The Light of the World or The Great Consummation By Sir Edwin Arnold |
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| I. |
| II. | BOOK II.
The Magus. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Light of the World or The Great Consummation |  |
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BOOK II. The Magus.
93
The writing of the silken roll was this,
In Syriac set fair; with much soft phrase,
Of Salutation, and high courtesies
Precedent: then she read:
In Syriac set fair; with much soft phrase,
Of Salutation, and high courtesies
Precedent: then she read:
“One nowise meet—
Except for humbleness and gravity—
To kiss the latchet of her shoe who walked
Closest and dearest of His nearest friends,
With Jesus, called The Nazarene, doth pray
Speech of the Lady Miriam. He comes,
By eight hard moons, from Indus to this sea
In quest of it; last quest of waning life,
Seeing thy servant numbereth fourscore years,
Ill-apt for journeyings. A slave lays these
Before thy feet; himself, thy slave, awaits,
Making the Eight Prostrations.”
Except for humbleness and gravity—
To kiss the latchet of her shoe who walked
Closest and dearest of His nearest friends,
With Jesus, called The Nazarene, doth pray
Speech of the Lady Miriam. He comes,
By eight hard moons, from Indus to this sea
In quest of it; last quest of waning life,
Seeing thy servant numbereth fourscore years,
Ill-apt for journeyings. A slave lays these
94
Making the Eight Prostrations.”
Hearing that,—
Upon the morrow, for his errand's sake,
And for his years, and for fair courtesy,
She gave good answer, writing how her gates
Stood wide for such an one, and she herself
His handmaiden.
Upon the morrow, for his errand's sake,
And for his years, and for fair courtesy,
She gave good answer, writing how her gates
Stood wide for such an one, and she herself
His handmaiden.
Thereat, with goodly train
Of serving-men and beasts caparisoned,
Camels and riding asses—to her door
Came this far-travelled Elder; entered in
With silvered brows bowed low, and thin worn hands
Clasped meekly, palm to palm, before his breast—
The Indian way. Upon the pavement there
He placed his forehead, and, in soft wise, spake:
Of serving-men and beasts caparisoned,
Camels and riding asses—to her door
Came this far-travelled Elder; entered in
With silvered brows bowed low, and thin worn hands
Clasped meekly, palm to palm, before his breast—
The Indian way. Upon the pavement there
He placed his forehead, and, in soft wise, spake:
95
“Art thou that Miriam of Magdala
Whose name is borne to us with Name of Him
That was the Teacher here; and wrought great works;
And died at last the death upon the Cross,
Three spring-times back, thyself beholding this?”
Whose name is borne to us with Name of Him
That was the Teacher here; and wrought great works;
And died at last the death upon the Cross,
Three spring-times back, thyself beholding this?”
And Mary said: “My name with His great Name
Was no more worthy to keep company
Than the pale fire-fly with the risen sun!
Yet am I she who in His glorious light
Through two years dwelled, and breathed the blessëd air
Sweet with His breath, and in these happy ears
Took the great music of His wisdom. Sir!
How shall this stead you? and what purposes
Brought thy most honourable feet so far?”
Was no more worthy to keep company
Than the pale fire-fly with the risen sun!
Yet am I she who in His glorious light
Through two years dwelled, and breathed the blessëd air
Sweet with His breath, and in these happy ears
Took the great music of His wisdom. Sir!
How shall this stead you? and what purposes
Brought thy most honourable feet so far?”
He made reply: “I alone live, of Three
Who many winters past, came to thy land
Led by a strange white Star, burst suddenly
New from the spangled purple of the Night:
And, while we read the sky, our knowledge grew
That this beamed token of a Teacher born
Illumining the world, as that great Star
Shot its fair splendours far: But loving Light,
And always seeking Light—as taught of Buddh—
We journeyed hither from our Indian hills
Wending to Bethlehem; and found that Babe
Whom thou hast known as Man, divinely signed
By praise and portent to be Whom we sought.
So, at those little feet we laid our gifts,
Worshipping, and we looked upon the face—
Tender and pure—of Her that bore the Babe;
Then, warned betimes of Herod's dark design,
Homeward returned. There, while the years went by,
Came presently, borne by the Caravans,
Word of this Wonder grown; and, to our minds,
The gold and silk and myrrh of all their bales
Counted but dross to what was wafted us
Of loftiest wisdom and large doctrines given
To mend the old. But those that came with me
Beforetimes, died; desiring to know this;
And I myself die soon,—which is not feared
By such as follow great Lord Buddha's Law.
Yet had I will unquenchable to learn
The setting of that Star of Men, whose rise
My younger eyes beheld. Therefore, once more
Over this weary way my steps have passed,
To hear before I die. And, when men said
In Magdal, by the Lake of Galilee,
She dwelleth, who did love and serve Him most,
My face I turned, sweet Lady! to thy gate,
And, by thy graciousness emboldened now,
I make my prayer.”
Who many winters past, came to thy land
Led by a strange white Star, burst suddenly
New from the spangled purple of the Night:
96
That this beamed token of a Teacher born
Illumining the world, as that great Star
Shot its fair splendours far: But loving Light,
And always seeking Light—as taught of Buddh—
We journeyed hither from our Indian hills
Wending to Bethlehem; and found that Babe
Whom thou hast known as Man, divinely signed
By praise and portent to be Whom we sought.
So, at those little feet we laid our gifts,
Worshipping, and we looked upon the face—
Tender and pure—of Her that bore the Babe;
Then, warned betimes of Herod's dark design,
Homeward returned. There, while the years went by,
Came presently, borne by the Caravans,
Word of this Wonder grown; and, to our minds,
The gold and silk and myrrh of all their bales
Counted but dross to what was wafted us
Of loftiest wisdom and large doctrines given
97
Beforetimes, died; desiring to know this;
And I myself die soon,—which is not feared
By such as follow great Lord Buddha's Law.
Yet had I will unquenchable to learn
The setting of that Star of Men, whose rise
My younger eyes beheld. Therefore, once more
Over this weary way my steps have passed,
To hear before I die. And, when men said
In Magdal, by the Lake of Galilee,
She dwelleth, who did love and serve Him most,
My face I turned, sweet Lady! to thy gate,
And, by thy graciousness emboldened now,
I make my prayer.”
“What prayer?” soft she replied,
Lifting, and leading him with tender hand,
As daughter doth her sire, to that raised seat
Upon the leewân.
Lifting, and leading him with tender hand,
As daughter doth her sire, to that raised seat
Upon the leewân.
98
Then he said: “Mine ears
Hunger to know, what thou canst best impart,
The deeds thy Jesus did, the words He spoke,
The ways He walked, the manner of His days,
And of their close, and what it is they tell,—
Strange and unheard before,—how, after death
He was seen living. Talk of such new things
Came to us by the merchants, making trade
From ours to yours. One sate upon a Mount
Which hangs above thy town; and heard Him speak
Words to a multitude, whose echoes faint—
All so far-off—were heavenly; like the musk
Which keeps his fragrance through a thousand leagues.
One, selling spices in Jerusalem,
Caught, as he lay at Bethany, some waft
Of some wight, fetched to breath again, being dead;
—An ‘Eleazar,’ townsman of the place:—
And yet another, wending from the sea,
Met Him in Tyre, and had it from the mouth
Of a Sidonian woman, how He healed
Her child—being distant far—with one strong word.
Yet, more than any marvels, would I learn
What truths He taught beyond those truths we know
Of our Lord Buddha. Such my humble prayer,
And hither have I journeyed, hoping this.”
Hunger to know, what thou canst best impart,
The deeds thy Jesus did, the words He spoke,
The ways He walked, the manner of His days,
And of their close, and what it is they tell,—
Strange and unheard before,—how, after death
He was seen living. Talk of such new things
Came to us by the merchants, making trade
From ours to yours. One sate upon a Mount
Which hangs above thy town; and heard Him speak
Words to a multitude, whose echoes faint—
All so far-off—were heavenly; like the musk
Which keeps his fragrance through a thousand leagues.
One, selling spices in Jerusalem,
Caught, as he lay at Bethany, some waft
Of some wight, fetched to breath again, being dead;
—An ‘Eleazar,’ townsman of the place:—
And yet another, wending from the sea,
Met Him in Tyre, and had it from the mouth
99
Her child—being distant far—with one strong word.
Yet, more than any marvels, would I learn
What truths He taught beyond those truths we know
Of our Lord Buddha. Such my humble prayer,
And hither have I journeyed, hoping this.”
The light of larger love than shines for Earth
Made beautiful her eyes, while at his knee
She bowed; and kissed his hands; and reverently
Spake: “Surely thou art one He would have praised,
Desiring truth; and He hath bidden us
Declare what truth we know. Small wit I have
To tell a tenth part of the sweetness poured
From those dear lips; yet, what I saw and heard
Gladly shall I recite. Sojourn, I pray,
Here, with thy servants, for a space; and take
Rest from that too long road!”
Made beautiful her eyes, while at his knee
She bowed; and kissed his hands; and reverently
Spake: “Surely thou art one He would have praised,
Desiring truth; and He hath bidden us
Declare what truth we know. Small wit I have
To tell a tenth part of the sweetness poured
From those dear lips; yet, what I saw and heard
Gladly shall I recite. Sojourn, I pray,
Here, with thy servants, for a space; and take
Rest from that too long road!”
100
Thus did it fall
That, day by day for six fair friendly days,
The Lady and the Indian Magus sate
In gentle converse: Mary nowise loath
With Memory's spell to fetch the good hours back
When He was near; and that grave Eastern sage
Listening more close, to catch the least of it,
Than lover for the last words of the loved.
And where they sate the place was suitable
For lofty talk. A cool, white paven Court
Shut by high walls from noise of the bazaar,
With fountains tinkling on the veiny stones;
And trickling basins, where the silvery fins
Of fishes fanned; and crimson lotus-cups
Lolled on the water; and papyrus spread
Her filmy fingers; and in painted jars
Citron and oleander spread around
Delicious odours; and, with fearless wing,
The friendly silken swallow, nest-building,
Came and went lightsome, through the latticed stone;
Where rounded arches let the blue sky in
And one might see a topmost palm-branch wave.
There, on the soft-piled carpets, sadly-glad,
Told she the Master's story, as I tell.
That, day by day for six fair friendly days,
The Lady and the Indian Magus sate
In gentle converse: Mary nowise loath
With Memory's spell to fetch the good hours back
When He was near; and that grave Eastern sage
Listening more close, to catch the least of it,
Than lover for the last words of the loved.
And where they sate the place was suitable
For lofty talk. A cool, white paven Court
Shut by high walls from noise of the bazaar,
With fountains tinkling on the veiny stones;
And trickling basins, where the silvery fins
Of fishes fanned; and crimson lotus-cups
Lolled on the water; and papyrus spread
Her filmy fingers; and in painted jars
Citron and oleander spread around
Delicious odours; and, with fearless wing,
The friendly silken swallow, nest-building,
101
Where rounded arches let the blue sky in
And one might see a topmost palm-branch wave.
There, on the soft-piled carpets, sadly-glad,
Told she the Master's story, as I tell.
“What was, in the beginning of these things,
Scantly I know by hearing; and such word
As, sometimes, from the brothers of my Lord,
Or from His Mother, fell. But those not apt
Greatly to speak; since, well-nigh to the end,
Scant honour found He in His father's house:
And She who bore Him—blessëd beyond all
Of mortal mothers—bore a load besides
Of love and fear, wonder and reverence,
So heavy on her heart that her still lips
Were locked as if an Angel held them close.
Only you saw, if Heaven should seek on Earth
Fit Mother for its Messenger of grace,
Fit womb to lock such precious treasure safe,
These were the eyes,—communing with the skies—
That was the face,—tender and true and pure;—
There was the breast,—beautiful, sinless, sweet—
This was the frame,—majestic, maidenly—
And these the soft strong hands, and those the arms,
And those the knees; bent daily in meek prayer—
Whereto the Eternal Love would needs commit
The flower of Humankind to bud and blow.
Scantly I know by hearing; and such word
As, sometimes, from the brothers of my Lord,
Or from His Mother, fell. But those not apt
Greatly to speak; since, well-nigh to the end,
Scant honour found He in His father's house:
And She who bore Him—blessëd beyond all
Of mortal mothers—bore a load besides
Of love and fear, wonder and reverence,
So heavy on her heart that her still lips
Were locked as if an Angel held them close.
Only you saw, if Heaven should seek on Earth
102
Fit womb to lock such precious treasure safe,
These were the eyes,—communing with the skies—
That was the face,—tender and true and pure;—
There was the breast,—beautiful, sinless, sweet—
This was the frame,—majestic, maidenly—
And these the soft strong hands, and those the arms,
And those the knees; bent daily in meek prayer—
Whereto the Eternal Love would needs commit
The flower of Humankind to bud and blow.
“I, who have been that which He found me, hide
My stained cheeks in my hands, speaking of her
Who showed so noble, humble, heavenly,
So virginal and motherly; so fair,
The Rose of Women. Sir! if thou should'st pluck
A thousand lilies here in Galilee
One would show whitest silver; one would have
Most gold at heart. And, Sir! if thou should'st fetch
A thousand pearls up from thy Arab Sea
One would gleam brightest, best! The queenliest gem,
The choicest bloom, would happen suddenly;
Unlooked for! What hath made them perfect, none
Wotteth, no more than where the fount will rise
Amid a hundred hollows of the grass
Whence the stream starts; no more than which shall be—
Of cedar-apples shed by myriads
When sea-winds shake the groves on Lebanon—
The chosen one to shoot, and grow, and spread
A roof of dark green glory o'er the hill.
In such wise, as I dare to deem, He came
Of purest Mother Perfect Child, begot
Divinelier, surely, than we know; arrived
In this world,—of the many worlds,—by path
Leading to birth as new, as sweet, as strange
As what His dear feet opened past the Tomb.
If we should strive to say in mortal speech
Where He was Man, and why much more than Man,
The earthly words would mar the Heavenly truth.
Love tells it best in her simplicity;
And Worship in his deepest silences.
My stained cheeks in my hands, speaking of her
Who showed so noble, humble, heavenly,
So virginal and motherly; so fair,
The Rose of Women. Sir! if thou should'st pluck
A thousand lilies here in Galilee
One would show whitest silver; one would have
Most gold at heart. And, Sir! if thou should'st fetch
103
One would gleam brightest, best! The queenliest gem,
The choicest bloom, would happen suddenly;
Unlooked for! What hath made them perfect, none
Wotteth, no more than where the fount will rise
Amid a hundred hollows of the grass
Whence the stream starts; no more than which shall be—
Of cedar-apples shed by myriads
When sea-winds shake the groves on Lebanon—
The chosen one to shoot, and grow, and spread
A roof of dark green glory o'er the hill.
In such wise, as I dare to deem, He came
Of purest Mother Perfect Child, begot
Divinelier, surely, than we know; arrived
In this world,—of the many worlds,—by path
Leading to birth as new, as sweet, as strange
As what His dear feet opened past the Tomb.
If we should strive to say in mortal speech
104
The earthly words would mar the Heavenly truth.
Love tells it best in her simplicity;
And Worship in his deepest silences.
“Thou knowest of the Birth, and how there fell
Lauds out of Heaven to hail Him, and high songs
Of peace, and comfortable years to come:
And of the bitter Prince; the murdered babes,
The cry of childless mothers. How they fled—
Mary and Joseph—to the Land of Nile,
By Hebron and by Ziph, sore-toiling south
Over the Brook of Egypt. On their way
'Tis told the palm-trees stooped to give them fruit;
That dragons of the Desert slid their scales—
Shamed to be deadly—into cleft and den:
That robbers, by the road, flung spear and sword
Down on the sand, and laid their fierce brows there,
Convinced of evil by mere majesty
Of Babe and Mother. And dry Roses bloomed
Back into beauty, when their garments brushed
The Rose-bush; and a wayside sycamore
Beneath whose leaves they rested, moved his boughs
From noon till evening with the moving sun
To make them shade. And, coming nigh to On—
Where stands the House of Ra,—its mighty god,
Cut in black porphyry, prodigious, feared,
Fell from his seat. But if all this be so
I wot not.
Lauds out of Heaven to hail Him, and high songs
Of peace, and comfortable years to come:
And of the bitter Prince; the murdered babes,
The cry of childless mothers. How they fled—
Mary and Joseph—to the Land of Nile,
By Hebron and by Ziph, sore-toiling south
Over the Brook of Egypt. On their way
'Tis told the palm-trees stooped to give them fruit;
That dragons of the Desert slid their scales—
Shamed to be deadly—into cleft and den:
That robbers, by the road, flung spear and sword
Down on the sand, and laid their fierce brows there,
Convinced of evil by mere majesty
105
Back into beauty, when their garments brushed
The Rose-bush; and a wayside sycamore
Beneath whose leaves they rested, moved his boughs
From noon till evening with the moving sun
To make them shade. And, coming nigh to On—
Where stands the House of Ra,—its mighty god,
Cut in black porphyry, prodigious, feared,
Fell from his seat. But if all this be so
I wot not.
“Two years sojourned they by Nile:
Then Herod died, and Archelaus ruled
Judæa, and Antipas in Galilee;
And to the parts of Galilee they came,
Home to their city, white-roofed Nazareth.”
Then Herod died, and Archelaus ruled
Judæa, and Antipas in Galilee;
And to the parts of Galilee they came,
Home to their city, white-roofed Nazareth.”
The Indian said: “I passed by Nazareth,
Riding from Esdraelon that steep path
Where your hills open.”
Riding from Esdraelon that steep path
Where your hills open.”
106
“Thou hast thereby seen”—
Mary replied:—“the place which was His own
Those thirty years of holy quietude
When He was growing to His manhood fair,
And the birds knew Him, and the fields, and flowers;
But His world knew Him not. For we, and all
Went foolish, wondering at Jerusalem,
And Rome and Athens; not the little town
More great than these by that one lowly hut.
And thou hast thereby viewed what face His Earth
Morning and eve turned towards Him, showing Him
More love than we, by silent loveliness.
Thou saw'st, from His own hill, how Carmel plunged
Its broad foot in the tideless hyacinth Sea,
And how, to eastward, glad with groves and streams,
Rose Tabor, rounded like a breast; what leagues
Of grey and golden plains, fading to blue,
Stretched beyond Kishon, under Endor, Nain,
Down to Megiddo with her twofold peak,
And Gilboa, dry and smooth; and Sulem's slope;
And, between Sulem and soft Tabor, glimpse
Of Jordan's speed, with sunlit ramps beyond
Fencing the Desert. These did feed His eyes:
Here was His world, almost the all He saw.
The Sun, whose golden mandare well He knew,
Showed Him no more than this, of all His Earth;
The Stars, watching Him grow a star, to save,
Lighted no larger tract for His mild eyes.
Only that white town and those hills around,
Carmel and Tabor, as thou sawest them rise;
And here the Lake, and there the shining Sea.
Yet, from thy camel's saddle, thou could'st note
How fair and gracious was the land, made good
With grass and blooms, and clad in fruitful green,
Pasture and tilth; and every channel fringed
With rosy lanes of oleander sprays;
And every hollow thick with oak, and fig,
Palm, and pomegranate—where the tree-doves coo,
The crested hoopoe flits; the roller-bird
Lights the dark thicket with his burning blues;
The water-tortoise winnows the clear stream;
The white cranes watch their shadows in the pool;
The fish leap, red and silver; and the fox
Plays with her cubs, where lines of trellised vines
Climb the grey crags. A goodly land and still,
Habited by a people, pastoral,
Simple and poor; owning for wealth their skies,
Their Sea, their streams, and mountains.”
Mary replied:—“the place which was His own
Those thirty years of holy quietude
When He was growing to His manhood fair,
And the birds knew Him, and the fields, and flowers;
But His world knew Him not. For we, and all
Went foolish, wondering at Jerusalem,
And Rome and Athens; not the little town
More great than these by that one lowly hut.
And thou hast thereby viewed what face His Earth
Morning and eve turned towards Him, showing Him
More love than we, by silent loveliness.
Thou saw'st, from His own hill, how Carmel plunged
Its broad foot in the tideless hyacinth Sea,
And how, to eastward, glad with groves and streams,
Rose Tabor, rounded like a breast; what leagues
Of grey and golden plains, fading to blue,
Stretched beyond Kishon, under Endor, Nain,
Down to Megiddo with her twofold peak,
107
And, between Sulem and soft Tabor, glimpse
Of Jordan's speed, with sunlit ramps beyond
Fencing the Desert. These did feed His eyes:
Here was His world, almost the all He saw.
The Sun, whose golden mandare well He knew,
Showed Him no more than this, of all His Earth;
The Stars, watching Him grow a star, to save,
Lighted no larger tract for His mild eyes.
Only that white town and those hills around,
Carmel and Tabor, as thou sawest them rise;
And here the Lake, and there the shining Sea.
Yet, from thy camel's saddle, thou could'st note
How fair and gracious was the land, made good
With grass and blooms, and clad in fruitful green,
Pasture and tilth; and every channel fringed
With rosy lanes of oleander sprays;
And every hollow thick with oak, and fig,
Palm, and pomegranate—where the tree-doves coo,
108
Lights the dark thicket with his burning blues;
The water-tortoise winnows the clear stream;
The white cranes watch their shadows in the pool;
The fish leap, red and silver; and the fox
Plays with her cubs, where lines of trellised vines
Climb the grey crags. A goodly land and still,
Habited by a people, pastoral,
Simple and poor; owning for wealth their skies,
Their Sea, their streams, and mountains.”
“Nay! I saw,”
The Magus said: “with eyes rejoiced, your hills
Which follow well the sorrowful burnt rocks
Belting Jerusalem.”
The Magus said: “with eyes rejoiced, your hills
Which follow well the sorrowful burnt rocks
Belting Jerusalem.”
“Aye!”—she went on—
“Thither, each year, at time of Passover,
He wended with His parents; and would see
Gannim and Sichem—where the lowland creeps,
Under the uplands, into narrowed green,
Like lake made river; with those crests for coasts
Ebal, Gerîzim; and by Gibeah
And Bethel, and the Valley of the Thorns,
To Scopus—to the brow where, white and gold,
Under sloped Olivet, the Temple rears
Her stately glory. And the Child would pass
Into the City's midst, and mingle there
With Jew and Gentile, in the thronged bazaar;
Would mark, above the sanctuary gate,
Herod's great Eagle; and the keen steel spears
Of Roman Annius, or Coponius,
Glitter around the black Prætorium.
Would know His time come nigh with Zion's shame,
And note the Pharisee and Sadducee,
Priest, scribe, and lawyer, feeding hungry souls
With husks of law. Nay, and would oft repair
Within the Temple; and was one day found
Astrayed, sitting amid the Rabbim there—
Hillel, and Shammai, and Gamaliel,
Ben Zacchai, Ben Uzziel, wise Nakdimon,
Arimathæan Joseph—all our best—
Hearing and asking questions. Yet none knew,
For all their wisdom and their wintry hairs,
That sweet Boy in the Syrian Country-frock,
With heavenly eyes and mouth of music, sent
To put aside the ancient scrolls, the Law,
The Hagathôth and Halacôth;—to break
Their chains, and into living spirit melt
Their dead cold letter.”
“Thither, each year, at time of Passover,
He wended with His parents; and would see
109
Under the uplands, into narrowed green,
Like lake made river; with those crests for coasts
Ebal, Gerîzim; and by Gibeah
And Bethel, and the Valley of the Thorns,
To Scopus—to the brow where, white and gold,
Under sloped Olivet, the Temple rears
Her stately glory. And the Child would pass
Into the City's midst, and mingle there
With Jew and Gentile, in the thronged bazaar;
Would mark, above the sanctuary gate,
Herod's great Eagle; and the keen steel spears
Of Roman Annius, or Coponius,
Glitter around the black Prætorium.
Would know His time come nigh with Zion's shame,
And note the Pharisee and Sadducee,
Priest, scribe, and lawyer, feeding hungry souls
With husks of law. Nay, and would oft repair
Within the Temple; and was one day found
110
Hillel, and Shammai, and Gamaliel,
Ben Zacchai, Ben Uzziel, wise Nakdimon,
Arimathæan Joseph—all our best—
Hearing and asking questions. Yet none knew,
For all their wisdom and their wintry hairs,
That sweet Boy in the Syrian Country-frock,
With heavenly eyes and mouth of music, sent
To put aside the ancient scrolls, the Law,
The Hagathôth and Halacôth;—to break
Their chains, and into living spirit melt
Their dead cold letter.”
“Ever back He came
Glad—so I deem—to sunlit Galilee:
Not bowing, not consenting, nowise bound
To that hard God, served in Jerusalem,
Jehovah of the Law, the jealous Lord
Who ‘eye for eye, and tooth for tooth’ decreed,
And loved the bloody sacrifice, and wrought
Good to His Tribes, but ill to enemies.
Day by day, wandering in those folded hills,
A statelier Temple in His heart He built;
A happier altar reared; a truer God
Enshrined; that Presence and that Power Who fills
All hearts with what is Life and what is Love,
And what endures when seen things pass away:
Nameless; or if, for human needs, we name
Them—from the narrow treasury of our tongues—
The highest, holiest, dearest, closest, best
Of Earth's weak words. Ofttimes, in later hours
When lack was of some name, He called that Spirit
Which is the All, and makes the wide seas roll,
The blue sky bend, the clustered planets shine,
The dead things come to life, the live things live;
That Being, which,—ever with Him,—was as He,
And, largest, fullest, in His own sure soul
Dwelt immanent—‘Our Father.’”
Glad—so I deem—to sunlit Galilee:
Not bowing, not consenting, nowise bound
To that hard God, served in Jerusalem,
Jehovah of the Law, the jealous Lord
Who ‘eye for eye, and tooth for tooth’ decreed,
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Good to His Tribes, but ill to enemies.
Day by day, wandering in those folded hills,
A statelier Temple in His heart He built;
A happier altar reared; a truer God
Enshrined; that Presence and that Power Who fills
All hearts with what is Life and what is Love,
And what endures when seen things pass away:
Nameless; or if, for human needs, we name
Them—from the narrow treasury of our tongues—
The highest, holiest, dearest, closest, best
Of Earth's weak words. Ofttimes, in later hours
When lack was of some name, He called that Spirit
Which is the All, and makes the wide seas roll,
The blue sky bend, the clustered planets shine,
The dead things come to life, the live things live;
That Being, which,—ever with Him,—was as He,
And, largest, fullest, in His own sure soul
Dwelt immanent—‘Our Father.’”
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Softly brake
The Magus in: “Om, Amitaya! Oh,
The Immeasurable!—What word but doeth wrong
Clothing the Eternal in the forms of Now?
Our great Lord Buddha would not name Him once,
As much,—as little,—‘Mother,’ ‘Lover,’ ‘Friend,’
As ‘Father;’ being not He nor she, nor aught
Which may be compassed by an earthly word;
But Thinker, Thought, Maker and Made, in one!”
The Magus in: “Om, Amitaya! Oh,
The Immeasurable!—What word but doeth wrong
Clothing the Eternal in the forms of Now?
Our great Lord Buddha would not name Him once,
As much,—as little,—‘Mother,’ ‘Lover,’ ‘Friend,’
As ‘Father;’ being not He nor she, nor aught
Which may be compassed by an earthly word;
But Thinker, Thought, Maker and Made, in one!”
“My Friend is wise with many years, and lore
Of the large East,” she said. “If no name be”
Will not the weak souls say ‘nought is to name’?”
Of the large East,” she said. “If no name be”
Will not the weak souls say ‘nought is to name’?”
“They say so! they will say so!” answered he,
“Yet is the Parabrahm unspeakable!”
“Yet is the Parabrahm unspeakable!”
“Tell me a little how thy Scriptures call
This Parabrahm”—she said.
This Parabrahm”—she said.
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The Indian mused,
And then replied: “We have a scroll which saith
‘Worship, but name no name! blind are those eyes
Which deem th' unmanifested manifest,
Not comprehending Me in My True Self,
Imperishable, viewless, undeclared.
Hidden behind My magic veil of shows
I am not seen at all. Name not My Name!’
Also a verse runs in our Holy Writ:
‘Richer than heavenly fruit on Vcdas growing;
Greater than gifts; better than prayer or fast;
Such sacred silence is! Man, this way knowing,
Comes to the utmost, perfect, Peace at last!’
Yet pause not, gracious Daughter! for mine ears
Drink with an unslaked thirst thy precious tale.”
“‘God is a Spirit! they who worship Him
And then replied: “We have a scroll which saith
‘Worship, but name no name! blind are those eyes
Which deem th' unmanifested manifest,
Not comprehending Me in My True Self,
Imperishable, viewless, undeclared.
Hidden behind My magic veil of shows
I am not seen at all. Name not My Name!’
Also a verse runs in our Holy Writ:
‘Richer than heavenly fruit on Vcdas growing;
Greater than gifts; better than prayer or fast;
Such sacred silence is! Man, this way knowing,
Comes to the utmost, perfect, Peace at last!’
Yet pause not, gracious Daughter! for mine ears
Drink with an unslaked thirst thy precious tale.”
In spirit and in truth must worship Him!’
He spake that, too!”—Mary went on,—and then
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In Nazareth: and Joseph died; and need
Came that He take, with all humility,
The load of common lives. So in that town
Hard by the fountain; in the house I know,—
(Oh me! I passed with Pappus by its porch;
We in the gilded litters, He at toil!)
His trade He plied, a Carpenter; and built
Doors, where folk come and go, unto this hour,
Not wotting how the hands which wrought their doors
Unbarred Death's gate by Love's high sacrifice;—
Tables whereon folks set their meat, and eat,
Heedless of who was “Bread of Life,” and gave
Such food that whoso eateth hungereth not.
And in those little lanes of Nazareth
Each morn His holy feet would come and go
While He bore planks and beams, whose back must bear
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Resting from labour, with those patient feet
Deep in white wood-dust, and the long curled shreds
Shorn by His plane,—He would turn innocent eyes
Gazing far past the sunset to that world
He came from, and must go to; nigh to Him,—
Nigh unto us, albeit we see it not;
Whereof Life is the curtain, and mute Death
Herald and Doorkeeper. One eve, they say,
The shadow of His outstretched arms,—cast strong
By Sun-down's low-shot light,—painted a cross
Black on the wall; and, Mary, trembling, drew
Her garment o'er the lattice. But He spake:
‘Near unto Me is near to loss and death;
And far from Me is far from Life and gain!’
There is a maid of those that love Him here
Sings on the minnîm a poor song of this,
If thou wilt hear; while those about us bring
Olives and grapes, and we a little rest.”
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Tuning the strings, and, to their melancholy,
Sang softly of “The Shadow and the Light.”
“Meek and sweet in the sun He stands,
Drinking the cool of His Syrian skies;
Lifting to Heaven toil-wearied hands,
Seeing His Father with those pure eyes.
Drinking the cool of His Syrian skies;
Lifting to Heaven toil-wearied hands,
Seeing His Father with those pure eyes.
Gazing from trestle, and bench, and saw,
To the kingdom kept for His rule above;
Oh, Jesus, Lord! we see with awe;
Ah, Mary's Son! we look with love!
To the kingdom kept for His rule above;
Oh, Jesus, Lord! we see with awe;
Ah, Mary's Son! we look with love!
We know what message that Eventide
Bore, when it painted the Roman cross,
And the purples of night-fall prophesied
The hyssop to Him, and to us the loss.
Bore, when it painted the Roman cross,
And the purples of night-fall prophesied
The hyssop to Him, and to us the loss.
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The crown which the Magi brought to her,
It made a vision of brows that bleed;
And the censer, with spikenard, and balm and myrrh,
It lay on the wall like the Sponge and Reed.
It made a vision of brows that bleed;
And the censer, with spikenard, and balm and myrrh,
It lay on the wall like the Sponge and Reed.
But now Thou art in the Shadowless Land,
Behind the light of the setting Sun;
And the worst is forgotten which Evil planned
And the best which Love's glory could win is won.”
“Yet, on His seldom-saddened countenance”—
Behind the light of the setting Sun;
And the worst is forgotten which Evil planned
And the best which Love's glory could win is won.”
Mary went on—“no shadows lay! He saw
By sunlight and by starlight, steadfastly,
That radiance of the kingdom, that high noon
Of Life and Love, which, shining inwardly,
Hath never any night. Therein He dwelt
Prince of the Heavenly purple; Heir and Son
Of spheres eternal and invisible,
Where meek souls sit the highest, and the poor
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And, ever in His spirit, sage and calm
That which we name not habited, the sense
Of an abiding Presence, Fatherly,
Motherly, Friend-like, Lover-like; more dear
Than dearest ones on Earth, more near than blood
To the beating heart, or neck-vein to the neck;
More boundless than the immeasurable blue;
More mighty than a thousand-bolted Jove
Throned on some new Olympus, whose vast head
Smiteth the stars; more sweet to love and serve
Than dulcet-speaking mistress; more to trust
Than truest friend; more tender than the arms
Of nursing mother; more forgiving, fond,
Kindred, and kind, than Father. Yea, Great God
Making us gods and taking us to Him.
Wherefore, grace spread around Him, and fair peace
Coming and going; and the air grew glad
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Of townsfolk, and of women at the well—
Not knowing wherefore,—followed Him; and tongues
Were stilled, not knowing why, if He did speak.
For then, already, grew that mystery
Of wisdom in Him, and that word which seemed
Higher than Earth's. Afterwards, people told
Strange tales of those hid days,—how, at His toil,
Touching a plank, it stretched to rightful length,
Or shortened, at His will—the dead wood quick
To live again and serve Him. How He made
Birds out of clay, and clapped His hands, and lo!
They chirruped, spread their wings, and flew away;
And how in month of Adar, Syrian boys
Playing in Nazareth—as thou hast seen—
With girdled frocks, striped tunics, and feet bare—
Found Him, and crowned Him with white lily-buds,
And put a stick of lilies in His hand,
And set Him on the hillside, bending knee
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Halt and bow lowly, crying: ‘Hither come,
Worship our King, then wend upon thy way!’
Surely, as thus we heard, at Nazareth
Full soft and holy sped the happy time
In the white hut, hard by that well, where yet
Wives come and go with pitchers, dawn and eve,
Who came and went with Him, and helped Him draw
Fair water thence, and bear it, dutiful,
To where His Mother wrought her household chares—
Silent, and wondering what should fall; and doves
Sunned on the roof their silver wings, and vines
Climbed, glad to glorify His lowly door.
Within thou wottest well that little rooms,
What chest of wood, gay-painted; on a shelf
What quilted beds uprolled; what pans and cups—
Copper, and brass and clay,—ranged duly round
With great jar at the back, by flag-leaves shut
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Hatchet and saw and nails laid in their place,
And the low table spread with peasant's food,
Rice and the libbân, and a common bowl.
Afterwards, peaceful sleep—yet, had men eyes
Sleep watched by wondering eyes of wakeful stars,
And guarded, out of that new-opening Heaven
By glorious Angels, golden sentinels,
Keeping Him safe, whose words shall save the world.”
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