 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
BOOK FIRST
EDITORIAL
I, Herr Professor Künst, Philologus,
Editor of these rhymes—having no knack
That way, myself, to make my words go chime,
Or none that makes a crystal of my thought,
Face answering to face, and so built up
By inward force of Law inevitable—
Care not to tag mere fringes to my lines,
And mar their meaning. 'Tis a pretty sight
The lissom maiden dancing her light measure,
And keeping time with castanet or timbrel,
When maiden, dance, and timbrel all are one
Joy of great nature. But enough for me
The unwonted dance without the castanet,
The measured tread without the timing jingle.
God giveth speech to all, song to the few.
Editor of these rhymes—having no knack
That way, myself, to make my words go chime,
Or none that makes a crystal of my thought,
Face answering to face, and so built up
By inward force of Law inevitable—
Care not to tag mere fringes to my lines,
And mar their meaning. 'Tis a pretty sight
The lissom maiden dancing her light measure,
And keeping time with castanet or timbrel,
When maiden, dance, and timbrel all are one
Joy of great nature. But enough for me
The unwonted dance without the castanet,
The measured tread without the timing jingle.
God giveth speech to all, song to the few.
A quaint old gateway, flanked on either side
By grim, heraldic beasts with beak and claw
And scaly coating—yet four-footed beasts—
Opened into a long, straight avenue,
Lined by rough elms, stunted, and sloping west,
And nipped by sharp sea-winds. Without a turn,
It ran up to a tall, slim, grey, old house,
With many blinking windows, row on row,
And high-pitched gables rising, step by step,
Above heraldic beasts with beak and claw,
That pranced at every corner. A green bank,
Broken with flower-plots, on the one side dropt
Down to a brattling brook; upon the other
A group of brown Scotch firs reared their straight boles
And spreading crowns, breaking the chill east wind;
And then a holly hedge enclosed the garth,
Which altogether covered scant an acre.
By grim, heraldic beasts with beak and claw
And scaly coating—yet four-footed beasts—
Opened into a long, straight avenue,
Lined by rough elms, stunted, and sloping west,
And nipped by sharp sea-winds. Without a turn,
It ran up to a tall, slim, grey, old house,
With many blinking windows, row on row,
And high-pitched gables rising, step by step,
Above heraldic beasts with beak and claw,
That pranced at every corner. A green bank,
Broken with flower-plots, on the one side dropt
Down to a brattling brook; upon the other
A group of brown Scotch firs reared their straight boles
And spreading crowns, breaking the chill east wind;
And then a holly hedge enclosed the garth,
Which altogether covered scant an acre.
Eastward, you saw the glimmer of the sea,
And the white pillar of the lighthouse tall
Guarding the stormy Ness: a minster church
Loomed with twin steeples high above the smoke
Of a brisk burgh, offspring of the church
And of the sea, and with an old Norse love
Of the salt water, and the house of God,
And letters and adventure. On the west,
Cleft by the stream, a slow-retiring hill
Embayed a goodly space which once had been
Waste moorland for the curlew, and the snipe
Haunted its marshes. Lately, growing wealth,
From fleets of fishing craft, and ventures far
To Greenland and Archangel, had subdued
The peat-hag and the stony wilderness:
And here and there a citizen's countryhouse
Stood among fields where cattle browsed, or corn
Was rustling: yet there still were, here and there,
Stretches of heathy moss and yellow gorse,
And desert places strewn with white bleached stones,
And grey rocks tufted o'er with birch and hazel.
And through the gorse, and over rock and stone,
The brattling brook leaped downward to the sea.
And the white pillar of the lighthouse tall
Guarding the stormy Ness: a minster church
40
Of a brisk burgh, offspring of the church
And of the sea, and with an old Norse love
Of the salt water, and the house of God,
And letters and adventure. On the west,
Cleft by the stream, a slow-retiring hill
Embayed a goodly space which once had been
Waste moorland for the curlew, and the snipe
Haunted its marshes. Lately, growing wealth,
From fleets of fishing craft, and ventures far
To Greenland and Archangel, had subdued
The peat-hag and the stony wilderness:
And here and there a citizen's countryhouse
Stood among fields where cattle browsed, or corn
Was rustling: yet there still were, here and there,
Stretches of heathy moss and yellow gorse,
And desert places strewn with white bleached stones,
And grey rocks tufted o'er with birch and hazel.
And through the gorse, and over rock and stone,
The brattling brook leaped downward to the sea.
The slim, grey house with its heraldic beasts,
Nestling in its scant acre of flower-plots
And green sward, at the end of the elm-tree drive,
Stood plainly in ancestral dignity,
Aloof from citizen's villa: shorn of wealth,
It was the home of culture and simple taste,
And heir of fine traditions.
Nestling in its scant acre of flower-plots
And green sward, at the end of the elm-tree drive,
Stood plainly in ancestral dignity,
Aloof from citizen's villa: shorn of wealth,
It was the home of culture and simple taste,
And heir of fine traditions.
By the door,
Where it was hid by honey-suckle sprays
And briar-rose that trailed around the porch,
There stood a youth, at early twilight, making
Impatient gestures, switching thistle-down
And nettle and dandelion, and whate'er
His hasty stroke might reach; yet humorous
Rather than fretful, for the art was his
To break vexations with a ready jest,
As one that, on the stirrup duly rising,
Rides lightly through the world. A graceful youth,
And tall, and slightly stooping, with features high
And thin and colourless; yet earnest life
Beamed, full of hope and energy and help,
From his great lustrous eyes, though now and then
They swam into a dreamy, far-off gaze,
As seeing the invisible. He was
A student who had travelled many a field
Of arduous learning, planted venturous foot
On giddy ledge of speculative thought,
And searched for truth o'er mountain, shore and sea,
In stone and flower, and every living thing
Where he might read the open secret of God
With his own eyes, and ponder out its meaning.
Intent he was to know, and knowing do
The work laid to his hand; yet evermore,
As he toiled up the solemn stair with joy,
Caught by some outlook on a larger world,
He seemed to pause, and gaze, and dream a dream.
These moods I noted when he was my pupil,
And some strange vocable from India,
Or fragment of the old Semitic speech
Would suddenly arrest his eager quest,
And sunder us, like the ocean or the grave.
Where it was hid by honey-suckle sprays
And briar-rose that trailed around the porch,
There stood a youth, at early twilight, making
Impatient gestures, switching thistle-down
And nettle and dandelion, and whate'er
His hasty stroke might reach; yet humorous
Rather than fretful, for the art was his
To break vexations with a ready jest,
As one that, on the stirrup duly rising,
Rides lightly through the world. A graceful youth,
And tall, and slightly stooping, with features high
And thin and colourless; yet earnest life
Beamed, full of hope and energy and help,
From his great lustrous eyes, though now and then
They swam into a dreamy, far-off gaze,
As seeing the invisible. He was
A student who had travelled many a field
Of arduous learning, planted venturous foot
On giddy ledge of speculative thought,
And searched for truth o'er mountain, shore and sea,
In stone and flower, and every living thing
Where he might read the open secret of God
With his own eyes, and ponder out its meaning.
41
The work laid to his hand; yet evermore,
As he toiled up the solemn stair with joy,
Caught by some outlook on a larger world,
He seemed to pause, and gaze, and dream a dream.
These moods I noted when he was my pupil,
And some strange vocable from India,
Or fragment of the old Semitic speech
Would suddenly arrest his eager quest,
And sunder us, like the ocean or the grave.
So stood he, in the twilight, near his home,
And waiting for his sister, smote the weeds;
Impetuous, humorous, bright, and mystical,
The wonder and the glory of the place,
Scarce out of boyhood, yet the pride of all.
And waiting for his sister, smote the weeds;
Impetuous, humorous, bright, and mystical,
The wonder and the glory of the place,
Scarce out of boyhood, yet the pride of all.
Trained for a priest, for that is still the pride
And high ambition of the Scottish mother,
There was a kind of priestly purity
In all his thoughts, and a deep undertone
Ran through his gayest fancies, and his heart
Reached out with manifold sympathies, and laid
Fast hold on many outcast and alone
I' the world. But being challenged at the door
Of God's high Temple to indue himself
With armour that he had not proved, to clothe
With articles of ready-made Belief
His Faith inquisitive, he rent the Creed
Trying to fit it on, and cast it from him;
Then took it up again, and found it worn
With age, and riddled by the moth, and rotten.
Therefore he trod it under foot, and went
Awhile with only scant fig-leaves to clothe
His naked spirit, longing after God,
But striving more for knowledge than for faith.
The Priest was left behind; the hope of Glory
Became pursuit of Fame; and yet a light
From heaven kept hovering always over him,
Like twilight from a sun that had gone down.
And high ambition of the Scottish mother,
There was a kind of priestly purity
In all his thoughts, and a deep undertone
Ran through his gayest fancies, and his heart
Reached out with manifold sympathies, and laid
Fast hold on many outcast and alone
I' the world. But being challenged at the door
Of God's high Temple to indue himself
With armour that he had not proved, to clothe
With articles of ready-made Belief
His Faith inquisitive, he rent the Creed
Trying to fit it on, and cast it from him;
Then took it up again, and found it worn
With age, and riddled by the moth, and rotten.
Therefore he trod it under foot, and went
Awhile with only scant fig-leaves to clothe
His naked spirit, longing after God,
But striving more for knowledge than for faith.
The Priest was left behind; the hope of Glory
Became pursuit of Fame; and yet a light
From heaven kept hovering always over him,
Like twilight from a sun that had gone down.
LOQUITUR THOROLD
Quick, Hester, quick! the old scarlet cloak
And silken hood are dainty trim
'Mong birch and hazel and lichened rock;
The sun is but a little rim
Above the hill, and twilight dim
Is setting o'er the leaping brook
Where we our summer pleasance took,
When youth was light of heart and limb,
And Life was the dream of a Fairy Book.
And silken hood are dainty trim
'Mong birch and hazel and lichened rock;
The sun is but a little rim
Above the hill, and twilight dim
Is setting o'er the leaping brook
Where we our summer pleasance took,
When youth was light of heart and limb,
And Life was the dream of a Fairy Book.
Quick! let us spend the gloaming there—
A plague on bonnets, shawls and pins,
And last nice touches of the hair,
That just begin when one begins
To lose his patience! Women's sins
Are not alone the ills they do,
But those that they provoke you to,
While smiling lips and dimpling chins
Wonder what can be the matter with you.
A plague on bonnets, shawls and pins,
And last nice touches of the hair,
That just begin when one begins
To lose his patience! Women's sins
42
But those that they provoke you to,
While smiling lips and dimpling chins
Wonder what can be the matter with you.
Well, minx! I hope you're pleased at last:
You've made yourself an angel nice,
And me a brute this half-hour past.
Now, did you ever count the price
When each new grace costs some new vice?
You fondle a curl—my wrath I pet;
You finger a ribbon—I fume and fret;
You'd ruin a husband worse than dice,
Buying your beauty at such a rate.
You've made yourself an angel nice,
And me a brute this half-hour past.
Now, did you ever count the price
When each new grace costs some new vice?
You fondle a curl—my wrath I pet;
You finger a ribbon—I fume and fret;
You'd ruin a husband worse than dice,
Buying your beauty at such a rate.
Look, how the slanting sunbeams long
Gird with light-rings the grey birch trees;
And from his unseen place of song
The sky-lark on the evening breeze
Shakes down his fluttering melodies:
The coneys from their burrows creep,
The troutlets in the still pools leap,
The pines their odorous gums release,
And the daisies are pink in their dewy sleep.
Gird with light-rings the grey birch trees;
And from his unseen place of song
The sky-lark on the evening breeze
Shakes down his fluttering melodies:
The coneys from their burrows creep,
The troutlets in the still pools leap,
The pines their odorous gums release,
And the daisies are pink in their dewy sleep.
Perchance we ne'er shall hear again,
Thus hand in hand, the swift brook flow,
Except in dreams when we are fain
To haunt the fabled long-ago;
For ere to-morrow's sun is low,
I haste me to the crowded street
Where every stranger face I meet
Shall less of kithely feeling show
Than the rippling gleam of this water sweet.
Thus hand in hand, the swift brook flow,
Except in dreams when we are fain
To haunt the fabled long-ago;
For ere to-morrow's sun is low,
I haste me to the crowded street
Where every stranger face I meet
Shall less of kithely feeling show
Than the rippling gleam of this water sweet.
Nay, dear; my heart is full of hope;
Bid me not stay in my career.
Our little Bourg hath little scope
For aught but gossip in the ear;
And I must gird me to appear
A man among the strong and brave,
A man with purpose high and grave,
Still fronting duty without fear,
And helming my prow to the threatening wave.
Bid me not stay in my career.
Our little Bourg hath little scope
For aught but gossip in the ear;
And I must gird me to appear
A man among the strong and brave,
A man with purpose high and grave,
Still fronting duty without fear,
And helming my prow to the threatening wave.
'Twas sweet to dream as we have dreamed
Together in years long ago,
When Life might be as Fancy deemed,
For aught the happy child could know,
A bright illusion, and a show
Create at will, and shaped to meet
Each changeful whim, and quaint conceit,
And varying mood of joy or woe,
Nor ever with tragic end complete.
Together in years long ago,
When Life might be as Fancy deemed,
For aught the happy child could know,
A bright illusion, and a show
Create at will, and shaped to meet
Each changeful whim, and quaint conceit,
And varying mood of joy or woe,
Nor ever with tragic end complete.
But ill for him who will not see
The dream to be a dream indeed,
And life a fateful mystery,
And iron fact the only creed
To lean on in the hour of need.
The child may dream; the man must act
With reverence for the world's great fact;
And look to toil and sweat and bleed,
And gather his energies all compact.
The dream to be a dream indeed,
And life a fateful mystery,
And iron fact the only creed
To lean on in the hour of need.
The child may dream; the man must act
With reverence for the world's great fact;
And look to toil and sweat and bleed,
And gather his energies all compact.
Why might I not my battle fight
Here by your side with pen and book?
Girls never understand aright
That men must leave the ingle-nook
And for a larger wisdom brook
Experience of a harder law,
And learn humility and awe:
And books are mirrors where you look
But on shadows of things which others saw.
Here by your side with pen and book?
Girls never understand aright
That men must leave the ingle-nook
And for a larger wisdom brook
Experience of a harder law,
And learn humility and awe:
And books are mirrors where you look
But on shadows of things which others saw.
43
How sweet the old brook tinkles still
Through daisy mead and golden broom,
Where once we placed our water-mill,
And heard it clicking in the gloom,
Hushed, sleepless, in our little room!
Yonder, we caught the tiny trout—
Our first—you carried it about
All day, complaining of its doom,
And trying each pool if its life were gone out.
Through daisy mead and golden broom,
Where once we placed our water-mill,
And heard it clicking in the gloom,
Hushed, sleepless, in our little room!
Yonder, we caught the tiny trout—
Our first—you carried it about
All day, complaining of its doom,
And trying each pool if its life were gone out.
There are no traces of the mill:
But lo! our garden in the nook,
The walks we shaped with simple skill,
Bordered with white stones from the brook;
And there are still some flowers we took
From garden plots, and planted here:
Our works decay and disappear,
God's frailest works abide, and look
Down on the ruins we toil to rear.
But lo! our garden in the nook,
The walks we shaped with simple skill,
Bordered with white stones from the brook;
And there are still some flowers we took
From garden plots, and planted here:
Our works decay and disappear,
God's frailest works abide, and look
Down on the ruins we toil to rear.
Here is the sloping mossy bank,
With slender pansies purple-eyed,
And drooping hare-bells, and the rank
Plume-fern in all its palmy pride;
And yonder the still waters glide
Where big raspberries and brambles grew:—
The stream was deep and broad for you,
And there my imping manhood tried
To reach at them for my sister true.
With slender pansies purple-eyed,
And drooping hare-bells, and the rank
Plume-fern in all its palmy pride;
And yonder the still waters glide
Where big raspberries and brambles grew:—
The stream was deep and broad for you,
And there my imping manhood tried
To reach at them for my sister true.
Lo! here we dreamed the Pilgrim's dream;
And went forth, that bright summer day,
To seek the New Jerusalem,
Along the strait and thorny way
Tangled with gorse and bramble spray,
But never found the wicket-gate:
Distraught, our mother wandered late,
While we beside the mill-dam lay,
And saw the newt creep 'mong the bulrushes great.
And went forth, that bright summer day,
To seek the New Jerusalem,
Along the strait and thorny way
Tangled with gorse and bramble spray,
But never found the wicket-gate:
Distraught, our mother wandered late,
While we beside the mill-dam lay,
And saw the newt creep 'mong the bulrushes great.
There, too, we dreamt a lonely isle,
With white waves girdled by the sea
That stormed along the beach, the while
A good ship struggled gallantly;
And I alone must saved be,
And thou wert Friday, by-and-by,
Whose mystic footprint caught my eye
On the brown sand; and thou to me
Wert slave ever ready to run or fly.
With white waves girdled by the sea
That stormed along the beach, the while
A good ship struggled gallantly;
And I alone must saved be,
And thou wert Friday, by-and-by,
Whose mystic footprint caught my eye
On the brown sand; and thou to me
Wert slave ever ready to run or fly.
And we had Genii of the Lamp—
The lamp was ne'er so rubbed before;
And jars and crocks we left in damp
Odd corners, all the night or more,
Which we as fishers hauled ashore,
Listening to hear the prisoned Jinn
Bemoan his captive fate within:
And what, if he were free to soar
Like a dreadful giant with smoke and din!
The lamp was ne'er so rubbed before;
And jars and crocks we left in damp
Odd corners, all the night or more,
Which we as fishers hauled ashore,
Listening to hear the prisoned Jinn
Bemoan his captive fate within:
And what, if he were free to soar
Like a dreadful giant with smoke and din!
Ay me! What happy dreams we had!
And still they linger fondly here;
The air seems nimble with the glad
Quaint fancies of our childhood dear;
And here, at least, they do appear
Half-real still; it seems profane
To reason them down as fancies vain,
Where all that meets the eye and ear
Brings the faith and glory of youth again.
And still they linger fondly here;
The air seems nimble with the glad
Quaint fancies of our childhood dear;
And here, at least, they do appear
Half-real still; it seems profane
To reason them down as fancies vain,
Where all that meets the eye and ear
Brings the faith and glory of youth again.
Then by-and-by great thoughts were ours
Of triumph and high enterprise,
As knowledge broadened with our powers,
And Science oped our wondering eyes
To Nature's fruitful mysteries.
No life of vulgar wealth we sought,
Nor pleasure from indulgence got;
We would be brave and true and wise,
And hoard all treasures of noble thought.
Of triumph and high enterprise,
As knowledge broadened with our powers,
And Science oped our wondering eyes
44
No life of vulgar wealth we sought,
Nor pleasure from indulgence got;
We would be brave and true and wise,
And hoard all treasures of noble thought.
The heroes of historic age
Beckoned us on to glorious deeds
And hardy training, and to wage
Victorious war on foemen weeds:
And now we breathed on oaten reeds,
Or conned, apart, a secret song,
Ashamed as if the deed were wrong;
And now we rubbed your amber beads
For trial of their attraction strong.
Beckoned us on to glorious deeds
And hardy training, and to wage
Victorious war on foemen weeds:
And now we breathed on oaten reeds,
Or conned, apart, a secret song,
Ashamed as if the deed were wrong;
And now we rubbed your amber beads
For trial of their attraction strong.
We gathered wild flowers in the woods,
We wandered miles for heath and fern,
We found in brakes the callow broods
Of singing birds; we sought the erne
On its lone cliff; and strove to learn
All Nature's kindly providence
For all its creatures, and the sense
Of all its changes to discern,
With all the infinite why and whence.
We wandered miles for heath and fern,
We found in brakes the callow broods
Of singing birds; we sought the erne
On its lone cliff; and strove to learn
All Nature's kindly providence
For all its creatures, and the sense
Of all its changes to discern,
With all the infinite why and whence.
We turned the glass to moon and stars,
The Pleiads, and the Milky Way,
To Saturn's ring, and fiery Mars,
And Venus haunting close of day:
We bent the glass to watch the play
Of spasm-like life in water drops;
And where the red stone upward crops
We hammered, eager for a prey
Of moss or fern from the old-world copse.
The Pleiads, and the Milky Way,
To Saturn's ring, and fiery Mars,
And Venus haunting close of day:
We bent the glass to watch the play
Of spasm-like life in water drops;
And where the red stone upward crops
We hammered, eager for a prey
Of moss or fern from the old-world copse.
And oh those days beside the sea!
The skerries paved with knotted shells,
The bright pools of anemone,
The star-fish with their fretted cells,
The scudding of the light foam-bells
Along the stretch of rippled strand
Spotted with worms of twisted sand,
The white gulls, and the shining sails,
And the thoughts they all brought from the Wonder-land!
The skerries paved with knotted shells,
The bright pools of anemone,
The star-fish with their fretted cells,
The scudding of the light foam-bells
Along the stretch of rippled strand
Spotted with worms of twisted sand,
The white gulls, and the shining sails,
And the thoughts they all brought from the Wonder-land!
And fondly watched our mother dear,
The dawning promise of our youth,
Lilting a ballad low and clear,
And fostering fearless love of truth
And meekness, piety and ruth,
And charity and womanhood;
For so she said, that to be good
Was to be rich in very sooth;
And the good Lord gave His children food.
The dawning promise of our youth,
Lilting a ballad low and clear,
And fostering fearless love of truth
And meekness, piety and ruth,
And charity and womanhood;
For so she said, that to be good
Was to be rich in very sooth;
And the good Lord gave His children food.
And still the unfailing laughter pealed
At homely jests that ne'er grew old;
And still we breathless heard, and thrilled
When the old winter's tale was told;
And still, as thought grew keen and bold,
Her loving instinct steadied all
The march of mind with faithful call
To patient duty manifold,
And to wait and work when the light was small.
At homely jests that ne'er grew old;
And still we breathless heard, and thrilled
When the old winter's tale was told;
And still, as thought grew keen and bold,
Her loving instinct steadied all
The march of mind with faithful call
To patient duty manifold,
And to wait and work when the light was small.
O happy childhood! wakening first
In moony realms of fond romance;
And quenching soon a deeper thirst
In science that refrained to glance
Scorn at old faiths: so we could once
Believe we heard the mermaid sing,
And that the deft Fays shaped the ring,
Footing o' moonlights in the dance,
And that the Spirit lay hidden in every thing.
In moony realms of fond romance;
And quenching soon a deeper thirst
In science that refrained to glance
Scorn at old faiths: so we could once
Believe we heard the mermaid sing,
And that the deft Fays shaped the ring,
Footing o' moonlights in the dance,
And that the Spirit lay hidden in every thing.
Nor need that early faith be all
In clear definéd knowledge lost:
Though never Greek to Ilium's wall
In the swift ships the sea had crossed,
Each wrathful king with banded host,
The tale of Troy were true to me,
More than bare fact of history:
There is more truth than is engrossed
In your musty sheepskin guarantee.
In clear definéd knowledge lost:
Though never Greek to Ilium's wall
In the swift ships the sea had crossed,
Each wrathful king with banded host,
45
More than bare fact of history:
There is more truth than is engrossed
In your musty sheepskin guarantee.
And there is truth transcending far
The way of scientific thought,
Which travels to the farthest star,
And verges on the smallest mote,
But all beyond it knoweth not;
Its ladder, based on earth, must lean
Its summit on the felt and seen;
But ever our hearts their rest havesought
In that dim Beyond, where it hath not been.
The way of scientific thought,
Which travels to the farthest star,
And verges on the smallest mote,
But all beyond it knoweth not;
Its ladder, based on earth, must lean
Its summit on the felt and seen;
But ever our hearts their rest havesought
In that dim Beyond, where it hath not been.
'Tis wisdom, doubtless, for the man
To learn the fact and stedfast Law;
Yet Wisdom also in its plan
Embraced the child's great wondering awe
Which found the Unseen in all it saw,
Whom now we seek with cruel strain
Of longing heart and 'wildered brain,
Tossing our barren chaff and straw
In search of the old diviner grain.
To learn the fact and stedfast Law;
Yet Wisdom also in its plan
Embraced the child's great wondering awe
Which found the Unseen in all it saw,
Whom now we seek with cruel strain
Of longing heart and 'wildered brain,
Tossing our barren chaff and straw
In search of the old diviner grain.
Can it be wisdom to forget
What wisdom taught us yesterday?
What if the form may change, and yet
The truth abide that in it lay?
And what if Jinn, and Ghost, and Fay,
Were but the form of highest truth—
The Father's parable for youth,
To teach that Law is Will, to say,
I am the worker of all, in sooth!
What wisdom taught us yesterday?
What if the form may change, and yet
The truth abide that in it lay?
And what if Jinn, and Ghost, and Fay,
Were but the form of highest truth—
The Father's parable for youth,
To teach that Law is Will, to say,
I am the worker of all, in sooth!
So might the dream be, after all,
The key which confident Science lost,
And hath been groping round the wall
Of mystery, perplex'd and toss'd,
In search of, making many a boast,
Yet conscious that her universe
Of several facts and laws is scarce
God's living world; yea, is at most
His graveyard, whither she drove His hearse.
The key which confident Science lost,
And hath been groping round the wall
Of mystery, perplex'd and toss'd,
In search of, making many a boast,
Yet conscious that her universe
Of several facts and laws is scarce
God's living world; yea, is at most
His graveyard, whither she drove His hearse.
Our Science knows no Father yet;
He seems to vanish as we think;
And most of all, when we are set
To fish for Faith upon the brink
Of Nature; we draw, link by link,
A line of close-plied reasoning
Elaborate, and hope to bring,
Besides the baited thought we sink,
God from the depths at the end of a string!
He seems to vanish as we think;
And most of all, when we are set
To fish for Faith upon the brink
Of Nature; we draw, link by link,
A line of close-plied reasoning
Elaborate, and hope to bring,
Besides the baited thought we sink,
God from the depths at the end of a string!
Ah! who shall find the perfect Whole
In the small fragment that we see?
Or mirror in the flesh-bound soul
The image of Immensity?
Our hearts within us faint, and we,
Amid the storm and darkness driven,
Cry out for God to earth and heaven:
But what if all our answer be
Only our cry by the echoes given?
In the small fragment that we see?
Or mirror in the flesh-bound soul
The image of Immensity?
Our hearts within us faint, and we,
Amid the storm and darkness driven,
Cry out for God to earth and heaven:
But what if all our answer be
Only our cry by the echoes given?
As light outside the Temple vast
Coming and going with sudden gleams
On altar, pillar, and pavement cast,
Down on our lower world he streams
An externe glory. So it seems;
But who can tell? The things that press
On our dream-life's half-consciousness,
Though real as the hills and streams,
Are the stuff dreams are made of nevertheless.
Coming and going with sudden gleams
On altar, pillar, and pavement cast,
Down on our lower world he streams
An externe glory. So it seems;
But who can tell? The things that press
On our dream-life's half-consciousness,
Though real as the hills and streams,
Are the stuff dreams are made of nevertheless.
O days of Faith! when earth appeared
A Bethel sure, an House of God,
And in the dream His voice was heard,
And sorrow was His chastening rod;
And stony pillow and grassy sod
Seemed, lying on the Father's breast;
And men had many an angel guest,
And ever where the pilgrim trod
God was near him, The Highest and Best.
A Bethel sure, an House of God,
And in the dream His voice was heard,
And sorrow was His chastening rod;
And stony pillow and grassy sod
Seemed, lying on the Father's breast;
And men had many an angel guest,
And ever where the pilgrim trod
God was near him, The Highest and Best.
46
Great days of Faith and miracle!
When nature might not be explained,
And the earth kept her secret well,
But there was worship high, unfeigned,
And men were noble, and God reigned;
They were not barren though we laugh,
And swear their mills ground finest chaff;
For peace and love and truth unstained
Are more than steam and a telegraph.
When nature might not be explained,
And the earth kept her secret well,
But there was worship high, unfeigned,
And men were noble, and God reigned;
They were not barren though we laugh,
And swear their mills ground finest chaff;
For peace and love and truth unstained
Are more than steam and a telegraph.
How is it that our modern thought
Has travelled from these sacred ways,
And every certain truth is bought
By parting with some Faith and Praise?
We light our earth with the quenchéd rays
Of heaven: and yet we only seek
Truth for the strong and for the weak,
Loving it more than length of days,
Or the ruby lip and the blooming cheek.
Has travelled from these sacred ways,
And every certain truth is bought
By parting with some Faith and Praise?
We light our earth with the quenchéd rays
Of heaven: and yet we only seek
Truth for the strong and for the weak,
Loving it more than length of days,
Or the ruby lip and the blooming cheek.
Our science, with its several facts
And fragmentary laws, hath lost
The unity that all compacts,
And makes a cosmos of the host.
Force changes, but its changes cost,
And in the elemental war
Conserving transformations are
So wasteful, Time shall one day boast
But a burnt-out sun and a cinder star.
And fragmentary laws, hath lost
The unity that all compacts,
And makes a cosmos of the host.
Force changes, but its changes cost,
And in the elemental war
Conserving transformations are
So wasteful, Time shall one day boast
But a burnt-out sun and a cinder star.
Well, well; our mother knew no laws,
Except the Ten Commandments clear,
Nor talked of First, or Final Cause,
But walked with God in love and fear,
And always felt that He was near
By instinct of a spirit true;
And she had peace and strength, in lieu
Of that unrest and trouble here
Which break like the billows on me and you.
Except the Ten Commandments clear,
Nor talked of First, or Final Cause,
But walked with God in love and fear,
And always felt that He was near
By instinct of a spirit true;
And she had peace and strength, in lieu
Of that unrest and trouble here
Which break like the billows on me and you.
Enough; we have not yet redeemed
The promise of our early days;
We are not all that we have dreamed,
Nor all that she would crown with praise;
But we have loving been always,
And earned some little fame, and hope
For more where there is ampler scope;
And you will crown me with my bays,
Sweet sister mine, when I reach the top.
The promise of our early days;
We are not all that we have dreamed,
Nor all that she would crown with praise;
But we have loving been always,
And earned some little fame, and hope
For more where there is ampler scope;
And you will crown me with my bays,
Sweet sister mine, when I reach the top.
Nay, say not that I shall forget,
And find a dearer love than thee;
A sweeter love was never yet
Than this sufficing joy in me:
Thou art my fulness. I shall be
But half a heart and head and will,
Except thou be beside me still,
For in our being's mystery
Ever the better part thou didst fill.
And find a dearer love than thee;
A sweeter love was never yet
Than this sufficing joy in me:
Thou art my fulness. I shall be
But half a heart and head and will,
Except thou be beside me still,
For in our being's mystery
Ever the better part thou didst fill.
Not jealous, say you? but afraid
About my principles and views?
Why, it was you that first betrayed,
You little sceptic, dangerous, loose,
And unsound doctrine: I but use
The wicked weapons that you made:
Even as a child you never prayed
With half my faith in those old Jews,
And we ne'er got the Catechism into your head.
About my principles and views?
Why, it was you that first betrayed,
You little sceptic, dangerous, loose,
And unsound doctrine: I but use
The wicked weapons that you made:
Even as a child you never prayed
With half my faith in those old Jews,
And we ne'er got the Catechism into your head.
But my Faith is not gone, although
At times it seems to fade away.
I would I were as long ago;
I cling to God, and strive to say
The devil and all his angels Nay:
But in the crucible of thought
Old forms dissolve, nor have I got,
Or seem to wish, new moulds of clay
To limit the boundless truth I sought.
At times it seems to fade away.
I would I were as long ago;
I cling to God, and strive to say
The devil and all his angels Nay:
But in the crucible of thought
Old forms dissolve, nor have I got,
Or seem to wish, new moulds of clay
To limit the boundless truth I sought.
Can the great God be aught but vague,
Bounded by no horizon, save
What feeble minds create to plague
High reason with?—We madly crave,
For definite truth, and make a grave,
Through too much certainty precise,
And logical distinction nice,
For all the little Faith we have,
Buying clear views at a terrible price.
Bounded by no horizon, save
What feeble minds create to plague
High reason with?—We madly crave,
For definite truth, and make a grave,
47
And logical distinction nice,
For all the little Faith we have,
Buying clear views at a terrible price.
Too dear, indeed, to part with Faith
For forms of logic about God,
And walk in lucid realms of death,
Whose paths incredible are trod
By no soul living. Faith's abode
Is mystery for evermore,
Its life to worship and adore,
And meekly bow beneath the rod,
When the day is dark, and the burden sore.
For forms of logic about God,
And walk in lucid realms of death,
Whose paths incredible are trod
By no soul living. Faith's abode
Is mystery for evermore,
Its life to worship and adore,
And meekly bow beneath the rod,
When the day is dark, and the burden sore.
What soft, low notes float everywhere
In the soft glories of the moon!
Soft winds are whispering in the air,
And murmuring waters softly croon
To mossy banks a muffled tune;
Softly a rustling faint is borne
Over the fields of waving corn—
God's still small voice, we drownatnoon,
Which is everywhere heard in the even and morn.
In the soft glories of the moon!
Soft winds are whispering in the air,
And murmuring waters softly croon
To mossy banks a muffled tune;
Softly a rustling faint is borne
Over the fields of waving corn—
God's still small voice, we drownatnoon,
Which is everywhere heard in the even and morn.
Hush! let us go. The stars shine out,
Yonder the moonlight on the sea,—
The fishers spread their sails about
Its tangled rings; from yon lime tree
The hum of some belated bee
Sways as if lost; I seem to hear
A boding murmur in my ear
Of coming storm. What, if it be
Omen of tempest in my career?
Yonder the moonlight on the sea,—
The fishers spread their sails about
Its tangled rings; from yon lime tree
The hum of some belated bee
Sways as if lost; I seem to hear
A boding murmur in my ear
Of coming storm. What, if it be
Omen of tempest in my career?
Strange! that whene'er the hour arrives,
Which we have longed for day and night,
To act the purpose of our lives,
Fades all the glory and the light,
Fails too the sense of power and might;
And there are omens in the air,
And voices whispering Beware!—
But never victor in the fight
Heeded the portents of fear and care.
Which we have longed for day and night,
To act the purpose of our lives,
Fades all the glory and the light,
Fails too the sense of power and might;
And there are omens in the air,
And voices whispering Beware!—
But never victor in the fight
Heeded the portents of fear and care.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |