 | Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell |  |
36
THE SEEKER AFTER GOD.
Oh, for a voice in answer to my cries,
To say whence comes this earth of living green,
This flood of life that sweeps before the eyes,
Systems and suns that stud the blue serene,
Planets that in their order set and rise!
Breathes there a Living Power behind this scene?
For Nature has, and here lies our despair,
No solace for our griefs, no answer to our prayer.
To say whence comes this earth of living green,
This flood of life that sweeps before the eyes,
Systems and suns that stud the blue serene,
Planets that in their order set and rise!
Breathes there a Living Power behind this scene?
For Nature has, and here lies our despair,
No solace for our griefs, no answer to our prayer.
Does no Hand in their orbits planets keep?
Has pray'r no power the tempest's rage to still?
Is there no voice to raise the dead from sleep?
No love in heav'n the hung'ring soul to fill,
Glad when we smile, to pity when we weep?
Naught but inexorable Nature's will?
Did blind unreasoning chance, material force,
Build up of old this glorious Universe?
Has pray'r no power the tempest's rage to still?
Is there no voice to raise the dead from sleep?
No love in heav'n the hung'ring soul to fill,
Glad when we smile, to pity when we weep?
Naught but inexorable Nature's will?
Did blind unreasoning chance, material force,
Build up of old this glorious Universe?
37
“Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!” Where
I might but force a pathway to His throne!
I ask the flow'rs, the grass, the whisp'ring air,
The hills, the valleys, and the woodlands lone.
Dumb are they all—No answer to my prayer—
In vain I call,—in vain I make my moan
To heav'n and earth, and all that in them are,
To ocean vast, to sun, and moon, and star.
I might but force a pathway to His throne!
I ask the flow'rs, the grass, the whisp'ring air,
The hills, the valleys, and the woodlands lone.
Dumb are they all—No answer to my prayer—
In vain I call,—in vain I make my moan
To heav'n and earth, and all that in them are,
To ocean vast, to sun, and moon, and star.
I ask for Him at earliest flush of dawn,
When hill-tops catch the grey and glimmering light,
And dews ambrosial gem the fragrant lawn;
I search for Him when falls the sombre night,
And o'er the songless woods a veil is drawn;
But ever He withdraws Himself from sight—
I cry, “Where art Thou?” Echo mocks despair,
And fills with babble all the empty air.
When hill-tops catch the grey and glimmering light,
And dews ambrosial gem the fragrant lawn;
I search for Him when falls the sombre night,
And o'er the songless woods a veil is drawn;
But ever He withdraws Himself from sight—
I cry, “Where art Thou?” Echo mocks despair,
And fills with babble all the empty air.
But if I cannot find Him, I must die,
Who else,—what else the void within can fill?
No one on earth, no one beneath the sky,
The sad disquiet of my heart can still,
Or bid the doubts and anxious tremors fly,
That life, its joys, and pleasures crush and kill.
Speak! Keep not silence, or this heart must break,
Great Power unknown, upon me pity take!
Who else,—what else the void within can fill?
No one on earth, no one beneath the sky,
The sad disquiet of my heart can still,
Or bid the doubts and anxious tremors fly,
That life, its joys, and pleasures crush and kill.
Speak! Keep not silence, or this heart must break,
Great Power unknown, upon me pity take!
38
Sometimes I think I see Thee in the light,
That gilds the green and flow'r enamelled plain,
Sometimes in star that gems the purple night,
Or in the rustling breeze, or gentle rain.
But say what means the mildew and the blight,
The drear volcano and the hurricane,
And death that turns the living to a clod?
What art Thou? Love or Anger? Speak, O God!
That gilds the green and flow'r enamelled plain,
Sometimes in star that gems the purple night,
Or in the rustling breeze, or gentle rain.
But say what means the mildew and the blight,
The drear volcano and the hurricane,
And death that turns the living to a clod?
What art Thou? Love or Anger? Speak, O God!
I heard a voice, came it from earth or heaven?
Was it the same that thrill'd the holy Seer
To whom the great Apocalypse was giv'n,
Of radiant worlds beyond this nether sphere,
And who in vision saw the Spirits Seven,
Like burning lamps of fire, intense and clear?
Silent I stood, spell-bound, o'ercome with awe,
And all sense lost in hearing, nothing saw.—
Was it the same that thrill'd the holy Seer
To whom the great Apocalypse was giv'n,
Of radiant worlds beyond this nether sphere,
And who in vision saw the Spirits Seven,
Like burning lamps of fire, intense and clear?
Silent I stood, spell-bound, o'ercome with awe,
And all sense lost in hearing, nothing saw.—
And thus it spake—it thrill'd thro' every chord—
“Though all creation vocal is of Me,
I am not fully known, or seen, or heard,
In stream or mountain, forest, lake, or sea;
But only in my self-revealing Word;
Of all my thoughts this only has the key,
Here if thou seek Me, thou shalt surely find
All that can fill the void in heart and mind.—
“Though all creation vocal is of Me,
I am not fully known, or seen, or heard,
In stream or mountain, forest, lake, or sea;
But only in my self-revealing Word;
Of all my thoughts this only has the key,
Here if thou seek Me, thou shalt surely find
All that can fill the void in heart and mind.—
39
“A Power that lit the stars that move in space,
And built the crystal spheres, and spread the sea,
A Mercy that clasps worlds in its embrace,
And draws the worst to worship at My knee;
Immortal Love which, leaving its high place,
Bow'd down high heav'n unto the bitter tree,
Was born of woman, veiled itself in flesh,
That on the earth fair hope might wake afresh.
And built the crystal spheres, and spread the sea,
A Mercy that clasps worlds in its embrace,
And draws the worst to worship at My knee;
Immortal Love which, leaving its high place,
Bow'd down high heav'n unto the bitter tree,
Was born of woman, veiled itself in flesh,
That on the earth fair hope might wake afresh.
“Not Mine the anguish of this weary earth,
The storm that wastes and ravages the plain,
The sorrows born with each man at his birth,
Death with its silence, mystery, and pain,
The curse of blight and barrenness and dearth,
'Gainst which men loudly cry, and cry in vain.
Patience; believe My Son's most bitter rood
Will shape these evils to some perfect good!”
The storm that wastes and ravages the plain,
The sorrows born with each man at his birth,
Death with its silence, mystery, and pain,
The curse of blight and barrenness and dearth,
'Gainst which men loudly cry, and cry in vain.
Patience; believe My Son's most bitter rood
Will shape these evils to some perfect good!”
Rapt stood I as the voice so small and still,
Which woke sweet hopes, and memories wet with tears,
Died from the woods, the vales, the sloping hill,
Although an echo sang on in my ears,
That shook my pulses, made my heart to thrill—
And gone were all my tremulous doubts and fears.
The cry became a silence in my breast,
And where before was trouble now was rest.
Which woke sweet hopes, and memories wet with tears,
Died from the woods, the vales, the sloping hill,
Although an echo sang on in my ears,
That shook my pulses, made my heart to thrill—
And gone were all my tremulous doubts and fears.
The cry became a silence in my breast,
And where before was trouble now was rest.
| Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell | |