 | Poems: Second Series |  |
152
NATURE WORSHIP.
I. THE GOD WITHOUT.
Vast, lifeless, masterless, death-nurtured force—
Huge phantom engine whose revolving wheels
Rush round in mad and everlasting course
Till thought itself grows blind and deaf and reels—
Shall I forget that when thy chaos first
Broke on my life and with its iron heels
Crushed down my soul, I yet rose up and cursed
Thine utmost strength and bade thee do thy worst?
Huge phantom engine whose revolving wheels
Rush round in mad and everlasting course
Till thought itself grows blind and deaf and reels—
Shall I forget that when thy chaos first
Broke on my life and with its iron heels
Crushed down my soul, I yet rose up and cursed
Thine utmost strength and bade thee do thy worst?
Yet some there are who bid me bow to thee
And know that thou art God and thou alone,
And offer up in silent ecstasy
My spirit's adoration—kneeling prone,
And force my wayward isolated will
Into the world-deep current of thine own,
Omnipotent, eternal, strong to still
The fitful murmurs of each wanton rill.
And know that thou art God and thou alone,
And offer up in silent ecstasy
My spirit's adoration—kneeling prone,
And force my wayward isolated will
Into the world-deep current of thine own,
Omnipotent, eternal, strong to still
The fitful murmurs of each wanton rill.
153
Where shall I worship thee? what altar shrine
Waits for the offering of my heart's desire?
Where dost thou veil thyself in light divine?
Is thy Shechinah where the furnace fire
Kindles the engine-room with hellish glow,
And day and night with tongues of flaming spire
Devours the food that makes thy life-blood flow—
The night-black fuel from the depths below?
Waits for the offering of my heart's desire?
Where dost thou veil thyself in light divine?
Is thy Shechinah where the furnace fire
Kindles the engine-room with hellish glow,
And day and night with tongues of flaming spire
Devours the food that makes thy life-blood flow—
The night-black fuel from the depths below?
Or is it where thy maze of whirling steel,
Thy mighty self-controlled machinery,
Bewilderingly complex—pulley, wheel,
Band, cylinder and roller—flash and fly
With lightning speed around and overhead—
And iron teeth and humming spindles ply,
And tear and spin, as fast as they are fed,
The stuff of primal matter into thread?
Thy mighty self-controlled machinery,
Bewilderingly complex—pulley, wheel,
Band, cylinder and roller—flash and fly
With lightning speed around and overhead—
And iron teeth and humming spindles ply,
And tear and spin, as fast as they are fed,
The stuff of primal matter into thread?
Or is thine altar in the weaving-room
Where all day long, though men may come and go,
Rises the busy uproar of the loom,
The shriek of shuttles flashing to and fro?
And are those shrill discordant sounds, that daze
My listening ear, the harmonies that flow
From the great key-board of the years, and raise
Up to thy throne our hymns of prayer and praise?
Where all day long, though men may come and go,
Rises the busy uproar of the loom,
The shriek of shuttles flashing to and fro?
And are those shrill discordant sounds, that daze
My listening ear, the harmonies that flow
From the great key-board of the years, and raise
Up to thy throne our hymns of prayer and praise?
154
Oh there perchance—for there thy toil is crowned,
Where, still the same and still for ever new,
Soft subtly-woven tissues are unwound
Of tender texture and harmonious hue—
Faith, Hopeand Love—stars in the darkest night—
Hands swift to act—Hearts eager to pursue—
Brave aspirations after truth and right—
Ideal loveliness—Eternal light.
Where, still the same and still for ever new,
Soft subtly-woven tissues are unwound
Of tender texture and harmonious hue—
Faith, Hopeand Love—stars in the darkest night—
Hands swift to act—Hearts eager to pursue—
Brave aspirations after truth and right—
Ideal loveliness—Eternal light.
But no; thy fervent votary replies—
These thy last works, the fairest thou hast planned
Are dreams, delusions, air-born phantasies,
That mock the sight and vanish from the hand:
Though primal matter, formless and unwrought,
Be sure and solid as the hills that stand:
Yet these that thou hast woven—Love and Thought—
Their warp is emptiness—their woof is nought.
These thy last works, the fairest thou hast planned
Are dreams, delusions, air-born phantasies,
That mock the sight and vanish from the hand:
Though primal matter, formless and unwrought,
Be sure and solid as the hills that stand:
Yet these that thou hast woven—Love and Thought—
Their warp is emptiness—their woof is nought.
Then all thy life is death, and all thy course
Without a purpose and without a goal:
Thine endless waves of ever-wasted force
On shores of shapeless desolation roll:
Or does one end for all eternity
Quicken each part, give meaning to the whole?
Is it for this that loom and engine ply—
To frame a mockery—to weave a lie?
Without a purpose and without a goal:
Thine endless waves of ever-wasted force
On shores of shapeless desolation roll:
Or does one end for all eternity
Quicken each part, give meaning to the whole?
Is it for this that loom and engine ply—
To frame a mockery—to weave a lie?
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Thou art not blind—for thou hast never seen:
Thou art not dumb—for thou hast never spoken:
Thou canst not die: for thine has never been
A living soul—a spirit to be broken:
Thou dost not weary—for thou dost not feel:
Thou canst not love: thy heart ne'er gave a token
Of sorrow, or of joy: and shall I kneel
To thee whose breath is flame, whose blood is steel?
Thou art not dumb—for thou hast never spoken:
Thou canst not die: for thine has never been
A living soul—a spirit to be broken:
Thou dost not weary—for thou dost not feel:
Thou canst not love: thy heart ne'er gave a token
Of sorrow, or of joy: and shall I kneel
To thee whose breath is flame, whose blood is steel?
Not so—but rather with indignant heart
I hurl at thee revolt and hate and scorn,
And dare to curse thee, tyrant that thou art,
For the deep wrongs of man whom thou hast borne
Only to teach him that his pride is shame,
And every gleam of his triumphant morn—
Each pure emotion and each lofty aim—
A lurid shadow of thy furnace flame.
I hurl at thee revolt and hate and scorn,
And dare to curse thee, tyrant that thou art,
For the deep wrongs of man whom thou hast borne
Only to teach him that his pride is shame,
And every gleam of his triumphant morn—
Each pure emotion and each lofty aim—
A lurid shadow of thy furnace flame.
Thou Moloch whose insatiate jaws of fire
Consume our offered gifts with scorching breath—
Our heart's fair children born but to expire:—
Thou Juggernaut whose chariot wheels of death
Grind into dust our suppliant hearts that wait
Prostrate and prone:—I too profess thy faith,
And kneeling at thine altar consecrate
Defiance and anathema and hate.
Consume our offered gifts with scorching breath—
Our heart's fair children born but to expire:—
Thou Juggernaut whose chariot wheels of death
Grind into dust our suppliant hearts that wait
Prostrate and prone:—I too profess thy faith,
And kneeling at thine altar consecrate
Defiance and anathema and hate.
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But all in vain: still heedless of the issue
Thy pistons rise and fall: thy looms unfurl
Interminable lengths of dream-like tissue:
And wheels revolve, and spindles hum and whirl:
Thy very dumbness and thy deafness foil
My proud rebellion, and each curse I hurl
Is but a groan, a creak for lack of oil,
A hiss, a sputter where thy waters boil.
Thy pistons rise and fall: thy looms unfurl
Interminable lengths of dream-like tissue:
And wheels revolve, and spindles hum and whirl:
Thy very dumbness and thy deafness foil
My proud rebellion, and each curse I hurl
Is but a groan, a creak for lack of oil,
A hiss, a sputter where thy waters boil.
II. THE GOD WITHIN.
Life of my life! soul of my inmost soul!
Pure central point of everlasting light!
Creative splendour! Fountain-head and goal
Of all the rays that make the darkness bright—
And pierce the gloom of nothing more and more
And win new realms from the abyss of night!
O God, I veil my eyes and kneel before
Thy shrine of love and tremble and adore.
Pure central point of everlasting light!
Creative splendour! Fountain-head and goal
Of all the rays that make the darkness bright—
And pierce the gloom of nothing more and more
And win new realms from the abyss of night!
O God, I veil my eyes and kneel before
Thy shrine of love and tremble and adore.
The unfathomable past is but the dawn
Of thee triumphant rising from the tomb;
And could we deem thy lamp of light withdrawn,
Back in an instant into primal gloom
All things that are, all things that time has wrought,
All that shall ever yet unseal the womb
Of elemental Chaos, swift as thought
Would melt away and leave a world of nought.
Of thee triumphant rising from the tomb;
157
Back in an instant into primal gloom
All things that are, all things that time has wrought,
All that shall ever yet unseal the womb
Of elemental Chaos, swift as thought
Would melt away and leave a world of nought.
We gaze in wonder on the starry face
Of midnight skies, and worship and aspire,
Yet all the kingdoms of abysmal space
Are less than thy one point of inmost fire:
We dare not think of time's unending way,
Yet present, past, and future would expire,
And all eternity would pass away
In thy one moment of intensest day.
Of midnight skies, and worship and aspire,
Yet all the kingdoms of abysmal space
Are less than thy one point of inmost fire:
We dare not think of time's unending way,
Yet present, past, and future would expire,
And all eternity would pass away
In thy one moment of intensest day.
Of old our fathers heard thee when the roll
Of midnight thunder crashed across the sky:
I hear thee in the silence of the soul—
Its very stillness is the majesty
Of thy mysterious voice, that moves me more
Than wrath of tempest as it rushes by,
Or booming thunder, or the surging roar
Of seas that storm a never trodden shore.
Of midnight thunder crashed across the sky:
I hear thee in the silence of the soul—
Its very stillness is the majesty
Of thy mysterious voice, that moves me more
Than wrath of tempest as it rushes by,
Or booming thunder, or the surging roar
Of seas that storm a never trodden shore.
158
And they beheld thee when the lightning shone,
And tore the leaden slumber of the storm
With vivid flame that was and then was gone,
Whose blaze made blind, whose very breath was warm:—
But I, if I would see thee, pray for grace
To veil my eyes to every outward form,
And in the darkness for a moment's space
I see the splendour of thy cloudless face.
And tore the leaden slumber of the storm
With vivid flame that was and then was gone,
Whose blaze made blind, whose very breath was warm:—
But I, if I would see thee, pray for grace
To veil my eyes to every outward form,
And in the darkness for a moment's space
I see the splendour of thy cloudless face.
In thought I climb to Being's utmost brink
And pass beyond the last imagined star,
And tremble and grow dizzy while I think—
But thou are yet more infinitely far,
O God, from me who breathe the air of sin,
And I am doomed to traverse worlds that are
More fathomless to fancy ere I win
The central altar of the soul within.
And pass beyond the last imagined star,
And tremble and grow dizzy while I think—
But thou are yet more infinitely far,
O God, from me who breathe the air of sin,
And I am doomed to traverse worlds that are
More fathomless to fancy ere I win
The central altar of the soul within.
How shall I worship thee? With speechless awe
Of guilt that shrinks when innocence is near
And veils its face: with faith, that ever saw
Most when its eyes were clouded with a tear:
With hope, the breath of spirits that aspire:
Lastly, with love—the grave of every fear,
The fount of faith, the triumph of desire,
The burning brightness of thine own white fire.
Of guilt that shrinks when innocence is near
And veils its face: with faith, that ever saw
Most when its eyes were clouded with a tear:
With hope, the breath of spirits that aspire:
Lastly, with love—the grave of every fear,
The fount of faith, the triumph of desire,
The burning brightness of thine own white fire.
159
And I have worshipped at no other shrine:
No other fount has slaked my sacred thirst:
I never called Humanity divine:
With all my heart's anathemas I cursed
The creed that dared to say with priestly tone
“Forget thyself, or love thy neighbour first,”
I only answered “Could the world atone
For my lost self? Love God: leave man alone.”
No other fount has slaked my sacred thirst:
I never called Humanity divine:
With all my heart's anathemas I cursed
The creed that dared to say with priestly tone
“Forget thyself, or love thy neighbour first,”
I only answered “Could the world atone
For my lost self? Love God: leave man alone.”
For if indeed thy glory be the goal
Of every breast that throbs and then is still,—
He most, who seeks the Heaven of his own soul,
Toils for his brothers, knows the magic thrill
Of world-wide fellowship—for it must be
That all are one in oneness with thy will;—
But love of man is less than nought to me
That is not rooted in the love of thee.
Of every breast that throbs and then is still,—
He most, who seeks the Heaven of his own soul,
Toils for his brothers, knows the magic thrill
Of world-wide fellowship—for it must be
That all are one in oneness with thy will;—
But love of man is less than nought to me
That is not rooted in the love of thee.
Long held apart in depths of primal night
O sons of men dead—living—yet unborn—
Unnumbered rays, faint effluence of one light,
Ye knew not of each other—lost and lorn;
But love and kinship dawned with the desire
Of God, the well-spring of your glimmering morn,
And I have dreamed that ye shall yet expire
Blent each with each in one unfathomed fire.
O sons of men dead—living—yet unborn—
Unnumbered rays, faint effluence of one light,
Ye knew not of each other—lost and lorn;
But love and kinship dawned with the desire
Of God, the well-spring of your glimmering morn,
And I have dreamed that ye shall yet expire
Blent each with each in one unfathomed fire.
160
For only love can still the stormy strife
And calm the winds that rave, the waves that roll,
And crown the endless aim of nature's life
And link mankind together—soul to soul:
O Love, though dimly guessed, yet even now
In thy far dawn the nations see their goal,
And set their faces eastward: what art thou?
The last thin veil—the splendour of God's brow.
And calm the winds that rave, the waves that roll,
And crown the endless aim of nature's life
And link mankind together—soul to soul:
O Love, though dimly guessed, yet even now
In thy far dawn the nations see their goal,
And set their faces eastward: what art thou?
The last thin veil—the splendour of God's brow.
O God that dwellest in transcendant light
Beyond our dreams, who grope in darkness here,
Beyond imagination's utmost flight,—
I bless thee most that sometimes when a tear
Of tender yearning rises unrepressed,
Lo! for an instant thou art strangely near—
Nearer to my own heart than I who rest
In speechless adoration on thy breast.
Beyond our dreams, who grope in darkness here,
Beyond imagination's utmost flight,—
I bless thee most that sometimes when a tear
Of tender yearning rises unrepressed,
Lo! for an instant thou art strangely near—
Nearer to my own heart than I who rest
In speechless adoration on thy breast.
| Poems: Second Series | |