V.
SONGS OF SEEKING.
Songs of Seeking, day by day
Sung while wearying on the way,—
Feeble cries of one who knows
Nor whence he comes, nor whither goes.
Yet of his own free will doth wear
The bloody Cross of those who fare
Upward and on in sad accord,—
The footsore Seekers of the Lord.
I.
O thou whose ears incline unto my singing,
Woman or man, thou surely bearest thy burden,
And I who sing, and all men, bear their burdens.
Even as a meteor-stone from suns afar,
I fell unto the ways of life and breathed,
Wherefore to much on earth I feel a stranger.
I found myself in a green norland valley,
A place of gleaming waters and gray heavens,
And weirdly woven colours in the air.
A basin round whose margin rose the mountains
Green-based, snow-crown'd, and windy saeters midway,
And the thin line of a spire against the mountains.
Around were homes of peasants rude and holy,
Who look'd upon the mountains and the forests,
On the waters, on the vapours, without wonder;
Who, happy in their labours six days weekly,
Were happy on their knees upon the seventh.
But I wonder'd, being strange, and was not happy.
For I cried: ‘O Thou Unseen, how shall I praise Thee—
How shall I name Thee glorious whom I know not—
If Thou art as these say, I scarce conceive Thee.
‘Unfold to me the image of Thy features,
Come down upon my heart, that I may know Thee;’—
And I made a song of seeking, on a mountain.
II.
Quest.
As in the snowy stillness,
Where the stars shine greenly
In a mirror of ice,
The Reindeer abideth alone,
And speedeth swiftly
From her following shadow
In the moon,—
I speed for ever
From the mystic shape
That my life projects,
And my Soul perceives;
And I loom for ever
Through desolate regions
Of wondrous thought,
And I fear the thing
That follows me,
And cannot escape it
Night or day.
Doth Thy wingëd lightning
Strike, O Master!
The timid Reindeer
Flying her shade?
Will Thy wrath pursue me,
Because I cannot
Escape the shadow
Of the thing I am?
I have pried and pondered,
I have agonised,
I have sought to find Thee,
Yet still must roam,
Affrighted, fleeing Thee,
Chased by the shadow
Of the thing I am,
Through desolate regions
Of wondrous thought!
III.
The Happy Earth.
Sweet, sweet it was to sit in leafy Forests,
In a green darkness, and to hear the stirring
Of strange breaths hither and thither in the branches;
And sweet it was to sail on crystal Waters,
Between the dome above and the dome under,
The Hills above me and the Hills beneath me;
And sweet it was to watch the wondrous Lightning
Spring flashing at the earth, and slowly perish
Under the falling of the summer Rain.
I loved all grand and gentle and strange things,—
The wind-flower at the tree-root, and the white cloud,
The strength of Mountains, and the power of Waters.
And unto me all seasons utter'd pleasure:
Spring, standing startled, listening to the skylark,
The wild flowers from her lap unheeded falling;
And Summer, in her gorgeous loose apparel,
And Autumn, with her dreamy drooping lashes;
And Winter, with his white hair blown about him.
Yea, everywhere there stirred a deathless beauty,
A gleaming and a flashing into change,
An under-stream of sober consecration.
Yet nought endured, but all the glory faded,
And power and joy and sorrow were interwoven;
There was no single presence of the Spirit.
IV.
O Unseen One!
Because Thou art beautiful,
Because Thou art mysterious,
Because Thou art strong,
Or because Thou art pitiless,
Shall my Soul worship Thee,
O Thou Unseen One?
As men bow to monarchs,
As slaves to their owners,
Shall I bow to Thee?
As one that is fearful,
As one that is slavish,
Shall I pray to Thee?
Wert Thou a demigod,
Wert Thou an angel,
Lip-worship might serve;
To Thee, most beautiful,
Wondrous, mysterious,
How shall it avail?
Thou art not a demigod,
Thou art not a monarch,—
Why should I bow to Thee?
I am not fearful,
I am not slavish,—
Why should I pray to Thee?
O Spirit of Mountains!
Strong Master of Waters!
Strange Shaper of Clouds!
When these things worship Thee
I too will worship Thee,
O Maker of Men!
V.
World's Mystery.
The World was wondrous round me— God's green World—
A World of gleaming waters and green places,
And weirdly woven colours in the air.
Yet evermore a trouble did pursue me—
A hunger for the wherefore of my being,
A wonder from what regions I had fallen.
I gladdened in the glad things of the World,
Yet crying always, ‘Wherefore, and oh, wherefore?
What am I? Wherefore doth the World seem happy?’
I saddened in the sad things of the World,
Yet crying, ‘Wherefore are men bruised and beaten?
Whence do I grieve and gladden to no end?’
VI.
The Cities.
I took my staff and wandered o'er the mountains,
And came among the heaps of gold and silver,
The gorgeous desolation of the Cities.
My trouble grew tenfold when I beheld
The agony and burden of my fellows,
The pains of sick men and the groans of hungry.
I saw the good man tear his hair and weep;
I saw the bad man tread on human necks
Prospering and blaspheming: and I wondered.
The silken-natured woman was a bondslave;
The gross man foul'd her likeness in high places;
The innocent were heart-wrung: and I wondered.
The gifts of earth are given to the base;
The monster of the Cities spurned the martyr;
The martyr died, denying: and I wondered.
VII.
The Priests.
Three Priests in divers vestments passed and whispered:
‘Worship the one God, stranger, or thou diest;
Yea, worship, or thy tortures shall be endless.’
I cried, ‘Which God, O wise ones, must I worship?’
And neither answer'd, but one showed a Picture,
A fair Man dying on a Cross of wood.
And this one said, ‘The others err, O stranger!
Repent, and love thy brother,—'tis enough!
The Doom of Dooms is only for the wicked.’
I turned and cried unto him, ‘Who is wicked?’
He vanish'd, and within a house beside me
I heard a hard man bless his little children.
My heart was full of comfort for the wicked,
Mine eyes were cleared with love, and everywhere
The wicked wore a piteousness like starlight.
I felt my spirit foul with misconceivings,
I thought of old transgressions and was humble;
I cried, ‘O God, whose doom is on the wicked!
‘Thou art not He for whom my being hungers!
The Spirit of the grand things and the gentle,
The strength of mountains and the power of waters!’
And lo! that very night I had a Vision.
VIII.
The Lamb of God.
1
I saw in a vision of the night
The Lamb of God, and it was white;
White as snow it wander'd through
Silent fields of harebell-blue,
Still it wandering fed, and sweet
Flower'd the stars around its feet.
2
I heard in vision a strange voice
Cry aloud, ‘Rejoice! rejoice!
Dead men rise and come away,
Now it is the Judgment Day!’
And I heard the host intone
Round the footstool of the Throne.
3
Then the vision pained my sight,
All I saw became so bright—
All the Souls of men were there,
All the Angels of the air;
God was smiling on His seat,
And the Lamb was at His feet.
4
Then I heard a voice—‘'Tis done!
Blest be those whom God hath won!’
And the loud hosannah grew,
And the golden trumpets blew,
And around the place of rest
Rose the bright mist of the Blest.
5
Then suddenly I saw again,
Bleating like a thing in pain,
The Lamb of God;— and all in fear
Gazed and cried as it came near,
For on its robe of holy white
Crimson blood-stains glimmer'd bright.
6
O the vision of the night;
The Lamb of God! the blood-stains bright!
In quiet waters of the skies
It bathed itself with piteous eyes—
Vainly on its raiment fell
Cleansing dews ineffable!
7
All the while it cried for pain,
It could not wash away the stain—
All the gentle blissful sky
Felt the trouble of its cry—
All the streams of silver sheen
Sought in vain to make it clean.
8
Where'er it went along the skies
The Happy turned away their eyes;
Where'er it past from shore to shore
All wept for those whose blood it bore—
Its piteous cry filled all the air,
Till the Dream was more than I could bear.
9
And in the darkness of my bed
Weeping I awakenëd—
In the silence of the night,
Dying softly from my sight,
Melted that pale Dream of pain
Like a snow-flake from thy brain.
IX.
Doom.
Master, if there be Doom,
All men are bereaven!
If, in the universe,
One Spirit receive the curse,
Alas for Heaven!
If there be Doom for one,
Thou, Master, art undone.
Were I a Soul in heaven,
Afar from pain,
Yea, on Thy breast of snow,
At the scream of one below
I should scream again.
Art Thou less piteous than
The conception of a Man?
X.
God's Dream.
I hear a voice, ‘How should God pardon sin?
How should He save the sinner with the sinless?
That would be ill: the Lord my God is just.’
Further I hear, ‘How should God pardon lust?
How should He comfort the adulteress?
That would be foul: the Lord my God is pure.’
Further I hear, ‘How should God pardon blood?
How should the murtherer have a place in heaven
Beside the innocent life he took away?’
And God is on His throne; and in a dream
Sees mortals making figures out of clay,
Shapen like men, and calling them God's angels.
And sees the shapes look up into His eyes,
Exclaiming, ‘Thou didst ill to save this man;
Damn Thou this woman, and curse this cut-throat, Lord!’
God dreams this, and His dreaming is the world;
And thou and I are dreams within His dream;
And nothing dieth God hath dreamt or thought.
XI.
Flower of the World.
Wherever men sinned and wept,
I wandered in my quest;
At last in a Garden of God
I saw the Flower of the World.
This Flower had human eyes,
Its breath was the breath of the mouth;
Sunlight and starlight came,
And the Flower drank bliss from both.
Whatever was base and unclean,
Whatever was sad and strange,
Was piled around its roots;
It drew its strength from the same.
Whatever was formless and base
Pass'd into fineness and form;
Whatever was lifeless and mean
Grew into beautiful bloom.
Then I thought, ‘O Flower of the World,
Miraculous Blossom of things,
Light as a faint wreath of snow
Thou tremblest to fall in the wind.
‘O beautiful Flower of the World,
Fall not nor wither away;
He is coming—He cannot be far—
The Lord of the Flow'rs and the Stars.
And I cried, ‘O Spirit divine!
That walkest the Garden unseen,
Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,
The beautiful Flower of the World.’
XII.
O Spirit!
Weary with seeking, weary with long waiting,
I fell upon my knees, and wept, exclaiming,
‘O Spirit of the grand things and the gentle!
‘Thou hidest from our seeking—Thou art crafty—
Thou wilt not let our hearts admit Thee wholly—
Believing hath a core of unbelieving—
‘A coward dare not look upon Thy features,
But museth in a cloud of misconceiving;
The bravest man's conception is a coward's.
‘Wherefore, O wherefore, art Thou veil'd and hidden?
The world were well, and wickedness were over,
If Thou upon Thy throne were one thing certain.’
And lo! that very night I had a Vision.
