 | Poems |  |
88
THE SIGH OF THE SAGE.
Why is it that I may not speak
Those deepest thoughts, whose light is shed
As when swift summer lightnings streak
A sky of darkness, then are fled—
In one bright instant born and dead—
While no far-uttered thunder-crash
Follows the sudden silent flash?
Those deepest thoughts, whose light is shed
As when swift summer lightnings streak
A sky of darkness, then are fled—
In one bright instant born and dead—
While no far-uttered thunder-crash
Follows the sudden silent flash?
Why is it that my lips are sealed
Most, when my heart has most to tell?
Why are those forces unrevealed
That might mould ages? Is it well,
Oh God, that some strange cruel spell
Should palsy my best words—should close
The fountain where it clearest flows?
Most, when my heart has most to tell?
Why are those forces unrevealed
That might mould ages? Is it well,
Oh God, that some strange cruel spell
Should palsy my best words—should close
The fountain where it clearest flows?
If I could speak—could seize one word
Strong to lay bare my inmost soul—
How grandly would the world be stirred!
How clearly see its far off goal,
And know at last why it must roll
Through Time and Space—by knowledge free,
In silence—everlastingly.
Strong to lay bare my inmost soul—
How grandly would the world be stirred!
How clearly see its far off goal,
And know at last why it must roll
89
In silence—everlastingly.
If I could speak—but there's the curse—
My eyes are bright—my lips are slow:
Oh for the Poet's strength of verse
To utter more than mind may know—
To shadow forth the heart—to throw
Flashes of insight into speech,
And teach the world what none may teach—
My eyes are bright—my lips are slow:
Oh for the Poet's strength of verse
To utter more than mind may know—
To shadow forth the heart—to throw
Flashes of insight into speech,
And teach the world what none may teach—
None but the slow sad lapse of Time,
That sweeps us downwards—man by man—
Yet through our stammered prose and rhyme
By slow degrees unfolds our plan,
Bidding each see what part he can—
What boots it that we pass away?
The world grows wiser day by day.
That sweeps us downwards—man by man—
Yet through our stammered prose and rhyme
By slow degrees unfolds our plan,
Bidding each see what part he can—
What boots it that we pass away?
The world grows wiser day by day.
But ah! 'tis there—our sharpest pain,
And thence awakes our bitterest cry—
That each must pass, while all remain—
The world is deathless—man must die,
And feel the great stream pass him by,
And know that great things will be known
In after years when he has gone.
And thence awakes our bitterest cry—
That each must pass, while all remain—
The world is deathless—man must die,
And feel the great stream pass him by,
And know that great things will be known
In after years when he has gone.
90
And far around he sweeps his eyes
To where in dimly distant lands
The sky and ocean meet the skies,
Sight's utmost verge—yet still he stands,
With straining gaze and outstretched hands,
For there are worlds of light divine
Beyond that hard horizon line.
To where in dimly distant lands
The sky and ocean meet the skies,
Sight's utmost verge—yet still he stands,
With straining gaze and outstretched hands,
For there are worlds of light divine
Beyond that hard horizon line.
And in the years that are to be
Others will gain a loftier height,
And breathe a purer air, and see
A wider world, and catch the light
Of spheres that lay beyond his sight—
So grows the circle round us spread,
Illimitably limited.
Others will gain a loftier height,
And breathe a purer air, and see
A wider world, and catch the light
Of spheres that lay beyond his sight—
So grows the circle round us spread,
Illimitably limited.
If this be bitter—bitterer still
To see where other eyes are blind,
And grasp by sudden stress of will
Glimpses of Truth, yet never find
An outlet for the flooding mind,
To have the Poet's godlike glance,
Yet lack his might of utterance.
To see where other eyes are blind,
And grasp by sudden stress of will
Glimpses of Truth, yet never find
An outlet for the flooding mind,
To have the Poet's godlike glance,
Yet lack his might of utterance.
91
Such fate is mine—the veil between
Heaven and earth is strangely bright
For me, and I have somewhere seen
A flash of the eternal light
That is the source of all our sight,
And I have somewhere touched the chord
Wherein all melody is stored—
Heaven and earth is strangely bright
For me, and I have somewhere seen
A flash of the eternal light
That is the source of all our sight,
And I have somewhere touched the chord
Wherein all melody is stored—
All the world's music—every strain
Heard or undreamt of: in my breast
The secret, that might best explain
Life's riddle, hides and mocks my quest,
For ever free and unexpressed—
Safe from the grasp of human words,
Where angels guard with flaming swords.
Heard or undreamt of: in my breast
The secret, that might best explain
Life's riddle, hides and mocks my quest,
For ever free and unexpressed—
Safe from the grasp of human words,
Where angels guard with flaming swords.
Yet there are times when, over bold,
I seize on speech, and half believe
That my poor faltering lips have told
The heart's deep meaning, that I weave
In words what thought may ill conceive—
While captive to my might of will,
The world is listening rapt and still.
I seize on speech, and half believe
That my poor faltering lips have told
The heart's deep meaning, that I weave
In words what thought may ill conceive—
While captive to my might of will,
The world is listening rapt and still.
92
But as one in an evil dream,
When comes the numbing spell of fear,
Tries to cry out, and half would deem
That his meant words are cut and clear,
With strength to reach a distant ear,
Yet in his inner mind he knows
That he lies wrapped in dread repose,
When comes the numbing spell of fear,
Tries to cry out, and half would deem
That his meant words are cut and clear,
With strength to reach a distant ear,
Yet in his inner mind he knows
That he lies wrapped in dread repose,
And idly strains a stifled throat,
Helpless to stir—in such a wise
My heart knows well how faint the note
It utters—silent as the sighs
That from true depths of suffering rise,
Lost in life's noisy surface hum—
So still I, speaking, still am dumb.
Helpless to stir—in such a wise
My heart knows well how faint the note
It utters—silent as the sighs
That from true depths of suffering rise,
Lost in life's noisy surface hum—
So still I, speaking, still am dumb.
And must this be so? Is it willed
That time shall never heal my wrong?
Must all my life be unfulfilled?
And shall the meanest of the throng,
Who scarce has grace to creep along
Yon beaten track that all have trod,
Have struck a stronger blow for God?
That time shall never heal my wrong?
Must all my life be unfulfilled?
And shall the meanest of the throng,
Who scarce has grace to creep along
Yon beaten track that all have trod,
Have struck a stronger blow for God?
93
Or is it that our ears are dull
To catch a language not our own,
And they whose hearts are over full
Must yet be silent, or make known
Their meaning in some other tone?
Does speech that seems so clear a light
Veil what is truest from our sight?
To catch a language not our own,
And they whose hearts are over full
Must yet be silent, or make known
Their meaning in some other tone?
Does speech that seems so clear a light
Veil what is truest from our sight?
For so doth daylight like a screen
Veil myriad worlds—immense—afar:
Behind the blue they hang unseen,
But when the hours of darkness are,
And earth is hidden—lo! each star
That has its home in endless space
Unveils the brightness of its face.
Veil myriad worlds—immense—afar:
Behind the blue they hang unseen,
But when the hours of darkness are,
And earth is hidden—lo! each star
That has its home in endless space
Unveils the brightness of its face.
They do not shine when we can see
This little world—these things we love:
Yet changeless is their majesty,
And all the while they dwell above,
Or through vast realms serenely move;
But only when our little sphere
Lies lost in gloom, do they appear.
This little world—these things we love:
Yet changeless is their majesty,
And all the while they dwell above,
Or through vast realms serenely move;
But only when our little sphere
Lies lost in gloom, do they appear.
94
And Language too, whose light reveals
A world of truth that else were lost
To life and knowledge—yet conceals
The glory of the Heavenly host—
Thought the divinest, innermost,
Folded in whose Eternal breast
Our little lives unconscious rest.
A world of truth that else were lost
To life and knowledge—yet conceals
The glory of the Heavenly host—
Thought the divinest, innermost,
Folded in whose Eternal breast
Our little lives unconscious rest.
And shall I then for ever seek
To tell mankind what I know not—
For does he know who cannot speak
His knowledge? Shall a humbler lot
Content me, and a life forgot
As soon as ended, and a name
That dies not into clouds of flame?
To tell mankind what I know not—
For does he know who cannot speak
His knowledge? Shall a humbler lot
Content me, and a life forgot
As soon as ended, and a name
That dies not into clouds of flame?
Yet there was One whose plastic force
Shaped the world's movement—stemmed the tide
Of life's great flood, and changed its course
Bidding its waters, rolled aside
In other channels, gentlier glide:
Yet no new knowledge did He give—
He lived himself, and bade us live.
Shaped the world's movement—stemmed the tide
Of life's great flood, and changed its course
Bidding its waters, rolled aside
In other channels, gentlier glide:
Yet no new knowledge did He give—
He lived himself, and bade us live.
95
He set the generations free
Not by unfolding in man's speech
The secret of Life's mystery;—
Simpler His words—He bade us each
Forget his nearer self, and reach,—
Beyond its burning, blinding ray,—
The very source of all our day.
Not by unfolding in man's speech
The secret of Life's mystery;—
Simpler His words—He bade us each
Forget his nearer self, and reach,—
Beyond its burning, blinding ray,—
The very source of all our day.
And they whose ears are dull to hear,
And they whose eyes are faint to see,
Shall yet have grace to journey near
To that far light that flashes free,
Mocking our poor Philosophy:
Vainly those tangled paths we rove,
Infinite only when we love.
And they whose eyes are faint to see,
Shall yet have grace to journey near
To that far light that flashes free,
Mocking our poor Philosophy:
Vainly those tangled paths we rove,
Infinite only when we love.
And I—a hermit in my cell
Of lonely thought—shall I not start
From silence, and go forth and tell
Christ's message, bidding hate depart
And Love be Heaven to every heart?
Shall I not toil with men, and cease
My dreaming, and at last have peace?
Of lonely thought—shall I not start
From silence, and go forth and tell
Christ's message, bidding hate depart
And Love be Heaven to every heart?
Shall I not toil with men, and cease
My dreaming, and at last have peace?
96
Ay, that might bring a calmer mood;
Yet something whispers—Is not this—
This pain, this vast disquietude
Diviner than the deepest bliss—
Than life's serenest happiness?
And do I well that I forego
This hunger of the heart to know?
Yet something whispers—Is not this—
This pain, this vast disquietude
Diviner than the deepest bliss—
Than life's serenest happiness?
And do I well that I forego
This hunger of the heart to know?
Has it no meaning? were it just
To slight these tokens of God's will,
And, looking round in blind self-trust,
Choose each the post that each should fill,
Even as if God had chosen ill—
And madly deem we comprehend
Better than God our being's end.
To slight these tokens of God's will,
And, looking round in blind self-trust,
Choose each the post that each should fill,
Even as if God had chosen ill—
And madly deem we comprehend
Better than God our being's end.
Far other was the high resolve
Wherewith my inner life began;
Rather to let the care devolve
On God of making good His plan
That tells our meaning, man by man—
To be my best, and consecrate
His gifts to Him who gave—and wait.
Wherewith my inner life began;
Rather to let the care devolve
On God of making good His plan
That tells our meaning, man by man—
To be my best, and consecrate
His gifts to Him who gave—and wait.
97
And did my spirit's high unrest—
Its endless yearnings, come from Him?
And shall its cravings be represt
By me—because the horizon's rim
Is near me, and my vision dim?
And shall I quench the Heavenly spark
Because its light makes this life dark?
Its endless yearnings, come from Him?
And shall its cravings be represt
By me—because the horizon's rim
Is near me, and my vision dim?
And shall I quench the Heavenly spark
Because its light makes this life dark?
Ah! better far to take my cross,
That heaviest cross—a doubting mind
That pants for truth—nor count the loss,
Nor heed the laughter of mankind;
But scatter seeds upon the wind,
And trust that some have taken root
Somewhere, and will at last bear fruit.—
That heaviest cross—a doubting mind
That pants for truth—nor count the loss,
Nor heed the laughter of mankind;
But scatter seeds upon the wind,
And trust that some have taken root
Somewhere, and will at last bear fruit.—
To dream, and trust it is not vain
This dreaming, and though silently
Truth's flashes vanish, doomed to gain
No voice, yet still with straining eye
Gaze at the darkened summer sky:
For me the lightnings gleam and glance—
God hears the thunder's utterance.
This dreaming, and though silently
Truth's flashes vanish, doomed to gain
No voice, yet still with straining eye
Gaze at the darkened summer sky:
For me the lightnings gleam and glance—
God hears the thunder's utterance.
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