fancy free;
Made only, it is writ, of dust which dances at Thy breath,
By sin corroded as by rust, with native seeds of death;
A groping creature, deaf and blind and vainly learning still,
While tost about by every wind of passion or of ill!
Whatever be Thy tune, O Lord, I cannot choose but tread
The destined measure, if the sword is hanging o'er my head;
And sick or sorry I must keep in time with every tone,
I step it through my haunted sleep, unwilling and alone.
Within this gaunt and ghastly bound of rank and rotting flesh,
I go the same dull dreary round and evermore afresh.
Wert Thou as I a crumbling clod with scarce a fancy free;
Made only, it is writ, of dust which dances at Thy breath,
353
A groping creature, deaf and blind and vainly learning still,
While tost about by every wind of passion or of ill!
Whatever be Thy tune, O Lord, I cannot choose but tread
The destined measure, if the sword is hanging o'er my head;
And sick or sorry I must keep in time with every tone,
I step it through my haunted sleep, unwilling and alone.
Within this gaunt and ghastly bound of rank and rotting flesh,
I go the same dull dreary round and evermore afresh.
Be merciful to me, Lord God, as I would pity Thee,
Wert thou as helpless as the sod or fading as the tree!
Up in that wondrous house of blue where suns in glory shine,
While nought but darkness is my due, dost Thou consider mine?
This is not builded on the rock, my walls are very weak
And tremble at the shade of shock—they totter as I speak;
To any peril that may chance I do but hopeless bend,
The sport of spiteful circumstance I dumbly wait the end.
To Thee is man a tiny mote a minute in the ray,
A sand-mark idle fingers wrote ere it was washed away?
For be one cottager or Guelf, he is in frailty grown;
I dare not say I am myself, and nothing is my own.
Wert thou as helpless as the sod or fading as the tree!
Up in that wondrous house of blue where suns in glory shine,
While nought but darkness is my due, dost Thou consider mine?
This is not builded on the rock, my walls are very weak
And tremble at the shade of shock—they totter as I speak;
To any peril that may chance I do but hopeless bend,
The sport of spiteful circumstance I dumbly wait the end.
To Thee is man a tiny mote a minute in the ray,
A sand-mark idle fingers wrote ere it was washed away?
For be one cottager or Guelf, he is in frailty grown;
I dare not say I am myself, and nothing is my own.
Be simply just to me, Lord God, as I would unto Thee,
Wert Thou beneath the iron rod which crushes all I see!
I am but fashioned out of clay, a vessel of no worth,
To live and struggle my dim day and be resolved to earth.
O treat me not as precious gold which hottest flames may try,
I carry on my face the mould of this mortality,
And, in each trifling word and deed, there is the fateful ring
Of dissolution and a need which ever to me cling.
Deal not with me as chalices which are of grander kin,
I show mere evil images and centuries of sin.
At birth I found a hideous taint which errors more enhance,
Whereunder I do flinch and faint, a grim inheritance.
Wert Thou beneath the iron rod which crushes all I see!
I am but fashioned out of clay, a vessel of no worth,
To live and struggle my dim day and be resolved to earth.
O treat me not as precious gold which hottest flames may try,
I carry on my face the mould of this mortality,
And, in each trifling word and deed, there is the fateful ring
Of dissolution and a need which ever to me cling.
354
I show mere evil images and centuries of sin.
At birth I found a hideous taint which errors more enhance,
Whereunder I do flinch and faint, a grim inheritance.
Be simply just to me, Lord God, as I would unto Thee!
Wert Thou as lightly at the nod of woes we cannot flee,
Foredoomed to failure do I come into this care and wrong,
With many mingled aims, though some are beautiful and strong;
I am not master of my powers or even a single nerve,
And naked still I hold my dowers for others whom I serve;
Each moment I new sadness prove chained in this prison frame,
Beyond which I can nowise move who play a desperate game;
Around me hostile forces fret, with which a traitorous camp
Inside is leagued against me yet—I only bear their stamp.
This is a stage of lasting strife with threads of crimson crost,
A living death, a dying life, and from the outset lost.
Wert Thou as lightly at the nod of woes we cannot flee,
Foredoomed to failure do I come into this care and wrong,
With many mingled aims, though some are beautiful and strong;
I am not master of my powers or even a single nerve,
And naked still I hold my dowers for others whom I serve;
Each moment I new sadness prove chained in this prison frame,
Beyond which I can nowise move who play a desperate game;
Around me hostile forces fret, with which a traitorous camp
Inside is leagued against me yet—I only bear their stamp.
This is a stage of lasting strife with threads of crimson crost,
A living death, a dying life, and from the outset lost.
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