Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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THE SORROW OF IT. |
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 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE SORROW OF IT.
It's O that there should ever be
This weary sound on earth and sea,
Which is the old world's leaven;
And through wide Nature's troubled brain
Should throb the master pulse of pain,
Which thrills the path to Heaven;
As if the labouring land and sky,
Finding no utterance but a cry,
Were some poor soul unshriven
And sought but nowhere heard reply
Save its own echoed agony,
Or would not be forgiven.
This weary sound on earth and sea,
Which is the old world's leaven;
And through wide Nature's troubled brain
Should throb the master pulse of pain,
Which thrills the path to Heaven;
As if the labouring land and sky,
Finding no utterance but a cry,
Were some poor soul unshriven
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Save its own echoed agony,
Or would not be forgiven.
And yet it's well, the perfect note
In singing voice, and hand that wrote
Was always one sweet sadness;
Which in each mortal thing held part,
And is the beating burning heart
Alike in mirth and madness;
That thus by steps of holy grief
Man might attain a fairer fief
Than in the gift of gladness,
And life however poor and brief
Rise to its due divine relief
Purged from the dross and badness.
In singing voice, and hand that wrote
Was always one sweet sadness;
Which in each mortal thing held part,
And is the beating burning heart
Alike in mirth and madness;
That thus by steps of holy grief
Man might attain a fairer fief
Than in the gift of gladness,
And life however poor and brief
Rise to its due divine relief
Purged from the dross and badness.
It's O that in the bosom's throe
Should be the accent of the woe
Which murmurs throughout Nature,
And on the morning's brow will weave
The prophecy of coming eve
To cloud its present stature;
And struggle far and near for light
Dim yearnings that still vainly fight
With their dark judicature;
And high and low the idle wings
Of youth, with fond imaginings
Disown their legislature.
Should be the accent of the woe
Which murmurs throughout Nature,
And on the morning's brow will weave
The prophecy of coming eve
To cloud its present stature;
And struggle far and near for light
Dim yearnings that still vainly fight
With their dark judicature;
And high and low the idle wings
Of youth, with fond imaginings
Disown their legislature.
And yet it's well, the onward track
Should lay a burden on the back
It broadens as it presses,
And anguish mingles with the cup
We drink who yet are climbing up
If but with awful guesses;
And wails that long and lonely call,
Through every speech and space and all
That moves in mortal dresses
For though the trouble must be sure,
It is its own exceeding cure
And with the blow it blesses.
Should lay a burden on the back
It broadens as it presses,
And anguish mingles with the cup
We drink who yet are climbing up
If but with awful guesses;
And wails that long and lonely call,
Through every speech and space and all
That moves in mortal dresses
For though the trouble must be sure,
It is its own exceeding cure
And with the blow it blesses.
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Its O that everywhere the strain,
Like mourning, is dyed in the grain
And texture of creation;
While suffering helpless throws a sigh
To Heaven which cannot stoop more nigh,
And asks a deaf salvation;
That guiding Powers (if such) are dumb
To human care though cold and numb
Beneath the slow damnation,
Or lift us playthings up and tools
With systemed pangs through solemn schools
By ghastly education!
Like mourning, is dyed in the grain
And texture of creation;
While suffering helpless throws a sigh
To Heaven which cannot stoop more nigh,
And asks a deaf salvation;
That guiding Powers (if such) are dumb
To human care though cold and numb
Beneath the slow damnation,
Or lift us playthings up and tools
With systemed pangs through solemn schools
By ghastly education!
And yet it's well, it's very well
Hope should not be remote from hell
Nor Judas from the eleven;
For pain must be the altar knife,
In mercy held, by which our life
Is still renewed when riven.
And souls that from their summits fell
In shadow for a while to dwell,
By shame are higher driven;
While sorrow is our Matin bell
And then at evensong doth swell,
To ring us home to Heaven.
Hope should not be remote from hell
Nor Judas from the eleven;
For pain must be the altar knife,
In mercy held, by which our life
Is still renewed when riven.
And souls that from their summits fell
In shadow for a while to dwell,
By shame are higher driven;
While sorrow is our Matin bell
And then at evensong doth swell,
To ring us home to Heaven.
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