University of Virginia Library

Proeme

The Light of the World

AT BETHLEHEM.

So many hills arising, green and grey,
On Earth's large round; and that one hill to say:
“I was His bearing-place!” On Earth's wide breast
So many maids! and She—of all most blest—
Heavily mounting Bethlehem—to be
His Mother! Holy Maid of Galilee!
Hill, with the olives and the little town!
If rivers from their crystal founts flow down,
If 'twas the Dawn which did Day's gold unbar,
Ye were beginnings of the best we are,
The most we see, the highest that we know,
The lifting heavenward of Man's life below.
Therefore, though better lips ye shall not lack,
Suffer, if one of modern mood steals back—
Weary and wayworn, from the Desert-road
Of barren Thought; from Hope's Dead Sea which glowed
With's Love's fair mirage; from the Poet's haunt,
The Scholar's lamp, the Statesman's scheme, the vaunt,
The failure, of all fond Philosophies,—
Back unto Thee, back to thy olive-trees,
Thy people, and thy story, and thy Son,
Mary of Nazareth! so long agone
Bearing us Him Who made our Christendom,
And came to save the Earth, from Heav'n, His home.
So many hill-sides, crowned with rugged rocks!
So many simple shepherds keeping flocks
In many moonlit fields! but, only they—
So lone, so long ago, so far away—
On that one winter's night, at Bethlehem,
To have white Angels singing lauds for them!
They—only hinds wrapped in the he-goat's skin—
To hear Heaven's music, bidding Peace begin!
Only for those, of countless watching eyes,
The “Glory of the Lord” glad to arise;
The skies to blaze with gold and silver light
Of seraphs, by strong joy flashed into sight;
The wind, for them, with that strange song to swell,—
By too much happiness incredible.—
That tender Anthem of good times to be
Then at their dawn—not daylight yet, ah me!
“Peace upon Earth! Goodwill!” sung to the strings
Of lutes celestial. Nay, if these things
Too blessëd to believe have seemed, or seem,
Not ours the fault, dear Angels! Prove the dream
Waking and true! sing once again, and make
Moonlight and starlight sweet for Earth's sad sake!
Or, if Heaven bids ye lock in silence still
Conquest of Peace, and coming of Goodwill,
Till times to be, then—oh, you placid sheep!
Ah, thrice-blest shepherds! suffer if we creep
Back through the tangled thicket of the years
To graze in your fair flock, to strain our ears
With listening herdsmen, if, perchance, one note
Of such high singing in the fine air float;
If any rock thrills yet with that great strain
We did not hear, and shall not hear, again;
If any olive-leaf at Bethlehem
Lisps still one syllable vouchsafed to them;
If some stream, conscious still—some breeze—be stirred
With echo of th' immortal words ye heard.
What was it that ye heard? the wind of Night
Playing in cheating tones, with touches light,
Amid the palm-plumes? Or, one stop outblown
Of planetary music, so far flown
Earthwards, that to those innocent ears 'twas brought
Which bent the mighty measure to their thought?
Or, haply, from breast-shaped Beth-Haccarem,
The hill of Herod, some waft sent to them
Of storming drums and trumps, at festival
Held in the Idumæan's purple hall?
Or, it may be, some Aramaic song
Of country lovers, after parting long
Meeting anew, with much “goodwill,” indeed,
Blown by some swain upon his Jordan reed?
Nay, nay! your abbas back ye did not fling,
From each astonished ear, for swains to sing
Their village-verses clear; for sounds well-known
Of wandering breeze, or whispering trees, or tone
Of Herod's trumpets. And ye did not gaze
Heart-startled on the stars (albeit the rays
Of that lone orb shot, sparkling, from the East
Unseen before); for these, largest and least,
Were fold-lamps, lighted nightly: and ye knew
Far differing glory in the Night's dark blue
Suddenly lit with rose, and pierced with spike
Of golden spear beam. Oh, a dream, belike!
Some far-fetched Vision, new to peasant's sleep
Of Paradise stripped bare!—But, why thus keep
Secrets for them? This bar, which doth enclose
Better and nobler souls, why burst for those
Who supped on the parched pulse, and lapped the stream,
And each, at the same hour, dreams the same dream!
Or, easier still, they lied! Yet, wherefore, then
“Rise, and go up to Bethlehem,” and unpen
To wolf and jackal all their hapless fold
So they might “see these things which had been told
In Heaven's own Voice?” And Heaven, whate'er betide,
Spreads surely somewhere, on Death's farther side!
This sphere obscure, viewed with dim eyes to match,
This earthly span—gross, brief—wherein we snatch,
Rarely and faintly, glimpses of Times past
Which have been boundless, and of Times to last
Beyond them timelessly; how should such be
All to be seen, all we were made to see?
This flesh fallacious, binding us, indced,
To sense, and yet so largely leaving freed
That we do know things are we cannot know,
And high and higher on Thought's stairways go
Till each last round leads to some sudden steep
Where Reason swims, and falters; or must leap
Headlong, perforce, into the Infinite,
How should we say outside this shines no light
Of lovelier scenes unseen; of lives which spread
Pleasant and unexpected for the Dead,
As our World, opening to the Babe's wide eyes
New from the Womb, and full of birth's surprise?
How should this prove the All, the Last, the First?
Why shall no inner, under, splendours burst
Once—twice—the Veil? Why put a marvel by
Because too rich with hope? Why quite deny
The Heavenly story, lest our doubtful hearts—
Which mark the stars, and take them for bright parts
Of boundless Being, ships of life that sail
In glittering argosies—without a tale,
Without a term—or, of that shoreless Sea,
The scattered silver Islets, drifting free
To destinies unmeasured—see, too, there
By help of dead believing eyes, which were,
The peoples of the stars; and listen, meek,
To those vast voices of the stars, which speak—
If ever they shall speak—in each man's tongue?
And, truly, if Joy's music once hath rung
From lips of bands invisible, if any—
Be they the Dead, or of the Deathless Many—
Love and serve Man, angelical Befrienders,
Glad of his weal, and from his woe Defenders,—
If such, in Heaven, have pity on our tears,
Forever falling with the unmending years,
High cause had they at Bethlehem, that night
To lift the curtain of Hope's hidden light,
To break decree of silence with Love's cry,
Foreseeing how this Babe, born lowlily,
Should—past dispute, since now achieved is this—
Bring Earth great gifts of blessing and of bliss;
Date, from that crib, the Dynasty of Love;
Strip his misusëd thunderbolts from Jove;
Bend to their knees Rome's Cæsars; break the chain
From the slave's neck; set sick hearts free again,
Bitterly bound by priests, and scribes, and scrolls;
And heal with balm of pardon, sinking souls;
Should Mercy to her vacant throne restore,
Teach Right to Kings, and Patience to the Poor;
Should by His sweet name all names overthrow,
And by His lovely words, the quick seeds sow
Of golden equities, and brotherhood,
Of Pity, Peace, and gentle praise of good;
Of knightly honour, holding life in trust
For God, and Lord, and all things pure and just;
Lowly to Woman; for Maid Mary's sake
Lifting our sister from the dust, to take
In homes her equal place, the Household's Queen,
Crowned and august who sport and thrall had been!
Of arts adorning life, of Charities
Gracious and wide, because the impartial skies
Roof one race in; and poor, weak, mean, oppressed,
Are children of one bounteous Mother's breast,
One Father's care: emancipating man,
Should, from that bearing-cave, outside the Khân,
Amid the kneeling cattle, rise, and be
Light of all lands, and splendour of each sea,
The Sun-burst of a new Morn come to Earth,
Not yet, alas! broad Day, but Day's white birth
Which promiseth; and blesseth, promising.
These from that Night! What cause of wondering
It that one Silence of all Silences
Brake into Music? if, for hopes like these
Angels, who love us, sang that song, and show
Of Time's far purpose made the “great light” glow?
Wherefore, let whosoever will drink dry
His cup of Faith; and think that, verily,
Not in a vision, no way otherwise
Than those poor shepherds told, there did arise
This portent. Being amidst their sheep and goats,
Lapped careless in their pasture-keeping coats,
Blind as their drowsy beasts to what drew nigh,
(Such the lulled ear, and such the unbusied eye
Which ofttimes hears and sees hid things!) there spread
The “glory of the Lord” around each head,
A light not moon-glow, nor the grey of Night
Nor lightning-flash, nor lit like any light
By earthly orbs beheld, but fetched from beam
Of that concentral Sun whereby Suns gleam,
Which kindles spheres, and has for dusk full Noon,
Shining behind the Blue, past Sun and Moon,
And making hyaline of æther clear
Where, with new eyes, souls—free of Death and Fear—
In range incomprehensible, and ray
Of limitless illuming, see alway
Authentic Being; outside Life's close bars,
By Life's light blotted, as at noon the stars.
Such sight spreads bright behind that blindness here
Which men name “seeing;” and such Heav'n-Dawn dear
(As it had reason by such Day to follow!)
Broke, be it deemed, o'er hill and over hollow,
On the inner seeing, the sense concealed, unknown,
Of those plain hinds—glad, humble, and alone—
Flooding their minds, filling their hearts; around,
Above, below, disclosing grove and ground,
The rocks, the hill, the town, the solitude,
The wondering flocks,—a-gaze with grass half-chewed,—
The palm-crowns, and the path to Bethlehem,
As sight angelic spies. And, came to them
The “Angel of the Lord,” visible, sure,
Known for the Angel by his presence pure
Whereon was written Love, and Peace, and Grace,
With beauty passing mortal mien and face,
His form declaring him. We should not seek,—
As they, too, sought not,—any voice to speak
The titles of the Chief of those who stand
Ruling our Planet, for th' encircling Hand
Which scatters suns and stars athwart the Blue
As sowers fling the seed. We should know, too,
The great and tender eyes, sad with our sinning,
Glad when we strive aright, 'ware of Beginning,
And ending, and the Reasons, and the Path;
That gracious, potent, Friend who wisdom hath
Of whence all come, and whereunto all go;
(He, in Gethsemane, did see him so!)
The embodied, blinding, loveliness of all
Which, of Earth's dearest Dead, our hearts recall,
To perfectness transfigured and combined,
In heavenly type of utmost Humankind.
Not robed, not sandalled, as the painters limn,
But past all dreams, till we wake, seeing him;
And, then, as natural, as dear, as known
As to the Babe its Mother's brows bent down.
Wingless; for where these live there blows no wind,
Nor aught spreads, gross as air, nor any kind
Of substance, whereby spirits' march is stopped;
Nothing so heavy as the snow-flower dropped
Feather-like on the wild swan's feather; or dip
Of swallow in the streamlet; or Love's lip
Kissing her Dead. Oh, certes! not of men,
Yet, blending form with spirit; nay, and then,
Supreme, majestical! for terror fell—
With worship,—on their hearts, the writings tell;
So that the Angel of the Earth had need
To comfort them, speaking these words, indeed:

“Fear not! For behold I bring you Good Tidings of Great Joy, which shall be to all people.”

“For unto you is born this day in the City of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”

“And this the sign unto you! Ye shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger”

Might he not speak so, if, in truth, we heard
Our Angel, and the Lord's; with simple word
Easy and sweet, as to her little son
A nursing mother; or—when Night is done—
Dawn's soft breath whispering plain: “Lo! I am Day!”
But, of those things which the Bright One did say,
So high, so new, so glad, so comforting,
“Good tidings of great joy to you I bring!”
The echo, not the meaning of his speech
Lives; and men tell it sadly, each to each,
With lips, not hearts; sadly, from tongue to tongue,
The Ages, unpersuaded, pass along
The dulcet message, like a dream bygone
Which was for happy sleepers, but is flown.
We bleed, and hate, and suffer, and are blind,
Uncomprehending; yet, if one will mind,
That light is shining still on Life's far side;
And the Apostle, and Heaven's Angel, lied,
Or else, from Heaven that night th' Evangel fell:
“Beginnings of the Golden Times we tell!”
Now is the New Law opened! Mary's Son
Hath opened it, and, when full years are run,
Peace shall be, and Goodwill, and Mercy shed
Over all flesh and spirit, quick and dead!
The Consummation comes, the purposed Bliss;
Earth was for Now; her glad days spring from this!
So—or in such wise—those rude shepherds heard
The Angels singing clear; when, not one word
Wiser ones caught that night—solemn and still—
Of their high errand: “Peace! Goodwill! Goodwill!”
So, when the Angels were no more to see,
Re-entering those gates of space,—whose key
Love keeps on that side, and on this side Death—
Each shepherd to the other whispering saith,
Lest he should miss some lingering symphonies
Of that departing music, “Let us rise
And go even now to Bethlehem, and spy
This which is come to pass, showed graciously
By the Lord's Angels.” Therewith hastened they
By olive-yards, and old walls mossed and grey
Where, in close chinks, the lizard and the snake
Thinking the sunlight come, stirred, half-awake:
Across the terraced levels of the vines,
Under the pillared palms; along the lines
Of lance-leaved oleanders, scented sweet;
Through the pomegranate-gardens sped their feet:
Over the causeway, up the slope, they spring,
Breast the steep path, with steps unslackening;
Past David's well, past the town-wall they ran
Unto the House of Chimham, to the Khân;
Where mark them peering in, the posts between,
Questioning—out of breath—if birth hath been
This night, in any guest-room, high or low?
The drowsy porter at the gate saith “No!”—
Shooting the bars; while the packed camels shake
Their bells to listen, and the sleepers wake;
And to their feet the ponderous steers slow rise,
Lifting from trampled fodder large mild eyes.—
“Nay! Brothers! no such thing! yet there is gone
Yonder, one nigh her time, a gentle one!
With him that seemed her spouse—of Galilee;
They toiled at sun-down to our doors—but, see!
No nook was here! Seek at the cave instead;
We shook some barley-straw to make their bed.”
Then to the cave they wended, and there spied
That which was more, if truth be testified,
Than all the pomp seen thro' proud Herod's porch
Ablaze with brass, and silk, and scented torch,
High on Beth-Haccarem; more to behold,
If men had known, than all the glory told
Of splendid Cæsar in his marbled home
On the white Isle, or audience-hall at Rome
With trembling princes thronged. A clay lamp swings
By twisted camel-cords, from blackened rings,
Showing with flickering gleams, a Child new-born
Wrapped in a cloth, laid where the beasts, at morn
Will champ their bean-straw: in the lamp's ray dim
A fresh-made Mother by Him, fostering Him
With face and mien to worship, speaking nought;
Close at hand Joseph, and the ass, hath brought
That precious twofold burden to the gate;
With goats, sheep, oxen, driven to shelter late.
No mightier sight! yet all sufficeth it—
If we will deem things be beyond our wit—
To prove Heaven's music true, and show Heaven's way,
How, not by famous kings, nor with array
Of brazen letters on the boastful stone,
But “by the mouth of babes,” quiet, alone,
Little beginnings planning for large ends,
With other purpose than fond man attends,
Wisdom and Love in secret fellowship
Guide our World's wanderings with a finger-tip;
And how, that night, as these did darkly see,
They sealed the first scrolls of Earth's history,
And opened what shall run till Death be dead.
Which Babe they reverenced, bending low the head,
First of all worshippers, and told the things
Done in the plain, and played on Angels' strings.
Then those around wondered and worshipped, too,
And Mary heard—but wondered not—anew
Hiding this in her heart, the heart which beat
With blood of Jesus Christ, holy and sweet.
Also, not marvelling, albeit they heard,
Stood certain by—those three swart ones—appeared
From climes unknown; yet, surely, on high quest
Of what that Star proclaimed, bright on the breast
First of the Ram, afterwards glittering thence
Into the watery Trigon; where, intense,
It lit the Crab, and burned the Fishes pale.
Three Signiors, owning many a costly bale;
Three travelled Masters, by their bearing Lords
Of lands and slaves. The Indian silk affords,
With many a folded braid of white and gold,
Shade to their brows; rich goat-hair shawls did fold
Their gowns of flower'd white muslin, midway tied;
And ruby, turkis, emerald—stones of pride—
Blazed on their thumb-rings; and a pearl gleamed white
In every ear; and silver belts, clasped tight,
Held ink-box, reeds, and knives, in scabbards gemmed;
Curled shoes of goat-skin dyed, with seed-pearls hemmed,
Shod their brown feet; hair shorn; lids low, to think—
Eyes deep and wistful, as of those who drink
Waters of hidden wisdom, night and day,
And live twain lives, conforming as they may,
In diligence, and due observances,
To ways of men; yet, not at one with these;
But ever straining past the things that seem
To that which Is—the Truth behind the Dream.
Three princely wanderers of the Asian blood
Perchance, by Indus dwellers; or some flood
That feeds her from Himâla's icy dome;
Or, haply, to those Syrian palm-trees come
From Gunga's banks, or mounts of Malabar
Which lift the Deccan to its sun, and far—
Rampart-like—fringe the blue Arabian Sea.
True followers of the Buddh they seemed to be,
The better arm and shoulder showing bare
With each; and on the neck of each, draped fair
A scarf of saffron, patched; and 'twixt the eyes,
In saffron stamped, the Name of mysteries
OM; and the Swastika, with secrets rife
How man may 'scape the dire deceits of Life.
These three stood by, as who would entrance make;
And heard the Shepherds' tale; and hearing, spake
Strange Indian words one to another; then sent
Command. Their serving-men, obedient,
Cast loose from off the camels, kneeling nigh,
Nettings and mats, and made the fastenings fly
From belly-band, and crupper-rope, and tail;
And broke the knots, and let each dusty bale
Slide from the saddle-horns, and give to see
Long hoarded treasure of great jewellery,
And fragrant secrets of the Indian grove,
And splendours of the Indian looms, inwove
With gold and silver flowers; “for now,” said they,
“Our eyes have seen this thing sought day by day;
By the all-conscious, silent sky well-known,
And, specially, of yon white star foreshown,
Which, bursting magically on the sight,
Beckoned us from our homes, shining aright,
The silver beacon to this holy hill.
Mark if it sparkles not, aware and still,
Over the place? The astral houses, see!
Spake truth: our feet were guided faithfully.
'Tis the Star-Child, who was to rise and wear
A crown than Suleiman's more royal and rare,
‘King of the Jews.’ Grant an approach to us
Who crave to worship Him.”
Now, it fell thus
That these first to Jerusalem had passed;
And sojourned there, observing feast and fast
In the thronged city; oft of townsmen seen
In market and bazaar; and, by their mien
Noted for lordliest of all strangers there,
Much whispered of, in sooth, as who saw clear
Shadows of times to come, and secrets bright
Writ in the jewelled cypher of the Night.
So that the voice of this to Herod went
Feastful and fearful; ever ill-content
'Mid plots and perils; girt with singing boys,
And dancing girls of Tyre, and armoured noise
Of Cæsar's legionaries. Long and near,
In audience-hall, each dusky wayfarer
Questioned he of their knowledge, and the Star,
What message flashed it? Whether near or far
Would rise this portent of a Babe to reign
King of the Jews, and bring a crown again
To weeping Zion, and cast forth from them
The Roman scourge? And, if at Bethlehem,
As with one voice, priests, elders, scribes aver,
Then let them thither wend, and spy the stir,
And find this Babe, and come anew to him,
Declaring where the wonder. “Twas his whim,”
Quotha: “to be of fashion with the stars,
(Weary, like them, of gazing upon wars)
To shine upon this suckling, bending knee
Save unto Cæsar uncrooked latterly.”
Thence came it those Three stood at entering
Before the door; and their rich gifts did bring:
Red-gold from the Indian rocks, cunningly beat
To plate and chalice, with old fables sweet
Of Buddh's compassion, and dark Mara's powers
Round the brims glittering; and a riot of flowers
Done on the gold, with gold script to proclaim
The noble Truths, and Threefold mystic Name
OM, and the Swastika; and how man wins
Blessëd Nirvâna's rest, being quit of sins,
And, day and night, reciting, “Oh, the gem!
Upon the Lotus! Oh, the Lotus-stem!”
Also, more precious than much gold, they poured
Rare spices forth, unknitting cord on cord;
And, one by one, unwinding cloths, as though
The merchantmen had sought to shut in so
The breath of those distillings: in such kind
As when Nile's black embalming slaves would bind
Sindon o'er Sindon, cere-cloth, cinglets, bands,
Roll after roll, on head, breast, feet, and hands,
Round some dead king, whose cold and withered palm
Had dropped the sceptre;—drenched with musk and balm,
And natron, and what keeps from perishing;
So they might save—after long wandering—
The body for the spirit, and hold fast
Life's likeness, till the dead man lived at last.
Thus, from their coats involved of leaves and silk,
Slowly they freed the odorous thorn-tree's milk,
The grey myrrh, and the cassia, and the spice,
Filling the wind with frankincense past price,
With hearts of blossoms from a hundred glens
And essence of a thousand Rose-gardens;
Till the night's gloom like a royal curtain hung
Jewelled with stars, and rich with fragrance flung
Athwart the arch; and, in the cavern there
The air around was as the breathing air
Of a queen's chamber, when she comes to bed,
And all that glad Earth owns gives goodlihead.
Witness them entering, those Three from afar—
Who knew the skies, and had the strange white Star
To light their nightly lamp, thro' deserts wide
Of Bactria, and the Persic wastes, and tide
Of Tigris and Euphrates; past the snow
Of Ararat, and where the sand-winds blow
O'er Ituræa; and the crimson peaks
Of Moab, and the fierce, bright, barren reeks
From Asphaltîtes; to this hill—to thee,
Bethlehem-Ephrata! Witness these three
Gaze, hand in hand, with faces grave and mild,
Where, 'mid the gear and goats, Mother and Child
Make state and splendour for their eyes. Then, lay
Each stranger on the Earth, in th' Indian way,
Paying the “eight prostrations;” and was heard
Saying softly, in the Indian tongue, that word
Wherewith a Prince is honoured. Nimbly ran,
On this, the people of their caravan
And fetch the gold, and—laid on gold—the spice,
Frankincense, myrrh: and next with reverence nice
Foreheads in dust, they spread the precious things
At Mary's feet, and worship Him who clings
To Mary's bosom, drinking soft life so
Who shall be Life and Light to all below.
“For now we see,” say they, departing: “plain
The Star's word come to pass! The Buddh again
Appeareth, or some Bôddhisat of might
Arising for the West, who shall set right,
And serve, and reconcile; and maybe, teach
Knowledge to those who know. We, brothers, each,
Have heard yon shepherds' prattling; if the sky
Speaketh with such, Heaven's mercy is drawn nigh!
Well did we counsel, journeying to this place!
Yon hour-old babe, milking that breast of grace,
The World will praise and worship, well-content.”
Then, fearing Herod, to their homes they went
Musing along the road. But he, alway
Angered and troubled, bade his soldiers slay
Whatever man-child sucked in Bethlehem.
Lord! hadst Thou been all God, as pleaseth them
Who poorly see Thy God-like self, and take
True glory from Thee for false glory's sake;
Co-equal Power, as these—too bold—blaspheme,
Ruler of what Thou camest to redeem;
Not Babe Divine, feeling with touch of silk
For fountains of a mortal Mother's milk
With sweet mouth buried in the warm feast thus,
And dear heart growing great to beat for us,
And soft feet waiting till the way was spread
Whereby what was true God in Thee should tread
Triumphant over woe and death to bliss,—
Thou, from Thy cradle would'st have stayed in this
Those butchers! with one Angel's swift decree,
Out of the silver cohorts lackeying Thee,
Thou hadst thrust down the bitter Prince who killed
Thine innocents! Would'st Thou not? Was't not willed?
Alas! “Peace and Goodwill” in agony
Found first-fruits! Rama heard that woeful cry
Of Rachel weeping for the children; lone,
Uncomforted, because her babes are gone.
Herod the King! hast thou heard Rachel's wail
Where restitution is? Did aught avail
Somewhere? at last? past life? After long stress
Of heavy shame, to bring forgetfulness?
If such grace be, no hopeless sin is wrought!
Thy bloody blade missed what its vile edge sought;
Mother, and Child, and Joseph—safe from thee—
Journey to Egypt, while the Eastern three
Wind homewards, lightened of their spice and gold;
And those great days that were to be, unfold
In the fair fields beside the shining sea
Which rolls, 'mid palms and rocks, in Galilee;
As I—if I have grace—hereafter sing,
Telling the dream which came about this thing,
What time, with reverent feet, I wandered there
Treading Christ's ground, and breathing Christ's sweet air

BOOK I. Mary Magdalene

BOOK II. The Magus.

“‘God is a Spirit! they who worship Him
In spirit and in truth must worship Him!’
He spake that, too!”—Mary went on,—and then
“Thus ligged He—as we gathered—all those years
In Nazareth: and Joseph died; and need
Came that He take, with all humility,
The load of common lives. So in that town
Hard by the fountain; in the house I know,—
(Oh me! I passed with Pappus by its porch;
We in the gilded litters, He at toil!)
His trade He plied, a Carpenter; and built
Doors, where folk come and go, unto this hour,
Not wotting how the hands which wrought their doors
Unbarred Death's gate by Love's high sacrifice;—
Tables whereon folks set their meat, and eat,
Heedless of who was “Bread of Life,” and gave
Such food that whoso eateth hungereth not.
And in those little lanes of Nazareth
Each morn His holy feet would come and go
While He bore planks and beams, whose back must bear
The cruel cross. And, then, at evening's fall
Resting from labour, with those patient feet
Deep in white wood-dust, and the long curled shreds
Shorn by His plane,—He would turn innocent eyes
Gazing far past the sunset to that world
He came from, and must go to; nigh to Him,—
Nigh unto us, albeit we see it not;
Whereof Life is the curtain, and mute Death
Herald and Doorkeeper. One eve, they say,
The shadow of His outstretched arms,—cast strong
By Sun-down's low-shot light,—painted a cross
Black on the wall; and, Mary, trembling, drew
Her garment o'er the lattice. But He spake:
‘Near unto Me is near to loss and death;
And far from Me is far from Life and gain!’
There is a maid of those that love Him here
Sings on the minnîm a poor song of this,
If thou wilt hear; while those about us bring
Olives and grapes, and we a little rest.”
Thereat, a Hebrew girl tied back her sleeve,
Tuning the strings, and, to their melancholy,
Sang softly of “The Shadow and the Light.”
“Yet, on His seldom-saddened countenance”—
Mary went on—“no shadows lay! He saw
By sunlight and by starlight, steadfastly,
That radiance of the kingdom, that high noon
Of Life and Love, which, shining inwardly,
Hath never any night. Therein He dwelt
Prince of the Heavenly purple; Heir and Son
Of spheres eternal and invisible,
Where meek souls sit the highest, and the poor
Are richest, and the pure in heart are Lords.
And, ever in His spirit, sage and calm
That which we name not habited, the sense
Of an abiding Presence, Fatherly,
Motherly, Friend-like, Lover-like; more dear
Than dearest ones on Earth, more near than blood
To the beating heart, or neck-vein to the neck;
More boundless than the immeasurable blue;
More mighty than a thousand-bolted Jove
Throned on some new Olympus, whose vast head
Smiteth the stars; more sweet to love and serve
Than dulcet-speaking mistress; more to trust
Than truest friend; more tender than the arms
Of nursing mother; more forgiving, fond,
Kindred, and kind, than Father. Yea, Great God
Making us gods and taking us to Him.
Wherefore, grace spread around Him, and fair peace
Coming and going; and the air grew glad
Whithersoever He would pass; and gaze
Of townsfolk, and of women at the well—
Not knowing wherefore,—followed Him; and tongues
Were stilled, not knowing why, if He did speak.
For then, already, grew that mystery
Of wisdom in Him, and that word which seemed
Higher than Earth's. Afterwards, people told
Strange tales of those hid days,—how, at His toil,
Touching a plank, it stretched to rightful length,
Or shortened, at His will—the dead wood quick
To live again and serve Him. How He made
Birds out of clay, and clapped His hands, and lo!
They chirruped, spread their wings, and flew away;
And how in month of Adar, Syrian boys
Playing in Nazareth—as thou hast seen—
With girdled frocks, striped tunics, and feet bare—
Found Him, and crowned Him with white lily-buds,
And put a stick of lilies in His hand,
And set Him on the hillside, bending knee
In merry worship, and made whoso passed
Halt and bow lowly, crying: ‘Hither come,
Worship our King, then wend upon thy way!’
Surely, as thus we heard, at Nazareth
Full soft and holy sped the happy time
In the white hut, hard by that well, where yet
Wives come and go with pitchers, dawn and eve,
Who came and went with Him, and helped Him draw
Fair water thence, and bear it, dutiful,
To where His Mother wrought her household chares—
Silent, and wondering what should fall; and doves
Sunned on the roof their silver wings, and vines
Climbed, glad to glorify His lowly door.
Within thou wottest well that little rooms,
What chest of wood, gay-painted; on a shelf
What quilted beds uprolled; what pans and cups—
Copper, and brass and clay,—ranged duly round
With great jar at the back, by flag-leaves shut
To keep the water cool. And when Night fell
Hatchet and saw and nails laid in their place,
And the low table spread with peasant's food,
Rice and the libbân, and a common bowl.
Afterwards, peaceful sleep—yet, had men eyes
Sleep watched by wondering eyes of wakeful stars,
And guarded, out of that new-opening Heaven
By glorious Angels, golden sentinels,
Keeping Him safe, whose words shall save the world.”

BOOK III. The Alabaster Box

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me. Because He hath anointed Me to Preach the Gospel to the Poor: He hath sent Me to heal the broken-hearted; to preach deliverance to the Captives, and recovering of sight to the Blind; to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the Acceptable Year of the Lord.’

BOOK IV. The Parables

“Ofttimes, dear Lady! while I listened close”—
Next morn, the Indian said:—“loath, by one stop,
To mar such noble music—I had will
To tell thee how the great Tathâgata
Spake many things in one mind with thy Lord.
Methought I heard our holy Books unroll,
Line after line, as thou didst featfully
Recite those sayings on the Mount. He, too,
Bade us not hate, but love; and conquer Hate
With Love; and let light cares of Life go by
Careless, because it is a show, which cheats;
And earthly treasures fade; and he is rich
Who lays up riches, in the Realm beyond,
Of deeds done well, and gentle service wrought,
And days without injuriousness. Mark, too,
Our Buddha would not know of enemies
More than thy Master. He commanded us,
‘If one upon the left shall wound thy hand,
And one upon the right shall bathe thy hand
With sandal-oil, and kiss it, bear to each
The same mild heart! So shall the smiter love,
Or—if not—vainly hate thee!’ Charity,
Mercy, and meekness, taught he:—for Love's sake
Utmost renunciation. Once, it fell
Buddh to a starving tigress gave his flesh;
Not fearing loss, for never can Love lose.
Yet, truly, nowise have we known before
Wisdom so packed and perfect, as thy Lord's,
Giving that Golden Rule that each shall do
Unto his fellow as he would have done
Unto himself; for, then, this Earth were Heaven,
And equity in every breast throned King.
Also, right joyous goes His doctrine; glad
'Mid Life's sad charms, and swift vicissitudes,
And Death's unshunned and hard perplexities
Which make us bear to live. But, Buddha held
Life was long sorrow, ignorantly prized,
Grievously reassumed from change to change;
Whirling sad souls upon The Wheel, unsaved,
Until they stay it, staying lust of days;
Ceasing to drink the false salt wave which breeds
Worse thirst—a wilder Trishna:—quit of quests,
And gliding, passionless and purged and sane,
Back to that Infinite where silence lives.
Om mani padme!—‘from the lotus-leaf
The Dewdrop sliding to the shining Sea,
When Sunrise comes!’”
But Mary's great eyes gleamed,
Crying:“Oh, Sir! in those good opening days
We were as glad as maids at marriage-time;
As jocund as the bird that hangs his heart—
Bursting with song—midway 'twixt Earth and Heaven,
And hath, to ravish it, the sky all his
Up to the utmost blue, and, green below,
The Earth his, down to that one dearest nook,
The little happy hollow in the grass
Where his mate listens on her warm grey eggs
In woven nest. So owned we two wide worlds,
Following behind Him, over Galilee.
Nay, and those never knew my Master's mind,
Nor touched the golden hem of what He taught,
Nor tasted honied lesson of His lips,
Who drew not from the treasure of those lips
Joyance to make him glad to live or die!
Wistful and woeful may well go, I know,
The days of those who, driven by the winds
Of strife, and avarice, and lust of eye,
Chase, what shall never be attained on Earth,
Contentment with the joys which are of Earth.
Who knows, but Miriam of Magdala,
How the red bubbles, bursting on the wine,
Foretell, at the cup's bottom, bitterness?
Truly, such souls are like our ‘gal-gal’ here—
If thou hast seen it,—the wild artichoke,
Which putteth forth brave branches in the spring,
Dying at autumn into dusty globes
That break, and fall, and roll, all helplessly,
Ten score together in a leaping crowd,
O'er hill and vale, bounding like things possessed;
Till the thorns take them, or the wrathful sea.
The Desert-rider reins his frightened beast,
As ‘the accursëd’ whirls, and cries in scorn:
‘Oh! gal-gal! whither goest thou to lodge?’
And the dry, miserable, ball replies:
‘Where the wind lodgeth for the night, I lie!’
“But we, who learned of Him the happy way,
Whom never once again Earth's winds can drive,
What is it if we die? whose eyes have seen
There is no Death! What is it if we live
A little woe-begone, when He hath passed
Patiently all our path, changing its stones
To rubies, and to rose blooms all its thorns,
With bright blood of His vainly-wounded feet?
What lover of Him shall be sad again
Seeing the Father through Him, touching hands
Of that large love which reaches out from Heaven,
In His pierced palms? He told us not one bird
Folds failing wings, and shuts bright eyes to die,
But That which gave their stations to the stars,
And marked the Seas their limits, and the Sun
His shining road, signed soft decree for this,
And did in pity plan kind consequence.
‘Yet you’—lightly He spake—‘are of more worth
Than many sparrows!’ Oh, good Friend! that soul
Hath done with sadness which knows Christ aright;
Not as Fear reads, but as quick Love reveals.
Also I think the woest shall scarcely miss
At end of evil, when Despair will lead
Souls to His feet, which would not come for Love.
Hardly, I hope, shall bloody Herod fail,
Nor Judas, who betrayed Him with the kiss,
Nor Pilate, who, for Cæsar, saw Him slain;
Nor any, at the last; since Grace and Power
Unmeasured, which forbid men's hearts to hate,
Themselves can never hate, nor finally,
See their sweet purpose foiled.
“But, in those days,
We were the Children of the Bride-chamber,
That could not fast, nor weep! Joy walked with us!
Mark with thine eyes what Land this is in spring!
The meadows cloth of gold, damasked and decked
With silk-leaved country-blossoms, and the hills
Girt with green forests, and with budding vines,
Their feet set deep in barley-fields and groves
Of fig and olive; where another world
Of sunshine-loving people live—the Doves,
The painted finches, and the crested larks,
Brook-tortoises, and storks, with busy swarms
Of banded bees, crickets, and creeping things,
Nowise forgotten, taking share of Earth.
He led us—Lord of lovely pastorals—
Through these fair paths, grown to seen Paradise,
Heaven being so near. Women and children drew—
Bright with the light of Love's new kingdom come—
Into His train; and gave Him laughing guards
Of little ones, who clustered round His knees—
Wiser and bolder than we others were—
Of dark-eyed wistful Syrian wives and maids
Glad to be poor, because He loved the poor
And made them wealthy with His word. The Lake,
The lonely peaks, the valleys, lily-lit,
Were synagogues. The simplest sights we met—
The Sower flinging seed on loam and rock;
The darnel in the wheat; the mustard-tree
That hath its seed so little, and its boughs
Widespreading; and the wandering sheep; and nets
Shot in the wimpled waters,—drawing forth
Great fish and small:—these, and a hundred such,
Seen by us daily, yet never seen aright,
Were pictures for Him from the page of life,
Teaching by parable.
“For, nowise else,
Taught He the people; since a light is set
Safest in lanterns; and the things of Earth
Are copies of the things in Heaven, more close,
More clear, more near, more intricately linked,
More subtly, than men guess. Mysterious,—
Finger on lip,—whispering to wistful ears,—
Nature doth shadow Spirit. Subjects, kings,
Diversities, degrees, prophets, and poets:
Lovers, together drawn invisibly
Like orbs that cleave across the Void; the babe
Who, coming helpless, finds its mother's breast,
Safe nursery and sweet food; the seed which dies
That it may live, laughing with lightsome blade
Death's dread away; the Darkness which would daunt
Save that it shows—what Day concealed—the stars;
The sleep which gives us back the body's strength,
But leaves the dreaming soul sleepless and 'ware;
Comforting nightly with grave's counterfeit;
Death without dying—living, but not Life!
The steadfast onward-moving march of change
In use and beauty; yea! and what obstructs
Of harm and evil,—for our World must grow
By Love's slow conquest of the stubborn will,
Free to will wrongly:—these be parables
For ever murmuring wider wonders, hints
Of what hides inner, deeper. What is Like
Is Likely; and the Life to come will be
Of such a fashion as this Life to-day
Writes in still symbols. Did we deem our fields
Tilled for no crop save what the sickle reaps?
He made them show how Heaven's wise husbandry
Sets good seed growing; parts the tares and wheat;
Winnows the chaff away. Did some man find
Hid shekels in a field,—old buried gold
Forgot of mouldering owner in the tomb—
And buy the field, selling, for joy thereof,
All that he had? He made us therefrom see
How sweet it is to want all sweetnesses,
Winning the Sweetest; and how cheap to own
What's priceless at a price; how light to part
With all we clove to once, gaining thereby
The treasure of the Kingdom. Did there come
Pearl-merchants out of Persia, trafficking
All their white findings for one moonlight gem,
Fished fortunate in Ormuz, or by reef
Deadly and ragged, of the Sea of Suph;
Fit to adorn the neck of Cæsar's wife?
He made them teach us how to fling aside
Small pearls for great. That corn, sown secretly,
Unseen at eve, but, when we passed at morn,
Greening the headlands, 'twas His text to tell
How still and sure the good deed grows i' the dark;
And shall not fail of fruit in his full time.
The shepherd whom we met in Gadara
Joyously striding as he brought to fold
That one lost lamb out of the hundred sheep
On his own shoulders, leaving lone, meanwhile,
The ninety and nine, safe in fat pasturage,
Passed piping on, not knowing he was grown
Type for us of the Eternal Love which seeks
Strays of the flock; and will not have them lost
For all its saints, and will not spare its toil,
'Mid thorns and thickets, till it find, and save;
Then makes more joy in Heaven for one lost sheep
Brought home, than all the folded ewes and rams
Knee-deep in grass of Paradise. And, once—
New from Perœa, o'er the star-lit sea
Sailing with Simon to His city's gates—
We spied a marriage-party:—torch, and lamp,
And cresset, flaring with great Cedar-knots,—
Dancing like fire-flies through Capernaum
To jocund music of much pipe and drum.
But—for the Bridegroom tarried—certain maids
Had slumbered; let their lamps die; and their wail—
‘Alalalai! no light! and, lo, he comes!’—
Was loud, because the wedding-doors stood closed.
Small thought those slothful damsels had, their rout,
Hither and thither hurrying, gowns ungirt,
Lamps swinging lightless, and th' uncared-for cry,
‘Oil! Sisters! Lend us oil!’ should thesis give
For fable of the Wise and Foolish ones;
The souls that wait and watch; the souls that drowse,
Letting Life's wick burn down; till midnight comes,
And here's the Bridegroom, with his feastful friends,
But, look! no light! and entrance quite forbid!
‘Watch, therefore,’ spake He, ‘for ye know nor day,
Nor hour!’
“Yet most He loved to teach of Love.
Wherefore, when tale was of a certain man
Dwelling—(we knew him)—by Tiberias,
That had two sons. And one, the Prodigal
Who asked his portion, gathered it, and went
To some far country, where he wasted all
In riotous living; till the ill-times fell,
And he had nought, and herded swine, and filled
His belly with the husks. Sitting at meat
In Simon's house, our Master took this tale,
And featly decked it forth with Wisdom's wealth,
Relating how that son ‘came to himself’
And cried:‘I will arise, and go unto
My Father, and will say that I have sinned,
Sinned against Heaven, and, Father! before thee,
And am not worthy to be called thy son,
Only thy hireling servant! Make me that!’
Then he arose, and came. And, oh! what heart
Throbbed not amongst us, while the Master told
Tenderly,—meaning all the World to hear,—
How—yet a long way off—his Father saw,
Saw him, and had compassion? Nay, he ran,
And fell upon his neck, and kissed the boy
Mouth to mouth; Father's lips on Son's lips pressed,
Staying his words of sorrowful self-blame
With dear impatience;—leading us to learn
That God's love runneth faster than our feet
To meet us stealing back to Him and peace,
And kisses dumb our shame, nay, and puts on
The best robe, bidding angels bring it forth,
While Heaven makes festival; for Angels' meat
Is happiness of Man.
“In such wise, He—
Plucking His themes, as Syrian girls pull flowers,
To spell dear names and speak the gentlest words,
From common wayside things in Galilee—
Taught us by Parable.”
The Indian cried,
“Thou Wise One! who didst sojourn in the Wild;
And feed the swine from fairest hands; and ache
With hunger for thine own fine food of Truth,
With waste of Love and Life; and didst arise,
And find forgiving arms, and take that kiss
Silencing shame! Now doth thy bright soul wear
A better beauty than dead Pappus saw,
Or love-sick Prætors! Whence are words to thank
These words which teach me where thy Jesus filled
The leaf of wisdom in, and wrote for men
The name Lord Buddha would not say nor spell?
Sweet stories, nathless, might thy servant cite
From Buddha's lips, teaching, as these do teach,—
By speech of Ganges, not of Galilee,—
How good seed grows to good, ill seed to ill,
Secretly; and the Treasure of the Law
How well it is to buy it at World's cost
If all this World were chrysolite, and ours;
And how Death is not, being new life masked,
Lest we long overmuch to die, and lose
Purpose of Earth:—but Change, for ever Change!
From seed, by darkness, to the blade again;
From Life, by rest and recompense, to Life,
From forms, by Karma, to some other form;
Which wheel shall whirl, till the awakened soul
Like a caged callow eagle, passion-caught,
Knows itself; and, indignant, spreads its wings
For that unbounded Quiet where is Home.
Thus did Buddh teach; and high Ahinsa's rule
To do no wrong, but bear wrongs patiently,
Yet this to conquer Ignorance; to break
From sense; to find that farther, truer World
Which shines—thou sayest it—beyond the seen.
Yea! this to serve the Self, and save the Soul,
Reaching Nirvâna, where, what seemed so dear,
Love, lieth dumb as Hate; Life dead as Death;
And the vast voice of endless Ecstacy
Is silence, and its Day eternal dream.
Who reigneth at that centre of the cirque
Him named he not, nor would he lift to Him
Prayers which were vain, if th' All-Knowing loves,
If th' All-Loving knows. Denying not,
Affirming not; but finding no word fit
Saving the Wordless, the Immeasurable:
But thou, reporting from thy Master's mouth,
On that Void stretching from thought's farthest flight
As far into the purple deeps of Night
As the last star—and farther—dost inscribe
This mighty name of ‘Love,’ and biddest believe
Not law, not fate, not fore-ordainëd course
Hath moulded what we are, and built the Worlds;
But living, regnant Love; dimly discerned
In glories of this house of Earth we own,
Paved with green meads and seas, and roofed with Heaven;
Dimly discerned in lovely shows that live
To whisper lovelier wonders; youth and strength,
The light of lustrous limbs, and laughing eyes;
Man's might and woman's beauty; clouds and flowers,
Jewels and birds, and all fair things for use.
Nor will thy matchless Master have this Love
Marred any way by evil; any whit
Hindered by hating. Hate and Evil hang,—
So must I gather—but as darkness hangs,
When Dawn, which broadens, is not rosy yet.
It shall not fail to gleam, dispelling glooms.
And, for the lingering of that Sun and Love
Which is to brighten all, 'tis Night! we dream!
And Time and Doubt portions of that false dream!
Nor would thy Master have one little life
Forgotten of this Love Divine. He sees
His Father's universes clustering close
Round the poor bird which dies—to minister
With winds that fan it, and with dews that bathe;
Those viewless forces, holding worlds at work,
Subservient to the meanest thing, in life,
And death, and after dying. Therefore, more,
Much more to Man, Earth's Lord, and King of things,
Also, who enters, if I gather well—
Into this Kingdom, in thy Master's train,
Hath, for its secret, not to love himself;
Nor seek to save himself; nor—lonely—wend
Over dead duties and affections slain,
Towards such Nirvâna; but to cherish still
His neighbour as himself; and save his soul
By losing heed of it, in heedful care
That all his doings profit men, and help
The sorrowful to hope, the weak to stand:
With heart, soul, mind, and strength loving this God,
Whom yet I reach not, tho' the foot of thought
Treads step for step with Christ in Galilee.
How fits with such a God the loveless strife
Of all things living? In the jungle, look!
What slaughter! and without it not a meal
For the young vultures, or the tiger-cubs.
Nay, over all thy Realm of Love this rules;—
Each slays a slayer, and in turn is slain.
How fits, with Love, this, and the wrongs of men
Too desperate for any right to atone;
The woes too hard ever to recompense;
The dried, but dreadful, unforgotten, tears;
The agonies intolerable, yet seen,
Yet suffered (thou didst say so) by that Power
Who tends the little bird, but gives it o'er
Helpless and piping to the falcon's beak?
If these things need not be, doth He not play
With the poor Earth? Shall it not fling Him back
His after bliss, indignant? If aught lets
And He that made them cannot help His Worlds—
Or, only by slow schemes, and painful paths,—
Shall we not scorn to call Him powerful;
Or ask to see Him nearer, and know more?”
“Wise Friend!” she sighed, “that which thou sayest now
Was—over-eager—said. One of our Twelve,—
One golden morning when the Earth seemed His—
By reason of those glorious works,—and Heaven
A Garden parted by the Blue, whose key
Hung at His girdle—pressed Him close, and spake:
‘Show us the Father, Lord!’ But He replied,
With grave eyes looking greatly past our light,
‘No man, at any time, hath seen Him! None!
Nor shall ye see Him nearer than by Me
Who am His Son!’ And, on another day,
Spake He: ‘So long hast thou been with Me here,
And not yet known Me, Peter? Who hath seen
Him that was sent, hath seen the Sender.’ Sir!
We did suppose,—what thy large learning holds,—
The Unnamed thereby shown the Infinite,
Incomprehensible, Unspeakable,
For ever and for ever unapproached,
And yet, for ever and for ever near
In loving immanence; revealed on earth
Doubtfully, as the minds of parents are
To ungrown children; most of all revealed
In days and deeds, in holy life and death,
And new life after death, of Christ our Lord.
But manifest—so did we read Him—here,
In whatso mirrors Love, the nursing Dove
Fasting to feed her couplets; the lone ewe
Battling against the eagle for her lamb;
The eagle's self, fierce to find meat to bear
Back to her nestlings; and the peasant-sires
Toiling that little ones fare well at home;
And mothers with the sucklings at their breasts,
And children tending joyously the old;
And he who helps the poor, and he that shares
Last measure of dates in the mid wilderness
With one that starves:—each tender deed and true,
Each word, thought, sacrifice, which helps the world,
By loving-kindness, use, and charity;
Nay, ‘even one cup of water,’ thus He said,
‘Given in My name,’ bring glimpse of God, and lead
Nearer and nearer to the Heart of Love.
Which shall be justified, when all is known,
And the Eternal Wisdom whispers,—glad,—
Its secret to the Soul, laughing to learn
Death was so friendly, and the toils of life
So fruitful for all living things; and pain
Seed of long pleasure; and our worst of woes
So like the foolish anguish of the Babe
Whereat the Mother, loving most, smiles most.
“Moreover, not by narrow Reason's ray
Shall this be ever compassed, but by light
Larger and brighter, shining from the heart.
And, in the house once, at Capernaum,—
His Twelve, disputing who was first, and chief—
He took a little child, knit holy arms
Round the brown, flower-soft boy; and smiled and said:
‘Here is the first and chiefest! If a man
Will be the greatest, see he make himself
Lowest and least; a servant unto all;
Meek as My small disciple here, who asks
No place, nor praise; but takes unquestioning
Love, as the river-lilies take the sun,
And pays it back with rosy folded palms
Clasped round My neck, and simple head reclined
On his Friend's breast,’
And, at another time,
When the pleased Mothers of the Lake would bring
Their infants to His knee; to touch that hand
Which touched the hands of Angels, and to take
Blessing from lips which spoke for Heaven;—those Twelve
Rebuked them, knowing not. But Jesus said:
‘Suffer the little ones to come to Me!
Forbid them not! Heaven's Kingdom is of such.’
And then went on: ‘Whoso shall not receive
The Kingdom as a little child, that Man
In no wise entereth in!’ Friend! should we err
Deeming He meant the simplest sould see most?
Is there not wisdom in the witless Babe?
New-coming to this life, so wonderful,
Finding, without his pains, without his will,
The tender Mother waiting; the sweet stream
Of breast-milk flowing; and his soft place made;
With sunlight for his days; and stars and moon
To gem the curtains of his sleep; and flowers
To tempt his feet to walk; and birds to teach
Carols of country joy when he would sing;
The child doth question nought, but takes this wealth
Lavished upon him in the dawn of life
With quiet opening heart, glad to be glad.
So doth he grow and learn, yet shall not learn
Ever a higher wisdom than to cling
Close to the loving bosom kept for him,
Content to trust, careless to understand.”
The grey sage said, with wrinkled brow bent low,
“Great is thy grace, oh, Lady Miriam!
Right surely hast thou won from those true lips
Learning's last word! 'Tis written in our books
Of Parabrahm, to shame all pride of mind,
‘He is unknown to those who think they know;
And known to whoso know they know Him not.’
Yet, as thy fair speech ran, much wondered I
That, teaching how this heavenly Love hath heed
Of all flesh living; how we sons of men
Lie in its lap, all children, dear alike,
Elder and younger; near and far; white, black;
The Jew, Greek, Syrian, and Sidonian,
Arab, Egyptian:—nay, and Indian;
Thy Jesus did not quit, some little while,
His slender world shut here; those peasant-hearts
Poorly perceiving Him; those narrow brows
Knitted against Him in false Nazareth;
And that proud, bitter, murderess on the hill,
Slayer of Prophets, red Jerusalem,—
Which, as we heard, did spill His blameless blood.
Why wended not His holy feet to them?
To us? to any? who had listened well;
And, glad with light of such bright missioning,
Crowned Him a King, indeed; and given Him Earth
To fill and foison with His Father's will?”
She answered: “Once, from green Gennesaret
Passed He, with certain, to the neighbouring coasts
Of Tyre; and would not have that any knew,
But could not veil His greatness. Thou hast seen
Perchance,—or from far-travelled merchant heard—
How stately sits, how strong, how beautiful
That city on her Island of the Sea,
Tyre of the temples, girt with mighty walls,
Which glass themselves like rocks, majestical,
In the green wave laving their feet;—filled full
With ships that come and go,—white birds of the sea
Flown from the farthest verges of the earth,
Spreading or folding wing;—and noise of oars
And ropes, and singing of the merchantmen.
There stood He, on the stair of Melicerth—
God of the City—while there came and went
Folk, as I think, from all the East and West;
Another world of men and women; loud
With traffick, and strange tumults, and new tongues;
And gay with many-coloured garbs. We saw
The thronged streets paved with coral; booths and shops
Bursting with store; long strings of camels; slaves
Bearing red jars of byssus, sealed for Rome;
Hewn cedar logs for Greece; honey, and oil,
Barley and balm and calamus; great bales
Of gum and cassia; with blue-broidered work.
And Tyrian girls danced by, before His eyes,
Clad in the purple peplums; beating skins
Of drum and cymbal; wreathed with myrtle flowers,
Singing their wild way down to Ashtoreth,
The hundred-breasted Goddess of the Moon,
Worshipped with blood. Mild stood the Master there
Watching the busy bright-hued heathen life,
With eyes like those sea-waters, showing half,
Half hiding the deep wonders underneath.
Whom, as He gazed, with, who shall tell what thoughts?
A woman, in the Greek dress, did accost
Plucking His robe, and crying: ‘David's Son!
I know Thee masterful and merciful,
Have pity on my child! A devil rends
Her tender flesh; but Thou, if Thou would'st come,
Could'st heal, and bring Thy servants peace and weal.’
Then He, grieved for the gilded wickedness
Of that fair city, fain for Galilee;
Answered: ‘First must the children's mouths be filled!
It is not well to take the children's bread,
And cast it to the dogs!’ At that, her eyes
Flashed with quick wit of anguish, and she cried:
‘Truth, Lord! but crumbs fall, and the dogs may eat
The children's tearings!’ Then beamed forth anew
That high look on His face, which comforted:
‘For this thy saying go in peace!’ He spake;
‘Thy little Maid is healed!’”
And she was healed!

BOOK V. The Love of God and Man.

‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.’

‘Thou shalt love thy neigbour as thyself.’

BOOK VI. The Great Consummation.

‘I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he Live.

‘And whosever Liveth and believeth in Me shall never Die.’