 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
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Scriptural and Devotional
137
FUNERAL OF JACOB
And up the stream of days he seem'd to float,
And twice seven years was toiling for his wife:
And all his thought lay heaving like a boat
On the long swell of life.
And twice seven years was toiling for his wife:
And all his thought lay heaving like a boat
On the long swell of life.
How statue-like that shape in shadows deep—
Like one of marble in the minster's rest,
With a pale babe—not dead, but gone to sleep
For ever on her breast.
Like one of marble in the minster's rest,
With a pale babe—not dead, but gone to sleep
For ever on her breast.
And the white mother's breast may seem to heave,
And the white babe to feel about her face;
'Tis but our restless hearts that thus deceive
The quiet of the place.
And the white babe to feel about her face;
'Tis but our restless hearts that thus deceive
The quiet of the place.
And Rachel look'd upon her Israel,—wann'd
Like a white flower with the summer rain,
So she with sweat of child-birth,—her thin hand
Laid in his hand again.
Like a white flower with the summer rain,
So she with sweat of child-birth,—her thin hand
Laid in his hand again.
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Near Ephrath there's a pillar'd tomb apart;
It throws a shadow on her where she lies—
And she, a shadow on her husband's heart,
Of household memories.
It throws a shadow on her where she lies—
And she, a shadow on her husband's heart,
Of household memories.
So slowly upward did the cold death creep
From foot to face with its strange lines of white,
Like foam-streaks on a river dark and deep,
Lash'd by the winds all night.
From foot to face with its strange lines of white,
Like foam-streaks on a river dark and deep,
Lash'd by the winds all night.
By the rough brook of life no more he wrestles,
Huddling its hoarse waves until night depart;
No more the pale face of a Rachel nestles
Upon his broken heart.
Huddling its hoarse waves until night depart;
No more the pale face of a Rachel nestles
Upon his broken heart.
Hush'd is the song, the tribesmen all are bless'd,
According to his blessing, every one;
But still the old man's spirit may not rest
Until he charge each son—
According to his blessing, every one;
But still the old man's spirit may not rest
Until he charge each son—
Not where the Pharaohs lie, with incense breathed
Round awful galleries, grim with shapes of wrath,
Hawk-headed, vulture-pinioned, serpent-wreathed,
Hued like an Indian moth—
Round awful galleries, grim with shapes of wrath,
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Hued like an Indian moth—
But lay him where from forest or green slope
To Mamre's cave the low wind breatheth balm,
Chanteth a litany of immortal hope,
Singeth a funeral psalm.
To Mamre's cave the low wind breatheth balm,
Chanteth a litany of immortal hope,
Singeth a funeral psalm.
Like a tall ship that beareth slow and proud
A fallen chief, for pall and plume in motion,
The death-dark topmast and the death-like shroud
Pass o'er the quiet ocean.
A fallen chief, for pall and plume in motion,
The death-dark topmast and the death-like shroud
Pass o'er the quiet ocean.
Silent the helmsman stands beside the wheel,
Silent the mariners in their watches wait,
And a great music rolls before the keel
As through an abbey gate:
Silent the mariners in their watches wait,
And a great music rolls before the keel
As through an abbey gate:
Like that tall ship, a grand procession comes
Up from old Father Nile to Hebron's hill;
But no dead march is beat upon the drums,
And every trump is still.
Up from old Father Nile to Hebron's hill;
But no dead march is beat upon the drums,
And every trump is still.
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Heartsore, and footsore with the march of life—
Soldier of God, whose fields were foughten well,
Resteth him from the cumbrance and the strife
World-wearied Israel.
Soldier of God, whose fields were foughten well,
Resteth him from the cumbrance and the strife
World-wearied Israel.
Still it sails onward, where the Red Sea fills
With snowy drift of shells his coral bowers,
On through the wondrous land of rose-red hills
To that of rose-red flowers:
With snowy drift of shells his coral bowers,
On through the wondrous land of rose-red hills
To that of rose-red flowers:
The land where aye, through many a purple gap,
The wanderer sees a mountain wall upspring,
And ever in his ear the wild waves flap
Like a great eagle's wing.
The wanderer sees a mountain wall upspring,
And ever in his ear the wild waves flap
Like a great eagle's wing.
Ever I walk with that funereal train—
The stars shine over it for tapers tall,
And Jordan's music is the requiem strain
Drawn out from fall to fall.
The stars shine over it for tapers tall,
And Jordan's music is the requiem strain
Drawn out from fall to fall.
Come, O thou south wind! with thy fragrance faint,
Bring from those folded forests on thy breath
Balm for the mummy, lying like a saint
Upon his car of death.
Bring from those folded forests on thy breath
Balm for the mummy, lying like a saint
Upon his car of death.
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Bear him, ye bearers! lay him down at last
In still Machpelah, down by Leah's side—
On that pale bridegroom shimmering light is cast,
Laid by that awful bride.
In still Machpelah, down by Leah's side—
On that pale bridegroom shimmering light is cast,
Laid by that awful bride.
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THE HARP AND THE NORTH WIND
Still as King David's bed
By that poetic head
Was pressed, much aching with its stately care,
O'er him his kinnor hung,
The silver nails among,
For the sweet sake of old companionship in prayer.
By that poetic head
Was pressed, much aching with its stately care,
O'er him his kinnor hung,
The silver nails among,
For the sweet sake of old companionship in prayer.
Doth not the soldier keep
A stiller hour of sleep
Because the good sword near him is so sharp,
Because he sees it gleam,
Come what there may in dream?
Why should not poet rest gentlier beneath his harp?
A stiller hour of sleep
Because the good sword near him is so sharp,
Because he sees it gleam,
Come what there may in dream?
Why should not poet rest gentlier beneath his harp?
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Yet, after all, for us,
Earth's poets sleeping thus,
Harps are but golden silences at best;
Bright may be star or moon,
But harps without a tune
Of all that makes their life lovely are dispossess'd.
Earth's poets sleeping thus,
Harps are but golden silences at best;
Bright may be star or moon,
But harps without a tune
Of all that makes their life lovely are dispossess'd.
But what if some wind's low
Touches should come and go
Over the chords, and, seeming but caprice,
Should yet repass and die
To live eternally,
The Æolian impulse fixed in some immortal piece?
Touches should come and go
Over the chords, and, seeming but caprice,
Should yet repass and die
To live eternally,
The Æolian impulse fixed in some immortal piece?
When other winds were laid
In Kedron's olive glade,
A North-wind from some far-off country came,
Rippled through every string
Above the poet-king,
And made a gentle noise much like a little flame.
In Kedron's olive glade,
A North-wind from some far-off country came,
Rippled through every string
Above the poet-king,
And made a gentle noise much like a little flame.
A noise along the chords,
Fitting itself to words,
Not proud and perfect, made for mortal praise,
Like the Hellenic line,
For ivy hued like wine,
And crocuses ablaze with all their golden rays,
Fitting itself to words,
Not proud and perfect, made for mortal praise,
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For ivy hued like wine,
And crocuses ablaze with all their golden rays,
But broken with sweet art
To suit a broken heart,
Fierce, passionate, pregnant—if superb
Only with lights that lie
On dim-peak'd prophecy,
Only with gleams that leap out of some pictured verb.
To suit a broken heart,
Fierce, passionate, pregnant—if superb
Only with lights that lie
On dim-peak'd prophecy,
Only with gleams that leap out of some pictured verb.
Once to the North-wind's stir,
The harp's interpreter,
A boy came forth unstain'd by loves or wars,
And sang 'neath the night-sky
A song that will not die
Till heaven has lost its moon and company of stars.
The harp's interpreter,
A boy came forth unstain'd by loves or wars,
And sang 'neath the night-sky
A song that will not die
Till heaven has lost its moon and company of stars.
Once did it swell and form
Into a psalm of storm,
With ‘Gloria in Excelsis’ it began—
Through it seven thunders roll;
For ending of the whole
A ‘Pax in terris’ falls soft on the ear of man
Into a psalm of storm,
With ‘Gloria in Excelsis’ it began—
Through it seven thunders roll;
For ending of the whole
A ‘Pax in terris’ falls soft on the ear of man
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Again the North-wind flowed,
And then some tiny ode
Came in divine completeness through the palms—
Perfect in little found,
A flawless diamond,
A rosebud verse of praise, a violet of the psalms.
And then some tiny ode
Came in divine completeness through the palms—
Perfect in little found,
A flawless diamond,
A rosebud verse of praise, a violet of the psalms.
Yet again after this,
Half his and half not his,
Came words of heav'n that yet most human were—
Lo! as he sighs and prays,
He fashions many a phrase
That lives in every age on every lip of prayer.
Half his and half not his,
Came words of heav'n that yet most human were—
Lo! as he sighs and prays,
He fashions many a phrase
That lives in every age on every lip of prayer.
There went forth fragments then,
Fitting all lips of men,
As universal as our human sighs,
The language of each heart
That ever spoke apart
To God and to itself, waiting for sure replies.
Fitting all lips of men,
As universal as our human sighs,
The language of each heart
That ever spoke apart
To God and to itself, waiting for sure replies.
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Was that a cloud which rose
Over the king's repose,
A silver shower that patter'd in his ears?—
A shower, but not of rain,
A low-hung cloud of pain
That weeps itself away in penitential tears.
Over the king's repose,
A silver shower that patter'd in his ears?—
A shower, but not of rain,
A low-hung cloud of pain
That weeps itself away in penitential tears.
The North-wind's wondrous skill
Sounds more pathetic still,
As if a whole world that had lost its way,
With cut feet and wet cheek,
Should to the mute heav'n speak
Things that we all have felt, but none has dared to say.
Sounds more pathetic still,
As if a whole world that had lost its way,
With cut feet and wet cheek,
Should to the mute heav'n speak
Things that we all have felt, but none has dared to say.
Sometimes the music moved
As round a form it loved,
Now lit, now lost, upon high broken grounds,
Here circled with the thorn,
There with the rays of morn,
Here crested with the light, there crimson as with wounds.
As round a form it loved,
Now lit, now lost, upon high broken grounds,
Here circled with the thorn,
There with the rays of morn,
Here crested with the light, there crimson as with wounds.
Like all high song, it keeps
True concert with what weeps,
Yet loses not the joy beneath the woe,
As after suns have set,
The forest tangles get
A bar of golden light, and will not let it go.
True concert with what weeps,
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As after suns have set,
The forest tangles get
A bar of golden light, and will not let it go.
At last the North-wind fails,
The dying music wails,
And the king looks towards the eastern hill;
Expectantly he waits
To see at morning's gates
The orient realms of rose and deeps of daffodil
The dying music wails,
And the king looks towards the eastern hill;
Expectantly he waits
To see at morning's gates
The orient realms of rose and deeps of daffodil
Unfolding to his touch,
Because his song was such
That while dawn wakes earth's monarchs with its breath,
David awakes the dawn
High on the sacred lawn
With his mysterious tune, his dawn-flushed Ayyeleth.
Because his song was such
That while dawn wakes earth's monarchs with its breath,
David awakes the dawn
High on the sacred lawn
With his mysterious tune, his dawn-flushed Ayyeleth.
A harp used to hang above David's bed. At midnight the north wind blew among the strings so that they sounded of themselves. David arose and busied himself with the Törah, until the pillar of the dawn ascended.—Talmud. B. Berachoth, 3 b.
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PSALM LXVIII
I
Rise up, Lord,And let Thine enemies be scattered,
And let them that hate Thee flee before Thee!
As the dispersion of smoke-drift,
Thou wilt disperse them abroad;
As the wax in its weakness melts off
From before the face of the fire,
So our foes—the unrighteous—shall perish
From before the Face of our God,
But the just shall exult and be glad.
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II
Chant ye to God!Sing psalms of praise to His name!
The awful Rider extol ye,
Who rides on the raven-black clouds,
By His changeless immutable Name
Of Jah—and exult ye before Him.
—A Father of orphans bereavèd;
A Judge that gives sentence of good
To the silent life of the widow,
Is God in His holy abode.
—God maketh the lonely ones
To sit in a home of their own;
He bringeth the fetter'd ones forth,
To places happy and free:
Only the rebels must dwell
In a land blanched white by the sun.
III
1
God! when Thou wentest forth before Thy people,Proceeding on Thy stately march
Across the desert steppes,
Trembled the earth and quaked:
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—This Sinai's self before the Face of God,
The God of Israel.
The free aspersion of a rain of gifts
Priestlike Thou wavedst to and fro, O God!
Thy heritage, forlorn and sick at heart,
Thou didst establish. So in that lone land
The armies of Thy chosen dwelt long years.
Thou with Thy goodness for the needy ones
Didst so establish, God!
2
Suddenly His signal gives the Lord.Those who tell, in every coast,
Tidings of great joy, and high
Annunciation of good things
Multiply, a countless host
Of women, full of glorious boast;
Kings of armies fly—they fly
Like the birds with fluttered wings.
She who kept the house that day
For her lord, at war away,
Shares the spoils of victory.
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Ye lie down by the cattle-fold;
And ye see in your homes beside ye a sheen,
Like the wings of a dove in the sunshine glint,
That are covered o'er with a silver tint;
Her feathers all lit with a manifold
Vibration and shooting of yellow gold,
That passes, the woof of the plumes between,
To a colour of strange and paling green.
—When, from many a field of war,
Kings the Almighty scatters far,
Through our dark estate of woe
—As o'er Salmon's forest line,
Night-black where the shadows are,
Shows that silver gleam divine—
Comes a sudden intense glow,
Like the gleam of new-fallen snow.
3
Mountain of God! mountain of Bashan!Mountain of summits! mountain of Bashan!
Why watch ye, with a scowl upon your foreheads,
Ye mountains, with your summits arching grand?
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For a habitation in the land,
Yea—to dwell there while the ages stand!
Chariots of our God are twice ten thousand,
Thousands told again and yet again:
And the Lord's Great Presence is among them
Here in Sion, as in Sinai then.
Thou hast gone up on high,
Thou hast captive led captivity,
Thou hast received gifts for men;
Yea—for rebels, who allegiance owed,
That the Lord God may have meet abode.
IV
Bless'd be the Lord,Day after day!
Whoever loads us with sorrow,
God is our Saviour for aye.
This God is to us the God
Of Salvation—and of Him the Lord
Out of death are manifold issues:
Surely He will bruise
The very head of His foes,
And the hairy scalp of such an one
As walketh on still in his sin.
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I will bring thee again
From the dark, voiceful depths of the sea;
That thou thy footsteps mayst dash,
Red-wetshod, in blood of the foe,
And the tongue of thy dogs in the same.’
V
They are seen—Thy goings, O God!—Thy goings, my God and my King!
In the place which is holy to Thee.
First, went the song-men in front,
Behind, those who strook the strings,
In the midst the choir of the maidens,
Who skill the tabrets to beat.
In the full assemblies, O bless ye
God the Lord, ye souls
That well forth in living waves,
From Israel's fountain-head!
Benjamin's tribe is there;
Small, but his chief at his head.
The princes of Judah are there,
With their goodly company;
The princes of Zebulun,
And the princes of Naphtali.
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VI
Thy God assureth thee strength,Strengthen, O God! Thy decree,
The things Thou workest for us,
Because of Thy palace, which hangs
Dominant over Jerusalem.
So shall kings bring presents to Thee!
Rebuke the thronging mass
Of the men who hold the lance—
The swarming horde of the bisons,
The young steers among the herds
That are nations of mighty men—
Till they move themselves restlessly forward,
With tribute of silver bars.
He has scattered the hordes of nations
Whose will is the onset of war.
—Nobles shall come out of Egypt,
And Cush—his hands in haste
Shall yet be uplifted to God.
VII
Sing ye to God,Earth's kingdoms!—sing psalms to the Lord!
To Him who rides forth
On the heaven of heavens eterne.
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And that a voice of strength.
Ascribe ye strength to God,
His loftiness is over Israel;
His strength abides above,
Where the thin clouds fleck the sky.
Terrible art Thou, O God!
From Thy sanctuaries—Israel's God!—
Giving strength and strong defences
To the nation. Blessed be God!
It has sometimes seemed to me as if the spirit of the psalms might be more livingly conveyed to English readers by a style somewhat akin to that which is here attempted. These specimens indeed somewhat fail to bring out the strict parallelism of the original; but they retain in measure a numerous prose, and in the higher passages are helped by a faint colouring of rhyme. These observations only apply to one aspect of the psalm—the poetical. The sacred must be marked by the ecclesiastical rhyme, or by an archaic and majestic prose.
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PSALM CIV
I
Bless the Lord, O my soul!O Lord, my God!
Very great hast Thou been.
Splendour and majesty
Thou hast put on as a robe;
Thou hast arrayed Thee with light
For Thy lucent vesture of wear,
Outspreading the heavens on heavens,
As the tremulous veil of a curtain.
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Of His lofty chamber of Presence
On the floor of the waters above.
—Who setteth the clouds
Thick-encompassing, dense,
For the battle-car of His march.
—Who walketh on wings of the wind,
Who maketh His angels
As swift as the sweep of the storm-winds,
As strong as the flame of the fire.
II
Thou hast built up the marvellous buildingOf earth on foundations that shall not
Be shaken for ever and aye;
Thou didst mantle it once with the deep,
Sheer up o'er the hills stood the waters,
—They recoil'd because Thou didst chide them.
From the crashing voice of Thy thunder
They trembled and hasted away;
Ascended the mountains,
Descended the valleys,
To the place Thou hadst founded for them:
The line of their border Thou settest
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Must never return in their anger,
To mantle the wide earth again.
III
Thou sendest in freedom awayThe bright springs into the river;
In the glens, the mountains between,
They walk for ever and aye.
They give drink to each beast of the field;
The wild asses quench the fierce fire
Of the thirst that is on them therein.
Beside them the fowl of the heaven
Abide; and out from among
The Apriling green of the branches
They give earth the gift of a voice.
From Thy lofty chamber of Presence
Thou makest the mountain to drink.
By the fruitful issue that comes
Of Thy works, the earth shall be filled.
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Green herb for the service of man,
To bring forth bread from the earth,
And wine shall give gleams of its gladness
To man's heart, and brighten his face
Beyond all the richness of oil,
And man's heart the bread will uphold.
The happy trees of the Lord
Stand satisfied, even the cedars
Lebanonian, planted by Him;
There the chirping birds build their nests;
But the good and home-loving stork—
Her house the cypresses are.
The mountains, earth's high ones, uplifted
Are there for the wild goats to climb,
And the crags are a refuge for conies.
IV
He made the wan yellow moonTo mark the vespers for aye
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And the bright sun, that knoweth so well
His unfailing succession of sunsets.
Thou settest the darkness. Comes night,
And in it will creep
All the teeming life of the thicket.
The young lions roar for their prey,
And seek for their food from their God.
Breaks forth at his bright birth the sun.
They gather and muster themselves,
And in their lairs they crouch down.
Man goes forth to his work,
To his service until the evening.
V
How many Thy works—O Jehovah!In wisdom all of them made.
The earth is full to the utmost
Of an ample possession of Thine:
And yonder, the sea that is grand
And wide with its infinite spaces.
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The little lives and the vast.
There the stately ships walk on,
And there the whale Thou hast fashioned
To take his pastime therein.
VI
Hush'd in expectance, all theseLook forth and wait upon Thee,
To give them their food in its season;
And ever Thou givest it freely:
Thou openest divinely Thy Hand—
They are satisfied fully with good!
But when Thou hidest Thy face,
They are troubled, and restlessly shudder.
Their spirits Thou gatherest in,
They breathe out the breath of their life,
And unto their dust will return.
—Thou wilt send forth
In solemn procession Thy Spirit,
And the work of creation will grow,
And Thou wilt make young and renew
The sorrow-worn face of the earth.
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VII
His glory shall be through the ages,The Lord shall be glad in His works.
If He do but look on the earth,
It trembles exceedingly sore.
If He touch the mountains, they smoke.
I will sing to the Lord in my life.
I will lift up psalms to my God
While my soul can call itself I.
My thought shall be sweet in His sight.
I will be glad in the Lord.
From this fair earth the sinner shall cease,
And yet in the space of the years
The wicked shall not be there.
Bless the Lord, O my soul!
Hallelujah.
‘This beautiful Psalm is at once felt to be a poetical imitation of the first chapter of Genesis. But the writer does not propose to give a bare recital of facts. He wishes to found upon them the praise of the Creator. As Moses divides the work of God into six days, the poet traces six pictures. The first corresponds to the First Day's work. God made the Light. But the poet speaks, not of the physical creation of the light, but of light considered as a symbol of the Divine Majesty.’ Reuss, in loc.
[HEBREW], leafage, from a root [HEBREW], to be luxuriantly covered with leaves and flowers. (Aram. [HEBREW], Arab. [HEBREW]. Cf. April. See Fuerst, Concord. Hebr., p. 852.)
‘This delightful picture of nature, just twice the length of the previous strophe, is more deeply interesting, because it is almost unique in the Old Testament. Oriental poetry in general, and even classical poetry, is not in the habit of drinking deeply from this inexhaustible source of beauty. —Reuss, in loc.
To a religious Hebrew it was rather the moon than the sun which marked the seasons, as the calendar of the Church was regulated by it.
Literally, of the abiding continuance, the immortality of species; spiritually, of the resurrection of dead souls and of the great renovation ever in progress.
‘As the author did not wish to stop with the idea of the Sabbath-rest, the seventh strophe is consecrated to a poetic peroration. It is linked to the last verse of the first chapter of Genesis, which says that God saw that everything He had made was very good.’—Reuss.
The Psalmist strains forward in spirit to the great regeneration, the new Heavens and New Earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness.—
‘Ita ut vel conversi ad Dominum non sint amplius peccatores, vel si converti noluerint, dejiciantur infra terram, et ultra non compareant.’
—Bellarm. in ver. 35.163
SHIYR SHYRIYM
TWO INTERPRETERS
I read the Song of Songs—I thought it pure,
The very flame of the full love of God;
And over it there hung the clear obscure
Of Syrian night, and scents were blown abroad
Whose very names breathe on us mystic breath—
Myrrh, and the violet-striped habatseleth.
The very flame of the full love of God;
And over it there hung the clear obscure
Of Syrian night, and scents were blown abroad
Whose very names breathe on us mystic breath—
Myrrh, and the violet-striped habatseleth.
Strange words of beauty hung upon mine ear—
Semadar, that is scent and flower in one
Of the young vine-blooms in the prime of the year;
Senir, Amana, Carmel, Lebanon,
Eloquent of rivers and of mountain trees,
Dim in the Oriental distances.
Semadar, that is scent and flower in one
Of the young vine-blooms in the prime of the year;
Senir, Amana, Carmel, Lebanon,
Eloquent of rivers and of mountain trees,
Dim in the Oriental distances.
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And purple paradise of pomegranate flowers,
Kopher, kinnámon, balsam, wealth of nard,
And things that thickets fill in summer hours,
Blue as a sky white-clouded, golden-starr'd,
Whereby we may surmise not far from thence
Mountains of myrrh and hills of frankincense.
Kopher, kinnámon, balsam, wealth of nard,
And things that thickets fill in summer hours,
Blue as a sky white-clouded, golden-starr'd,
Whereby we may surmise not far from thence
Mountains of myrrh and hills of frankincense.
I read the Hebrew late into the night;
At last the lilies faded, and the copse
Had no more fragrance, and I lost delight,
As when in some sweet tongue a poem stops,
Half understood—yet being once begun,
Our hearts are strangely poorer when 'tis done.
At last the lilies faded, and the copse
Had no more fragrance, and I lost delight,
As when in some sweet tongue a poem stops,
Half understood—yet being once begun,
Our hearts are strangely poorer when 'tis done.
Two volumes lay before me. One a tome
Which heretofore for years had stood between
Tender Augustine, terrible Hierome;
And the last Father's name was duly seen
In faded letters betwixt leather thongs—
Saint Bernard's Sermons on the Song of Songs.
Which heretofore for years had stood between
Tender Augustine, terrible Hierome;
And the last Father's name was duly seen
In faded letters betwixt leather thongs—
Saint Bernard's Sermons on the Song of Songs.
The other, fresh from Paris, Le Cantique,
Look'd a thin volume of a new romance.
Yet did I pray, ‘O Spirit whom I seek,
Teach me by which of these two lights of France
The unbegun Beginning I may reach,
Thy sweetest novelty in oldest speech.’
Look'd a thin volume of a new romance.
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Teach me by which of these two lights of France
The unbegun Beginning I may reach,
Thy sweetest novelty in oldest speech.’
I.—M. RENAN'S INTERPRETATION
So the two books I read; the first whereof,
A drama of earth's flame this song did deem—
Five acts with epilogue, sweet tale of love,
Shepherd and vine-dresser—such shiyr shyriym
Idyllic as Theocritus might trill—
Say rather, a soft Hebrew vaudeville.
A drama of earth's flame this song did deem—
Five acts with epilogue, sweet tale of love,
Shepherd and vine-dresser—such shiyr shyriym
Idyllic as Theocritus might trill—
Say rather, a soft Hebrew vaudeville.
Solomon sweeps by with threescore mighty men,—
Poor dove, all fluttering in the falcon's beak,
So foully carried from her quiet glen!
He flashes on with her so sweetly weak,
Elderly, evil-eyed, and evil-soul'd,
Scented and cruel in a cloud of gold.
Poor dove, all fluttering in the falcon's beak,
So foully carried from her quiet glen!
He flashes on with her so sweetly weak,
Elderly, evil-eyed, and evil-soul'd,
Scented and cruel in a cloud of gold.
166
To the accursèd palace they have come.
Dresses like rainbows float through the Harem.
To the faint plash of fountains never dumb
Are sung wild songs of earth's unholiest flame.
The large-eyed odalisks are lolling there;
The tambour taps, and bounds the bayadère.
Dresses like rainbows float through the Harem.
To the faint plash of fountains never dumb
Are sung wild songs of earth's unholiest flame.
The large-eyed odalisks are lolling there;
The tambour taps, and bounds the bayadère.
Ah! as in dreams her shepherd singing stands:
‘Arise, my love, my fair one, come away;
The winter has pass'd over into lands
Whose heritage is rain, whose heavens are gray.
Flow'rs for my flow'r, the turtle's voice is heard—
It is the green time for the singing bird.
‘Arise, my love, my fair one, come away;
The winter has pass'd over into lands
Whose heritage is rain, whose heavens are gray.
Flow'rs for my flow'r, the turtle's voice is heard—
It is the green time for the singing bird.
‘The exhalation of the vine-bloom flows
On the rich air. Why is my white dove mute
In the cleft of the rock? Behold, the figtree throws
Her aromatic heart into her fruit.
Save for me only spring is everywhere.
O let me hear thee from thy mountain stair.
On the rich air. Why is my white dove mute
In the cleft of the rock? Behold, the figtree throws
Her aromatic heart into her fruit.
167
O let me hear thee from thy mountain stair.
Which hearing, in her heart she hums her lilt,
Learnt long ago of some dark vine-dresser.
Sing it, O maiden, whensoe'er thou wilt.
The vine-leaf shadow o'er thee is astir—
‘Let not the little foxes from thee 'scape,
Spoiling our vines that have the tender grape.’
Learnt long ago of some dark vine-dresser.
Sing it, O maiden, whensoe'er thou wilt.
The vine-leaf shadow o'er thee is astir—
‘Let not the little foxes from thee 'scape,
Spoiling our vines that have the tender grape.’
And so, O peasant girl, be won for wife.
No young Theresa of the Hebrews thou;
Yet an illusion traverses thy life
Which gives ideal light to thy dark brow,
Which makes home beautiful, and proudly sings
Songs of defiant purity to kings.
No young Theresa of the Hebrews thou;
Yet an illusion traverses thy life
Which gives ideal light to thy dark brow,
Which makes home beautiful, and proudly sings
Songs of defiant purity to kings.
And if no ecstasy lights up thy face,
No flame of seraphim consumes thy heart;
If thou hast natural truth, not heavenly grace—
At least, O sunburnt Shulamite! thou art
A tender witness to a purer lot
In the base centuries when love was not.
No flame of seraphim consumes thy heart;
If thou hast natural truth, not heavenly grace—
At least, O sunburnt Shulamite! thou art
A tender witness to a purer lot
In the base centuries when love was not.
168
I smiled a moment. Then a discontent
Filled me with grief and spiritual shame.
‘Where, then?’ I cried, ‘is the old ravishment,
The ointment pour'd forth of the Holiest Name?
This song was once as fair for souls to mark
As the sod fresh cut to the prison'd lark—
Filled me with grief and spiritual shame.
‘Where, then?’ I cried, ‘is the old ravishment,
The ointment pour'd forth of the Holiest Name?
This song was once as fair for souls to mark
As the sod fresh cut to the prison'd lark—
‘A daisied sod whereon the bird in rapture
Quivers, remembering a little while
The large inheritance before his capture,
When from some azure and unmeasured mile
He rain'd down music, where the shadows pass
From the white cloud-sails o'er the glittering grass.’
Quivers, remembering a little while
The large inheritance before his capture,
When from some azure and unmeasured mile
He rain'd down music, where the shadows pass
From the white cloud-sails o'er the glittering grass.’
II.—ST. BERNARD'S INTERPRETATION
‘Whence skillest thou,’ his brother Girard said,
‘To trace these love-links every feast and fast?
Thou hast not much perused the deathless dead,
Yet shall these words of thine for ever last—
Little in space, but sparks of living flame,
Small buds indeed, but roses all the same.
‘To trace these love-links every feast and fast?
Thou hast not much perused the deathless dead,
Yet shall these words of thine for ever last—
169
Small buds indeed, but roses all the same.
‘And happy we, to whom in thee are given
Such sweets both new and old, such lily flowers,
Such precious antepast of feasts of heaven.
High joy for us of these monastic bowers,
To gather on this green Burgundian lea
Thy pale gold honey, blossom-haunting bee.
Such sweets both new and old, such lily flowers,
Such precious antepast of feasts of heaven.
High joy for us of these monastic bowers,
To gather on this green Burgundian lea
Thy pale gold honey, blossom-haunting bee.
‘I know not, brother,’ and the Abbot smiled;
‘Yet thou rememberest the forest well.
A few years since the snow was on it piled.
Thou knowest how often ere the vesper-bell
My meditation was prolonged—and ye
Said it was sweet—perchance in flattery.
‘Yet thou rememberest the forest well.
A few years since the snow was on it piled.
Thou knowest how often ere the vesper-bell
My meditation was prolonged—and ye
Said it was sweet—perchance in flattery.
‘Nathless the young narcissus snowdrops came
With spring (our rustics call them “angels' tears”);
A hundred greens were out, no two the same;
The happy promise given by young years
For ever, and for evermore belied,
Lit the young leaves, and smiled some hours and died.
With spring (our rustics call them “angels' tears”);
A hundred greens were out, no two the same;
The happy promise given by young years
For ever, and for evermore belied,
Lit the young leaves, and smiled some hours and died.
170
‘So came the spring to Burgundy. Then spoke
A voice from out the depths where earth's life stirs,
The Song of Songs reads well under the oak—
A soft interpretation sigh the firs;
And God's good Spirit taught me what to teach
Through the uncountable whispers of the beech.
A voice from out the depths where earth's life stirs,
The Song of Songs reads well under the oak—
A soft interpretation sigh the firs;
And God's good Spirit taught me what to teach
Through the uncountable whispers of the beech.
‘From the anemones pass'd to me my thought,
Through the woods trembling in their thin white robe
A subtler music came to me unsought
Upon the washing of the murmurous Aube;
And the long sunset rays on the great boles
Wrote me the comment of the holy souls.
Through the woods trembling in their thin white robe
A subtler music came to me unsought
Upon the washing of the murmurous Aube;
And the long sunset rays on the great boles
Wrote me the comment of the holy souls.
‘For were the Canticle a passion strain,
And if it spake of aught beneath the sky,
Then from its images thy heart could gain
A love-snatch only, or a botany;
Whereas, he finds in it who truly tries,
Strength from the strong, and wisdom from the wise.
And if it spake of aught beneath the sky,
Then from its images thy heart could gain
A love-snatch only, or a botany;
Whereas, he finds in it who truly tries,
Strength from the strong, and wisdom from the wise.
171
‘Here is the ocean of the love divine
For the whole Church. What smaller than a sea
Can hold a sea? and yet thy heart and mine
Reflection of it hath for thee and me,
As one clear bubble sphereth for the eye
The azure amplitude of wave and sky.
For the whole Church. What smaller than a sea
Can hold a sea? and yet thy heart and mine
Reflection of it hath for thee and me,
As one clear bubble sphereth for the eye
The azure amplitude of wave and sky.
‘And this love-strain is never overtold.
When God Himself is our musician, say,
Wilt thou correct Him to a strain less bold,
And teach the mighty Master how to play?
Two, two alone can hear these tender things—
The soul that listens, and the soul that sings.’
When God Himself is our musician, say,
Wilt thou correct Him to a strain less bold,
And teach the mighty Master how to play?
Two, two alone can hear these tender things—
The soul that listens, and the soul that sings.’
‘Nullos se magistros habuisse nisi quercus et fagos joco gratioso inter amicos dicere solet.’ —St. Bernard, Vita, opp. iv. 240.
172
SEMADAR
[_]
[The rare quadriliteral ([HEBREW] S'mādăr) is found in Cant. 11. 13-15; VII. 13. The highest Rabbinical authorities consider that from its derivation the word includes both the blossom and its scent. Thus it is richer than the pretty Greek Οινανθη by which it is here translated by the LXX., and which seems to have been more pleasant to Pindar and the Greek dramatists.]
Semadar, quoth a Rabbi thus,
‘Odor et idem flosculus.’
‘Odor et idem flosculus.’
I
Heavily my desk uponLay a Hebrew Lexicon.
As I pried into the tome
I thought me of Saint Hierome,
By the Jew tormented sore
With his strange triliteral lore,—
173
Torture of the throat and nose.
Fine of scent and fleet of foot,
Coldly obstinate in pursuit,
Must he be who hunts the root.
I too, weary and athirst,
Try the game in volume vast,
Where the thousandth page is first,
And the first leaf is the last.
II
So I fell to muse on words.Ships they are, methought, that bear
Cargoes sometimes passing rare;
Little harps with magic chords;
Hives that hide and hush the bees
Who in the far summers wrought
Sweetest honey of man's thought;
Little song-enfolding birds.
But behold! upon the seas
In some voyage the ship is lost;
174
And the dead bird, mute, is moss'd,
The wan wood-leaves o'er it toss'd;
And away the bees have fled,
And the word becomes unspoken.
O the grief, or soon or late,
When a language lieth dead,
When the hope and love and hate,
And the laughter and the wrath
Multitudinous that it hath,
Out of life have perishèd,—
Influences half-divine,
Teaching how to do and think,
Levigated to a line,
Dungeon'd in a drop of ink.
III
Yet the lost once more is found,When the happy hour arrives.
By the deep, dark sea undrown'd,
Lovely thoughts and lofty lives
Rise superbly from the wreck,
Move once more upon the deck:
175
Summer hums about the hives:
The tiny skeleton doth flit,
Flashing musical and lit
With the new-born life of it:
The speech becomes a speech of men.
IV
Semadar! Let the wordWith the breath of life be stirr'd.
Soft! The poet-king withdrawn,
Hush'd in a sweet world of thought,
With the music he hath wrought,
Like his psalmist-sire awakes
The red pillars of the dawn,—
And an earlier morning takes
Than the first flash on the lakes,
Or the first-lit laughter-spell
Of the sea uncountable.
To his fancy comes and goes
Softer scent than that which throws
The remembrance of a rose;
Many a delicate blossom makes
Along the vineyard-line adust
176
Wondrous exuberance of wine.
All the Syrian vault of blue;
All the dim delightful changes,—
The broad vine-leaves pictured through
Sunset's fierce and red-gold rust,
Moonlights on the mountain-ranges—
Where the scent is sweeter growing,
Where the blossom daintier blowing,
Scent and blossomry in one;
Both, and all the Orient round
Sphered and circled in a sound—
Quicken in your Lexicon,
Semadar—and the thing is done!
V
So it is. Then who shall doomTo the language of the dead
Words with holier meaning said?
In Semadar is there pent
Of the passionate Orient
Half the beauty and the scent?
In its little exquisite tomb
Waiting but a touch to leap
Lovely from its centuried sleep,—
177
Summer in some happy mind!—
Words that once were sent abroad
From nearer to the Heart of God:
Full of sap and fierce with life,
Sweet for love and strong for strife.
Not all ages intervening
Disenchant them of their meaning.
Heaven and earth shall pass away,
Nevermore such words as they.
Be it near, or be it far,
Better resurrections are
For such words beneath the sun,—
Sweet with an eternal sweetness,
Strong with an eternal strength,
Finished with a full completeness;
Sure from out the pedant's page,
From beneath the wrecks of age,
Sure to waken up at length—
Splendid with their victory won,—
Triumphant from the Lexicon!
178
HIS NAME
O Wonderful! round whose birth-hour
Prophetic song, miraculous power,
Cluster and burn, like star and flower.
Prophetic song, miraculous power,
Cluster and burn, like star and flower.
Those marvellous rays that at Thy will,
From the closed Heaven which is so still,
So passionless, stream'd round Thee still,
From the closed Heaven which is so still,
So passionless, stream'd round Thee still,
Are but as broken lights that start,
O Light of Light, from Thy deep heart;
Thyself, Thyself, the wonder art!
O Light of Light, from Thy deep heart;
Thyself, Thyself, the wonder art!
O Counsellor! four thousand years,
One question tremulous with tears,
One awful question vex'd our peers.
One question tremulous with tears,
One awful question vex'd our peers.
They asked the vault—but no one spoke;
They asked the depth—no answer woke;
They asked their hearts that only broke.
They asked the depth—no answer woke;
They asked their hearts that only broke.
179
They look'd, and sometimes on the height
Far off they saw a haze of white,
That was a storm, but look'd like light.
Far off they saw a haze of white,
That was a storm, but look'd like light.
The secret of the years is read,
The enigma of the quick and dead,
By a Child's voice interpreted.
The enigma of the quick and dead,
By a Child's voice interpreted.
O everlasting Father! broad
Sun after sun went down, and trod
Race after race the green earth's sod,
Sun after sun went down, and trod
Race after race the green earth's sod,
Till generations seem'd to be
But dead waves of an endless sea,
But dead leaves of a deathless tree.
But dead waves of an endless sea,
But dead leaves of a deathless tree.
But Thou hast come, and now we know
Each wave hath an eternal flow,
Each leaf a lifetime after snow.
Each wave hath an eternal flow,
Each leaf a lifetime after snow.
O Prince of Peace! crown'd and discrown'd,
They say no war nor battle's sound
Was heard the tired world around.
They say no war nor battle's sound
Was heard the tired world around.
180
They say the hour that Thou didst come
The trumpet's voice was stricken dumb,
And no one beat the battle-drum.
The trumpet's voice was stricken dumb,
And no one beat the battle-drum.
And still as clouding questions swarm
Around our hearts, and dimly form
Their problems of the mist and storm;
Around our hearts, and dimly form
Their problems of the mist and storm;
As fleeting years seem poorly fraught
With broken words—wherefrom is wrought
Nevertheless love's loveliest thought—
With broken words—wherefrom is wrought
Nevertheless love's loveliest thought—
Mere meaningless syllables chance-met,
Though in one perfect poem yet
Uninterrupted to be set;
Though in one perfect poem yet
Uninterrupted to be set;
And when not yet in God's sunshine
The smoke drifts from the embattled line
And shows the Captain's full design,
The smoke drifts from the embattled line
And shows the Captain's full design,
We bid our doubts and passions cease,
Our restless fears be still'd with these—
Counsellor, Father, Prince of Peace!
Our restless fears be still'd with these—
Counsellor, Father, Prince of Peace!
181
MUSIC OR WORDS?
(ON THE SEVEN LAST WORDS)
I
And is it well what one hath said?—
‘Ye who shall watch beside my bed,
Get music, not so much to swell
As to be half inaudible,
Around my agony. While ye wait
My passing through the shadowy gate,
Speak me no word articulate.
‘Ye who shall watch beside my bed,
Get music, not so much to swell
As to be half inaudible,
Around my agony. While ye wait
My passing through the shadowy gate,
Speak me no word articulate.
‘Touch for me, touch some tremulous chords—
Touch,—I am weary of all words—
Of hearing, be it e'er so sweet,
What hath capacity of deceit.
Let then my spirit on life's brink
Some undeceiving music drink,
And so it shall be well, I think.
Touch,—I am weary of all words—
Of hearing, be it e'er so sweet,
What hath capacity of deceit.
Let then my spirit on life's brink
Some undeceiving music drink,
And so it shall be well, I think.
182
‘Speak me no words—the poet sings
That all our human words have wings.
Ah! if those wings at times attain
A golden splash on their dark grain
From some blue sky-cleft far away,
They mostly wear the black or grey
That doth beseem the bird of prey.
That all our human words have wings.
Ah! if those wings at times attain
A golden splash on their dark grain
From some blue sky-cleft far away,
They mostly wear the black or grey
That doth beseem the bird of prey.
‘Speak then no words—but some soft air
Play; as it scarcely ripples there,
Or, rather say, as its true wing
With silver over-shadowing
Throbs—and no more—my soul beneath
Shall pass without one troubled breath
From sleep to dreams, from dreams to death.
Play; as it scarcely ripples there,
Or, rather say, as its true wing
With silver over-shadowing
Throbs—and no more—my soul beneath
Shall pass without one troubled breath
From sleep to dreams, from dreams to death.
‘Wherefore be utter'd words kept far,
Such as may that dim music mar,
That exquisite vagueness finely brought,
A gentle anodyne to thought—
Speak me not any words, O friend!
At least one moment at life's end
I want to feel, not comprehend.’
Such as may that dim music mar,
That exquisite vagueness finely brought,
A gentle anodyne to thought—
Speak me not any words, O friend!
At least one moment at life's end
I want to feel, not comprehend.’
183
II
How many words since speech began
Have issued from the lips of man?
How few with an undying chant
The gallery of our spirits haunt,
And with immortal meanings twined
More precious welcome ever find
From the deep heart of human-kind?
Have issued from the lips of man?
How few with an undying chant
The gallery of our spirits haunt,
And with immortal meanings twined
More precious welcome ever find
From the deep heart of human-kind?
Words that ring on world without end,
Words that all woe and triumph blend—
Broken, yet fragments where we scan
Mirror'd the perfect God and man;
Words whereunto we deem that even
All power because all truth is given—
We count of all the dearest seven.
Words that all woe and triumph blend—
Broken, yet fragments where we scan
Mirror'd the perfect God and man;
Words whereunto we deem that even
All power because all truth is given—
We count of all the dearest seven.
O kingly silence of our Lord!
O wordless wonder of the Word!
O hush, that makes, while Heav'n is mute,
Music supreme and absolute!
Silence—yet with a sevenfold stroke
Seven times a wondrous bell there broke
Upon the Cross, when Jesus spoke.
O wordless wonder of the Word!
O hush, that makes, while Heav'n is mute,
Music supreme and absolute!
Silence—yet with a sevenfold stroke
Seven times a wondrous bell there broke
Upon the Cross, when Jesus spoke.
184
One word, one priestly word, He saith—
The advocacy of the death,
The intercession by the Throne,
Wordless beginneth with that tone.
All the long music of the plea
That ever mediates for me
Is set upon the selfsame key.
The advocacy of the death,
The intercession by the Throne,
Wordless beginneth with that tone.
All the long music of the plea
That ever mediates for me
Is set upon the selfsame key.
One royal word—though love prevails
To hold Him faster than the nails,
And though the dying lips are white
As foam seen through the dusk of night:
That hand doth Paradise unbar,
Those pale lips tell of worlds afar
Where perfect absolutions are.
To hold Him faster than the nails,
And though the dying lips are white
As foam seen through the dusk of night:
That hand doth Paradise unbar,
Those pale lips tell of worlds afar
Where perfect absolutions are.
One word, one human word—we lift
Our adoration for the gift
Which proves that, dying, well He knew
Our very nature through and through.
Silver the Lord hath not, nor gold,
Yet His great legacy behold—
The Virgin to the virgin-soul'd.
Our adoration for the gift
Which proves that, dying, well He knew
Our very nature through and through.
Silver the Lord hath not, nor gold,
Yet His great legacy behold—
The Virgin to the virgin-soul'd.
185
Three hours of an unfathom'd pain,
Of drops falling like summer rain,
The earthquake dark like an eclipse—
Three hours the pale and dying lips
By their mysterious silence teach
Things far more beautiful than speech
In depth or height can ever reach.
Of drops falling like summer rain,
The earthquake dark like an eclipse—
Three hours the pale and dying lips
By their mysterious silence teach
Things far more beautiful than speech
In depth or height can ever reach.
One word, the Eli twice wail'd o'er—
'Tis anguish, but 'tis something more,
Mysteriously the whole world's sin,
His and not His, is blended in.
It is a broken heart whose prayer
Crieth as from an altar-stair
To One who is, and is not, there.
'Tis anguish, but 'tis something more,
Mysteriously the whole world's sin,
His and not His, is blended in.
It is a broken heart whose prayer
Crieth as from an altar-stair
To One who is, and is not, there.
One word, one gentle word. In pain
He condescendeth to complain—
Burning, from whose sweet will are born
The dewinesses of the morn.
The Fountain which is last and first,
The Fountain whence life's river burst,
The Fountain waileth out, ‘I thirst.’
He condescendeth to complain—
Burning, from whose sweet will are born
The dewinesses of the morn.
The Fountain which is last and first,
The Fountain whence life's river burst,
The Fountain waileth out, ‘I thirst.’
186
One royal word of glorious thought,
A hundred threads are interwrought
In it—the thirty years and three,
The bitter travail of the Tree,
Are finished—finished, too, we scan
All types and prophecies—the plan
Of the long history of man.
A hundred threads are interwrought
In it—the thirty years and three,
The bitter travail of the Tree,
Are finished—finished, too, we scan
All types and prophecies—the plan
Of the long history of man.
One word, one happy word—we note
The clouds over Calvary float
In distances, till fleck or spot
In the immaculate sky is not;
And on the Cross peace falls like balm;
And the Lord's soul is yet more calm
Than the commendo of His psalm.
The clouds over Calvary float
In distances, till fleck or spot
In the immaculate sky is not;
And on the Cross peace falls like balm;
And the Lord's soul is yet more calm
Than the commendo of His psalm.
III
Word of the Priest, the one forgiver,
Word of the atonement wrought for ever,
Of Him who bore in depths unknown
The burden that was not His own;
Word of the human son and friend
That doth true human love commend
Until humanity shall end;
Word of the atonement wrought for ever,
Of Him who bore in depths unknown
The burden that was not His own;
Word of the human son and friend
That doth true human love commend
Until humanity shall end;
187
Word that bestow'd in one brief breath
The double gift of life and death—
Death to the sufferer sweet surprise,
Life in the lawns of Paradise;
Word in the passion-palm once writ,
And lo! earth's waters all are lit
Now with pathetic touch of it;
The double gift of life and death—
Death to the sufferer sweet surprise,
Life in the lawns of Paradise;
Word in the passion-palm once writ,
And lo! earth's waters all are lit
Now with pathetic touch of it;
Word that breathes forth for aye sithence
Record of more than innocence,
The full assurance reach'd at length,
The laying hold upon a strength—
The resignation sweet and grand
Of self into a Father's hand.
Quietly passing from this land,
Record of more than innocence,
The full assurance reach'd at length,
The laying hold upon a strength—
The resignation sweet and grand
Of self into a Father's hand.
Quietly passing from this land,
Be more to me at last, O words,
Than all that trembles from the chords!
Words that have no deceit or hate,
Be with me dying—I can wait,
If ye be with me on that day,
If your sweet strength within me stay,
A little for the harps to play.
Than all that trembles from the chords!
Words that have no deceit or hate,
Be with me dying—I can wait,
If ye be with me on that day,
If your sweet strength within me stay,
A little for the harps to play.
188
REPENTANCE AND FAITH
There was a ship, one eve autumnal, onward
Steer'd o'er an ocean lake,
Steer'd by some strong hand ever as if sunward:
Behind, an angry wake;
Before there stretch'd a sea that grew intenser
With silver fire far spread
Up to a hill mist-gloried, like a censer
With smoke encompassèd:
It seem'd as if two seas were brink to brink,
A silver flood beyond a lake of ink.
Steer'd o'er an ocean lake,
Steer'd by some strong hand ever as if sunward:
Behind, an angry wake;
Before there stretch'd a sea that grew intenser
With silver fire far spread
Up to a hill mist-gloried, like a censer
With smoke encompassèd:
It seem'd as if two seas were brink to brink,
A silver flood beyond a lake of ink.
There was a soul that eve autumnal sailing
Beyond the earth's dark bars,
Toward the land of sunsets never paling,
Toward Heaven's sea of stars;
Behind there was a wake of billows tossing,
Before, a glory lay.
O happy soul! with all sail set just crossing
Into the Far-away,
The gloom and gleam, the calmness and the strife,
Were death behind thee, and before thee life.
Beyond the earth's dark bars,
Toward the land of sunsets never paling,
Toward Heaven's sea of stars;
Behind there was a wake of billows tossing,
Before, a glory lay.
O happy soul! with all sail set just crossing
Into the Far-away,
The gloom and gleam, the calmness and the strife,
Were death behind thee, and before thee life.
189
And as that ship went up the waters stately,
Upon her topmasts tall
I saw two sails, whereof the one was greatly
Dark as a funeral pall.
But oh, the next's pure whiteness who shall utter?
Like a shell-snowy strand,
Or when a sunbeam falleth through the shutter
On a dead baby's hand;
But both alike across the surging sea
Help'd to the haven where the bark would be.
Upon her topmasts tall
I saw two sails, whereof the one was greatly
Dark as a funeral pall.
But oh, the next's pure whiteness who shall utter?
Like a shell-snowy strand,
Or when a sunbeam falleth through the shutter
On a dead baby's hand;
But both alike across the surging sea
Help'd to the haven where the bark would be.
And as that soul went onward, sweetly speeding
Unto its home and light,
Repentance made it sorrowful exceeding,
Faith made it wondrous bright;—
Repentance dark with shadowy recollections
And longings unsufficed,
Faith white and pure with sunniest affections
Full from the Face of Christ.
But both across the sun-besilver'd tide
Help'd to the heaven where the heart would ride.
Unto its home and light,
Repentance made it sorrowful exceeding,
Faith made it wondrous bright;—
Repentance dark with shadowy recollections
And longings unsufficed,
Faith white and pure with sunniest affections
Full from the Face of Christ.
But both across the sun-besilver'd tide
Help'd to the heaven where the heart would ride.
190
THE WOUNDED SEA-BIRD
Look when thou walkest by the winter strand,
Hath it befallen thee, that through the gray
Of the sea mist, into thy very hand,
Floated a snow-white bird through the salt spray,
Fair, but deep wounded, bubbling from its beak
A thin red foam, with faint infántine shriek?
Hath it befallen thee, that through the gray
Of the sea mist, into thy very hand,
Floated a snow-white bird through the salt spray,
Fair, but deep wounded, bubbling from its beak
A thin red foam, with faint infántine shriek?
Which noting, to thyself thou mad'st a dirge—
‘There is no healing in this hand of mine;
Here must thou die, by the unpitying surge;
Not in the long blue distances divine,
Not in thy little happiness upborne
On seas refulgent with the rosy morn.’
‘There is no healing in this hand of mine;
Here must thou die, by the unpitying surge;
Not in the long blue distances divine,
Not in thy little happiness upborne
On seas refulgent with the rosy morn.’
191
Such, and so sorely wounded, floating in,
Are penitents beside the sea of time:
Such, and so deep, the crimson stain of sin,
The scar we bear in this ungentle clime.
But lo! a healing Hand our wound above,
Strong as eternity, and soft as love.
Are penitents beside the sea of time:
Such, and so deep, the crimson stain of sin,
The scar we bear in this ungentle clime.
But lo! a healing Hand our wound above,
Strong as eternity, and soft as love.
And a sweet voice that unto us hath lent
A new beginning and a nobler flight.
So to poor hearts He gives incontinent
A larger liberty of golden light;
Makes more than expiation for our fault,
And arches over us His bluest vault,
A new beginning and a nobler flight.
So to poor hearts He gives incontinent
A larger liberty of golden light;
Makes more than expiation for our fault,
And arches over us His bluest vault,
Saying: ‘I charge thee, O My wounded bird,
Soar nearer to the heaven where'er thou art;
By all the breezes let thy plumes be stirr'd;
I heal thee through and through, O bleeding heart!
I ask thy song, and give thee voice to sing;
I bid thee soar, and give thee strength of wing.
Soar nearer to the heaven where'er thou art;
By all the breezes let thy plumes be stirr'd;
I heal thee through and through, O bleeding heart!
I ask thy song, and give thee voice to sing;
I bid thee soar, and give thee strength of wing.
192
‘What I command I give my mourners still,
Give the delight that doth the victory gain;
Give first, and then command them as I will,
Sweet penitence taking pleasure in its pain.
I bid thee set those psalms of sorrow seven
To the allegro of the airs of Heaven.’
Give the delight that doth the victory gain;
Give first, and then command them as I will,
Sweet penitence taking pleasure in its pain.
I bid thee set those psalms of sorrow seven
To the allegro of the airs of Heaven.’
193
IMPERFECT REPENTANCE
At such a time—full well I know within
Myself—I wrought a sin.
Light in the eye it had, and little sips
Of honey on the lips.
No sooner done but the light died, and all
The honey became gall.
Then was my soul stone-silent for a space
And whiteness wann'd my face.
Myself—I wrought a sin.
Light in the eye it had, and little sips
Of honey on the lips.
No sooner done but the light died, and all
The honey became gall.
Then was my soul stone-silent for a space
And whiteness wann'd my face.
After a little then again I heard
The music of the word,
And took the absolution sweet and grand
Into my own faith's hand,
And breathed the ozone in the healing breeze
Of sacramental seas.
Out rang my song: ‘My sore distress doth cease,
Pardon I find and peace;
The very plenitude of Love divine
Unboundedly is mine.’
But lo! the step of Time steals slowly on,
And, ever and anon,
The spectre of the sin which I thought lost
Rises, no hated ghost.
Rather, ‘How beautiful,’ my spirit cries,
‘O love! are those grey eyes.
What filmy robes float for me, what rich tunes,
Dim fields, and white half-moons.
The music of the word,
And took the absolution sweet and grand
Into my own faith's hand,
And breathed the ozone in the healing breeze
Of sacramental seas.
Out rang my song: ‘My sore distress doth cease,
Pardon I find and peace;
The very plenitude of Love divine
Unboundedly is mine.’
194
And, ever and anon,
The spectre of the sin which I thought lost
Rises, no hated ghost.
Rather, ‘How beautiful,’ my spirit cries,
‘O love! are those grey eyes.
What filmy robes float for me, what rich tunes,
Dim fields, and white half-moons.
‘And, while some silver flax-rock in the brown
Rack is turn'd upside down,
The fine disorder'd threads and cloud-fluff thin
Are like thy hair, sweet sin!
And, as we pass, the faint scent rises yet
Of stock and mignonette,
Through the garden looking on the starlit sea—
And my sin kisseth me.
And twice as fair she is as ever of old,
Because not half so bold,—
The grossness of the sense and of the eye
Refined to memory;
The ethereal delicacy of the past
Over fact's coarse world cast
The flexile bough of fancy quivering on
After the bird is gone.’
Rack is turn'd upside down,
The fine disorder'd threads and cloud-fluff thin
Are like thy hair, sweet sin!
And, as we pass, the faint scent rises yet
Of stock and mignonette,
Through the garden looking on the starlit sea—
And my sin kisseth me.
And twice as fair she is as ever of old,
Because not half so bold,—
The grossness of the sense and of the eye
Refined to memory;
The ethereal delicacy of the past
Over fact's coarse world cast
The flexile bough of fancy quivering on
After the bird is gone.’
195
Whereon I thought—‘Alas! the heavy fall.
I am not changed at all.
Look how some fitful hour when smoky gray
Mountain-mists roll away,
The sunshine's magic and creative beams
Transform the white quartz-seams,
Whereof each one that glistens, being wetted,
Seemeth with diamonds fretted,
But, being dried and unlit, it is found
Mere stone, not diamond,—
So seem'd I like a saint upon God's hill
That am a sinner still.
Methought that I, out of the strong black jaw
And iron grasp of law,
Had pass'd over the poor earthly line
Into a land divine,
Where all things are made new, and grace redresses
Us with her tendernesses.
Ah! I who loved the living love its ghost,
And, loving, I am lost.
I am not changed at all.
Look how some fitful hour when smoky gray
Mountain-mists roll away,
The sunshine's magic and creative beams
Transform the white quartz-seams,
Whereof each one that glistens, being wetted,
Seemeth with diamonds fretted,
But, being dried and unlit, it is found
Mere stone, not diamond,—
So seem'd I like a saint upon God's hill
That am a sinner still.
Methought that I, out of the strong black jaw
And iron grasp of law,
Had pass'd over the poor earthly line
Into a land divine,
Where all things are made new, and grace redresses
Us with her tendernesses.
Ah! I who loved the living love its ghost,
And, loving, I am lost.
What shall I say?—that thoughts like these returning
Are scarcely worth the mourning,—
Nay, that they have a beauty in their place,
Disgracing not my grace,
Like green corn-ears ungilded of the suns
Bettering the golden ones?
Not this shall be my argument—but this:
‘See lest thy crown thou miss;
And, that thou hear not one day bitter sentence,
Repent of thy repentance.’
Are scarcely worth the mourning,—
196
Disgracing not my grace,
Like green corn-ears ungilded of the suns
Bettering the golden ones?
Not this shall be my argument—but this:
‘See lest thy crown thou miss;
And, that thou hear not one day bitter sentence,
Repent of thy repentance.’
197
TENEBRÆ
I
Sayest thou then to all that will to hearken:‘The Saint's star grows not dim,
But still through clouds that climb and deeps that darken
Is visible to him.
II
‘Still when the sunset comes, He taketh order,To whom the right belongs,
Sending His own away across the border,
Silverly and with songs’?
III
Nay! God prepares His kings for coronationNot as might you or I,
And, being wondrous, works His preparation
For kingship wondrously.
198
IV
Not always is the triumph of the saintingThat which our hearts expect,
Tearfully, roughly, doubtingly, and fainting,
How many souls elect
V
Pass out to that within the lifted curtain,Roughly into the smooth,
Doubtfully into the for ever certain,
The circumfulgent truth?
VI
Tearfully, tearfully, becoming tearlessWhen trouble's all but o'er,
Fainting when well they might at last be fearless,
Seeing they touch the shore;
VII
Questioning hard by the school unemulousWhere half our questions cease,
Scarcely a bow-shot off their beds, and tremulous
Upon the verge of peace;
199
VIII
Head dropping just before the crown is fitted,Eyes dim at break of day,
Feet walking feebly through the meadows wetted
With April into May.
IX
Thanks if some dying light there be, some sweetnessTo me and mine allow'd;
But if so be that human incompleteness
Compass us like a cloud,
X
Softly on me and mine, when that is ended,Eternal light let fall,
And, after darkness, be our way attended
By light perpetual.
200
THE CHAMBER PEACE
A summer night that blows,
Fragrant with hay and flowers, on copse and lawn;
A window muffled round and round with rose,
Fronting the flush of dawn.
Fragrant with hay and flowers, on copse and lawn;
A window muffled round and round with rose,
Fronting the flush of dawn.
O pilgrim, well is thee
Till the day break, and till the shadows cease,
Resting the faint heart and the failing knee,
In that sweet chamber, Peace.
Till the day break, and till the shadows cease,
Resting the faint heart and the failing knee,
In that sweet chamber, Peace.
The white moon through the trees
Sails—but thou singest to a heavenly tune,
‘Needeth no sun the land my spirit sees,
Neither by night the moon.’
Sails—but thou singest to a heavenly tune,
‘Needeth no sun the land my spirit sees,
Neither by night the moon.’
Before thine eyes half-closing
Like ink-black plumes their tops the willows shake;
Through them thou seest a little boat reposing
Upon a moonlit lake,
Like ink-black plumes their tops the willows shake;
Through them thou seest a little boat reposing
Upon a moonlit lake,
201
And ‘O,’ thou say'st, ‘my soul
Was like those inky plumes the night-winds toss;
But now it hangs as in one silver roll
Over a hidden Cross.
Was like those inky plumes the night-winds toss;
But now it hangs as in one silver roll
Over a hidden Cross.
‘Ever on life's wild swell
My heart went drifting, drifting on remote,
But now within the veil 'tis anchor'd well,
Safe as that little boat.’
My heart went drifting, drifting on remote,
But now within the veil 'tis anchor'd well,
Safe as that little boat.’
Or if the shower that lingers
In fleecy clouds of moonlight-tissued woof
Falls, and the soft rain with a hundred fingers
Taps on the chamber roof,—
In fleecy clouds of moonlight-tissued woof
Falls, and the soft rain with a hundred fingers
Taps on the chamber roof,—
‘Christ,’ the lone pilgrim saith,
‘My Saviour, comes this heart's poor love to win.
Thy locks are fill'd with dew,’ he murmureth,
‘O that Thou wouldst come in!’
‘My Saviour, comes this heart's poor love to win.
Thy locks are fill'd with dew,’ he murmureth,
‘O that Thou wouldst come in!’
So rests the pilgrim ever,
Hearing at solemn intervals a swell,
Music as of a grandly falling river
On Hills Delectable.
Hearing at solemn intervals a swell,
Music as of a grandly falling river
On Hills Delectable.
202
So rests he till he knows
The morning redden in the eastern skies,
And fronts the unfolding of heaven's fiery rose,
The beautiful sunrise.
The morning redden in the eastern skies,
And fronts the unfolding of heaven's fiery rose,
The beautiful sunrise.
Another chamber yet—
The curtain is of grass, and closely drawn;
But the pale pilgrim, in its portal set,
Looketh toward the dawn.
The curtain is of grass, and closely drawn;
But the pale pilgrim, in its portal set,
Looketh toward the dawn.
And when the eves are calmest,
Up in the incense-laden aisles of lime,
Some sweet bird meditateth like a psalmist
Such song as suits the time.
Up in the incense-laden aisles of lime,
Some sweet bird meditateth like a psalmist
Such song as suits the time.
So lay the pilgrim down—
Set thou his feet, and face, and closèd eyes,
Where they may meet the golden raying crown
Of Christ's august sunrise.
Set thou his feet, and face, and closèd eyes,
Where they may meet the golden raying crown
Of Christ's august sunrise.
So let him rest, unheard
All faithless mourning; let thy murmur cease;
Translate the grave into a gentler word,
Call it the ‘Chamber Peace.’
All faithless mourning; let thy murmur cease;
Translate the grave into a gentler word,
Call it the ‘Chamber Peace.’
203
RECOGNITION
And shall they say thou knowest me no more,
After this human flesh which we wear still,
Than I am known by light waves on the shore,
Or breezes blowing round a sunny hill?
Ah! there be some who bid us mourners dwell
With Nature's sympathies, so shall it be well.
After this human flesh which we wear still,
Than I am known by light waves on the shore,
Or breezes blowing round a sunny hill?
Ah! there be some who bid us mourners dwell
With Nature's sympathies, so shall it be well.
Mystic condolences of morn and eve
Shall touch the heartache tenderly away,
The rivers and the great woods interweave
A consolation lips can never say;
And with the sighing of the summer sea
Come cadences that chant, ‘We pity thee.’
Shall touch the heartache tenderly away,
The rivers and the great woods interweave
A consolation lips can never say;
And with the sighing of the summer sea
Come cadences that chant, ‘We pity thee.’
It is not so; who truly mourn shall trace
Something sardonic in that fixed regard,
The quiet sarcasm of a great cold face
Staring for ever on, terribly starred—
A silver depth of delicate despair,
An uncompassionate silence everywhere.
Something sardonic in that fixed regard,
The quiet sarcasm of a great cold face
Staring for ever on, terribly starred—
204
An uncompassionate silence everywhere.
How speaks that pitiless power impersonal?
I who stand stirless on the starlit tracts;
I who impalpably pervade the All;
I who am white on the long cataracts;
I through æonian centuries who perform
Instinct of spring, or impulse of the storm;
I who stand stirless on the starlit tracts;
I who impalpably pervade the All;
I who am white on the long cataracts;
I through æonian centuries who perform
Instinct of spring, or impulse of the storm;
I in the greenwood who at May-time move
With straggling clouds of hyacinth dark blue;
Who neither laugh nor weep, nor hate nor love,
Who sleep at once and work, both old and new—
Work with such myriad wheels that interlace,
Sleep with such splendid dreams upon my face;—
With straggling clouds of hyacinth dark blue;
Who neither laugh nor weep, nor hate nor love,
Who sleep at once and work, both old and new—
Work with such myriad wheels that interlace,
Sleep with such splendid dreams upon my face;—
When thou hast asked me, ‘Are my loved ones near?
Surely this golden silence doth contain
Them deathlessly; their dim eyes hold some tear
Delicious, born not of the showers of pain’—
When thou hast questioned me at hush of eve,
What right hast thou to say that I deceive?
Surely this golden silence doth contain
Them deathlessly; their dim eyes hold some tear
Delicious, born not of the showers of pain’—
When thou hast questioned me at hush of eve,
What right hast thou to say that I deceive?
205
Perhaps they say, ‘I pardon thee that wrong—
Nay, love thee more divinely for it all’;
Perhaps they strengthen thee when thou art strong,
Perhaps they walk with thee when shadows fall.
But this is all I have for thee; the fair
Absolute certitude is other where.
Nay, love thee more divinely for it all’;
Perhaps they strengthen thee when thou art strong,
Perhaps they walk with thee when shadows fall.
But this is all I have for thee; the fair
Absolute certitude is other where.
Think'st thou of me bathed in the sea of bliss?
Art thou unmindful of me, holy mind?
Thou who of light hast entered the abyss,
Art thou with God's great splendour intertwined,
A chalice with His fulness filled too high
For wine-drops of earth's coloured memory?
Art thou unmindful of me, holy mind?
Thou who of light hast entered the abyss,
Art thou with God's great splendour intertwined,
A chalice with His fulness filled too high
For wine-drops of earth's coloured memory?
Then must I think of thee, my darling, aye,
As I might think upon some lucent tide;
As I might think of some fair summer day,
Profuse of shadows on the mountain-side;
As I might think of the high snows far kenned,
A cold white splendid quiet without end?
As I might think upon some lucent tide;
As I might think of some fair summer day,
Profuse of shadows on the mountain-side;
As I might think of the high snows far kenned,
A cold white splendid quiet without end?
206
Nay, that were life which truly liveth not,
Life lower than our life, and not above.
Thou, thou art near to God in thy fair lot;
Nearer to God is fuller of God's love—
Fuller of Him who looks on us to bless,
Who is impassible, not compassionless.
Life lower than our life, and not above.
Thou, thou art near to God in thy fair lot;
Nearer to God is fuller of God's love—
Fuller of Him who looks on us to bless,
Who is impassible, not compassionless.
God's life is to have mercy and forgive;
One spirit with Him, thou, my Girard art;
Wherefore thro' that great life which thou dost live
There is unsuffering sympathy in thy heart.
Thou carest, though no care can pass thy gate,
And passioning not art still compassionate.
One spirit with Him, thou, my Girard art;
Wherefore thro' that great life which thou dost live
There is unsuffering sympathy in thy heart.
Thou carest, though no care can pass thy gate,
And passioning not art still compassionate.
This poem was suggested by St. Bernard's lamentation for his brother Girard in his Sermones in Cantia.
207
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SERMONS
As a child in some far and quiet place
By earth scarce stirr'd
Grows shy as is some forest bird,
And almost feareth every stranger's face;
By earth scarce stirr'd
Grows shy as is some forest bird,
And almost feareth every stranger's face;
But when he leaves that narrow strip of strand
A world to explore,
He findeth friends on the far shore,
And boldly graspeth many a brother's hand;
A world to explore,
He findeth friends on the far shore,
And boldly graspeth many a brother's hand;
So may I deem thy fair adventures fall—
So hast thou found,
O Man of God! now seeing crown'd
Many thou never thoughtest to see at all;
So hast thou found,
O Man of God! now seeing crown'd
Many thou never thoughtest to see at all;
Hands that thou never didst expect would fold
The fadeless palm,
And faces most divinely calm
Thou never thoughtest Paradise could hold.
The fadeless palm,
And faces most divinely calm
Thou never thoughtest Paradise could hold.
208
Forgive, if in this book I see thee what
Thou art not now,
With something of a narrow brow,
And something of a heart that hopeth not.
Thou art not now,
With something of a narrow brow,
And something of a heart that hopeth not.
Sure at thy rigid creed confess'd erewhile,
With lovelit eye
Thou sighest, if the blessèd sigh,
Thou smilest if the blessèd pitying smile.
With lovelit eye
Thou sighest, if the blessèd sigh,
Thou smilest if the blessèd pitying smile.
Thou smilest at the weight of glory given
To countless kings,
And puttest away thy childish things,
Taught by the manly love which is of heaven.
To countless kings,
And puttest away thy childish things,
Taught by the manly love which is of heaven.
That hard belief whilst thou wert here below—
Belief thick-thorn'd—
With some fair flowers was adorn'd
Like furze that flames its gold in frost and snow.
Belief thick-thorn'd—
With some fair flowers was adorn'd
Like furze that flames its gold in frost and snow.
And as when finest fancies troop across
The painter's soul,
He draws the outline first in coal
Before he lets his haunted pencil toss
The painter's soul,
He draws the outline first in coal
Before he lets his haunted pencil toss
209
Its wealth of colour—ev'n so dark the sketch
Thy heart hath drawn,
But now it wears the rose-red dawn
Or gold of eve's immeasurable stretch.
Thy heart hath drawn,
But now it wears the rose-red dawn
Or gold of eve's immeasurable stretch.
I hope that heav'n may hold some trembling souls
From this cold world,
Like poor birds by the snow-wind hurl'd
In where some stormy great church organ rolls.
From this cold world,
Like poor birds by the snow-wind hurl'd
In where some stormy great church organ rolls.
Although they know not whether by wild seas
—Opening dim eyes,
And all apant with the surprise—
They move, or through the roaring forest trees.
—Opening dim eyes,
And all apant with the surprise—
They move, or through the roaring forest trees.
Until the mild and stately quiet tell
That peace is there,
And on some carven cornice fair
A small voice sweetly pipeth, ‘It is well.’
That peace is there,
And on some carven cornice fair
A small voice sweetly pipeth, ‘It is well.’
210
BOAZ ASLEEP
At work within his barn since very early,
Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,
Upon the small bed where he always lay
Boza was sleeping by his sacks of barley.
Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,
Upon the small bed where he always lay
Boza was sleeping by his sacks of barley.
Barley and wheat-fields he possess'd, and well,
Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood
That turn'd his mill-wheels was unstain'd with mud,
And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.
Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood
That turn'd his mill-wheels was unstain'd with mud,
And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.
His beard was silver, as in April all
A stream may be. He did not grudge a stook:
When the poor gleaner pass'd, with kindly look,
Quoth he, ‘Of purpose let some handfuls fall.’
A stream may be. He did not grudge a stook:
When the poor gleaner pass'd, with kindly look,
Quoth he, ‘Of purpose let some handfuls fall.’
211
He walk'd his way of life straight on, and plain,
With justice cloth'd, like linen white and clean;
And ever rustling toward the poor, I ween,
Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.
With justice cloth'd, like linen white and clean;
And ever rustling toward the poor, I ween,
Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.
Good master, faithful friend, in his estate
Frugal, yet generous beyond the youth,
He won regard of woman; for, in sooth,
The young man may be fair, the old man's great.
Frugal, yet generous beyond the youth,
He won regard of woman; for, in sooth,
The young man may be fair, the old man's great.
Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright,
The old man entereth, the day eterne;
For in the young man's eye a flame may burn,
But in the old man's eye one seeth light.
The old man entereth, the day eterne;
For in the young man's eye a flame may burn,
But in the old man's eye one seeth light.
As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep
Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided,
Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided
A fair dream forth, and hover'd o'er his sleep.
Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided,
Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided
A fair dream forth, and hover'd o'er his sleep.
212
And in his dream, to heav'n, the blue and broad,
Right from his loins an oak-tree grew amain;
His race ran up it far in a long chain.
Below it sang a king, above it died a God.
Right from his loins an oak-tree grew amain;
His race ran up it far in a long chain.
Below it sang a king, above it died a God.
Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart:
‘The number of my years is past fourscore.
How may this be? I have not any more,
Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part
‘The number of my years is past fourscore.
How may this be? I have not any more,
Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part
‘In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine.
And she half-living, I half-dead within,
Our beings still commingle, and are twin.
It cannot be that I should found a line.
And she half-living, I half-dead within,
Our beings still commingle, and are twin.
It cannot be that I should found a line.
‘Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound
From night as from a victory. But such
A trembling as the birch-trees to the touch
Of winter is on eld, and evening closes round.
From night as from a victory. But such
A trembling as the birch-trees to the touch
Of winter is on eld, and evening closes round.
‘I bow my soul to death, as kine to meet
The water bow their fronts athirst,’ he said.
The cedar feeleth not the rose's head,
Nor he the woman's presence at his feet.
The water bow their fronts athirst,’ he said.
The cedar feeleth not the rose's head,
Nor he the woman's presence at his feet.
213
For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth
Lay at his feet expectant of his waking.
He knowing not what sweet guile she was making,
She knowing not what God would have in sooth.
Lay at his feet expectant of his waking.
He knowing not what sweet guile she was making,
She knowing not what God would have in sooth.
Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring—
Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast
The angels sped, for momently there pass'd
A something blue which seemed to be a wing.
Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast
The angels sped, for momently there pass'd
A something blue which seemed to be a wing.
Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur;
The stars were glittering in the heav'ns' dusk meadows;
Far west, among those flow'rs of the shadows,
The thin clear crescent, lustrous over her,
The stars were glittering in the heav'ns' dusk meadows;
Far west, among those flow'rs of the shadows,
The thin clear crescent, lustrous over her,
Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars
Of heaven with eyes half-oped, what god, what comer
Unto the harvest of the eternal summer
Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.
Of heaven with eyes half-oped, what god, what comer
Unto the harvest of the eternal summer
Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.
WILLIAM DERRY.
C. F. ALEXANDER.
214
THE PREACHER'S MEDITATION
I
Lord of all these thousand spirits,Spirits differing more than faces do;
Knowing all these thousand spirits,
With their thousand histories, through and through;
Knowing all these thousand histories
as their own hearts know not—never knew;—
II
Save me from the mean ambitionvulgar praise of eloquence to win—
From falsetto and self-conscious
Pathos—from declamatory din—
From the tricky pulpit business,
and the silky talking that is sin.
215
III
Grant me honestly and strongly,as the strong and honest only can,
To uprear my temple. Ever
when a great cathedral stands for man,
Still, severe, serene, and simple,
depth of thought and science drew the plan.
IV
Save me from false intermixture,faithless patronising of Thy grace;
From the too resplendent colours
that the tender tints of truth efface;
From the insolent scorn unholy
of Thy glorious holy commonplace.
V
Never yet hath earthly chemistsecret of creating gem-stars found;
Still the difficult tint mysterious
lies uncaught—for God takes half the round
Of the ages for creating
The small deathless light call'd diamond.
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VI
Never yet hath earthborn message,chemistry, or stroke of chisel faint,
Lit and glorified our nature,
made the gem without a flaw or taint:
All God's working, and His only,
makes that diamond divine—a saint.
VII
Never bright point but the gospel'swon all colours hidden in heart deeps,
Show'd in perfected reflection
all that nobly flashes, sweetly weeps.
—So they say the sea-tinct sapphire
somewhere in the blood-blush'd ruby sleeps.
VIII
Wherefore not at all I ask Theefor the sharp-cut facets of bright wit—
Not for arrows of the archer
cunning that the inner circle hit—
Not for colour'd fountains rising
by fantastic lamps and glasses lit.
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IX
If Thy Spirit's sword-hilt glittersometimes, as its blade divine I wheel,
Golden thought or gemlike fancy
is not God's own sharpness. Soldier leal
Thinks not of the gold and jewell'd
hilt, but of the keenness of the steel.
X
Grant me, Lord, in all my studies,through all volumes roaming where I list,
Whatsoever spacious distance
rise in ample grandeur through thought's mist,
Whatsoever land I find me,
that of right divine to claim for Christ.
XI
Do men dare to call Thy Scripture—mystic forest, unillumined nook?
If it be so, O my spirit!
then let Christ arise on thee, and look!
With the long lane of His sunlight
shall be cut the forest of His Book.
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XII
And at times give me the tremblinginevitable words that none forget.
Give the living golden moment
when a thousand eyes are lit and wet,
And some pathos makes the silence
palpitate, and grow more silent yet.
XIII
And a thousand hearts togetherare as one love-fused and reconciled.
And a thousand passionate natures
harden'd by the world and sin-defiled,
Look upon me for a moment
with the soft eyes of a little child.
XIV
Give me words like the unveilinglightning that the sky a moment rips—
Words that show the world eternal
over where this world's horizon dips—
Words of more than magic music,
with the name of Jesus on the lips.
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XV
Give me words of Thine to utterthat shall open the lock'd heart like keys,—
Words that, like Thine own sweet teaching,
shall be medicínal for disease,—
Words like a revolving lanthorn
for the ships in darkness—give me these.
XVI
In the Sunday summer eveningtwo lights are there, in the church, unlike.
One the cool sweet dying sunshine;
one the gas-jets' fierce light-beaded spike.
With the first my speech be gifted—
light to touch and tremble, not to strike.
XVII
So for all these thousand spirits,differing more than any faces do,
Christ through me may have some message
that shall be at once both old and new,
And my sinful human brethren
through my sinful lips learn something true.
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