The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems By James D. Burns ... Second Edition |
 |
 |
|
THE PEASANT AND THE POET. |
|
 | The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems |  |
85
THE PEASANT AND THE POET.
How diverse are the resting-points of thought
Whence mortal minds, all quickened by one breath,
Behold this glorious world!
Whence mortal minds, all quickened by one breath,
Behold this glorious world!
The Peasant sate
Under an alder by a river's side
At noon. It was the warm and pleasant time
Of early summer. All the air was sweet
With breath of violets, and the blackbird spoke
To the hushed woods at intervals, or threw
Out of the thicket snatches of sweet song
In the caprices of his fearless joy.
A gladsome life was humming in the air
And stirring in the grass; small insects swam
In eddying dances o'er the rippling stream,
Which shed a coolness round it;—but the eye
Of him who sat so near to Nature's heart
Was blank and dull,—his sluggish soul unstirred
By those strong pulses of abounding life.
Now looking anxiously from the thin clouds,
That flecked the soft blue sky, to an emerald patch
Of springing wheat, which had not for some days
Been watered by the small refreshing rains,
His brow was clouded with a deep distrust.
As thriving, but as churlish as the Jew
Who sheared his sheep in Carmel, he had reaped
His harvests from his youth, and never knew
The appointed course of nature fail,—but learned
No thankfulness. It was his wont to watch
And wear out the slow passage of the months
With sighing, and, untutored by the past,
To chide the sunshine for one ray too bright,
And count suspiciously the drops of rain.
Such minds, case-hardened in their selfishness,
Can take no view of mighty laws at work
Beyond the narrow limits of one grange
Or shire. They never balance private loss
Against the general gain,—nor apprehend
The genial mystery of life, and growth,
And fruitfulness, in even passage round
The world. They fret that highest Providence
Stands never at their middle point, ne'er marks
The several seasons off, nor intersects
The elements by lines as clear and sharp
As the degrees upon a weather-glass.
Under an alder by a river's side
At noon. It was the warm and pleasant time
Of early summer. All the air was sweet
With breath of violets, and the blackbird spoke
To the hushed woods at intervals, or threw
Out of the thicket snatches of sweet song
In the caprices of his fearless joy.
A gladsome life was humming in the air
And stirring in the grass; small insects swam
In eddying dances o'er the rippling stream,
Which shed a coolness round it;—but the eye
Of him who sat so near to Nature's heart
Was blank and dull,—his sluggish soul unstirred
By those strong pulses of abounding life.
86
That flecked the soft blue sky, to an emerald patch
Of springing wheat, which had not for some days
Been watered by the small refreshing rains,
His brow was clouded with a deep distrust.
As thriving, but as churlish as the Jew
Who sheared his sheep in Carmel, he had reaped
His harvests from his youth, and never knew
The appointed course of nature fail,—but learned
No thankfulness. It was his wont to watch
And wear out the slow passage of the months
With sighing, and, untutored by the past,
To chide the sunshine for one ray too bright,
And count suspiciously the drops of rain.
Such minds, case-hardened in their selfishness,
Can take no view of mighty laws at work
Beyond the narrow limits of one grange
Or shire. They never balance private loss
Against the general gain,—nor apprehend
The genial mystery of life, and growth,
And fruitfulness, in even passage round
The world. They fret that highest Providence
Stands never at their middle point, ne'er marks
The several seasons off, nor intersects
The elements by lines as clear and sharp
As the degrees upon a weather-glass.
87
No lesson had this vacant soul derived
From the deep symbols which the universe
Held ever in his eye,—no charm discerned
In its still varying aspects. For to him
The world was voiceless. Never to his heart
Came from its tuneful movement those accords
Which, through the lingering seasons, sound for those
Whose ears, by thoughtful discipline, incline
Unto its sweet and spiritual song.
From the deep symbols which the universe
Held ever in his eye,—no charm discerned
In its still varying aspects. For to him
The world was voiceless. Never to his heart
Came from its tuneful movement those accords
Which, through the lingering seasons, sound for those
Whose ears, by thoughtful discipline, incline
Unto its sweet and spiritual song.
Upon the further bank of the clear stream,
That wandered through the alders at his feet
With shallowy, lulling noise, rose a green slope
O'ergrown with golden broom,—the pleasant haunt
Of birds, whose voices rang through all the brake
In revelry of music. To this height
A youth now climbed, with light and buoyant step,
Crushing the thyme-blooms where they clustered low
Among the roots of grass, or sinking soft
In velvet mosses. He had walked within
Thy myrtle grove, O gentle Poesy!—
With old philosophies, sublimely taught
In Attic or in Alexandrian schools,
His strenuous soul had grappled. His dim lamp
Had shone beneath the starlight, while he bent
O'er pages wherein patient thought beholds
The image of the Future in the Past,—
Gleans mellow wisdom from the ripe-sheaved fruits
Of old experience,—and detects the springs
Of action, which, elastic and unworn,
Vibrate through all varieties of life,
Fulfil the will of sovereign Providence,
And move the world through darkness, fear, and change
Towards a brighter destiny.
That wandered through the alders at his feet
With shallowy, lulling noise, rose a green slope
O'ergrown with golden broom,—the pleasant haunt
Of birds, whose voices rang through all the brake
In revelry of music. To this height
A youth now climbed, with light and buoyant step,
Crushing the thyme-blooms where they clustered low
Among the roots of grass, or sinking soft
In velvet mosses. He had walked within
Thy myrtle grove, O gentle Poesy!—
With old philosophies, sublimely taught
In Attic or in Alexandrian schools,
His strenuous soul had grappled. His dim lamp
Had shone beneath the starlight, while he bent
O'er pages wherein patient thought beholds
88
Gleans mellow wisdom from the ripe-sheaved fruits
Of old experience,—and detects the springs
Of action, which, elastic and unworn,
Vibrate through all varieties of life,
Fulfil the will of sovereign Providence,
And move the world through darkness, fear, and change
Towards a brighter destiny.
To him
Earth still her look of ancient glory wore,
Nor faded was the rich empyreal light
From mountain, wood, and sea. His fervid mind
Was conscious of an impulse and a glow,—
Of stirring powers, whence, in some finer mood,
The radiance of imagination gleamed,
As the clear fire waves upwards from a soil
Instinct and quick with bubbling naphtha-springs;
And fancies trembled through it with a play
Of shifting hues, like needles of the frost
That sparkle in the sunlit Arctic air.
Not yet had chilling disappointment breathed
Upon his generous ardour, nor had Death
Within the charmèd circle of his hopes
Made threatening entrance, nor ingratitude
Shattered his faith in man. Unknown to him
Was that sharp sorrow which is born of Time,
Which, like the shadow, lengthens on our path
As life slopes from its noon. So now he girt
And braced his spirit for ennobling toil,
That, when the welcome summons came, he might
Play well his part upon the crowded stage.
The early summer dawn had called him up
To studious labour, cheerfully resumed;
And wearied now with unrelaxing thought,
He sauntered forth to pass no idle hour
Under the freshness of the open sky.
The beauty of this summer-festival
Of Nature stole into his inmost heart.
Afar, a soft blue film, a trembling bloom
Of light was on the landscape; Earth was hushed
As in a dream of its most innocent prime,
When it lay folded in the arms of God.
The sky was fair as that whose crystal air,
Oft on old holy twilights, angels clove
To meet with man, and droop their shining wings
By some clear lake of Eden.
Earth still her look of ancient glory wore,
Nor faded was the rich empyreal light
From mountain, wood, and sea. His fervid mind
Was conscious of an impulse and a glow,—
Of stirring powers, whence, in some finer mood,
The radiance of imagination gleamed,
As the clear fire waves upwards from a soil
Instinct and quick with bubbling naphtha-springs;
And fancies trembled through it with a play
Of shifting hues, like needles of the frost
That sparkle in the sunlit Arctic air.
Not yet had chilling disappointment breathed
Upon his generous ardour, nor had Death
Within the charmèd circle of his hopes
Made threatening entrance, nor ingratitude
Shattered his faith in man. Unknown to him
Was that sharp sorrow which is born of Time,
89
As life slopes from its noon. So now he girt
And braced his spirit for ennobling toil,
That, when the welcome summons came, he might
Play well his part upon the crowded stage.
The early summer dawn had called him up
To studious labour, cheerfully resumed;
And wearied now with unrelaxing thought,
He sauntered forth to pass no idle hour
Under the freshness of the open sky.
The beauty of this summer-festival
Of Nature stole into his inmost heart.
Afar, a soft blue film, a trembling bloom
Of light was on the landscape; Earth was hushed
As in a dream of its most innocent prime,
When it lay folded in the arms of God.
The sky was fair as that whose crystal air,
Oft on old holy twilights, angels clove
To meet with man, and droop their shining wings
By some clear lake of Eden.
'Twas as if
A mist which dimmed his eyes had passed away.
This effluence of glory lighting up
God's wide creation, raised in solemn joy
His mind to Him whose Spirit lives through all,
And gives all breath and bloom. As if he saw
The universe in God's immediate smile,
Silent and blessèd lying, he was moved
To thanksgiving far deeper than delight.
Still gazing there with eye insatiate,
And heart that beat with rapture near akin
To pain, he half-unconscious spoke aloud,
As the full current of his thoughts ran free:—
A mist which dimmed his eyes had passed away.
This effluence of glory lighting up
God's wide creation, raised in solemn joy
His mind to Him whose Spirit lives through all,
And gives all breath and bloom. As if he saw
90
Silent and blessèd lying, he was moved
To thanksgiving far deeper than delight.
Still gazing there with eye insatiate,
And heart that beat with rapture near akin
To pain, he half-unconscious spoke aloud,
As the full current of his thoughts ran free:—
“This visible world is the transparent woof
Whereon the spirit figures to itself
Its fleeting images. The forming mind
Creates and blends the colours, pencils out
The whole device of that mysterious web,
Whose rich entangled cipher represents
All spiritual light and shadow. Hence to some
The curtain of the universe is dyed
With black and purple hues; its sombre folds
Hang close and heavy, loading all with gloom,—
Or to some viewless influence move and shake,
Like vapours warping on a breeze remote.
In other eyes, it quivers as a blue
And lucid veil, investing forms of sense
With softer loveliness, and with a blush
Of tints more beautiful than those of dawn.
But 'tis the mind itself that radiates
This light, or spreads this darkness round the world.
The flakes of crimson cloud that drift at even
Through a clear sky, that undulates with waves
Of amber light,—the shadowy up-coming
Of evening through the element,—the slow
Arising of the moon behind a grove,—
The golden-mailèd legions of the sky,
Led on by that white star that shines so pure
And brilliant in its singleness,—the haze
Of sunlight on the sea, where water blends
With fluent air,—the glooms of summer woods,—
The misty blueness of the distant hills,—
Are beautiful; their fascination charms
The sense; but theirs is beauty of the mind
Not less than of the eye. To him who loves,—
The thought of the belovèd one, who lights
Both hemispheres of Memory and Hope,
Where Hope makes day, and Memory moonlit night,
Is blended with them all,—yea, beautifies
All nature with a lustre of its own.
And to the glance of him who lives by Faith,
Whose hopes have overspired the cloud of sense,
Whose heart still points to Heaven,—this glorious world
Is as a sacred page illuminate,
And charactered in stainless hues of light
With holy mysteries. Each form of life
Or growth,—each calm, unconscious mood of things
Fixed in eternal sameness, deep and still,—
Each changing aspect of creation's face,
Give nourishment to thoughts that live in things
Unseen. Each voice or sound that meets his ear
From hedge or woodland, vale or open field,
Touches some spring of feeling, or reveals
Some parable of truth. Again perchance
That Galilean scene of old will live
Upon the eye, when He whose mind could sound
The abysmal clearness of the thoughts of God,
Expounded His divine philosophy
By types familiar to the surface-glance
Of common men. Thus all that he beholds,
Becomes the sign of things whose archetypes
Are shrined for ever in the holy mount!”
Whereon the spirit figures to itself
Its fleeting images. The forming mind
Creates and blends the colours, pencils out
The whole device of that mysterious web,
Whose rich entangled cipher represents
All spiritual light and shadow. Hence to some
The curtain of the universe is dyed
With black and purple hues; its sombre folds
Hang close and heavy, loading all with gloom,—
Or to some viewless influence move and shake,
Like vapours warping on a breeze remote.
In other eyes, it quivers as a blue
And lucid veil, investing forms of sense
With softer loveliness, and with a blush
Of tints more beautiful than those of dawn.
But 'tis the mind itself that radiates
This light, or spreads this darkness round the world.
91
Through a clear sky, that undulates with waves
Of amber light,—the shadowy up-coming
Of evening through the element,—the slow
Arising of the moon behind a grove,—
The golden-mailèd legions of the sky,
Led on by that white star that shines so pure
And brilliant in its singleness,—the haze
Of sunlight on the sea, where water blends
With fluent air,—the glooms of summer woods,—
The misty blueness of the distant hills,—
Are beautiful; their fascination charms
The sense; but theirs is beauty of the mind
Not less than of the eye. To him who loves,—
The thought of the belovèd one, who lights
Both hemispheres of Memory and Hope,
Where Hope makes day, and Memory moonlit night,
Is blended with them all,—yea, beautifies
All nature with a lustre of its own.
And to the glance of him who lives by Faith,
Whose hopes have overspired the cloud of sense,
Whose heart still points to Heaven,—this glorious world
Is as a sacred page illuminate,
And charactered in stainless hues of light
With holy mysteries. Each form of life
92
Fixed in eternal sameness, deep and still,—
Each changing aspect of creation's face,
Give nourishment to thoughts that live in things
Unseen. Each voice or sound that meets his ear
From hedge or woodland, vale or open field,
Touches some spring of feeling, or reveals
Some parable of truth. Again perchance
That Galilean scene of old will live
Upon the eye, when He whose mind could sound
The abysmal clearness of the thoughts of God,
Expounded His divine philosophy
By types familiar to the surface-glance
Of common men. Thus all that he beholds,
Becomes the sign of things whose archetypes
Are shrined for ever in the holy mount!”
The Peasant listened to these words, and more,
Then spoken, which 'twere needless to rehearse.
“I have heard of such!” he said, and eyed the youth
Not without pity. To his heart untuned
They sounded like some idle rhapsody,
The loose-linked utterance of a dreamy mind.
Then spoken, which 'twere needless to rehearse.
“I have heard of such!” he said, and eyed the youth
Not without pity. To his heart untuned
They sounded like some idle rhapsody,
The loose-linked utterance of a dreamy mind.
So in mid-ocean two shell-crusted planks,
Wrenched on some night of tempest from the ribs
Of ships wrecked far asunder, meet and touch
A moment, drifted by the changeful winds
Or currents cross,—but only meet to part
For ever, and heave onwards restlessly
Over the trackless waves to opposite poles.
Wrenched on some night of tempest from the ribs
93
A moment, drifted by the changeful winds
Or currents cross,—but only meet to part
For ever, and heave onwards restlessly
Over the trackless waves to opposite poles.
| The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems | |