Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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| TO A LONG-PARTED FRIEND. |
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182
TO A LONG-PARTED FRIEND.
“That I never made use of your stay here to unite the present with
departed days is one of the things—there are not a few of them—for
which I can never be consoled; it was as though a spell lay upon me;
I felt it would be enough to speak one word, but that word I could not
unclose my lips to speak. The Past could not rise again from its
grave, and I felt as though it would have shaken the foundations of
that Present, which it is now my duty to preserve and develop. My
mind is like a nation that has passed through a revolution, and must
proceed in a new order, the old order being irrevocably destroyed. . . .
Yet how was it with me after you had gone?”
—Niebuhr to Count Adam Moltke.
I.
As by a camp-fire in the wilderness
Two hunters meet, that o'er the Prairie long
Have roamed on distant tracts companionless;
So to this city, drifted by the stress
That draws the nations hither—in the throng
We stood together in this mortal press
A moment face to face; Thou didst not guess
At mine, and I—forgive me then this wrong—
By favour of the light that fitful fell
Did let thee pass unchallenged; so that look,
Thine olden look, so long unseen, so well
Remembered, troubled me; thine aspect shook
The strong foundations of my soul, I knew
It was the Past within its grave that drew
A long, deep, sighing breath, and like a pent
Volcanic force, this smouldering element
Would kindle at thy glance; I felt a stir
Among the ashes of a sepulchre
Long sealed, long smooth with grass, with flowers o'ergrown,
A word from Thee, and bursting through the stone
The Dead had risen up! before one shrine
We knelt together; though the fires are cold
We lighted there, I deem that still we hold
A mournful faith unto this worship old
And lovely, counting it for half Divine.
Now is that altar broken, and a sign
From Heaven hath warned us hence—we may not bring
The living Past again, we can but wring
Its secrets from its grasp, disquieting
Like one of old, with awful charm its sleep:
Oh, leave its rest unbroken, I assign
A day far hence to meet Thee—now thine eye
Would vex me with its kindness, silently
Would turn where mine is turning;—even yet,
I am as one that wistful o'er a wave
Stoops down, intent, and sees beneath it lie
The fragments of a wreck, that glistering wet
Tempt down the eager outstretched hand; I crave
A little longer pause, for soon or late
Come all things to a calm;—I do but wait.
Two hunters meet, that o'er the Prairie long
Have roamed on distant tracts companionless;
So to this city, drifted by the stress
That draws the nations hither—in the throng
We stood together in this mortal press
A moment face to face; Thou didst not guess
At mine, and I—forgive me then this wrong—
By favour of the light that fitful fell
Did let thee pass unchallenged; so that look,
Thine olden look, so long unseen, so well
Remembered, troubled me; thine aspect shook
The strong foundations of my soul, I knew
It was the Past within its grave that drew
183
Volcanic force, this smouldering element
Would kindle at thy glance; I felt a stir
Among the ashes of a sepulchre
Long sealed, long smooth with grass, with flowers o'ergrown,
A word from Thee, and bursting through the stone
The Dead had risen up! before one shrine
We knelt together; though the fires are cold
We lighted there, I deem that still we hold
A mournful faith unto this worship old
And lovely, counting it for half Divine.
Now is that altar broken, and a sign
From Heaven hath warned us hence—we may not bring
The living Past again, we can but wring
Its secrets from its grasp, disquieting
Like one of old, with awful charm its sleep:
Oh, leave its rest unbroken, I assign
A day far hence to meet Thee—now thine eye
Would vex me with its kindness, silently
Would turn where mine is turning;—even yet,
I am as one that wistful o'er a wave
Stoops down, intent, and sees beneath it lie
The fragments of a wreck, that glistering wet
Tempt down the eager outstretched hand; I crave
A little longer pause, for soon or late
Come all things to a calm;—I do but wait.
184
I turned, and thou wert gone—
O then my heart rose sudden up and passed
A hasty judgment; saying, I had cast
A Life within that moment from me, more
Than life would give again, and chiding sore
Like one defrauded of its right, it took
Its arrows tipped with olden love, a look,
A word remembered barbs them—oh, my friend,
I turn to thee for solace;—draw this glaive
Deep plunged unto the hilt from out my breast!
Thy hand it was unwittingly that drave
It home, and none beside can give it rest;
Speak comfort to my soul, oh reconcile
My spirit with itself! upon thy track
My heart runs after Thee; yes, mile by mile,
It follows Thee, it does not call thee back!
O then my heart rose sudden up and passed
A hasty judgment; saying, I had cast
A Life within that moment from me, more
Than life would give again, and chiding sore
Like one defrauded of its right, it took
Its arrows tipped with olden love, a look,
A word remembered barbs them—oh, my friend,
I turn to thee for solace;—draw this glaive
Deep plunged unto the hilt from out my breast!
Thy hand it was unwittingly that drave
It home, and none beside can give it rest;
Speak comfort to my soul, oh reconcile
My spirit with itself! upon thy track
My heart runs after Thee; yes, mile by mile,
It follows Thee, it does not call thee back!
185
II.
I said, I do assign
A day far hence to speak with Thee; if late
Or soon it fall, I know not, for its date
Rests not with me, but One above, who draws
Our ruins to an order through the fine
And ceaseless working of His kindly laws;
For we are hasty builders incomplete;
Our Master follows after, far more slow
And far more sure than we, for frost and heat,
And winds that breathe, and waters in their flow
Work with Him silently; we stand too near
The part as yet to look upon the whole;
That thing which shall be doth not yet appear;
It is not with the eye but with the soul
That we must view God's work;
A day far hence to speak with Thee; if late
Or soon it fall, I know not, for its date
Rests not with me, but One above, who draws
Our ruins to an order through the fine
And ceaseless working of His kindly laws;
For we are hasty builders incomplete;
Our Master follows after, far more slow
And far more sure than we, for frost and heat,
And winds that breathe, and waters in their flow
Work with Him silently; we stand too near
The part as yet to look upon the whole;
That thing which shall be doth not yet appear;
It is not with the eye but with the soul
That we must view God's work;
Of when and where
We ask not wisely; if our meeting were
Delayed indeed, until no more to part
We meet at last within a Mansion fair
Where there are many such, would this impart
A sadness to thy spirit? heart with heart
May commune safely when the Master's art
Hath tuned His perfect instrument! below
We learn not half its sweetness; not for men
Its broken strings are joined; it keeps its flow
Of music for the Land where none again
May wring its chords;
We ask not wisely; if our meeting were
Delayed indeed, until no more to part
We meet at last within a Mansion fair
Where there are many such, would this impart
A sadness to thy spirit? heart with heart
May commune safely when the Master's art
Hath tuned His perfect instrument! below
We learn not half its sweetness; not for men
Its broken strings are joined; it keeps its flow
186
May wring its chords;
Yet even here, I know,
Are seasons calm and glad that antedate
The coming in of happier cycles, where
The human soul, too long left desolate
Shall reckon up its Sabbaths, and repair
Its pleasant things laid waste; upon that Rest
Together we shall enter! we shall share
Its joy above, below,—as God deems best!
Are seasons calm and glad that antedate
The coming in of happier cycles, where
The human soul, too long left desolate
Shall reckon up its Sabbaths, and repair
Its pleasant things laid waste; upon that Rest
Together we shall enter! we shall share
Its joy above, below,—as God deems best!
| Poems | |