University of Virginia Library

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206

IN ST. PETER'S.

THE CONVERT TALKS TO HIS FRIEND.

Seen from without, how well it bodies forth
Rome's proud religion—nothing mean and small
In its proportion, and above it all
A central dome of thought, a forehead bare
That rises in this soft Italian air

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207

Big with its intellect,—and far away,
When lesser domes have sunken in the earth,
Stands for all Rome uplifted in the day,
An art-born brother of the mountains there.
See what an invitation it extends
To the world's pilgrims, be they foes or friends.
Its colonnades, with wide embracing arms,
Spread forth as if to bless and shield from harms,
And draw them to its heart, the inner shrine,
From the grand outer precincts, where alway
The living fountains wave their clouds of spray,
And temper with cool sound the hot sunshine.

Step in—behind your back the curtain swings;
The world is left outside with worldly things.
How still! save where vague echoes rise and fall,
Dying along the distance—what a sense
Of peace and silence hovers over all,
That tones the marbled aisle's magnificence,
And frescoed vaults and ceilings deep with gold,
To its own quiet.—See! how grand and bold,
Key of the whole, swells up the airy dome
Where the apostles hold their lofty home,
And angels hover in the misted height,
And amber shafts of sunset bridge with light
Its quivering air—while low the organ groans,
And from the choir's gilt cages tangling tones
Whirl fugueing up, and play and float aloft,
And in its vast bell die in echoes soft.

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208

And mark! our church hath its own atmosphere,
That varies not with seasons of the year,
But ever keeps its even temperate air,
And soft, large light without offensive glare.
No sombre, gothic sadness here abides
To awe the sense—no sullen shadow hides
In its clear spaces—but a light as warm
And broad as charity smiles o'er the whole,
And joyous art and colour's festal charm
Refine the senses, and uplift the soul.

You scorn the aid of colour, exile art,
And with cold dogmas seek to move the heart;
But still the heart rebels, for man is wrought
Of God and clay, of senses as of thought.
Religion is not logic,—husks of creeds
Will never satisfy the spirit's needs.
Strain up with high theologies the wise,
But not the less with art's sweet mysteries
Cling to the common heart of man, content
To save him, though it be through sentiment.
You whip the intellect to heaven with pain,
And Beauty with her fair enchanting train
From out your cold bare church is rudely driven;
And yet what matters it how heaven we gain
If at the last we really get to heaven?
No! You are wrong; the end at last must be,
That the heart, struggling with such sophistry,
Breaks through the fine-spun web of logic—yearns

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209

For Love and Beauty, and to us returns;
Or worse, it starves to death, and left alone
The head to godless madness journeys on.
The strongest wings too sternly strained, must droop,
Give them a happy earth on which to stoop.

The head is narrow, but the heart is broad,
And through the senses doors by thousands lead
To Love's pure temple—and the very God
Comes through them oftentimes when least we heed;
Yet, though an angel at their door should come,
And knock for entrance, both his flushing wings
Radiant with love's warm hues and colourings,
You cry, “No entrance here, go back to Rome,
Devil in angel's shape! they'll let you in—

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210

Or, if you be no tempting shape of sin,
Enter the great door of the intellect,
That is the only entrance to our sect.”
Think you not God frowns, and the angels weep,
Turning away? Great Nature will not creep
Into such narrow schemes—where'er she goes
Flowers laugh before her—from toil's planted rows
The lark springs singing; Dawn for her flings out
Its glowing curtains; Day, with festal shout,
Bursts glorious in, and flares o'er all the east,
Till Earth shouts back as at a joyous feast;
And after twilight leaves the clouds' long bars
The cool blue tent of night she sows with stars,
And hushes all the darkened land to dreams,
Through which the silver sliding river gleams;
Her lavish hand for beauty never spares,
Her singing robes where'er she goes she wears;
No long-drawn face is hers, morose and sad,
As your religion craves, but sweet and glad.
Is it to tempt us, then, to death and sin?
Ah, no! my friend, she only hopes to win
With thousand shifts these fickle souls of ours,
Not with her rods alone, but with her flowers.

You smile your unbelief; I recognize
The stern protester in that sad and wise
And solemn shake of head; you still prefer
Your cold bare walls and droning minister;
You hate the priest (of course you mean not me,

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211

But the whole system)—well, well, let it be,
I will not argue that at present, yet
Some time or other we will talk of it;
But this one thing I say, and say again,
Great works are born of joy and not of pain—
The Devil is an isolated brain.

Why point there to the altar with a sniff
Of such superior virtue, just as if
Those ceremonial forms the truly wise
Perceive are tricks, and therefore must despise.
Dear friend, observe, this service is not made
For one small chapel, where each word that 's said
Might start the furthest sleeper—it appeals,
Not through the ear, as yours, but through the eye;
Each sign or gesture is a word that tells
As clear a meaning as your “seventhly.”
Your service in this vast basilica,
Would it subserve a better purpose—eh?
A violent man in black, a furlong off,
Screaming, but all unheard, you would not scoff,
Yet, as you do not know its sense, you think
Folly like this is quite enough to sink
The Roman church—these bendings of the knee
And crossings, look like pure idolatry.
Believe it not, a form is but a form,
Not bad or good except as it is warm
With the heart's blood—the spirit 't is alone
That gives the worth to all that 's said or done.

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212

Be reverent, friend! nor sneer at her who kneels
In that dim chapel while her beads she feels,
Up-glancing at the saint that bleeds above.
What if her creed be false? one drop of love
Is worth a thousand creeds. I would not care
Though she should whisper to her lover there,
So full of love for him, that oft she prays
With idle lips—it is not what she says
But what she is that saves her—if her heart
Be from the ritual service all apart,
But lose itself in earnest love for him,
God is still served—ay! and perchance the grim
And sad observance of a loveless task
You would enforce, he would not rather ask.

But, hist, the sharp bell tinkles—'t is the Host
The Pope uplifts—you will not, friend, be lost,
Though you should kneel.
[OMITTED]
You could not stand apart,
I knew you must be stirred—you have a heart.
Was it not wondrous, when the multitude,
With a vast murmur, like a wind-swayed wood,
Dropped to its knees, and sudden bayonets flashed
A cold gray gleam, and clanging side-arms clashed
Upon the pavement, as along the nave
The helms of guards went down with dropping wave
Of their long horsehair,—and a silence deep

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213

And full of awe above us seemed to sweep,
Like some great angel's wing, 'neath which all hearts
Were shadowed—till from out the silence starts
A silver strain of trumpets, sweet and clear,
That soars and grows in the hushed atmosphere,
And swells along the aisles, and up the height
Of the deep dome, and dies in dizzy flight
Among the cherubs—and we know above
The incarnate Christ is looking down in love—
And then, when all was over, like a weight
Too great to bear uplifted from the heart,
The crowd rose up and rustled all elate—
Ah, friend! the soul is touched by all this art—
But come—the crowd moves—shall we too depart?