 | Benoni |  |
297
BETHESDA.
Get thee a thing to love, thou man of sin
That prowlest thro' the sweet unfearful earth
In act of crime: Feelest thou not within
The squatted ghoul, that hatches into birth
Thy frequent broods of evil? Stifle her—
Whirl up the reeking nest and that foul dam
Into due death together! A strong stir
Of heaven-born winds, if thou but say ‘I am
Astray—O help!’ shall do it; shall denude
Thy spirit of its selfishness, and wake
That drooping dull and listless lassitude
To matin freshness, for Another's sake.
That prowlest thro' the sweet unfearful earth
In act of crime: Feelest thou not within
The squatted ghoul, that hatches into birth
Thy frequent broods of evil? Stifle her—
Whirl up the reeking nest and that foul dam
Into due death together! A strong stir
Of heaven-born winds, if thou but say ‘I am
Astray—O help!’ shall do it; shall denude
Thy spirit of its selfishness, and wake
That drooping dull and listless lassitude
To matin freshness, for Another's sake.
Get thee whereon to lean—eternities
Of blessed hope, for which our spirits yearn,
And a meek resting-place for thy sear'd eyes
In this world: such a pillow thou shalt earn
Wooing as man should woo; thy throbbing head
Half sunk between the tender yielding globes
Of her warm breasts shall lie, replenished
With odours; he that cradles there disrobes
His muffled soul, and sleeps unveil'd and pure
Of secrecy, within that nest of peace.
Of blessed hope, for which our spirits yearn,
And a meek resting-place for thy sear'd eyes
In this world: such a pillow thou shalt earn
Wooing as man should woo; thy throbbing head
Half sunk between the tender yielding globes
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With odours; he that cradles there disrobes
His muffled soul, and sleeps unveil'd and pure
Of secrecy, within that nest of peace.
Get thee a soul to doat on—'tis the cure
For vagrant follies and the sins of ease:
Gather great store of fuel unto thee,—
Red burning blocks of Passion, under which
Bury thy cold black heart, and let them be
Profuse above and cleave into a rich
Clear mass that with intensest lucid heat
Throbs to the core. Then, while thou wonderest
At such a flame, the viewless Paraclete
Shows thee thy heart all molten in the midst,
Or charr'd to snowy softness. Yea, my friend,
This is the furnace that shall purify
Thy nature into nobler: here shall end
The struggles of thy youth. O, when thine eye
Seeks first the love of God, not far behind
With airier step the glad affections move
And fuller pulse; while softly thro' the wind
Comes the fresh fragrant breath of Human Love.
For vagrant follies and the sins of ease:
Gather great store of fuel unto thee,—
Red burning blocks of Passion, under which
Bury thy cold black heart, and let them be
Profuse above and cleave into a rich
Clear mass that with intensest lucid heat
Throbs to the core. Then, while thou wonderest
At such a flame, the viewless Paraclete
Shows thee thy heart all molten in the midst,
Or charr'd to snowy softness. Yea, my friend,
This is the furnace that shall purify
Thy nature into nobler: here shall end
The struggles of thy youth. O, when thine eye
Seeks first the love of God, not far behind
With airier step the glad affections move
And fuller pulse; while softly thro' the wind
Comes the fresh fragrant breath of Human Love.
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