Mystic Trees :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mystic Trees

by Michael Field [i.e. K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper]

Field, Michael

[section]

HYSSOP

O TRINITY, THAT ART A BANK OF VIOLETS

I HAVE MOURNED UNTO YOU

THE FIVE SACRED WOUNDS

A CRUCIFIX

THE PASCHAL LAND

PARTING

ONE WAY OF HEARING MASS

WHITE PASSION-FLOWER

THOU COMEST DOWN TO DIE

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HYSSOP

O TRINITY, THAT ART A BANK OF VIOLETS

“Qui per Spiritum Sanctum semet ipsum obtulit immaculatum Deo.”

O trinity, that art a bank of violets,
Of thy first breath
Came the long sigh for death!
While Mary pondereth
What may the Angel's Salutation be—
Where there is no more Time, in Trinity,
The Holy Ghost begets,
Breathing as from a bank of violets,
That sweetness blowing through the Word
By which Christ is transferred
From Man unto the spotless Host,
That to His Father offereth
Himself from the deep spiceries of death.

THE PRESENTATION

They say it is a King
His Temple entering!

The great veil doth not rock
With gust and earthquake shock:

But all the air is stilled
As at a law fulfilled.

Dreams from their graves rise up—
Melchizedek with cup;

Abraham most glad of heart,
A little way apart.

Mary, to keep God's Word,
Brings Babe and turtle-bird.

Lo, Simeon draweth in,
And doth his song begin!

Great doom is for her Son,
And Mary's heart undone.

Oh, Simeon is blest,
Christ in his arms is prest!

Mary's sweet doves are slain;
She takes her Babe again:

And in her heart she knows
He will be slain as those:

And on her journey home
She feels God's Kingdom come.

MANY WATERS

“In Jordane lavit Christus ejus crimina.’

Dip Thou Thy glorious head
In Jordan's tide;
And every river-bed is sanctified.

Wring out Thy lovely locks
Against the beam:
We catch the shining drops from the mid-stream.

O Water from Thy brow!
Can we forget
It will shed blood enow in a great sweat?

All wonders on Thee wait;
All fountains pray
Thou shouldst lustrate and make them gay.

Yea, of their element
Thou dost design,
With a few drops content, to make us Thine.

Lift Thou Thy head, fair Priest!
By Kedron's brink
The roses are increast that dip and drink.

NUBES LUCIDA

I

O fair, fair beauty of Thy Son!
Vesture, a white and golden one!
O hair straight down, that lays
In such soft ways
About the brow!
Father, wilt Thou allow
This Thy Desire, the Doting of Thine eyes,
To die—in sacrifice?

II

Father, the rose of that fair rose,
The tender flower—wilt Thou not close
Phalanx of seraphim
Protecting Him
Against the will
Of these who wait to kill?
At the hill-base a troop of curs and knaves
Is come with staves.

III

Father, there breaks from Thee one sigh—
As women with reft hands put by
Some precious jewel-thing,
Relinquishing:

Christ stands alone
Sad, on some mountain-stone,
And gazeth down into the mountain's base,
As into a well's face.

IV

O Cloud, that dost so wrathful bend;
O lovely Flower for us to rend;
O victim most complete
Laid at our feet;
We lift the knife,
Sever the tender life,
And the great Cloud rolls back again content
Into the firmament!

HOW OFTEN

I

Philip has three loaves, but what are these?
Jesus has the cornfields in His hand—
All the store of Egypt's granaries:
And the multitude at ease
Sitteth on the green grass in its flower.

II

Lo, His guests!—there is a table spread:
Jesus has a fragment in His hand.
One by one He prays them to be fed
With this bit of broken Bread ...
And He sighs. It is the darkest hour.

THE WITNESS OF JOHN

He taketh us
On a high mountain, nor forsaketh us,
But turneth round upon us, glistening
In face and raiment, as He were a King.
In converse we discover at His side
Moses, Elias ... He is glorified,
The Son of God: and Peter would abide
Forever with these three, and prays to rear
Three tabernacles. And the light grows drear.
Some sin is on us that no wise we wist;
We are closed up as in God's very fist;
We cannot see: only there floats above,
Rumbling and murmuring as an angry love,
Some element in havoc that doth press
Against the idle word that Peter said.
I know not by what stroke,
Beneath that awful cloak,
Elias and the Law-giver are brought
To nothingness in the Eternal Thought:
For presently we are allowed,
Through adumbrations of the cloud,
To hear the Father's Voice in its caress,
As if from Chaos sped
Toward that belovèd Head—
Jealous and watered as of rain-drop tears
That Voice appears
In majesty on the cloud's breaking rim:
“Lo, this is my belovèd Son; hear Him!”

The Lord is glorified; we see
His Body as in glory it will be—
Nothing it lacks
Save of His Wounds the lovely tracks.

I, John, who lay upon His bosom, I
Must testify
I never saw Him—now
I see Him in the Father and rejoice:
He standeth meek amid His snows,
Flushed as a rose,
For we have heard that Voice.
How maiden in humility His brow!
Almost He whispereth “No word of this!
It is our secret: I should take amiss
That of this hour one word be said,
Peter, till I am risen from the dead.”
And, having spoken, He looks back on me,
And in an instant my theology
Is given: and I know the Word is God.

I HAVE MOURNED UNTO YOU

We have hushed all our sins away
To catch Thy breath as Thou dost pray.
How Thou dost mourn to us! What sound
Comes up to us as from the ground!

A voice it is of mysteries,
A cry as from deep-bruisèd trees;
And love, as when a hart doth pant,
And all the water-brooks are scant.

GETHSEMANE

I

There is a garden of deep roses spread,
A garden of deep roses: red and red
The culminating buds unclose:
I cannot find upon the bed a leaf of fallen rose.

II

These roses are as portions of one flower;
They congregate in unity of power—
Some in the rocks, some by the nook
Of cistus-trails that overhang, some washing by the brook.

III

Why are they here? So large of volume, great—
As swans from other birds take new estate—
Magnificent! Their glow confutes,
As they had plucked up rubies by the roots.

IV

What fête do they attend, holding their dense
Profusion back as unburnt frankincense?
A dark created round their blooms
Falleth, a loving dark to give their spices tombs.

V

O roses, in the dark your edges grow more bright!
Is there a moon—or light?
Some light must fall down and restore
Your garden to the dew and sweet of nights before.

VI

There is a moon—a moon? There is a face,
Bent down before those roses, of a grace
Most lovely in its charity ...
And angels up and down the memory.

VII

No man hath passed the door. I have mistook ...
Or did He enter crossing by the brook?
He pulls the roses, stem on stem,
And calleth on His friends, and kisseth them.

VIII

Who is drawn hitherward? What shall befall?
My heart is breathing at their festival:
The roses are as a dark cup,
Full of strange tribulations offered up.

THEY TOOK JESUS

I know not what I am—I saw Him there!
I saw Him cross the brook,
With feet that shook,
And enter by the little garden-stair.

Am I of those who watch Him to betray?
That little garden-path,
That way He hath—
I know the very turn where He will pray.

Judas I know ... But who are these I mark,
Who come with torches' flare?
I weep and stare ...
Jesus is very safe, deep in the dark.

He broke forth from the flowers,
To front these hellish powers;
A Rose of Sharon He,
Uplifted from the tree.

Oh, fair of Spirit He!
As Venus from the Sea,
So soft, so borne along,
He drew to that mad throng.

He questioned them; He thought
He was the one they sought—
He is the only One ...
They have bound Him, He is gone!

THE WITNESS

Oh, Who is this they have crucified?
They have not yet raised Him above:
They are drawn in a group aside,
His garments to divide:
On the ground He lieth, crucified—
Through the Heavens there beateth one wild Dove.

THE CAPTAIN JEWEL

We love Thy ruddy Wounds,
We love them pout by pout:
It is as when the stars come out,
One after one—
We are
As watchers for the Morning Star.

The jewels of Thy Feet,
The jewels of Thy Hands! ...
Lo, a Centurion stands,
Openeth Thy Side: Water and Blood there beat
In fountain sweet:
Our Master-jewel now we dote upon!

SUNDOWN ON CALVARY

I

Where art Thou, wandering Bird?
Thy sweet voice is not heard
On this wild day,
When the Father mourns the Son,
When the Son no Father hath,
And Thou hast but chaos for Thy path.

II

The Father keeps the Sepulchre,
The Son lies quiet there.
Where is Thy place?
Where rest in a world undone?
Holy Ghost, a multitude
Guards the Cross; there hardly canst Thou brood.

III

To the dark waters haste;
Stretch pinions on the waste;
There breathe, there play;
Forsake the Wood!
There is no resting-place for Thee
On this lovely, noble, blighted Tree.

IV

But, lo, it is sundown;
The bodies taken down;
Quiet the hill;
The Tree drips blood on the path:
And, the jolted beams above,
Croons, calls across the evening-winds, a Dove!

THE WINDING-SHEET

“Tuum Sindonem veneremur, Domine.”

I

In this is our humanity complete
That Joseph coming down the street
Bought for the Lord a winding-sheet.

II

Yours is the corse—now Pilate understands—
O women! With fair linen in your hands,
Wrap tight, enwind the Body with strict bands!

III

Dearer these grave-clothes than the seamless coat
Woven of His Mother, than the crown, reedsmote;
Yea, for He learns our little part by rote.

IV

That cry from off the Cross was wide, was loud,
As he were parted from us. ... For His shroud
We famish! Women, as in fetters, shroud,

V

Bind Him our own, Jesus of Nazareth!
Sweet is your spice; but of more sumptuous breath
The redolence of that rich-blooded death.

VI

Tend Him as even now we tend the dead;
Let tears in volume on His corse be spread! ...
This Winding-sheet, the napkin at His head,

VII

Lift them, when round the open tomb we meet;
Bear them with pangs of laughter down the street;
Lay them down low, kissing His Mother's feet!

A FRIDAY NIGHT

THE Questioner
“LO, you have wounds and you are speeding fast!
The light is gone!
Have you no cloak to screen you from the blast?
It is not well!”

The Answerer
“Show me the way to Hell:
I must pass on.”

The Questioner
“There is indeed hard by a little gate:
But there thou shalt not go.
Thou art too fair;
Golden thy hair doth blow.”

The Answerer
“There I must go:
I have an errand there for those that wait,
Have waited for me long.”
I showed the gate.

Now is He shut within, and I am found
Alone with blood-stains on the ground.
Would I could go down to that dim
Murk of the shades to those that wait for Him!

THE FIVE SACRED WOUNDS

Have compassion on me!
I thought to worship Thy Wounds in Trinity,
The Wounds of Thy Hands, Thy Side, Thy Feet;
I had no patience, no Caritas. ...
Through Thy right Hand the nail doth pass!
As a sheep standeth by
His fellow, waiting for his turn to die,
The left hand droopeth free—
That is the Hand that feels the nail.
God, for my hardness pity me!

O Venerable Hands, O our delight!
We need them both: one bindeth tight
The Cup, one breaketh for all the Bread.
How pliantly they work; they wave from side to side,
As weeds that wash in a low pool-tide,
In every motion to fulfil
A motion of the Father's will!
We need them both. O lovely in our sight,
O Amor meus, to be crucified!
O Hands, clear as a woman's in their light!

Have compassion! Side by side
They place Thy Feet, and through each they gride;
One breaketh before the other, yea,
There is a blow, and then silence, and then ...
I will have patience, wait for the blow again.

When Mary wrapt those Feet with her hair
She was glad the two were there:
One with her hair she dried;
One she fondled up against her cheek—
God, for my lack of loving chide!

A CRUCIFIX

I

Thee such loveliness adorns
On Thy Cross, O my Desire—
As a lily Thou art among thorns,
As a rose lies back against his briar.

II

Thou art as a fair, green shoot,
That along the wall doth run;
Thou art as a welcoming open fruit,
Stretched forth to the glory of the sun.

III

Thou art still as one in sleep,
As the blood that Thou dost shed;
Thou art as a precious coral-reef
That scarce lifteth himself from his bed.

IV

Thy limbs are so fine, so long,
'Mid the cords and nails that bind,
Thy body maketh a solemn song,
As a stream in a gorge confined.

THE PASCHAL LAND

I

“Have you been in the Paschal Land?”
“O where, for I do not understand?”
“It is in the forty days of grace,
Where any day one may see God's Face;
It is there, the Paschal Land.

II

“I am come from where it is—
In Jerusalem; and where He goes,
Even He Himself. I am one of those,
I am one of the Witnesses.

III

“The flowers so blue in their bloom,
The lambs so nimble, so shrill in bleat—
Once they pursued, ran up to His Feet.
Fair land of the open tombs!

IV

“The Mother is there,
By the palm-trees, or in her abode;
Peter, they say, passed the Lord on the road;
One may meet Him anywhere.

V

By the way the cattle drink
We feel there is blessing on the land;
The very old rise, listen, stand,
Listen on the air, and do not think.

VI

“He is as a man come home—
Not yet seen of men about the place.
As a neighbour He asks the grace
Of a fish or a honeycomb:
But I have not seen His Face.”

“I come with you to the Paschal Land.”

PARTING

We are gathered round Him, and we know
Very soon to Heaven He will go—
Tears are on our breath; He hath upbraided.
How beautiful He looketh, shining
As He stood shining in the Father's Voice,
When Moses and Elias from His side had faded,
And He alone
In a great luminous cloud was shaded.

We rejoice, we love Him, we His own:
In the throbs that beat for God alone,
He ascends; and to His skirts none clingeth,
Our Lover, no more He looks on us;
Our Bridegroom—we offer the Bridegroom's Voice
To the muffling Cloud: the Bird high wingeth;
We rejoice and look
Forth to the grand, blank spaces where He singeth.

We must go home, there is blue sky and clear;
There is no cause why we should linger here;
Peter is started: no delaying!
I am glued to the ground, I cannot stir.
The Mother of Jesus delays awhile:
“O Mother, is it for me Thou art staying?
Thou stretchest Thine hands
Through Thy smiles—it is for me Thou art praying.”

Sheris rejoicing, she who loves Him so;
There is a rapture on her face as though
Lost to some lark in Heaven: and, after that,
We pass by Golgotha, the little mound
Where the land looks uneasy, pass the Brook,
The Garden and the Cedar where He sat ...
I looked at her,
And in my heart I sang Magnificat.

ONE WAY OF HEARING MASS

------ TO-DAY

I watch Thee all the way,
O lovely Wanderer, that Thou dost take
Down to the Altar for our sake.

I

The latch Thou turnest on
Thy Father's gate ... art gone—
As workmen leave their homes and fill the street,
That wife and child may eat:
O humble Labourer,
Early Thou art astir!

II

For all Thou comest down;
For tramp, for thief, for clown,
For yonder harlot to her lodging bent.
O Blessèd Sacrament,
Children Thy garment hem;
Something Thou hast for them.

III

And now we veil our eyes:
Meek to Thy Sacrifice
Thou drawest; and, in mystic agony,
Beyond our thought dost die,
Bearing Thy Father's pain
For man beloved in vain.

IV

Thou pleadest as from sin
Pardon for us to win.
O Prodigal, God speeding doth embrace
Thine upturned Face;
And, for Thy sake, invest
Us with His very best!

V

We leave Thine altars mild
Most sweetly reconciled,
Bearing to be beloved Thine awful way—
And afterward all day,
In little prayers and songs
We muse upon Thy wrongs.

WHITE PASSION-FLOWER

I

White exceeding is the passion-flower,
When it rayeth and extendeth white.
Where is the purple thorn,
Or the robe that He hath worn?
Where are the Wounds? From the waxen flower
The virulence is drawn, the power.

II

Dark exceeding is the passion-flower,
When it rayeth and extendeth, dark,
The passion intricate
Of a God in man's debate:
We beheld the Wounds, the Blood is red,
And the dark Blood gathers round His head.

III

Lovely, waxen flower, I am content
With your whiteness of the firmament:
Even as in the Host
The Precious Blood is lost,
On your unblooded disk I see
How the Lord is dying on Calvary.

THOU COMEST DOWN TO DIE

I

Thou comest down to die,
Each day to die for me;
Hasting with feet that fly
Down from the Trinity.

II

How beautiful Thy Feet,
Even as Hermes' are,
That Thou shouldst run so fleet
To Golgotha!

III

Each day another girds
And binds Thee to the Wood.
I sing, as singing birds,
The glory of Thy mood.

O LOVELY HOST

I

O lovely Host,
Thou art the Rose
That on us from the desert glows!

II

Thou art the Flower
Belovèd so
Beyond all other flowers that blow.

III

Thy stillness is
So still in Thee,
We hear the movings of the Trinity.

IV

Thy sweetness doth
Prolong so far
We find it where the grave-clothes are.

V

How fair Thou art!
Thou fill'st the air;
Behold, O Host, how Thou art fair!