Poems By Robert Leighton: 2nd ed |
 |
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. | XXIV.
|
|
| VII. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | Poems |  |
XXIV.
[He came again, the pastor we had lost—]
He came again, the pastor we had lost—
Came from the long death-grapple in the West,
With battles in his soul, and on his cheek
The bronze of roofless camps. For he had been
To give his country, not the arm that smites,
But that which nerves all arms—a dauntless heart,
Brave from immortal trust, strong by the right,
Wise through the beat of liberty for all.
And he had been in hospitals and fields,
Tending the sick in body and in soul,
And watching the great movements of the war;
And, haply, throwing in the loaded thought
That burst, through other hands, into a deed.
Came from the long death-grapple in the West,
With battles in his soul, and on his cheek
The bronze of roofless camps. For he had been
To give his country, not the arm that smites,
But that which nerves all arms—a dauntless heart,
Brave from immortal trust, strong by the right,
Wise through the beat of liberty for all.
And he had been in hospitals and fields,
116
And watching the great movements of the war;
And, haply, throwing in the loaded thought
That burst, through other hands, into a deed.
But now the tide of Southern victory,
That long had set against the North, recoil'd;
And, beaten down into its slimy deeps,
Gave murmur of defeat and coming peace.
Freedom could freely breathe again, could see
The rivets dropping from the bond-man's chains,
The starry flag of liberty unshorn
Of any of its stars; forgiving peace
Receiving back her brave but wayward sons;—
And he whom we had lost could spare himself
From patriotic cares to visit us.
That long had set against the North, recoil'd;
And, beaten down into its slimy deeps,
Gave murmur of defeat and coming peace.
Freedom could freely breathe again, could see
The rivets dropping from the bond-man's chains,
The starry flag of liberty unshorn
Of any of its stars; forgiving peace
Receiving back her brave but wayward sons;—
And he whom we had lost could spare himself
From patriotic cares to visit us.
It was the autumn season when he came—
The time of sunny skies and wingèd clouds.
Our lovely chapel, which he loved so well,
Seem'd smiling amid tears, as light and shade
Alternately pass'd through it; and some eyes,
That I could name, spoke welcome through their tears.
The time of sunny skies and wingèd clouds.
Our lovely chapel, which he loved so well,
Seem'd smiling amid tears, as light and shade
Alternately pass'd through it; and some eyes,
That I could name, spoke welcome through their tears.
New from the clanging war, how still to him
Our autumn skies and gorse-clad hills, our vales,
Dotted with villages and gleaming spires,
And, all around, our wealth of golden fields!—
On such a picture he had look'd, and such
He made the key-note of his thoughts to us.
Our autumn skies and gorse-clad hills, our vales,
Dotted with villages and gleaming spires,
And, all around, our wealth of golden fields!—
On such a picture he had look'd, and such
He made the key-note of his thoughts to us.
117
O, paradise of beauty, love and joy—
Bountiful earth, thus in thy autumn peace,
The counterpart of Heaven! How is it men
Cannot give up their warrings, and at once
Enter upon the golden reign of love?
Enough in thy abundant lap for all,
And much, O, earth, to spare; and, for the soul,
A benison of beauty without end!
Bountiful earth, thus in thy autumn peace,
The counterpart of Heaven! How is it men
Cannot give up their warrings, and at once
Enter upon the golden reign of love?
Enough in thy abundant lap for all,
And much, O, earth, to spare; and, for the soul,
A benison of beauty without end!
Could the beatitudes of Heaven be here
Enter'd upon, there were no need of earth.
These glimpses of pure bliss come to foreshow
The future that awaits us—earthly strife,
The purifying furnace that prepares
The ore of nature for the golden reign.—
Not even the divinest men shall rest,
Nor they that dream of poesy and peace,
Till fused in fiery troubles manifold.—
Our Milton journey'd into Italy
To realize a paradise:—“Come back!
Thy country is in flames!”—And he came back.
There was no paradise on earth for him—
Unless it were that one in his own soul,
Which keeps him still immortal on the earth.—
Even He that brought the gospel of good will
And peace for all men, could Himself find none,
Without the blood and scourges of the Cross.—
So, too, with him whom we had lost and found—
Found only for a day, again to lose.
Our island home, at peace with all the world,
And prosperously at rest within itself,
Where peacefully he did his Master's work,
Became no place for him, when came the boom
Of treacherous battle from his own loved home.
Enter'd upon, there were no need of earth.
These glimpses of pure bliss come to foreshow
The future that awaits us—earthly strife,
The purifying furnace that prepares
The ore of nature for the golden reign.—
Not even the divinest men shall rest,
Nor they that dream of poesy and peace,
Till fused in fiery troubles manifold.—
Our Milton journey'd into Italy
To realize a paradise:—“Come back!
Thy country is in flames!”—And he came back.
There was no paradise on earth for him—
Unless it were that one in his own soul,
Which keeps him still immortal on the earth.—
Even He that brought the gospel of good will
And peace for all men, could Himself find none,
Without the blood and scourges of the Cross.—
So, too, with him whom we had lost and found—
Found only for a day, again to lose.
Our island home, at peace with all the world,
118
Where peacefully he did his Master's work,
Became no place for him, when came the boom
Of treacherous battle from his own loved home.
What wonder that he struck some notes of war—
He that had stood upon the mangled fields,
Amidst the fallen, while the fierce pursuit
Swept on to other fields, and left behind
The dying and the dead? At Gettysburg
He walked among the ranks of gory death,
Where friends and foes, and armaments of war
Lay mass'd in charnel heaps of blood-glued wreck,
And groans and hymns, curses and prayers arose!—
Yet all around this hell of war, birds sang,
And flowers sweeten'd the infected air.
The great blue sky, uplifting the black pall
Of fiery battle, look'd serenely down.
The moon, too, came in peace, and watch'd all night;
And peacefully the glittering camps of heaven
Lit up their tented field and look'd on this.—
O God! how is it that the moon and stars,
And the serene blue sky, did not weep blood
And shudder, when they saw that charnel field?
Was it in mockery they look'd such peace?
Or did their calm foreshadow the great Heaven,
Whose proffer of sweet rest and endless life
Dwarfs into nothing even the direst means
Whereby its earth-born children may come home?
He that had stood upon the mangled fields,
Amidst the fallen, while the fierce pursuit
Swept on to other fields, and left behind
The dying and the dead? At Gettysburg
He walked among the ranks of gory death,
Where friends and foes, and armaments of war
Lay mass'd in charnel heaps of blood-glued wreck,
And groans and hymns, curses and prayers arose!—
Yet all around this hell of war, birds sang,
And flowers sweeten'd the infected air.
The great blue sky, uplifting the black pall
Of fiery battle, look'd serenely down.
The moon, too, came in peace, and watch'd all night;
And peacefully the glittering camps of heaven
Lit up their tented field and look'd on this.—
O God! how is it that the moon and stars,
And the serene blue sky, did not weep blood
And shudder, when they saw that charnel field?
Was it in mockery they look'd such peace?
Or did their calm foreshadow the great Heaven,
Whose proffer of sweet rest and endless life
Dwarfs into nothing even the direst means
Whereby its earth-born children may come home?
119
Then, when the strife is over, and results
Are reckon'd up, how great the seeming loss
Even to Victory! yet, in the end,
How great may be the gain, e'en to Defeat!
He cannot lose who battles for the right.
Nor can the path of nations be too stern,
Our individual journey be too bleak,
For Duty to attempt. The way may seem
In front to mock us with a wall of rock:
But on, still on! and see how soon that wall
Will open out, to our enraptured gaze,
The pleasant valley, with its peaceful homes!
Are reckon'd up, how great the seeming loss
Even to Victory! yet, in the end,
How great may be the gain, e'en to Defeat!
He cannot lose who battles for the right.
Nor can the path of nations be too stern,
Our individual journey be too bleak,
For Duty to attempt. The way may seem
In front to mock us with a wall of rock:
But on, still on! and see how soon that wall
Will open out, to our enraptured gaze,
The pleasant valley, with its peaceful homes!
O faithless memory! I vainly seek
Thus to re-live his thoughts—those thoughts that came
With more than all earth's riches on our minds,
And with such vivid beauty that I felt
“Now they are mine for ever!”—Are they lost?
Or, like the food we eat, the air we breathe,
Transform'd into our being?—Even so;
For then, as ever after he had spoken,
What strength we felt! what nearness unto God!
Duty, how clear! how steadfast the resolve
To do that duty, whatsoe'er betide!—
Yet, ask me what he said—I cannot tell.—
If, understandingly, we hear or read,
And with a sort of rapture in the heart,
Then though, out of that mood, we cannot say
That this, or that, is what we heard or read,
Still is it none the less enwoven within;
And, as life's web unfolds, it will be seen
In golden threads long after.
Thus to re-live his thoughts—those thoughts that came
With more than all earth's riches on our minds,
And with such vivid beauty that I felt
“Now they are mine for ever!”—Are they lost?
Or, like the food we eat, the air we breathe,
Transform'd into our being?—Even so;
For then, as ever after he had spoken,
What strength we felt! what nearness unto God!
Duty, how clear! how steadfast the resolve
To do that duty, whatsoe'er betide!—
Yet, ask me what he said—I cannot tell.—
If, understandingly, we hear or read,
And with a sort of rapture in the heart,
Then though, out of that mood, we cannot say
That this, or that, is what we heard or read,
Still is it none the less enwoven within;
120
In golden threads long after.
'Twas the dream
Of one bright Sabbath day. But we awoke,
And he was gone—gone as before he went,
Not knowing what a debtor he had made
Of one who was too poor to give him thanks!
Of one bright Sabbath day. But we awoke,
And he was gone—gone as before he went,
Not knowing what a debtor he had made
Of one who was too poor to give him thanks!
| Poems | |