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II. PART SECOND.
“Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
Yet too strong to be suppressed.”
—George Wither.
Yet too strong to be suppressed.”
—George Wither.
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THE RECONCILER.
“And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to
open and to read the book, neither to look thereon. And one
of the elders saith unto me, ‘Weep not; behold, the Lion of
the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, hath prevailed to open
the book.’”
The Revelation of St. John.
All things are reconciled
In Thee, O Lord! all fierce extremes that beat
Along Time's shore, like chidden waves grown mild,
Have crept to kiss Thy feet!
In Thee, O Lord! all fierce extremes that beat
Along Time's shore, like chidden waves grown mild,
Have crept to kiss Thy feet!
For there is no more sea
Within Thy kingdom; so within Thy reign
Are no more tides that murmur and complain,
Like ancient foes that seem through some dark law
Their life from out each other's hate to draw;
So Light and Darkness, Good and Evil, set
Against the other's being, strive, and yet
Contending mix, while caught and driven by winds
So keen and restless in their rage, the Will,
Drawn hither, thither, trembles, till it finds
Its centre, and is still.
Within Thy kingdom; so within Thy reign
Are no more tides that murmur and complain,
Like ancient foes that seem through some dark law
Their life from out each other's hate to draw;
So Light and Darkness, Good and Evil, set
Against the other's being, strive, and yet
Contending mix, while caught and driven by winds
So keen and restless in their rage, the Will,
Drawn hither, thither, trembles, till it finds
Its centre, and is still.
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Then nothing is displaced,
Thou drawest all things to an Order fair;
The things we treasure most with those our haste
Doth count for nought, alike in Thee are graced
With beauty past compare.
Thou drawest all things to an Order fair;
The things we treasure most with those our haste
Doth count for nought, alike in Thee are graced
With beauty past compare.
For all grows sweet in Thee,
Since Thou didst gather us in One, and bring
This fading flower of our humanity
To perfect blossoming,
Since Thou didst gather us in One, and bring
This fading flower of our humanity
To perfect blossoming,
All comes to bloom! this wild
Green outward World of ours, that still must wear
The furrow on its brow, by print of care
And toil struck deep; this world by Sin made sad,
Hath felt Thy foot upon its sod, and smiled,—
The desert place is glad!
Green outward World of ours, that still must wear
The furrow on its brow, by print of care
And toil struck deep; this world by Sin made sad,
Hath felt Thy foot upon its sod, and smiled,—
The desert place is glad!
Thou madest all things glad
As they were good. When first Thy sunbeam flew
Abroad, it lit on nothing that was sad;
So now is all made new
That meets in Thee! Thou takest—for thy birth
Is of the Morning's womb, and so the dew
Lies ever on it—of the things that Earth
Hath left for waste, their freshness to renew.
Him most of all, the Chief
Of things thy hands have fashioned, sorest curst
Yet holding still the First-born's Birthright; first
In grandeur and in grief.
As they were good. When first Thy sunbeam flew
Abroad, it lit on nothing that was sad;
So now is all made new
That meets in Thee! Thou takest—for thy birth
Is of the Morning's womb, and so the dew
Lies ever on it—of the things that Earth
Hath left for waste, their freshness to renew.
Him most of all, the Chief
Of things thy hands have fashioned, sorest curst
Yet holding still the First-born's Birthright; first
In grandeur and in grief.
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Of old perplexed he stood
And questioned much with things that did appear
Of things that were. and for the unseen Good
He sought 'mid present shows, but neither ear
Was there, nor voice to give an answer clear;
So listening oft, O Thou, Desired of all,
To hear afar Thy coming footsteps fall,
Thy shadow on the murky atmosphere
Grew gross and palpable, and soon his sense
Discerned not well if foe or friend were near;
While whirling, ringing still from sphere to sphere
Of widening thought, went up his bitter cry
Of “whence” and “why,” and evermore this whence
And why did clash together for reply.
And questioned much with things that did appear
Of things that were. and for the unseen Good
He sought 'mid present shows, but neither ear
Was there, nor voice to give an answer clear;
So listening oft, O Thou, Desired of all,
To hear afar Thy coming footsteps fall,
Thy shadow on the murky atmosphere
Grew gross and palpable, and soon his sense
Discerned not well if foe or friend were near;
While whirling, ringing still from sphere to sphere
Of widening thought, went up his bitter cry
Of “whence” and “why,” and evermore this whence
And why did clash together for reply.
Until for aye to quell
This battle, that had grown for him too sore
To bring his foes to silence, and compel
His doubtful friends to weary him no more,
With changeful aspects and with frequent strife,
Thou camest suddenly:
This battle, that had grown for him too sore
To bring his foes to silence, and compel
His doubtful friends to weary him no more,
With changeful aspects and with frequent strife,
Thou camest suddenly:
And first with Life
Thou madest friends for us; our lives in Thine
Grow kind and gracious, Lord! when Thou didst make
Thy soul an offering for sin, Thy love
Was even unto Death; yea, far above,
For Thou didst suffer Life for us. to take
More hard than to resign.
Thou madest friends for us; our lives in Thine
Grow kind and gracious, Lord! when Thou didst make
Thy soul an offering for sin, Thy love
Was even unto Death; yea, far above,
For Thou didst suffer Life for us. to take
More hard than to resign.
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And since this garment old
And fretted by the moth Thy love hath borne
Upon Thee, all that wear it in its fold
With Thee enwrapt and gathered, have grown bold,
To Thee and to each other closer drawn;
Pale grows our purple pride
Beside this vesture dyed
In Kingly blood; before our common name
We feel our titles but a gorgeous shame,
That doth betray, not clothe, our nakedness;
But Heaven and Earth have been
More near, since Earth hath seen
Its God walk Earth as Man; since Heaven hath shown
A Man upon its throne;
The street and market-place
Grow holy ground; each face—
Pale faces, marked with care,
Dark, toil-worn brows—grows fair;
King's children are these all; though want and sin
Have marred their beauty glorious within,
We may not pass them but with reverent eye;
As when we see some goodly temple graced
To be Thy dwelling, ruined and defaced,
The haunt of sad and doleful creatures, lie
Bare to the sky, and open to the gust,
It grieveth us to see This House laid waste,—
It pitieth us to see it in the dust!
And fretted by the moth Thy love hath borne
Upon Thee, all that wear it in its fold
With Thee enwrapt and gathered, have grown bold,
To Thee and to each other closer drawn;
Pale grows our purple pride
Beside this vesture dyed
In Kingly blood; before our common name
We feel our titles but a gorgeous shame,
That doth betray, not clothe, our nakedness;
But Heaven and Earth have been
More near, since Earth hath seen
Its God walk Earth as Man; since Heaven hath shown
A Man upon its throne;
The street and market-place
Grow holy ground; each face—
Pale faces, marked with care,
Dark, toil-worn brows—grows fair;
King's children are these all; though want and sin
Have marred their beauty glorious within,
We may not pass them but with reverent eye;
As when we see some goodly temple graced
To be Thy dwelling, ruined and defaced,
The haunt of sad and doleful creatures, lie
Bare to the sky, and open to the gust,
It grieveth us to see This House laid waste,—
It pitieth us to see it in the dust!
Our dreams are reconciled,
Since Thou didst come to turn them all to Truth;
The World, the Heart are dreamers in their youth
Of visions beautiful, and strange and wild;
And Thou, our Life's Interpreter dost still
At once make clear these visions and fulfil;
Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme,
Each Mythic tale sublime
Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue,
Each morning dream the few,
Wisdom's first Lovers told, in stately speech,
Within the porch, or underneath the beech,
If read in Thee comes true;
And these did mock the other, saying, “See
These dreamers,” but in Thee
Their speech is plain, their witnesses agree;
So doth Earth mock the hearts' fond Faiths and rend
Our idols from our failing grasp, and fling
Dust, dust upon our altar-shrines, yet bring
No worship in their place, but Thou, O Friend
From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own,
Dost pierce the broken language of its moan—
Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy!
Each yearning deep and wide,
Each claim is justified;
Our young illusions fail not though they die
Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed
To happy death, like early clouds that lie
About the gates of Dawn—a golden mist
Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.
Since Thou didst come to turn them all to Truth;
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Of visions beautiful, and strange and wild;
And Thou, our Life's Interpreter dost still
At once make clear these visions and fulfil;
Each dim sweet Orphic rhyme,
Each Mythic tale sublime
Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue,
Each morning dream the few,
Wisdom's first Lovers told, in stately speech,
Within the porch, or underneath the beech,
If read in Thee comes true;
And these did mock the other, saying, “See
These dreamers,” but in Thee
Their speech is plain, their witnesses agree;
So doth Earth mock the hearts' fond Faiths and rend
Our idols from our failing grasp, and fling
Dust, dust upon our altar-shrines, yet bring
No worship in their place, but Thou, O Friend
From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own,
Dost pierce the broken language of its moan—
Thou dost not scorn our needs, but satisfy!
Each yearning deep and wide,
Each claim is justified;
Our young illusions fail not though they die
Within the brightness of Thy Rising, kissed
To happy death, like early clouds that lie
About the gates of Dawn—a golden mist
Paling to blissful white, through rose and amethyst.
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The World that puts Thee by,
That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train,
That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry,
“We will not have Thee over us to reign;”
Itself doth testify through searchings vain
Of Thee and of its need, and for the good
It will not, of some base similitude
Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood,
Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tear
Its own illusions grown too thin and bare
To wrap it longer; for within the gate
Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate,
A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies,
And he who answers not its questions dies,—
Still changing form and speech, but with the same
Vexed riddles, Gordian-twisted, bringing shame
Upon the nations that with eager cry
Hail each new solver of the mystery;
Yet he, of these the best,
Bold guesser, hath but prest
Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong;
True Champion, that hast wrought
Our help of old, and brought
Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong.
That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train,
That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry,
“We will not have Thee over us to reign;”
Itself doth testify through searchings vain
Of Thee and of its need, and for the good
It will not, of some base similitude
Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood,
Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tear
Its own illusions grown too thin and bare
To wrap it longer; for within the gate
Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate,
A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies,
And he who answers not its questions dies,—
Still changing form and speech, but with the same
Vexed riddles, Gordian-twisted, bringing shame
Upon the nations that with eager cry
Hail each new solver of the mystery;
Yet he, of these the best,
Bold guesser, hath but prest
Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong;
True Champion, that hast wrought
Our help of old, and brought
Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong.
Oh, Bearer of the key
That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet
Its turning in the wards is melody—
All things we move among are incomplete
And vain until we fashion them in Thee!
We labour in the fire,
Thick smoke is round about us, through the din
Of words that darken counsel, clamours dire
Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where within
Two Giants toil, that even from their birth
With travail-pangs have torn their mother Earth,
And wearied out her children with their keen
Upbraidings of the other, till between
Thou camest, saying, “Wherefore do ye wrong
Each other?—ye are Brethren.” Then these twain
Will own their kindred, and in Thee retain
Their claims in peace, because Thy land is wide
As it is goodly! here they pasture free,
This lion and this leopard, side by side,
A little child doth lead them with a song;
Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no more
Doth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore,
For one did ask a Brother, one a King,
So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring—
Thou, King for evermore, for ever Priest,
Thou, Brother of our own from bonds released—
A Law of Liberty,
A Service making free,
A Commonweal where each has all in Thee.
That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet
Its turning in the wards is melody—
All things we move among are incomplete
And vain until we fashion them in Thee!
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Thick smoke is round about us, through the din
Of words that darken counsel, clamours dire
Ring from thought's beaten anvil, where within
Two Giants toil, that even from their birth
With travail-pangs have torn their mother Earth,
And wearied out her children with their keen
Upbraidings of the other, till between
Thou camest, saying, “Wherefore do ye wrong
Each other?—ye are Brethren.” Then these twain
Will own their kindred, and in Thee retain
Their claims in peace, because Thy land is wide
As it is goodly! here they pasture free,
This lion and this leopard, side by side,
A little child doth lead them with a song;
Now, Ephraim's envy ceaseth, and no more
Doth Judah anger Ephraim chiding sore,
For one did ask a Brother, one a King,
So dost Thou gather them in one, and bring—
Thou, King for evermore, for ever Priest,
Thou, Brother of our own from bonds released—
A Law of Liberty,
A Service making free,
A Commonweal where each has all in Thee.
And not alone these wide,
Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cry
Their meat from God, in Thee are satisfied;
But all our instincts waking suddenly
Within the soul, like infants from their sleep
That stretch their arms into the dark and weep,
Thy voice can still. The stricken heart bereft
Of all its brood of singing hopes, and left
'Mid leafless boughs a cold forsaken nest
With snow-flakes in it, folded in thy breast
Doth lose its deadly chill; and grief that creeps
Unto thy side for shelter, finding there
The wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan and weeps
Calm quiet tears, and on thy forehead Care
Hath looked until its thorns, no longer bare,
Put forth pale roses. Pain on thee doth press
Its quivering cheek, and all the weariness,
The want that keep their silence, till from Thee
They hear the gracious summons, none beside
Hath spoken to the world-worn, “Come to me,”
Tell forth their heavy secrets.
Deep-planted yearnings, seeking with a cry
Their meat from God, in Thee are satisfied;
But all our instincts waking suddenly
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That stretch their arms into the dark and weep,
Thy voice can still. The stricken heart bereft
Of all its brood of singing hopes, and left
'Mid leafless boughs a cold forsaken nest
With snow-flakes in it, folded in thy breast
Doth lose its deadly chill; and grief that creeps
Unto thy side for shelter, finding there
The wound's deep cleft, forgets its moan and weeps
Calm quiet tears, and on thy forehead Care
Hath looked until its thorns, no longer bare,
Put forth pale roses. Pain on thee doth press
Its quivering cheek, and all the weariness,
The want that keep their silence, till from Thee
They hear the gracious summons, none beside
Hath spoken to the world-worn, “Come to me,”
Tell forth their heavy secrets.
Thou dost hide
These in thy bosom, and not these alone,
But all our heart's fond treasure that had grown
A burden else: oh, Saviour, tears were weighed
To Thee in plenteous measure! none hath shown
That Thou didst smile! yet hast Thou surely made
All joy of ours Thine own;
These in thy bosom, and not these alone,
But all our heart's fond treasure that had grown
A burden else: oh, Saviour, tears were weighed
To Thee in plenteous measure! none hath shown
That Thou didst smile! yet hast Thou surely made
All joy of ours Thine own;
Thou madest us for Thine;
We seek amiss, we wander to and fro;
Yet are we ever on the track Divine;
The soul confesseth Thee, but sense is slow
To lean on aught but that which it may see;
So hath it crowded up these Courts below
With dark and broken images of Thee;
Lead Thou us forth upon Thy Mount, and show
Thy goodly patterns, whence these things of old
By Thee were fashioned; One though manifold
Glass Thou thy perfect likeness in the soul,
Show us Thy countenance, and we are whole!
We seek amiss, we wander to and fro;
Yet are we ever on the track Divine;
The soul confesseth Thee, but sense is slow
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So hath it crowded up these Courts below
With dark and broken images of Thee;
Lead Thou us forth upon Thy Mount, and show
Thy goodly patterns, whence these things of old
By Thee were fashioned; One though manifold
Glass Thou thy perfect likeness in the soul,
Show us Thy countenance, and we are whole!
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THE QUESTION.
“Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou
me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest
that I love thee.”—John xxi. 15.
Lord, didst Thou turn Thine eyes
On me, and speak upon this solemn shore
The words that wounded with a keen surprise
Thine erring, loving servant, grieved the more
That love, as doubtful of its own, should seek
To put it thrice to proof; I could but speak
With Him; I could but say, ‘Below, above
Thou knowest all,—Thou knowest that I love.”
On me, and speak upon this solemn shore
The words that wounded with a keen surprise
Thine erring, loving servant, grieved the more
That love, as doubtful of its own, should seek
To put it thrice to proof; I could but speak
With Him; I could but say, ‘Below, above
Thou knowest all,—Thou knowest that I love.”
But canst Thou say with Her,
The Bride of ancient Song, “My soul hath found
Him whom it only loveth? wilt Thou stir
And quit me now for these that stand around—
Am I more dear than these?” I answer, “Yea,
Than each, than all more dear! I could not stray
From Thee, O Shepherd, skilled with silver sound
Of voice and hand attuned, thy flock to please
And lure them o'er the mountains, knowing best
Beside what streams, beneath what spreading trees
To solace them, to give their wanderings rest;
Why should I ever leave Thee? which of these
Hath charm so sure?”
The Bride of ancient Song, “My soul hath found
Him whom it only loveth? wilt Thou stir
And quit me now for these that stand around—
Am I more dear than these?” I answer, “Yea,
Than each, than all more dear! I could not stray
From Thee, O Shepherd, skilled with silver sound
Of voice and hand attuned, thy flock to please
And lure them o'er the mountains, knowing best
Beside what streams, beneath what spreading trees
To solace them, to give their wanderings rest;
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Hath charm so sure?”
“Yet hast Thou never feared
To gaze on these around, lest they should grow
Through fairness to thy soul too much endeared?”
“Nay, this I fear not, since I learned to know
A truer fairness, lighting on the Rose
That doth within its folded breast enclose
All fragrance, being as the soul that glows
In every other flower, I wander free
About this earthly garden; sweet to me
Its blooms and safe! for they that of Thy wine
Have tasted, will not from its strength decline
For any meaner cup! they love not Thee
Enough, who fear that any else should be
Too much beloved!”
To gaze on these around, lest they should grow
Through fairness to thy soul too much endeared?”
“Nay, this I fear not, since I learned to know
A truer fairness, lighting on the Rose
That doth within its folded breast enclose
All fragrance, being as the soul that glows
In every other flower, I wander free
About this earthly garden; sweet to me
Its blooms and safe! for they that of Thy wine
Have tasted, will not from its strength decline
For any meaner cup! they love not Thee
Enough, who fear that any else should be
Too much beloved!”
So spake I over bold,
And knew not, Lord! that round Thy Tree of Life
The serpent still doth twine with deadly fold;
I knew not then the thrice-refinèd gold
Was thrid with baser clay; that still the strife
Goes on, till Death doth part 'twixt things accurst
And things of blessing; severing best and worst
That grow together—easy still to miss
And hard to win—Thou knowest, Lord, of this,
Thou only knowest, what are we to speak?
Yet, Thou hast spoken, “Blessed are the meek,”
And “they that mourn are blessed.” I can touch
This border of Thy garment; now I know
I love Thee, Lord, I will not let Thee go;
I will not ask, “Are these beloved too much?”
Too little, Lord! because my heart is cold
In loving Thee! I make with one of old
This fervent prayer, Do Thou enlarge my coast
And o'er it rule Thyself! where Thou art most
Beloved, is room for all! the heart grows wide
That holdeth Thee! a Heaven where none doth press
Upon the other, none of more or less
Doth ask solicitous, for ever there
Is bread enough, and fulness still to spare,
And none that come depart unsatisfied.”
And knew not, Lord! that round Thy Tree of Life
The serpent still doth twine with deadly fold;
I knew not then the thrice-refinèd gold
Was thrid with baser clay; that still the strife
Goes on, till Death doth part 'twixt things accurst
And things of blessing; severing best and worst
That grow together—easy still to miss
And hard to win—Thou knowest, Lord, of this,
Thou only knowest, what are we to speak?
Yet, Thou hast spoken, “Blessed are the meek,”
And “they that mourn are blessed.” I can touch
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I love Thee, Lord, I will not let Thee go;
I will not ask, “Are these beloved too much?”
Too little, Lord! because my heart is cold
In loving Thee! I make with one of old
This fervent prayer, Do Thou enlarge my coast
And o'er it rule Thyself! where Thou art most
Beloved, is room for all! the heart grows wide
That holdeth Thee! a Heaven where none doth press
Upon the other, none of more or less
Doth ask solicitous, for ever there
Is bread enough, and fulness still to spare,
And none that come depart unsatisfied.”
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FORSAKEN.
Martyrs, through fire and steelHave felt the tracking of the steadfast eye
Of faithful friend or kind disciple nigh
That strengthened them; beside the cruel wheel
Hath Woman waited, wiping from a face
Beloved, the damps of anguish; kings in chase
Upon the mountains held from day to day,
Have leaned on peasants scorning to betray
The baffled hope, the head discrownèd: nay,
A hand unseen upon a tyrant's tomb
Hath scattered flowers; so strong above disgrace,
Despair, and death, rise human hearts; of whom—
King, Martyr, Malefactor—is it said
That all forsook him, all forsook and fled,
Save of One only? Human love forsakes
Yet is not all forsaken! He that takes
This drear pre-eminence of woe, alone
Forsaketh never—never! He hath known
That pang too well; O Saviour, with Thine own
Too little seemed it for Thy love to share
All bitter draughts, so hast Thou bid this cup
Pass from our souls for ever, drinking up
Its wormwood and its gall, our lips to spare.
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THE LESSON.
I said, This task is keen—But even while I spake, Thou, Love Divine,
Didst stand behind, and gently over-lean
My drooping form, and, oh! what task had been
Too stern for feebleness with help of Thine?
Spell Thou this lesson with me line by line,
The sense is rigid, but the voice is dear;
Guide Thou my hand within that hand of Thine—
Thy wounded hand!—until its tremblings take
Strength from Thy touch, and even for Thy sake
Trace out each character in outline clear.
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THE TWO RELIGIONS.
The heart is like the World—
A dreamer, yea, a Pagan in its youth;
It takes its visions—being fair—for truth,
And seeks no further; loving best to brood
In lonely thought, it throngs its solitude
With wondrous shapes, it flings upon the air
Its Shadow, worshipping before that fair
And floating semblance! caring but to please
The noble and the beautiful, for these?
Its flowery altars shine; it will not seek
Communion with the baser crowd, in scorn
It holds all lowly things, and for the weak
It takes no thought;
A dreamer, yea, a Pagan in its youth;
It takes its visions—being fair—for truth,
And seeks no further; loving best to brood
In lonely thought, it throngs its solitude
With wondrous shapes, it flings upon the air
Its Shadow, worshipping before that fair
And floating semblance! caring but to please
The noble and the beautiful, for these?
Its flowery altars shine; it will not seek
Communion with the baser crowd, in scorn
It holds all lowly things, and for the weak
It takes no thought;
Yet hath this haughty creed
Been found too narrow for its scope, too cold
E'en for the soil that raised it; in its need
The spirit turns from its as from its old
Fond faiths the Earth revolted—each hath tried
And each grown weary, casts the broken chain
Away, to greet a purer Worship, wide
As is the world that it was made for, warm
As Heaven that it was sent from; it hath place
For all, it gathers in a wide embrace
Things dis-esteemed, it goeth forth to seek
The things that none desire; its words are meek
Yet eloquent; it loveth in the shade
Of inner calm to muse, yet will not shun
The Many, looking in the face of One
Divine, yet like unto His brethren made!
Been found too narrow for its scope, too cold
E'en for the soil that raised it; in its need
The spirit turns from its as from its old
Fond faiths the Earth revolted—each hath tried
And each grown weary, casts the broken chain
Away, to greet a purer Worship, wide
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As Heaven that it was sent from; it hath place
For all, it gathers in a wide embrace
Things dis-esteemed, it goeth forth to seek
The things that none desire; its words are meek
Yet eloquent; it loveth in the shade
Of inner calm to muse, yet will not shun
The Many, looking in the face of One
Divine, yet like unto His brethren made!
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LOVE.
O Love, thou goodly child,Though not its own, the World makes much of Thee!
Thou mindest me of him, from out the wild
Bulrushes drawn, and at a royal knee
Brought up with songs and nurtured tenderly.
Sweet songs are sung to thee, yet thou dost sing
Far sweeter back, because the mystic bee
Hives ever on thy lips, and Egypt's king
And courtiers, failing of thy company,
Would wearier grow of all their pageantry
Than infants of their toys that for the moon
Cry out. Yet thou thyself dost weary soon
Of Egypt's hollow show, and being grown
To thy full stature wilt no more disown
Thy country and thy brethren; thou wilt turn
To share their task-work, yet wilt not unlearn
The precious lore of Egypt; and the songs
That Pharaoh's daughter taught thee wilt recall
Full sweetly on thy harp of many strings—
Thou needest them, to plead thy people's wrongs
Thy Master yet may send thee before Kings!
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IN SADNESS.
A child in sickness left behind its matesUpon a summer holiday, from tears
Refrains himself a little while, and waits
Perchance in hope to see some comrade kind
Come back to play with him, but no! he hears
Their voices die away, and up the hill
Now, thinks he, they are climbing, now they wind
Along the hedge-row path, and now they find
The berries that o'erhang it; even now
The red ripe nuts from off the hazel bough
Are dropping fast, and then across the brook
He hears them shouting to each other, through
The alder-bushes. So his thoughts pursue
Those wand'rers on their way, until his look
Steals wistful to the sunshine, and his book
Drops from his hand; what would he with that glad
Free company? too weary for their glee,
Too weak to join their sports—yet he is sad;
Then comes his mother, lifting tenderly
Her darling on her knee, and all his day
Glides peaceful on, though none come back to play.
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Their quiet talk, she smiles on him serene,
He speaketh oft to her of those away;
So, Father, I am lfet! I will not mourn
To follow after them, so I may be
The closer to thy heart;—so I am drawn
Through stillness and through sadness nearer Thee!
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THE SUMMONS.
Methought from out the crowd a steadfast eyeDid single out mine own! a voice Divine
Was borne within my soul, in tones that made
Such depth of music there, the sense did fade
Through sweetness that it kindled; Lord, for thine
I knew the voice full well! and yet I heard
Of all Thou spakest then one only word;
My Name! Thou calledst me! I must prepare
For Thee this day! and wilt Thou come and share
My Mid-day meal, while I with heart elate
Shall wait on Thee, or wilt Thou rather wait
On me, Thy servant? through this noon-tide glare
Thy Banner drawing tenderly, to spread
An early dusk that I may lay my head
The sooner at Thy supper on Thy breast?
It matters little, Lord! or come or send—
Take Thou my spirit hence, or like a Friend
Make Thou thy home within it,—I am blest.
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PAX IN NOVISSIMO.
“He gave her therewith a sure token that he was a true messenger,
and was come to bid her make haste to be gone. The
token was an arrow, sharpened with love, let easily into her heart:
—so Christiana knew that her time was come.”
Not like the rulers of our vanities
At earthly feasts, art Thou, O Love Divine;
These pour their best at first, and still decline
At each full-flowing draught, till only lees
Of bitterness remain, but Thou dost please
To keep unto the last Thy richest wine.
At earthly feasts, art Thou, O Love Divine;
These pour their best at first, and still decline
At each full-flowing draught, till only lees
Of bitterness remain, but Thou dost please
To keep unto the last Thy richest wine.
And now, this grace-cup, crowned with flowers, o'erflows
To meet my lips, the music never fell
More sweet, yet from the banquet, ere its close,
I rise to bid the company farewell;
I see no sign, I hear no warning bell,
No airy tongue my Summoner hath been,
Yet all my soul by cords invisible
Is drawn the surer unto One unseen;
To meet my lips, the music never fell
More sweet, yet from the banquet, ere its close,
I rise to bid the company farewell;
I see no sign, I hear no warning bell,
No airy tongue my Summoner hath been,
Yet all my soul by cords invisible
Is drawn the surer unto One unseen;
For oh, my Father! whom I have desired
By night, and sought for early, not through Man
Or Angel have I at thy voice inquired
Since first my solemn quest for Thee began;
Thee, only Thee my spirit hath required
For Teacher and for Counsellor and Friend;
So now Thou needest me, Thou dost not send
By any other, but within the shade
Thy awful Presence makes, ere yet the fall
Of evening darkens, I can hear Thee call,
“Come home, my child!” and I am not afraid;
Though oft Thou showedst me a brow austere,
And oft thy lessons hard to understand
Were grievous to me, now Thou drawest near
I see Thy smile, I do not feel Thy hand.
By night, and sought for early, not through Man
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Since first my solemn quest for Thee began;
Thee, only Thee my spirit hath required
For Teacher and for Counsellor and Friend;
So now Thou needest me, Thou dost not send
By any other, but within the shade
Thy awful Presence makes, ere yet the fall
Of evening darkens, I can hear Thee call,
“Come home, my child!” and I am not afraid;
Though oft Thou showedst me a brow austere,
And oft thy lessons hard to understand
Were grievous to me, now Thou drawest near
I see Thy smile, I do not feel Thy hand.
And He, our Brother kind,
Wounded and grieved by us, yet waiting where
He passed before our Mansions to prepare,
Made himself strange at first; I did not find
An instant welcome; oft with speech severe
He questioned me, and oft methought his ear
Was turned away, but now I feel his tear
Upon my cheek, his kiss upon my soul;
He biddeth all withdraw, while with His Own
He talketh: “How is this, Thou hast not known
Thy Brother? I am Joseph,”—now no more
Doth Love refrain itself because its goal
Is well-nigh won, and all its trial sore
O'erpast, it leaveth with a brow serene
The secret Chamber where so oft unseen
It wept before;
Wounded and grieved by us, yet waiting where
He passed before our Mansions to prepare,
Made himself strange at first; I did not find
An instant welcome; oft with speech severe
He questioned me, and oft methought his ear
Was turned away, but now I feel his tear
Upon my cheek, his kiss upon my soul;
He biddeth all withdraw, while with His Own
He talketh: “How is this, Thou hast not known
Thy Brother? I am Joseph,”—now no more
Doth Love refrain itself because its goal
Is well-nigh won, and all its trial sore
O'erpast, it leaveth with a brow serene
The secret Chamber where so oft unseen
It wept before;
227
For ofttimes Love must grieve;
For us content and willing to be sad,
It left the Halls wherein they made it glad
And came to us that grieved it! oft below
It hides its face because it will not show
The stain upon it! now I feel its clear
Full shining eyes upon me, and I know
Soon I shall meet the kiss without the tear!
For us content and willing to be sad,
It left the Halls wherein they made it glad
And came to us that grieved it! oft below
It hides its face because it will not show
The stain upon it! now I feel its clear
Full shining eyes upon me, and I know
Soon I shall meet the kiss without the tear!
For all my life grows sweet,
I know not how to name it; from behind
Comes up a murmur voluble and fleet
Of mingling voices, some were harsh, some kind,
But all are turned to gentleness, the wind
That bears them onwards hath so soft a wing,
As if it were a Dove unused to bring
Aught but a loving message; so Earth sends
One only question on it from the track
Where I have passed, “Friends, friends? we part as friends?”
And all my soul takes up and sendeth back
One word for echo and for answer, “Friends.”
I know not how to name it; from behind
Comes up a murmur voluble and fleet
Of mingling voices, some were harsh, some kind,
But all are turned to gentleness, the wind
That bears them onwards hath so soft a wing,
As if it were a Dove unused to bring
Aught but a loving message; so Earth sends
One only question on it from the track
Where I have passed, “Friends, friends? we part as friends?”
And all my soul takes up and sendeth back
One word for echo and for answer, “Friends.”
And, oh, how fair this Earth
I leave!—methinks of old I never took
Account of half its loveliness and worth;
Yea! oft I mourned because I could not look
More deep within the pages of this Book,
God's glorious Book shut in between the eves
And glowing morns, I read betwixt the leaves
Like one that passes hastily, and failed
To catch its import, yet hath One prevailed
To loose its golden clasps, and on her knee
He biddeth Nature lift me tenderly
And read thereout her Fairy tales, and tell
Where lie her treasures guarded with a spell.
She takes me to her heart, she will not hold
A secret from me now! things new and old
She brings to please me. Yet, as if she knew—
A loving nurse—that soon her child must sleep,
And waken in a land where all things keep
Their first simplicity—she doth renew
Her forms that charmed me earliest;
I leave!—methinks of old I never took
Account of half its loveliness and worth;
Yea! oft I mourned because I could not look
More deep within the pages of this Book,
God's glorious Book shut in between the eves
And glowing morns, I read betwixt the leaves
228
To catch its import, yet hath One prevailed
To loose its golden clasps, and on her knee
He biddeth Nature lift me tenderly
And read thereout her Fairy tales, and tell
Where lie her treasures guarded with a spell.
She takes me to her heart, she will not hold
A secret from me now! things new and old
She brings to please me. Yet, as if she knew—
A loving nurse—that soon her child must sleep,
And waken in a land where all things keep
Their first simplicity—she doth renew
Her forms that charmed me earliest;
With the dew
Still hanging round them, well I know these flowers
She holds before me; through the noon-tide hours
I looked not on their hues; they did not burst
To gorgeous life, like some that I have nursed,
Shut from the ruder air, until they caught
Through each broad leaf a colouring of thought,
And spake a symbol-language too intense,
The while each lamp-lit urn
Did glow and spread and burn
Its heart away in odours, till the sense
Waxed faint through fragrance; not like these of bold
Magnificence, nor dearer flowers that grew
Familiar by my path, with whom of old
I talked so secretly, it seemed we drew
A common breath, until methought they took
A human aspect, and like friends that know
Too much the heart's deep history, their look
Hath oft-times troubled me;
Still hanging round them, well I know these flowers
She holds before me; through the noon-tide hours
I looked not on their hues; they did not burst
To gorgeous life, like some that I have nursed,
Shut from the ruder air, until they caught
Through each broad leaf a colouring of thought,
And spake a symbol-language too intense,
The while each lamp-lit urn
Did glow and spread and burn
Its heart away in odours, till the sense
Waxed faint through fragrance; not like these of bold
Magnificence, nor dearer flowers that grew
Familiar by my path, with whom of old
I talked so secretly, it seemed we drew
229
A human aspect, and like friends that know
Too much the heart's deep history, their look
Hath oft-times troubled me;
But these did blow
For me in meadows wide, ere yet I knew
That flowers were charactered with joy or grief;
Ye hid no secret in your folded leaf,—
Flowers innocent and cool
That hung above the pool,
Or thrid with gold the pleasant pastures through;
I learnt no “Ai, Ai,” in your school,
Quaint orchis, speedwells blue,
And slender cups that grew
Deep in the woods, pale purple-veined and brimming o'er with dew!
For me in meadows wide, ere yet I knew
That flowers were charactered with joy or grief;
Ye hid no secret in your folded leaf,—
Flowers innocent and cool
That hung above the pool,
Or thrid with gold the pleasant pastures through;
I learnt no “Ai, Ai,” in your school,
Quaint orchis, speedwells blue,
And slender cups that grew
Deep in the woods, pale purple-veined and brimming o'er with dew!
I see the quiet glade
Slope sunward, shut among its hills that lie
With light upon their brows; I hear the cry
Of wheeling rooks, the little brook goes by
And lifts a hurrying voice as one afraid
To linger on its way; within the shade
Moss-cushioned now I sit, where once my day
Cast all its wealth of Summer hours away
Upon a book of Marvels; sunbeams hid
Among the boughs came trickling down, and slid
From page to page to light me on my way;
—The charm that fled, the glory that forsook
Flow back upon my spirit; I am glad
Of ye, sweet scenes, sweet thoughts! I know the look
Ye turn upon me, it hath nothing sad;
Long, long ago, yet not through blame of mine
I left you far behind me on my track,
Now flits the shadow on Life's Dial back,
Twice ten degrees to find you! things Divine
Are imaged by the earthly, it was meet
That I should gather in my soul these sweet,
Long-parted childish fancies ere I go
Where none but children enter;
Slope sunward, shut among its hills that lie
With light upon their brows; I hear the cry
Of wheeling rooks, the little brook goes by
And lifts a hurrying voice as one afraid
To linger on its way; within the shade
Moss-cushioned now I sit, where once my day
Cast all its wealth of Summer hours away
Upon a book of Marvels; sunbeams hid
Among the boughs came trickling down, and slid
From page to page to light me on my way;
230
Flow back upon my spirit; I am glad
Of ye, sweet scenes, sweet thoughts! I know the look
Ye turn upon me, it hath nothing sad;
Long, long ago, yet not through blame of mine
I left you far behind me on my track,
Now flits the shadow on Life's Dial back,
Twice ten degrees to find you! things Divine
Are imaged by the earthly, it was meet
That I should gather in my soul these sweet,
Long-parted childish fancies ere I go
Where none but children enter;
Even so;
I sleep at noon; all household noises cease,
No voices call me from without; the room
Is hushed and darkened round me; through the gloom
One friend beloved keeps moving to and fro
With step so quiet, oft I only know
Her presence by her gentle breathing,—Peace!
I sleep at noon; all household noises cease,
No voices call me from without; the room
Is hushed and darkened round me; through the gloom
One friend beloved keeps moving to and fro
With step so quiet, oft I only know
Her presence by her gentle breathing,—Peace!
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A MEDITATION.
“I believe in the Communion of Saints.”
The World doth love its own,
Doth praise its own, doth keep their memories young;
Where warrior once hath bled, where poet sung,
Time's dust may never gather,—hill and stream
Catch up heroic echoes, and the lone
Vaucluse still murmurs of the music thrown
Around it by one fervid Lover's dream.
Doth praise its own, doth keep their memories young;
Where warrior once hath bled, where poet sung,
Time's dust may never gather,—hill and stream
Catch up heroic echoes, and the lone
Vaucluse still murmurs of the music thrown
Around it by one fervid Lover's dream.
The World doth love its own,
But unto you that loved it, hath it proved
It was not worthy of ye! little loved
Or loved amiss, how hard hath been your lot!
Followed with worship that ye had disclaimed
And warned each suppliant, “See thou do it not,”
Or like to cherished friends that on its throne
The heart hath lifted, till too rudely blamed
For overprizing, it hath grown ashamed,
And taken from them that which was their own,
So are ye little treasured, coldly named,
Remembered with vain honours, or forgot!
But unto you that loved it, hath it proved
It was not worthy of ye! little loved
Or loved amiss, how hard hath been your lot!
Followed with worship that ye had disclaimed
And warned each suppliant, “See thou do it not,”
Or like to cherished friends that on its throne
The heart hath lifted, till too rudely blamed
For overprizing, it hath grown ashamed,
And taken from them that which was their own,
232
Remembered with vain honours, or forgot!
And ours hath been the loss:
Our silence grieves you not, our erring praise
Perchance doth never reach you where you raise
Your fuller, sweeter song to Him whose brow
Doth wear the Many Crowns upon it, “Thou
Art only worthy, Thou who art our Praise.”
Yes! ours hath been the loss,
For ye are ours! the lives ye held not dear
Were given for us! strong champions of the Cross
Who went before us in God's faith and fear,
Your blood makes rich our heritage; no tear
Of yours but lies upon it still like dew,
No word of yours but yet hath power to cheer—
Ye have not need of us, but we of you!
Our silence grieves you not, our erring praise
Perchance doth never reach you where you raise
Your fuller, sweeter song to Him whose brow
Doth wear the Many Crowns upon it, “Thou
Art only worthy, Thou who art our Praise.”
Yes! ours hath been the loss,
For ye are ours! the lives ye held not dear
Were given for us! strong champions of the Cross
Who went before us in God's faith and fear,
Your blood makes rich our heritage; no tear
Of yours but lies upon it still like dew,
No word of yours but yet hath power to cheer—
Ye have not need of us, but we of you!
And oh, Beloved ones, my lips are fain
To speak of you! this heart of mine so long
Hath communed with you, they may not refrain
To pay you honour in a guileless song;
I will not fear to do the Master wrong
In praising you, His servants, whom, unseen,
I love in Him. As oft a stranger's mien
Grows sudden dear through summoning the face
Of friend beloved, so have I joyed to trace
Your features back to His, and in the tone
Ye use, a sweeter voice hath still been known;
Nor read I blame within their ardent eyes,
Our elder, stronger Brethren of the skies,
That unto me their names, their effigies
Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! Ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest,
That it might fare the sweeter ye did wake
Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,
But bound on rugged paths where once of old
Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!
For oft, methinks, true Lovers! loved the less
For more abundant loving, bitterness
Was wrung within your cup while ye did strain
Thereout your balms of healing; yea, the Vine
Was bruised within your souls to make them wine
That trampled down its tendrils! yet this pain
Ye took in meekness, nor of outward foe
Made much account that knew a subtler foe,
A sorer strife, a plague-spot lying bare
To one loved eye, and fain ye would be fair
To meet that only eye;—so, faint yet still
Pursuing, oft ye look unto the hill
From thence expecting aid, and not in vain.
Now have ye reached the Mount of God! no stain
Lies on your robes, and all your faces shine
As shone they never here, while yet in frail
Coarse vessels all your heaven-won treasure lay,
While oft the light within would pale and pine
Because the lamp that bore it was of clay—
Now, far behind the shrouding veil, your way
Leads on from grace to grace, and yet you say
To speak of you! this heart of mine so long
Hath communed with you, they may not refrain
To pay you honour in a guileless song;
I will not fear to do the Master wrong
In praising you, His servants, whom, unseen,
I love in Him. As oft a stranger's mien
Grows sudden dear through summoning the face
Of friend beloved, so have I joyed to trace
Your features back to His, and in the tone
Ye use, a sweeter voice hath still been known;
Nor read I blame within their ardent eyes,
233
That unto me their names, their effigies
Have been less dear than yours, who did not move
About your work with them whose feet of flame
Upon their Master's errand went and came
As in the lightning flash; with footsteps slow
And wearied oft, kind ministers! Ye went
About this lower House of His, intent
On humblest household tasks, and for the sake
Of this great family, with care opprest,
That it might fare the sweeter ye did wake
Betimes, and watch that it might safer rest.
Ye wore not then the Halo on your brow,
“Elias was a man of like passions as we are,” says St. James, “to wean Christians from that false idea which makes us reject the examples of the saints as disproportioned to our own condition; these were saints, we cry, and not men like us. We look on them as being crowned in glory; and now that time has cleared up things, it does really appear so. But at the time when the great Athanasius was persecuted, he was a man who bore that name; and St. Teresa, in her day, was like the other religious sisters of her order.”—Pascal.
But bound on rugged paths where once of old
Your Master toiled, where toil your brethren now,
Ye had not Angels for your mates, but cold
Dull hearts were round you, that within your own
Ye warmed, till oft their chillness deadly grown
Hath made your hands, hath made your bosoms ache!
For oft, methinks, true Lovers! loved the less
For more abundant loving, bitterness
Was wrung within your cup while ye did strain
Thereout your balms of healing; yea, the Vine
Was bruised within your souls to make them wine
That trampled down its tendrils! yet this pain
Ye took in meekness, nor of outward foe
Made much account that knew a subtler foe,
A sorer strife, a plague-spot lying bare
To one loved eye, and fain ye would be fair
234
Pursuing, oft ye look unto the hill
From thence expecting aid, and not in vain.
Now have ye reached the Mount of God! no stain
Lies on your robes, and all your faces shine
As shone they never here, while yet in frail
Coarse vessels all your heaven-won treasure lay,
While oft the light within would pale and pine
Because the lamp that bore it was of clay—
Now, far behind the shrouding veil, your way
Leads on from grace to grace, and yet you say
“Here it is good to be:” of this your state
We know not now, but this still doth appear;
Though none have left the chambers where ye wait
To tell us if their light be dark or clear,
And he who looked upon you there, the Seer
Beloved, hath spoken little, if ye wake—
Or sleeping, where you take your solemn rest—
Yet hath a voice from Heaven proclaimed you surely blest!
We know not now, but this still doth appear;
Though none have left the chambers where ye wait
To tell us if their light be dark or clear,
And he who looked upon you there, the Seer
Beloved, hath spoken little, if ye wake—
Or sleeping, where you take your solemn rest—
Yet hath a voice from Heaven proclaimed you surely blest!
And if ye wake or sleep,
Or wrapt yet conscious in a Calm between
That stealeth not on Earth, ye lie serene,
Doth matter little—solemn, sweet and deep
Must be your rest with Him whose eyelids keep
Their watch above, for He can bless in sleep
His own beloved ones;
Or wrapt yet conscious in a Calm between
That stealeth not on Earth, ye lie serene,
Doth matter little—solemn, sweet and deep
Must be your rest with Him whose eyelids keep
Their watch above, for He can bless in sleep
His own beloved ones;
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But is there prayer
Within your quiet Homes, and is there care
For those ye leave behind? I would address
My spirit to this theme in humbleness:
No tongue nor pen hath uttered or made known
This mystery, and thus I do but guess
At clearer types through lowlier patterns shown;—
Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own?
Ye may not quit your sweetness, in the Vine
More firmly rooted than of old, your wine
Hath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grown
To fuller stature; though the shock was keen
That severed you from us, how oft below,
Hath sorest parting smitten but to show
True hearts their hidden wealth that quickly grow
The closer for that anguish,—friend to friend
Revealed more clear,—and what is Death to rend
The ties of life and love, when He must fade
In light of very Life, when He must bend
To Love, that loving, loveth to the end?
Within your quiet Homes, and is there care
For those ye leave behind? I would address
My spirit to this theme in humbleness:
No tongue nor pen hath uttered or made known
This mystery, and thus I do but guess
At clearer types through lowlier patterns shown;—
Yet when did Love on earth forsake its own?
“Fain would I know thy present feelings towards thy Broher, thy beloved, if indeed it is permitted to one bathing in the floods of Divine radiance, and transported with the happiness of eternity, to call to mind our misery, to be occupied with our grief. For perhaps though thou hast hitherto known us according to the flesh, yet now thou knowest us no longer. He who is joined to God is one spirit with God; he can have no thought, no desire, save for God and for the things of God, with whose fulness he is filled. Yet ‘God is love,’ and the more closely a soul is bound to God, the more does it abound in love. It is true that God is impassible, but He is not insensible, for His ‘nature is to have mercy and to forgive;’ so then, thou must be merciful, since thou art joined to Him who showeth mercy, and thine affection, though transformed, is no whit diminished. Thou hast laid aside thine infirmities, but not thy love, for ‘love abideth,’ saith the Apostle, and throughout cternity thou wilt not forget me. It seems to me that I hear my Brother saying, ‘Can a woman forget her sucking child? Yea, they may forget, yet will I never forget thee.’ Truly it is not expedient. Thou hast found greater consolations. Thou art in the everlasting presence of the Lord Jesus, and hast angels for thy companions; but what have I to fill up the void thou hast left? In all that has since happened I have looked to Gerard as I had been wont, and he is not.”—St. Bernard on the death of his Brother.
Ye may not quit your sweetness, in the Vine
More firmly rooted than of old, your wine
Hath freer flow! ye have not changed, but grown
To fuller stature; though the shock was keen
That severed you from us, how oft below,
Hath sorest parting smitten but to show
True hearts their hidden wealth that quickly grow
The closer for that anguish,—friend to friend
Revealed more clear,—and what is Death to rend
The ties of life and love, when He must fade
In light of very Life, when He must bend
To Love, that loving, loveth to the end?
I do not deem ye look
Upon us now, for be it that your eyes
Are sealed or clear, a burden on them lies
Too deep and blissful for their gaze to brook
Our troubled strife; enough that once ye dwelt
Where now we dwell, enough that once ye felt
As now we feel, to bid you recognise
Our claim of kindred cherished though unseen;
And Love that is to you for eye and ear
Hath ways unknown to us to bring you near,—
To keep you near for all that comes between;
As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer,
As distant friends, that see not, and yet share
(I speak of what I know) each other's care,
So may your spirits blend with ours! above
Ye know not haply of our state, yet Love
Acquaints you with our need, and through a way
More sure than that of knowledge—so ye pray!
Upon us now, for be it that your eyes
Are sealed or clear, a burden on them lies
Too deep and blissful for their gaze to brook
Our troubled strife; enough that once ye dwelt
Where now we dwell, enough that once ye felt
As now we feel, to bid you recognise
236
And Love that is to you for eye and ear
Hath ways unknown to us to bring you near,—
To keep you near for all that comes between;
As pious souls that move in sleep to prayer,
As distant friends, that see not, and yet share
(I speak of what I know) each other's care,
So may your spirits blend with ours! above
Ye know not haply of our state, yet Love
Acquaints you with our need, and through a way
More sure than that of knowledge—so ye pray!
And even thus we meet,
And even thus we commune! spirits freed
And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need
To seek a common atmosphere, the air
Is meet for either in this olden, sweet,
Primeval breathing of Man's spirit—Prayer!
And even thus we commune! spirits freed
And spirits fettered mingle, nor have need
To seek a common atmosphere, the air
Is meet for either in this olden, sweet,
Primeval breathing of Man's spirit—Prayer!
And now your prayers are free,
Not hindered oft, as in this field below
By One himself unblest, that envieth so
The bonds of Brotherhood he may not know,
He joys to fling a seed of enmity
'Twixt very friends;—with anxious hearts, with hands
That rested not, ye wrought in scattered bands
Apart; intent upon your work, a word
Would reach you from the distance, faintly heard,
That moved to anger; yet the speech that vexed
The sorest, often was but Love perplext
To find one common tongue; but now the sun
Hath fallen on you, all your task is done;
Ye sit within the House with One whose kind
Prevailing counsels bring unto one mind
Its inmates, making Brethren to agree,
And oft ye marvel that ye did not find
Each other sooner, soul in soul doth see
One kindred image shine, no longer dim
Through contact of its gold with baser clay—
The fruit is ripe, its husks have dropt away,
And ye are only what ye were in Him!
Not hindered oft, as in this field below
By One himself unblest, that envieth so
The bonds of Brotherhood he may not know,
He joys to fling a seed of enmity
'Twixt very friends;—with anxious hearts, with hands
That rested not, ye wrought in scattered bands
Apart; intent upon your work, a word
Would reach you from the distance, faintly heard,
237
The sorest, often was but Love perplext
To find one common tongue; but now the sun
Hath fallen on you, all your task is done;
Ye sit within the House with One whose kind
Prevailing counsels bring unto one mind
Its inmates, making Brethren to agree,
And oft ye marvel that ye did not find
Each other sooner, soul in soul doth see
One kindred image shine, no longer dim
Through contact of its gold with baser clay—
The fruit is ripe, its husks have dropt away,
And ye are only what ye were in Him!
Oh! Virgin Lilies rayed
With light and loveliness, that did declare
His perfect beauty here, that grew so fair
By only gazing on Him! from the shade
Where God hath planted me I have essayed
To reach unto your sunshine! though you keep
Your silence even from good words, I miss
No sign of greeting, nor have need of kiss
For sealing of our love, for this is clear
That ye are near me when I draw most near
To Him in Whom we meet: I see you shine
In Christ, as once I marked above a shrine
By midnight clear, yet moonless, pictured fair
A Virgin Mother in a lowly place
Bend o'er a sleeping infant; full of grace
His brow and lip; with gifts and odours rare
Came Kings adoring, lowly Shepherds there
Rejoicing knelt, and all the canvas dim
Was crowded up behind with Seraphim
In goodly ranks; yet Mother-maid serene,
Sage, Seraph, lowly Shepherd, all were seen
By Light that streamed from out the Babe divine!
With light and loveliness, that did declare
His perfect beauty here, that grew so fair
By only gazing on Him! from the shade
Where God hath planted me I have essayed
To reach unto your sunshine! though you keep
Your silence even from good words, I miss
No sign of greeting, nor have need of kiss
For sealing of our love, for this is clear
That ye are near me when I draw most near
To Him in Whom we meet: I see you shine
In Christ, as once I marked above a shrine
By midnight clear, yet moonless, pictured fair
A Virgin Mother in a lowly place
Bend o'er a sleeping infant; full of grace
His brow and lip; with gifts and odours rare
238
Rejoicing knelt, and all the canvas dim
Was crowded up behind with Seraphim
In goodly ranks; yet Mother-maid serene,
Sage, Seraph, lowly Shepherd, all were seen
By Light that streamed from out the Babe divine!
| Poems | |