The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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PARABLE OF THE STREAM. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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PARABLE OF THE STREAM.
I am a priest of Nature, and I preach
From texts extracted from her sacred book.
I saw a river on a summer's day
Of clean and peaceful water, which passed by
Rude crags and threatening boughs with fearless heart,
Unconscious of their shadows; and it flowed
With calm unbroken current over rocks,
And polished every sharp impediment
By the effect of its own gentleness.
It was a cheerful brook, and musical,
And all the light was welcome that the sun
Would pour into its clear and open breast.
I came again in autumn, and the mud
Defiled that troubled river with a hue
Of dark and sullen gloom. It was opaque,
And full of filthy secrets, which it nursed
With a morose and grumbling discontent.
The water was so thick that the strong shadows,
No longer drowned in its transparent depth,
Played on the surface all the afternoon.
It groaned with torture on the pebbly marge,
And foamed and bruised itself upon the rocks
Like worshippers of false and cruel gods.
From texts extracted from her sacred book.
I saw a river on a summer's day
Of clean and peaceful water, which passed by
Rude crags and threatening boughs with fearless heart,
Unconscious of their shadows; and it flowed
With calm unbroken current over rocks,
And polished every sharp impediment
By the effect of its own gentleness.
It was a cheerful brook, and musical,
And all the light was welcome that the sun
Would pour into its clear and open breast.
I came again in autumn, and the mud
Defiled that troubled river with a hue
Of dark and sullen gloom. It was opaque,
And full of filthy secrets, which it nursed
With a morose and grumbling discontent.
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No longer drowned in its transparent depth,
Played on the surface all the afternoon.
It groaned with torture on the pebbly marge,
And foamed and bruised itself upon the rocks
Like worshippers of false and cruel gods.
Hear me. That river was a human soul,
That flowed past dangers and accursed things,
And griefs and darkening sorrows, with a song
And a clean breast all full of holy light.
But when its current was made foul by sin,
All things were turned to torture, and its course
Became a gauntlet through the files of hell;
And its poor back was striped with many shadows;
And all the objects it caressed before
Became impediments and hindrances.
That flowed past dangers and accursed things,
And griefs and darkening sorrows, with a song
And a clean breast all full of holy light.
But when its current was made foul by sin,
All things were turned to torture, and its course
Became a gauntlet through the files of hell;
And its poor back was striped with many shadows;
And all the objects it caressed before
Became impediments and hindrances.
I came again in winter. All the stream
Was frozen. Every ripple of the pool
Had died away, and chill and changeless ice
Locked the cold waters. From the leafless trees
There came no music—all the birds were dumb—
And not a ray of sunshine pierced the cloud—
The one great cloud that covered the expanse
Without a rent. The earth was shut from heaven;
The water from its playmate the wild wind;
The withered herbage shrouded up in snow.
Was frozen. Every ripple of the pool
Had died away, and chill and changeless ice
Locked the cold waters. From the leafless trees
There came no music—all the birds were dumb—
And not a ray of sunshine pierced the cloud—
The one great cloud that covered the expanse
Without a rent. The earth was shut from heaven;
The water from its playmate the wild wind;
The withered herbage shrouded up in snow.
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It was the end! And so at last we lie,
After our chequered course through sun and shade,
Clear in the sunshine of our innocence,
Muddy and foul in sin,—until at last,
So are we darkly coffined from the world,
Withered like rotten grass beneath the snow,
Cold as imprisoned waters under ice,
Silent as songless trees—frail skeletons,
Shorn of our beautiful flesh as they of leaves.
After our chequered course through sun and shade,
Clear in the sunshine of our innocence,
Muddy and foul in sin,—until at last,
So are we darkly coffined from the world,
Withered like rotten grass beneath the snow,
Cold as imprisoned waters under ice,
Silent as songless trees—frail skeletons,
Shorn of our beautiful flesh as they of leaves.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |