 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
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SCENE:— Lady Jane Grey's Apartment in the Tower.
Enter Feckenham.]Feckenham.
Madam, I bear no comfort on my tongue,
But such as to some foundering bark a wave
Brings, that puts hope out quite, yet ends not all,
Charg'd but to sweep clean, salivate the prey
For the sea's throat, before the last wave quench
Hope, life, and all together.
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A plain tale, sir,
Best savours plainly spoken—you are come
To say that I must die.
Feckenham.
Indeed, 'tis so:
Against the young Lord Guildford and your Grace
The warrants are gone forth; to-morrow's sun
Illumines the sad missal of your life
In its last page — How, Lady! do you smile?
Is it so sweet and at your age, and thus
Clean from the pale of Grace, past human hope,
Body and soul belike, unshriven, to die?
Know you what death is?
Lady Jane Grey.
Nay, sir, not to-night:
Did you not say to-morrow I should know?
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To-morrow 'twill be different. Hath eye seen,
Or ear heard, either heart of man conceived
The things God hath prepared for them that love Him?
Feckenham.
Ay so; but for the outcasts of the fold,
Those on His left, the foolish strayaways,
Know you another Scripture that must serve?
Lady Jane Grey.
Sir, for your tidings and good will I thank you,
Yes, from my heart; you wish, I think, to snatch me
Another brand from the burning: but pray see
How vain to counsel me in this! my faith
You cannot shake: what comfort if you could?
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Beseech you, leave me—I would be with Christ.
Feckenham.
'Tis thither I would bring you, even to Christ.
Leave you I dare not, lest Christ lose a soul
'Twas mine to have rescued. Lady, let me speak:
It is mine office to console and shrive.
Think you I have grown to fifty years God's priest,
Shrunk from no conflict, sicken'd at no toil,
Wrestling with Satan—Christ's ambassador,
With powers to bind or loose, remit, retain,
Learn'd therefore in His lore—a seer of souls—
Yet master'd no more of life's mysteries
Than your child-wisdom? Be not over-bold:
There stands the Door! The Porter waits your knock:
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“The same is thief and robber.”
Lady Jane Grey.
If to know much
Were to possess God's secret, that were yours;
Or if ripe age were wisdom, you were wise.
But, sir, may it not be that all this while
You, 'mid the clamour and clash of hostile creeds,
Bred to do battle, flush'd with controversy,
In the blind turmoil and pell-mell of fight
Striking at who comes first—so press the plumes—
Have, though the sword of the Spirit were in your hands,
Dinted and dimm'd it 'gainst the shield of Faith
Borne past you by some seeming adversary,
And 'mid the Babel-discord of debate
Sought, but not always haply found the Lord?
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Shy, simple student, shut from the world's noise,
Learning of God from His own Word, without
Much gloss of man's or added commentary,
And from His works around me in the flowers,
Looking on Nature, as a child is taught
First by fair pictures, may have come more near
That kingdom each must enter as a child?
Also your plea of age I part put by,
That you have liv'd more—must know more of life;
Well, if life mean prolong'd apprenticeship
To hate, strife, all that makes it sad to live—
Stumblings in stony ways where no light is,
Tracking vain circles with laborious feet,
Seeing through a glass but darkly, knowing in part,—
If this be life, you are elder far than I:
But if the crown and glory of old age be
The approach of death, proximity to God,
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Of souls sequester'd by death's shadowing wings,
An ear shut to the world's thrum, sharpen'd more
To sounds from heaven, the finer film of flesh
Pierced almost now by the glory that is to be—
All these are mine, not yours. As for that Door
You spake of, I have knock'd, am enter'd in.
Feckenham.
What words are these—the topmost froth of madness!
Mere bubbles blown and broken with a breath!
Pestilent fumes from a distemper'd fancy!
Physic you thus the death-wounds of a soul?
Child! will it profit to have read God's word
By the light of fancy—a rainbow of rosy foam
Flung o'er the fountain of youth's heart?—Mistake
Such phantom for the sun's effectual ray?
Will you plead at God's bar, “Thy law seemed hard,
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Go, sing it to thy lute; seek some lone stream,
And mix its warnings with the murmuring waves;
Turn from its terrors to soft skies, and sigh
“So will heaven seem:” but know for all these things
God brings thee unto judgment. Hast thou faith?
Lady Jane Grey.
In God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Creator, Saviour, Sanctifier of all,
So may His hand support, His blood wash clean,
His Spirit comfort me, as I believe.
Feckenham.
Well then do you think mankind may come to God
Through bye-ways, His appointed path denied?—
Honour the King, yet spurn his messengers?—
Trusting the main source, doubt the stream divine?
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Yes, for to meet it from men's haunts there haste
A thousand throats, whose poisonous runnels pour
From many an obscene source, till at the last
They mix, and, gathering refuse as they go,
Needs must discharge into the virgin bed,
Augment and crown the perfect river of God.
A thousand throats, whose poisonous runnels pour
From many an obscene source, till at the last
They mix, and, gathering refuse as they go,
Needs must discharge into the virgin bed,
Augment and crown the perfect river of God.
Sir, there's a hill, the smoke-blind city loves,
Soars to the very flush of the setting sun;
Green all his slopes with pasture, his bare head
A shrine of solitude, where souls may live
And worship with no temple-walls between.
Thither, though sharp the ascent, narrow the track,
Who trembles not may climb and cast all care
'Mid wild goats bleating and grey great rocks, but all
Sound of man's enterprise is banish'd far.
Then come officious folk, call'd lords o' the land,
Claim all the hill their own, bid loiterers pack,
Clear copse, blast rock, make the rough places plain,
And at the last cry out in triumph, “Behold!
No climbing more at peril of life and limb!
See the brave road we have made, with terraced steps
Where the stream rushed! Hold by the rope, or, if you will,
Speak, and, pence paid, we hoist you by the tram”—
What must the lovers of the mountain say?
Soars to the very flush of the setting sun;
Green all his slopes with pasture, his bare head
A shrine of solitude, where souls may live
And worship with no temple-walls between.
Thither, though sharp the ascent, narrow the track,
Who trembles not may climb and cast all care
'Mid wild goats bleating and grey great rocks, but all
Sound of man's enterprise is banish'd far.
Then come officious folk, call'd lords o' the land,
Claim all the hill their own, bid loiterers pack,
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And at the last cry out in triumph, “Behold!
No climbing more at peril of life and limb!
See the brave road we have made, with terraced steps
Where the stream rushed! Hold by the rope, or, if you will,
Speak, and, pence paid, we hoist you by the tram”—
What must the lovers of the mountain say?
Feckenham.
So then you recognize no bond but this—
Belief in God, His being, His attributes;
This is the sum and substance of your creed.
All else—all powers, though by Himself conferr'd
(As proved beyond doubt by miraculous signs)
On those appointed to no end but this—
Tradition of Christ's mysteries to men—
The Church His bride, 'gainst whom the gates of hell
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All laws, all ordinances, gifts of grace
Through fifteen centuries surviving still,
As null, void, inessential, you would waive—
All the great golden chain cast loose, whereby
God draws to heaven each separate link, a soul.
Is faith alone sufficient?
Lady Jane Grey.
Faith alone,
But for the hardness of men's hearts, exists not.
To know God and believe, and there stop short,
No fruit in act resulting, were a thing
More monstrous false, more past impossible
Than that the peerless sun should rise, shine, set,
Flame his full circuit to the ends of heaven,
Earth lying dark the while, her puny stars
Twinkling and unaware! why it were harder
For the fork'd fire-bolt to tear heaven in twain
Nor the air applaud in thunder!—'tis mere words;
Faith without charity avails not, why?
Why 'tis a mere phantasma—a goodly tree,
But without stem, sap, branches, leaves, or fruit!
But for the hardness of men's hearts, exists not.
To know God and believe, and there stop short,
No fruit in act resulting, were a thing
More monstrous false, more past impossible
Than that the peerless sun should rise, shine, set,
Flame his full circuit to the ends of heaven,
Earth lying dark the while, her puny stars
Twinkling and unaware! why it were harder
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Nor the air applaud in thunder!—'tis mere words;
Faith without charity avails not, why?
Why 'tis a mere phantasma—a goodly tree,
But without stem, sap, branches, leaves, or fruit!
Sir, I remember—'twas seven years ago—
I, ten years old, one summer eve lay down
Tired of my games, and for the first time saw
The sunset—That's a human word, but else
How should I tell it?—The sun that day had died
A violent death, and in the sweat of flight
Flung down, it seemed, his battle-robe lay there,
Fleck'd and distain'd with blood, not trampled yet
By the fierce hoofs of Night. I felt afraid
Till I drew back my gaze eastward, and lo!
No blood here, nor no colours, but the ghosts
Of all dead colours, the spirits of slain shapes
Fading and forming! In a moment I perceived
This was God's beauty had dawned upon my soul
Through the earthly senses first: all I had heard,
Learnt, read, but scarce had hoped to understand,
How God is strong, just, merciful, and mild,
Sender of sorrows, and yet source of love—
Flash'd and was truth within me—the dry bones lived!
And as I pondered I became aware
How wonderful a thing was mine own soul!
No child more!—such an infinite bright birth
Within me, as must henceforth having seen
Love and be miserable away from God—
One crystal drop as perfect though so small,
As pure in its proportion and degree
As the main ocean!—Doubtless God forgave
That thought, so born of such an ecstacy.
I, ten years old, one summer eve lay down
Tired of my games, and for the first time saw
The sunset—That's a human word, but else
How should I tell it?—The sun that day had died
A violent death, and in the sweat of flight
Flung down, it seemed, his battle-robe lay there,
Fleck'd and distain'd with blood, not trampled yet
By the fierce hoofs of Night. I felt afraid
Till I drew back my gaze eastward, and lo!
No blood here, nor no colours, but the ghosts
Of all dead colours, the spirits of slain shapes
Fading and forming! In a moment I perceived
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Through the earthly senses first: all I had heard,
Learnt, read, but scarce had hoped to understand,
How God is strong, just, merciful, and mild,
Sender of sorrows, and yet source of love—
Flash'd and was truth within me—the dry bones lived!
And as I pondered I became aware
How wonderful a thing was mine own soul!
No child more!—such an infinite bright birth
Within me, as must henceforth having seen
Love and be miserable away from God—
One crystal drop as perfect though so small,
As pure in its proportion and degree
As the main ocean!—Doubtless God forgave
That thought, so born of such an ecstacy.
Well well, mere madness! but what I mean is this—
When from a spirit's vision, howsoe'er
Lighten'd, the mist fades, and the scales drop off,
And the bush burns before him; when his feet
Tremble because they stand on holy ground,
And the new air is terrible and sweet
About him, as the Lord is passing by,
Then though the World, the Devil, and the Flesh—
Though these three leagued together with all their hosts
Swept from the four winds to abolish him,
He should go up against them and prevail:
Nor this alone; not against evil only
Stands he an instant and an eager foe;
But as the clear eye of some limpid pool
Sweeps from its serene surface every mote
And impure speck that taints it from the hills,
Because 'tis meet the “clarity of heaven”
Be shown there, or brave shape of passing cloud,
Or gold star diving, or silver-splinter'd moon—
So such a spirit henceforth—what things soe'er
Are pure and lovely and of good report,
If there be any virtue, any praise—
Thinks on these things. O sir! to be like God,
We must reflect his nature, which is love:
You cannot make the turbid stream paint heaven
Through tunnels of bored stone or earthen duct,
It must lie bare for that. What think you, Pope?
When did your second-hand salvation, say,
Penance or pardons help one heart to love?
You cannot win a child's love by command;
We must see first before we can desire:
Let God himself teach that, who draws us all
By human cords and with the bands of love.
Why should you stand between men's souls and God?
Surely one's own flesh makes it dim enough—
His presence. Fear that we may see too much?
Why, sir, to see is to grow like Him; that,
That is the next world's glory: they are like Him
Who see Him as He is.
When from a spirit's vision, howsoe'er
Lighten'd, the mist fades, and the scales drop off,
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Tremble because they stand on holy ground,
And the new air is terrible and sweet
About him, as the Lord is passing by,
Then though the World, the Devil, and the Flesh—
Though these three leagued together with all their hosts
Swept from the four winds to abolish him,
He should go up against them and prevail:
Nor this alone; not against evil only
Stands he an instant and an eager foe;
But as the clear eye of some limpid pool
Sweeps from its serene surface every mote
And impure speck that taints it from the hills,
Because 'tis meet the “clarity of heaven”
Be shown there, or brave shape of passing cloud,
Or gold star diving, or silver-splinter'd moon—
So such a spirit henceforth—what things soe'er
Are pure and lovely and of good report,
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Thinks on these things. O sir! to be like God,
We must reflect his nature, which is love:
You cannot make the turbid stream paint heaven
Through tunnels of bored stone or earthen duct,
It must lie bare for that. What think you, Pope?
When did your second-hand salvation, say,
Penance or pardons help one heart to love?
You cannot win a child's love by command;
We must see first before we can desire:
Let God himself teach that, who draws us all
By human cords and with the bands of love.
Why should you stand between men's souls and God?
Surely one's own flesh makes it dim enough—
His presence. Fear that we may see too much?
Why, sir, to see is to grow like Him; that,
That is the next world's glory: they are like Him
Who see Him as He is.
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Yes, but remember,
Of all true loves Obedience is the badge:
Love else makes no more music than the loose
Breath of some vagabond and lawless wind,
Mere hollow blustering and blind desire,
Which, prison'd in sweet pipes and timely stopped
Had issued no mere rabble of wandering sounds,
But school'd and temper'd to grave harmonies
Meet for the Master's ear.
Lady Jane Grey.
Again I say,
Your tongue shoots wide o' the mark. Love once inspir'd,
Its range is infinite—all law we need
So simple—to God first and then to man.
This is the eternal rule of harmony;
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Each separate soul may pour itself in praise
To God for ever. Your multiplied restraints
Impede the player, not modulate the tone,
Assign false limits, contract the scale, and bring
The whole world's great exuberance of song
To one dull murmur of mechanic sound.
Feckenham.
Once claim such freedom, and all bounds disappear.
Prove the Church human and her foundation sand,
Show flaw in the fabric—there's no force in earth
Shall reconstruct the sunder'd elements
Into a power which may convert the world.
Why else at all design'd, but that Christ knew
The bias of man's own heart his natural bane,
His sovereign need enthron'd Authority,
A supreme arbiter, whence no appeal?
Men's aims are variable, God's purpose one:
Except his fiat be cogent to compel
Unquestioning obedience, there's an end.
Man's will steps into rivalry with God's;
And the new freedmen, cautiously at first,
But by degrees grown masterful, throw off
The yoke of their old burdens, in whose place
They will set up as God, and worship it,
This demon of Free-thought, which pricked them first
To such high daring; and for a creed they'll spin
Some subtle network of the curious brain,
Some metaphysic film too weak to bear
The rude fall of a single bolt of fate.
From that day forth I seem in spirit to see
All Israel scatter'd on the hills as sheep
Having no shepherd: the hosts of the profane,
Unshamefast and triumphant and malign,
Ride down the people and possess the spoil!
Hail Antichrist! Apostate thousands swell
Thy cohorts; I see Redemption made a scoff,
The Cross a scorn, and Faith's clear certainty
Starv'd to the waning comfort of a dream!
O Lord! is this the intolerable end?
Better the world still bowed and clave to Baal,
Chemosh and Moloch and the Lord of flies!
Prove the Church human and her foundation sand,
Show flaw in the fabric—there's no force in earth
Shall reconstruct the sunder'd elements
Into a power which may convert the world.
Why else at all design'd, but that Christ knew
The bias of man's own heart his natural bane,
His sovereign need enthron'd Authority,
A supreme arbiter, whence no appeal?
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Except his fiat be cogent to compel
Unquestioning obedience, there's an end.
Man's will steps into rivalry with God's;
And the new freedmen, cautiously at first,
But by degrees grown masterful, throw off
The yoke of their old burdens, in whose place
They will set up as God, and worship it,
This demon of Free-thought, which pricked them first
To such high daring; and for a creed they'll spin
Some subtle network of the curious brain,
Some metaphysic film too weak to bear
The rude fall of a single bolt of fate.
From that day forth I seem in spirit to see
All Israel scatter'd on the hills as sheep
Having no shepherd: the hosts of the profane,
Unshamefast and triumphant and malign,
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Hail Antichrist! Apostate thousands swell
Thy cohorts; I see Redemption made a scoff,
The Cross a scorn, and Faith's clear certainty
Starv'd to the waning comfort of a dream!
O Lord! is this the intolerable end?
Better the world still bowed and clave to Baal,
Chemosh and Moloch and the Lord of flies!
But ye, so careful to add naught hereto,
Look ye diminish not from Christ's commands.
Say all you can, this yet remains to say—
“We build upon Christ's very words, the same
You disregard or garble.” Take one plain word—
Something or nothing—and interpret which:
“This is my body which is given for you.”
How must we read that saying?
Look ye diminish not from Christ's commands.
Say all you can, this yet remains to say—
“We build upon Christ's very words, the same
You disregard or garble.” Take one plain word—
Something or nothing—and interpret which:
“This is my body which is given for you.”
How must we read that saying?
Lady Jane Grey.
The sequel knits
The sense up, and shows all: “do this,” he adds,
“In memory of me.”—No juggler's sleight,
Seeing that His body was whole before them there!
Men do not eat the last dear lock that keeps
The memory of dead friends, much less their flesh,
Were it possible. To eat Christ's flesh were to pluck
Away one's own redemption, and make vile
And of cheap worth what cost so deadly dear.
Fool—Pharisees! blind leaders of the blind!
Doth not Himself say that which entereth in
Defiles not, though unclean, the heart of a man?
How should the clean then purify? Man's soul
Exists on God, not by material food:
God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him
Must worship Him in spirit and in truth.
The sense up, and shows all: “do this,” he adds,
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Seeing that His body was whole before them there!
Men do not eat the last dear lock that keeps
The memory of dead friends, much less their flesh,
Were it possible. To eat Christ's flesh were to pluck
Away one's own redemption, and make vile
And of cheap worth what cost so deadly dear.
Fool—Pharisees! blind leaders of the blind!
Doth not Himself say that which entereth in
Defiles not, though unclean, the heart of a man?
How should the clean then purify? Man's soul
Exists on God, not by material food:
God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him
Must worship Him in spirit and in truth.
See how ye wrest the Scriptures to your will!—
Ravel five threads out from the quaint-wrought web
Which in the pictur'd arras present a sword,
Christ holds in act to sheathe; and, severing so
The dry dead body of the thing from its idea,
Cry, “who asks warrant, behold the naked blade
His hand grasped! Do ye fear to flesh it now?
So perish all His enemies!”—meanwhile
Forgetful of the curse upon the scroll—
“All they that take shall perish by the sword.”
How would Christ meet your Grand Inquisitor?
Methinks upon that sea of martyr'd blood
Sailing, and in a boat of human bones,
Wafted by wailings of the souls he slew
Red Torquemada comes to claim his crown:
There stands the Christ! but Oh! what heavy cheer!
What worlds of sadness in the eyes' regard!
“Have I not battled all my life for Thee,
Till the hands wearied and the blade waxed dull
Slaughtering Thy foes?”—“Mine! whom I died to save!
My little ones that loved me!”—Then He knows.
O sir! you came to turn me: be you turn'd
Instead; cleave not to such a Church as that!
Infallible, no doubt: but what of those
Poor sheep she cuts the throat of? 'Tis your way
To save—I know it: well, Christ's way was to die.
Ravel five threads out from the quaint-wrought web
Which in the pictur'd arras present a sword,
Christ holds in act to sheathe; and, severing so
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Cry, “who asks warrant, behold the naked blade
His hand grasped! Do ye fear to flesh it now?
So perish all His enemies!”—meanwhile
Forgetful of the curse upon the scroll—
“All they that take shall perish by the sword.”
How would Christ meet your Grand Inquisitor?
Methinks upon that sea of martyr'd blood
Sailing, and in a boat of human bones,
Wafted by wailings of the souls he slew
Red Torquemada comes to claim his crown:
There stands the Christ! but Oh! what heavy cheer!
What worlds of sadness in the eyes' regard!
“Have I not battled all my life for Thee,
Till the hands wearied and the blade waxed dull
Slaughtering Thy foes?”—“Mine! whom I died to save!
My little ones that loved me!”—Then He knows.
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Instead; cleave not to such a Church as that!
Infallible, no doubt: but what of those
Poor sheep she cuts the throat of? 'Tis your way
To save—I know it: well, Christ's way was to die.
Feckenham.
Herein frail human judgment, that bruis'd reed,
You leant on, breaks and fails you: Faith alone,
Where men see naught but darkness, lends her ray.
Yet, look you, to live at ease on the earth awhile,
Exempt from fleshly pain—get wealth and spend it—
Be what the world calls fortunate, and live
Careless the thing that men call life, belike
Dying the while,—all this is no such matter
A man should fear the loss of, who thereby
Cuts short the awful after-reckoning.
Who shall reprove Him? Who contend with Him?
Not alway of old, His right arm stretch'd to save,
With gift of manna and gush of waters sweet
Led He His people through the wilderness;
Nay, but with outpour'd fury, with fiery flight
Of serpents, nay, with the earthquake's living doom,
With pestilence, plague, flames, He chastened them,
Till Moses wondered! Was it for Israel even
So deep, so deadly a sin to disobey?
God's ways are not as our ways, nor His eye
Straiten'd within the scope of mortal ken,
For us to arraign Him. Yet durst thou impute
To Love's veil'd face the murderous hues of hate,
To Justice the foul crimes of erring men,
To stern Necessity, that sword of God,
Lust's hot excess and bloody banquetings.
You leant on, breaks and fails you: Faith alone,
Where men see naught but darkness, lends her ray.
Yet, look you, to live at ease on the earth awhile,
Exempt from fleshly pain—get wealth and spend it—
Be what the world calls fortunate, and live
Careless the thing that men call life, belike
Dying the while,—all this is no such matter
A man should fear the loss of, who thereby
Cuts short the awful after-reckoning.
Who shall reprove Him? Who contend with Him?
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With gift of manna and gush of waters sweet
Led He His people through the wilderness;
Nay, but with outpour'd fury, with fiery flight
Of serpents, nay, with the earthquake's living doom,
With pestilence, plague, flames, He chastened them,
Till Moses wondered! Was it for Israel even
So deep, so deadly a sin to disobey?
God's ways are not as our ways, nor His eye
Straiten'd within the scope of mortal ken,
For us to arraign Him. Yet durst thou impute
To Love's veil'd face the murderous hues of hate,
To Justice the foul crimes of erring men,
To stern Necessity, that sword of God,
Lust's hot excess and bloody banquetings.
But now no more: I have cherish'd a fool's hope,
Spent but waste breath and offer'd fruitless prayer,
Seeking to save you; not the less my heart
Trembles for, sorrows o'er you, lost so young.
Whether the eternal God may temper so
His judgment with forbearance that this sharp
Quick shutting of the door on life and hope,
This sudden short'ning of your April-prime
With ruin of all possible fair buds
To be, which haply coming showers had woo'd,
Killing the canker, into blooms mature—
Whether, I say, your strange fate plead for you,
Arrest the scale of vengeance, that it pause
In its declining, and your soul escape
His uttermost damnation, fire and worm—
I know not, nor have warranty to hope.
Spent but waste breath and offer'd fruitless prayer,
Seeking to save you; not the less my heart
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Whether the eternal God may temper so
His judgment with forbearance that this sharp
Quick shutting of the door on life and hope,
This sudden short'ning of your April-prime
With ruin of all possible fair buds
To be, which haply coming showers had woo'd,
Killing the canker, into blooms mature—
Whether, I say, your strange fate plead for you,
Arrest the scale of vengeance, that it pause
In its declining, and your soul escape
His uttermost damnation, fire and worm—
I know not, nor have warranty to hope.
Lady Jane Grey.
Waste neither hopes at all nor fears on me,
Stern priest, for they are vain: your whole life long
You have starved your soul on barren husks of truth
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Go to its father, you have chain'd it down
With ceremonious forms: for your heart's springs
You have dug channels deep, and straiten'd them
In ways that are not God's—Now must you needs
As from God's throne look down with pity on me!
You, blindfold, with both eyes persistently
Shut fast, take pity! presume in fatuous pride
To cheer with prospect of night's vanishing
One that with upturn'd gaze already drinks,
And only lacks eyes large enough to drain,
The glut of the noon's glory! There's enough
Trouble on earth, God knows, and care enough,
Sick hearts and trembling, and moving of wild arms
Blindly 'mid darkness such as may be felt:
There let your rush-light glimmer, and there let flow
All your heart's pity; for I will none of it.
Were it whole rivers, which now is but a drop—
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Have you not spent one hour with threats to scare
Whom His whole life He gave with love to win?
When did the world not woo His enemies?
And shall He tend not whom the world forsakes?—
Look ye, the world and thou a speck upon it
Dwindle, diminish, darken, whiles I speak;
I am drawn—drawn nearer! I rush into the sun!
Haste, have you more to say? your form grows dim,
Your words the wailing of an empty wind!
Feckenham.
Madam, my say is said: I have cast my pearls
Before one that has trod them underfoot.
Mine be the folly, on your own head the guilt;
The hour of grace is past—I am well assured
We two shall meet no more.
[Exit.
169
. . . . “After the wind
An earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake;
And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not
In the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.”
| Poems by James Rhoades | |