 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
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VI. THE TWO THEOLOGIES.
THE MYSTIC
It must be that the light divine
That on your soul is pleased to shine
Is other than what falls on mine:
That on your soul is pleased to shine
Is other than what falls on mine:
For you can fix and formalize
The Power on which you raise your eyes,
And trace him in his palace-skies;
The Power on which you raise your eyes,
And trace him in his palace-skies;
You can perceive and almost touch
His attributes as such and such,
Almost familiar overmuch.
His attributes as such and such,
Almost familiar overmuch.
You can his thoughts and ends display,
In fair historical array,
From Adam to the judgment-day.
In fair historical array,
From Adam to the judgment-day.
You can adjust to time and place
The sweet effusions of his grace,
And feel yourself before his face.
The sweet effusions of his grace,
And feel yourself before his face.
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You walk as in some summer night,
With moon or stars serenely bright,
On which you gaze—at ease—upright.
With moon or stars serenely bright,
On which you gaze—at ease—upright.
But I am like a flower sun-bent,
Exhaling all its life and scent
Beneath the heat omnipotent.
Exhaling all its life and scent
Beneath the heat omnipotent.
I have not comforts such as you,—
I rather suffer good than do,—
Yet God is my Deliverer too.
I rather suffer good than do,—
Yet God is my Deliverer too.
I cannot think Him here or there—
I think Him ever everywhere—
Unfading light, unstifled air.
I think Him ever everywhere—
Unfading light, unstifled air.
I lay a piteous mortal thing,—
Yet shadowed by his spirit's wing,
A deathless life could in me spring:
Yet shadowed by his spirit's wing,
A deathless life could in me spring:
And thence I am, and still must be;
What matters whether I or He?—
Little was there to love in me.
What matters whether I or He?—
Little was there to love in me.
I know no beauty, bliss, or worth,
In that which we call Life on earth,
That we should mourn its loss or dearth:
In that which we call Life on earth,
That we should mourn its loss or dearth:
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That we should sorrow for its sake,
If God will the imperfect take
Unto Himself, and perfect make.
If God will the imperfect take
Unto Himself, and perfect make.
O Lord! our separate lives destroy!
Merge in thy gold our soul's alloy,—
Pain is our own, and Thou art Joy!
Merge in thy gold our soul's alloy,—
Pain is our own, and Thou art Joy!
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |