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104
THE BEAUTIFUL.
Thou warn'st me, I should heed the Beautiful?
Stay then—reveal it to the spell-bound sense.
Not with the eye, the ear, or heart, I feel
Man's dignity, and Nature's excellence.
Stay then—reveal it to the spell-bound sense.
Not with the eye, the ear, or heart, I feel
Man's dignity, and Nature's excellence.
I know them, as we know a word of God
Told in mysterious whispers of the night,
Which, waking, is not found, but kept in heart,
Till struggling Faith is ravished of its right.
Told in mysterious whispers of the night,
Which, waking, is not found, but kept in heart,
Till struggling Faith is ravished of its right.
Thus, rising from a dream, but dreaming still,
I walked, in vision-haunted maidenhood,
Fed with high fancies, all unlearn'd of life,
Save its young promise of ideal good.
I walked, in vision-haunted maidenhood,
Fed with high fancies, all unlearn'd of life,
Save its young promise of ideal good.
I found the temple, but the shrine was bare,
The God invisible, and rapt from sense;
I wove my chaplet, waiting for the priest
Whose holy lesson should dismiss me thence.
The God invisible, and rapt from sense;
I wove my chaplet, waiting for the priest
Whose holy lesson should dismiss me thence.
105
I sat and wrought upon the marble steps,
Secure in faith and young humility,
While men passed by—sometimes a gracious one
To whom my heart said, throbbing, “Thou art he!”
Secure in faith and young humility,
While men passed by—sometimes a gracious one
To whom my heart said, throbbing, “Thou art he!”
But these went on, unheeding of their power—
Theirs was another rite, another feast;
Nor did my love wait on them—it abode,
Steadfast and strong, the coming of the priest.
Theirs was another rite, another feast;
Nor did my love wait on them—it abode,
Steadfast and strong, the coming of the priest.
So was my garland wreathed with little aid,
So were its petals blent too waywardly,
Wild growths put gentle garden-flowers to shame,
And poison-vines hung, trailing, from my knee.
So were its petals blent too waywardly,
Wild growths put gentle garden-flowers to shame,
And poison-vines hung, trailing, from my knee.
I chose the best my scanty learning showed,
Nor ever left the consecrated spot,
But to return, with new-discovered spoils,
From hill-side villa, wood, or garden-plot.
Nor ever left the consecrated spot,
But to return, with new-discovered spoils,
From hill-side villa, wood, or garden-plot.
Soon, little feet essayed to follow mine,
Sharing at will my wanderings, and my hap;
Fingers, whose sense was nicer than my sight,
Laid tiny offerings on the mother's lap.
Sharing at will my wanderings, and my hap;
Fingers, whose sense was nicer than my sight,
Laid tiny offerings on the mother's lap.
106
But here she sits, still waiting, dreaming on
Of some contentment, scarce to be conceived,
Some soul of blessedness, some smile of peace,
Some utterance, heard but once to be believed.
Of some contentment, scarce to be conceived,
Some soul of blessedness, some smile of peace,
Some utterance, heard but once to be believed.
Oh! not the features of a Grecian god,
The holiness of manhood's noblest saint,
The wisdom whose wan halo wastes the brow,
The heart full-passionate, and free from taint;
The holiness of manhood's noblest saint,
The wisdom whose wan halo wastes the brow,
The heart full-passionate, and free from taint;
Not all this high conception, which enshrines
Divine delight in manly majesty,
Can more than shadow what that unknown Priest,
That unseen Beautiful, remain to me.
Divine delight in manly majesty,
Can more than shadow what that unknown Priest,
That unseen Beautiful, remain to me.
Is it a dream that he shall surely come,
And lay his hand upon these weary eyes?
At the transcendent virtue of his touch
Shall not the soul from wreck and ruin rise?
And lay his hand upon these weary eyes?
At the transcendent virtue of his touch
Shall not the soul from wreck and ruin rise?
Shall I not drop my trivial task, and stretch
My hands for garlands in his bosom borne?
Shall not fresh greenness glorify the spot
Where I have dwelt, uncomforted, forlorn?
My hands for garlands in his bosom borne?
Shall not fresh greenness glorify the spot
Where I have dwelt, uncomforted, forlorn?
107
Shall I break out in weeping, or in song,
Or glow with shame, to own myself so dull,
When, as he smiles the death-film from my sight,
My heart shall say, “This was the Beautiful”?
Or glow with shame, to own myself so dull,
When, as he smiles the death-film from my sight,
My heart shall say, “This was the Beautiful”?
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