Reuben and Other Poems by Robert Leighton |
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| IV. | ACT IV. |
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 | Reuben and Other Poems |  |
101
ACT IV.
Scene I.
—A Country Road.Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
I'd give the world, were it mine, for a knottier brain,
Gnarly and oaken, which, despite the winds,
Keeps its own bent. This willow-twig of mine
Needs but a breath to warp it. True, it seems
Stalwart, and many take it for a staff;
But being inwardly mere rind, it goes
All with the pressure, and becomes no staff.
My acts are not my offspring, but the bastards
Of circumstance and accident. Our wills
Should be the parents of our yeas and nays;
But mine, alas! is barren and adopts
The wandering yea or nay of any one.—
I would decide between two ways to act,
And fish around me for the merest fin
To move me on towards either; or I keep
Deciding till belating Time decides.
Gnarly and oaken, which, despite the winds,
Keeps its own bent. This willow-twig of mine
Needs but a breath to warp it. True, it seems
Stalwart, and many take it for a staff;
But being inwardly mere rind, it goes
All with the pressure, and becomes no staff.
My acts are not my offspring, but the bastards
Of circumstance and accident. Our wills
Should be the parents of our yeas and nays;
But mine, alas! is barren and adopts
The wandering yea or nay of any one.—
I would decide between two ways to act,
And fish around me for the merest fin
To move me on towards either; or I keep
Deciding till belating Time decides.
Thus far—halfway at least—I've come, and yet,
Whether to go or not remains my doubt.
My arguments, like corncrakes, lead me on,
Croaking conclusions at my very feet;
But when I think I have them, they are gone.
My mind's a tangled field through which they run,
Defying clear perception. I can see
Only those arguments that come like larks,
Clear throated from above me. Anything
Were potenter than reasons from within.
Some stale acquaintance, passing either way,
Would take me with him, or a threaten'd rain
End all my indecision. But the road
Shows not a foot, is sacred to young linnets,
Hopping across it, light as breezy leaves:
The sky is spotless, and the afternoon
Glides like a molten river to the west.
Whether to go or not remains my doubt.
My arguments, like corncrakes, lead me on,
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But when I think I have them, they are gone.
My mind's a tangled field through which they run,
Defying clear perception. I can see
Only those arguments that come like larks,
Clear throated from above me. Anything
Were potenter than reasons from within.
Some stale acquaintance, passing either way,
Would take me with him, or a threaten'd rain
End all my indecision. But the road
Shows not a foot, is sacred to young linnets,
Hopping across it, light as breezy leaves:
The sky is spotless, and the afternoon
Glides like a molten river to the west.
Well, I will go to please kind sister Jane:
Yet will I not—she has designs on me.
She woos for me, makes love on my behalf,
And would transfer the progress she has made.
Thanks, gentle sister!—but the heart must grow
Its own flower love, and mine's already blown.—
The harmonies of love surpass all thought,
As do those tints that hold the gazer's eye
Enamour'd in the bosom of a rose.
We only know they are—wherefore and how,
No one shall ever know. I cannot love
A thing for its perfections: some sweet fault
May better fill my imperfectness of soul:
And though Eliza's virtues rise like day
Over the black and starry Margaret,
These eyes are so enheaven'd with my night,
They cannot look on day. My gorgeous night!
My Margaret with the planetary eyes
That rule my heaven of love! I have no heart,
No, not an inch, for any one but thee.
I'll go a little farther; some kind fate
May either send me back, or lead me on.
Yet will I not—she has designs on me.
She woos for me, makes love on my behalf,
And would transfer the progress she has made.
Thanks, gentle sister!—but the heart must grow
Its own flower love, and mine's already blown.—
The harmonies of love surpass all thought,
As do those tints that hold the gazer's eye
Enamour'd in the bosom of a rose.
We only know they are—wherefore and how,
No one shall ever know. I cannot love
A thing for its perfections: some sweet fault
May better fill my imperfectness of soul:
And though Eliza's virtues rise like day
Over the black and starry Margaret,
These eyes are so enheaven'd with my night,
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My Margaret with the planetary eyes
That rule my heaven of love! I have no heart,
No, not an inch, for any one but thee.
I'll go a little farther; some kind fate
May either send me back, or lead me on.
[Exit.
104
Scene II.
The Garden and Grounds about Eliza's Cottage. Enter Eliza and Jane.Eliza.
The shadows lengthen, and the afternoon
Already puts an evening sadness on;
And so should I, Jane, had you not been here.
Jane.
Your senses dream all inwardly: awake!
Look with me, and behold how glad we are.
There's not a branch but has its little throat
Loading the air with melody; light winds
Steal through the garden, kissing the pretty flowers—
How sweet their breath is as they trip away!
That brook that prattles at the foot o' the green,
O list how glad it is! And do you hear
The oaten rustle of yon full-eared fields—
Suggesting harvest-homes?
Eliza.
I hear and see
Their bodies, but their spirits, where are they?
They come to you, being in harmony;
I lean my ear upon the throbbing air,
And hear my own heart—not the spirit tongues
That drop their music into ears attuned.
We know not what we lose, being unprepared.
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Yet who shall misbelieve them and be sure
That he is not the dreamer?
Jane.
It is true.
Our faculties, not nature, limit us;
And every new development doth find
Its object hath been waiting. But I know
You did but speak the momentary mood
When you bewailed the want of harmony:
For we have ever with a similar eye
Beheld the self-same beauty in a flower;
Our ears have caught the same particular notes
That many hear not on the wafting air;
And evermore our lips would speak the thought
That had arisen in the other's mind.
Therefore I think some passing cloud or mist,
Or it may be the gathering of love,
Has come between you and the souls of things.
Eliza.
Love comes not like a mist, nor does it throw
The shadow of an interposing cloud;
But rather, like a new created orb,
Adds lustre to our firmament—a sun
That wakes us out of night and gives new day—
In whose revealing light all dusky things
Assume their brightest meanings.
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But the sun
Doth ever rise in cloud or haze; if, then,
Love be the orb that rules our day of life,
It, like the sun, may have a misty rise.
Love sits on the horizon of thy day,
And looks with moist eyes o'er the dew. But see!
Thy heaven is blue above; when love stands there,
Eliza will be bright again.
Eliza.
Till then,
Indulge me in a little cloudy grief.
In sooth, when I look backward through the past,
My days of sadness show a brighter gleam,
Reflect a deeper warmth upon my heart,
Raise more desire to live them o'er again,
Than hours of keenest joy. Joy in itself
Is but the annual bloom that dies as soon
As it unfolds its beauty to the eye:
It has no resurrection. Present grief,
Though ugly in itself, becomes the root
Of a perennial beauty.
Indulge me in a little cloudy grief.
In sooth, when I look backward through the past,
My days of sadness show a brighter gleam,
Reflect a deeper warmth upon my heart,
Raise more desire to live them o'er again,
Than hours of keenest joy. Joy in itself
Is but the annual bloom that dies as soon
As it unfolds its beauty to the eye:
It has no resurrection. Present grief,
Though ugly in itself, becomes the root
Of a perennial beauty.
We have stray'd,
Unconsciously, into my favourite grove.
'Tis one of Nature's temples, built of elms.
This little path, amid the grass, that leads
Nowhere, but still returns upon itself,
These feet have worn, for none comes here but me.—
Would'st know the service of my leafy church?
Unconsciously, into my favourite grove.
'Tis one of Nature's temples, built of elms.
This little path, amid the grass, that leads
Nowhere, but still returns upon itself,
These feet have worn, for none comes here but me.—
Would'st know the service of my leafy church?
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Ay. Be it e'er so simple, e'er so rude,
I doubt not even Heaven will lend an ear.
Eliza.
Three times a-day, at morn and noon and even,
Do sweet religious bells call me to prayer.
First, at the gray and earliest wink of dawn,
The mellow-throated blackbirds of this brake,
Send soft devotional peals along my sleep;
And when I waken into real thought,
'Tis not like tearing from a blessed dream,
But a continuation of the dream,
For still the soft peals come. Then I arise,
And, stepping forth into the morn, behold
The sun at orisons upon a bank
Far in the east, and with his lowly beams
Clasping the whole earth to his loving breast.
The grass, the hedges, yea the rankest weeds
So dazzle with the sapphire dew, that earth
Seems all a paradise, whose very dust
Is pearls and precious stones.—The dimpling well
That laves the entrance to this hallow'd grove
Receives my first obeisance. There I drink.
Pure water is the symbol of pure life:
The morning draught should be a daily pledge;
And inasmuch as 'tis the God-given wine
That comes direct from Nature, so we reach
The immediate Presence, even by that thought.
It is the ruling feature of all things,
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By passing into them, still come to God.
What can we more beyond the Eternal Thought,
Which in itself is sermon, hymn, and prayer—
The sole heart of my service? So I pace
This quiet sward to find it; and when found,
It is the inauguration of a day
On which all things go heavenward: the birds
Sing hymns, the flowers in sweet odours pray;
The herd boy's whistle, and the mower's song,
With sound of sharpening scythes, seem all to ring
Of innocence and Eden.—I return
To household duties, to a simple meal,
And find the consecration on them all.
Jane.
And this your matin service! But I see
It's all thought service. You should give, I think,
At least one voiced hymn to the morning; thus:—
O morning with thy star divinely fair—
Thy hope before thee in the east ascending,
Come to our cushion'd earth, God's footstool, where
Immortal hearts are bending.
Thy hope before thee in the east ascending,
Come to our cushion'd earth, God's footstool, where
Immortal hearts are bending.
We have high hope as thou for brighter day—
The hope in heaven, the action still aspiring:
We are, like thee, beclouded on our way;
But not, like thee, untiring.
The hope in heaven, the action still aspiring:
We are, like thee, beclouded on our way;
But not, like thee, untiring.
Teach us thy steady and unwearied way
To higher excellence; thy regularity;
Thy patient strength throughout the adverse day;
Thy universal charity.
To higher excellence; thy regularity;
Thy patient strength throughout the adverse day;
Thy universal charity.
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Give us thy young heart, never to feel old,
Though years pass from us and have no returning;
Since out of death, our night, we shall unfold,
And rise like thee, bright morning!
Though years pass from us and have no returning;
Since out of death, our night, we shall unfold,
And rise like thee, bright morning!
Eliza.
The thoughts are good, and wonderfully sung,
Considering how untunable the measure.—
I would augment my service with a hymn,
And have a heart for music; but my ear
Is spoil'd, I think, with living near a wood.
Therefore I'll leave that part to you.
Jane.
Describe
Your noontide service then; and if a hymn
Arise by nature from it, I shall sing.
All song should seem spontaneous, if 'tis not.
Eliza.
At noon there is a brief bar of the day,
In which all Nature, even Time, doth rest.
Few know of that, for in this rushing world,
Many divinities of daily presence
Are passed unseen. It is the merest span—
Yea, to the onward harmony of time,
'Tis as the rest in music. Yet, thus brief,
It is, of all the day, the very break
For heavenly thought and pray'r.
In which all Nature, even Time, doth rest.
Few know of that, for in this rushing world,
Many divinities of daily presence
Are passed unseen. It is the merest span—
Yea, to the onward harmony of time,
'Tis as the rest in music. Yet, thus brief,
It is, of all the day, the very break
For heavenly thought and pray'r.
A little while
Before the dial points to noon, I seek
The bank beneath yon leaf-beclouded elm,
Amid whose branches is a little world
Of green and gold and flickering beams, and bees
Whose tiny pipes keep up a honey'd drone,
Awaking thoughts of fairy-land. And there,
On that imaginative bank, I watch
The climbing day, the pant of Nature. Soon,
The larks drop singing from the clouds, and quench
Midway their song, as falling stars their light;
The little drones up in the slumbrous tree
Sing smotheringly and cease; the lisping brooks
Grow deeper throated, hum a quiet bass;
The sunny winds lie down outside the woods.
Anon, the Day takes his last upward step,
And, on the golden pinnacle of noon,
Stands still to breathe one breath, before he turns
With meek brow down upon the western vale.
That breathing was the time—a pause too brief
For anything but thought, for thought enough
To reach the inner sanctities of heaven,
To reach them and return on wings of pray'r.—
Before the dial points to noon, I seek
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Amid whose branches is a little world
Of green and gold and flickering beams, and bees
Whose tiny pipes keep up a honey'd drone,
Awaking thoughts of fairy-land. And there,
On that imaginative bank, I watch
The climbing day, the pant of Nature. Soon,
The larks drop singing from the clouds, and quench
Midway their song, as falling stars their light;
The little drones up in the slumbrous tree
Sing smotheringly and cease; the lisping brooks
Grow deeper throated, hum a quiet bass;
The sunny winds lie down outside the woods.
Anon, the Day takes his last upward step,
And, on the golden pinnacle of noon,
Stands still to breathe one breath, before he turns
With meek brow down upon the western vale.
That breathing was the time—a pause too brief
For anything but thought, for thought enough
To reach the inner sanctities of heaven,
To reach them and return on wings of pray'r.—
The day moves on again. Ere you can note
The start, each little cloud has broken out
In lark notes, and rains music. In the woods
The winds have entered on their gleaming wings,
And leaves are in a flutter of delight;
My canopy, the tree, is in full blast,
Its hives of bees have tuned their honey'd pipes.
So Nature's organ, with its myriad stops,
Plays me from church, dower'd with a glimpse of heaven.
The start, each little cloud has broken out
In lark notes, and rains music. In the woods
The winds have entered on their gleaming wings,
And leaves are in a flutter of delight;
My canopy, the tree, is in full blast,
Its hives of bees have tuned their honey'd pipes.
So Nature's organ, with its myriad stops,
Plays me from church, dower'd with a glimpse of heaven.
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Somewhat indefinite service, is it not?
Eliza.
I do not know; but if it be, 'tis well—
You have the greater license for the hymn.
Jane.
When Natures rests at noon and seems
To tarry on the endless path,
'Tis not the faintness of her beams,
The love of ease, the rest of sloth.
To tarry on the endless path,
'Tis not the faintness of her beams,
The love of ease, the rest of sloth.
For oft it takes no stronger will,
No deeper life to do than be;
So is that quiet Nature still
The all of good and fair we see.
No deeper life to do than be;
So is that quiet Nature still
The all of good and fair we see.
The ocean deeps drink in more heaven,
At peace within their molten calm,
Than when on high and tempest-riven,
They shout their grand impassion'd psalm.
At peace within their molten calm,
Than when on high and tempest-riven,
They shout their grand impassion'd psalm.
Nor is that calm a stagnant ease;
The tides hold on to ebb and flow,
And thoughts are passing in the seas,
Which only God may truly know.
The tides hold on to ebb and flow,
And thoughts are passing in the seas,
Which only God may truly know.
When hearts have cast up sin by sin,
And know the tranquil joy of rest,
There will be peace as deep within
The fathoms of the human breast.
Spare me your comments and proceed to eve.And know the tranquil joy of rest,
There will be peace as deep within
The fathoms of the human breast.
Eliza.
When day is burning out, there in the west,
And leaving but its embers, red and black;
When gloaming loans ring with the throstle's pipe,
And sing the day's good-evening to the night;
When daisies sleep and blue-bells do not ring,
Labour at rest and lovers whispering,
I to my bosky temple come again.—
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When gloaming loans ring with the throstle's pipe,
And sing the day's good-evening to the night;
When daisies sleep and blue-bells do not ring,
Labour at rest and lovers whispering,
I to my bosky temple come again.—
It is the hour of falling dews; the soul
Has its own dew of thought, and then it comes
Divinely from the stars: that bright lone one,
Venus, amid whose beams Love loves to stray,
On whose excess of beauty poets thrive;
And all the unnumber'd lesser beads of light
That break out on Night's Ethiop brow like sweat,
As up the dark he labours; and the moon,
That beauteous lunatic who dotes on Night,
Hangs on his skirt, lies in his breast, falls out,
Then turns her back and leaves him, till some days
Of cloud and weeping bring her back again:
Yea, all that walk the eternal rounds of space,
On what God's-errand we shall never know:
Yet while their unknown message speeds, or hearts
Live on their waste, the dewy light they spill.
Has its own dew of thought, and then it comes
Divinely from the stars: that bright lone one,
Venus, amid whose beams Love loves to stray,
On whose excess of beauty poets thrive;
And all the unnumber'd lesser beads of light
That break out on Night's Ethiop brow like sweat,
As up the dark he labours; and the moon,
That beauteous lunatic who dotes on Night,
Hangs on his skirt, lies in his breast, falls out,
Then turns her back and leaves him, till some days
Of cloud and weeping bring her back again:
Yea, all that walk the eternal rounds of space,
On what God's-errand we shall never know:
Yet while their unknown message speeds, or hearts
Live on their waste, the dewy light they spill.
My evening service has a starry cast—
A glare of moonshine in it, you will say,
And vacancy of space: but save that star,
The Conscience, whose fine light the fumes of hell
May dim, but not put out, which pure hearts know
To be the very life of God in us,
I know of nought that leads so straight to God
As those fine wonders which the skies beget.—
To think of space, to know it has no bound,
Nor could have, needs a mind like space itself,
Eterne, with but illusionary bounds.
The mind once born to illimitable thoughts,
Must live them through illimitable time.
They could not enter in a mind that ends.—
A glare of moonshine in it, you will say,
And vacancy of space: but save that star,
The Conscience, whose fine light the fumes of hell
May dim, but not put out, which pure hearts know
To be the very life of God in us,
I know of nought that leads so straight to God
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To think of space, to know it has no bound,
Nor could have, needs a mind like space itself,
Eterne, with but illusionary bounds.
The mind once born to illimitable thoughts,
Must live them through illimitable time.
They could not enter in a mind that ends.—
O wilderness of silence that lies out
Beyond the glimmer of the farthest star,
Or in whose unimaginable deeps
There is no end of stars! our wings of thought
Not long sustain their flight through thee, but flag
As thy horizon ever more recedes;
They fail, and we, the living souls of thought,
Should fall like plummets from the spheres of flight;
But the divine necessity of God
Is round us, and receives us, and we find
Answer and rest more blessed than we sought.
Beyond the glimmer of the farthest star,
Or in whose unimaginable deeps
There is no end of stars! our wings of thought
Not long sustain their flight through thee, but flag
As thy horizon ever more recedes;
They fail, and we, the living souls of thought,
Should fall like plummets from the spheres of flight;
But the divine necessity of God
Is round us, and receives us, and we find
Answer and rest more blessed than we sought.
In all my services a thought of God
Is still my full amen: I can no more.
In very truth we need no more: for that,
Breathing the soul of everything, supplies
The very soul of all our life's deep wants.
Is still my full amen: I can no more.
In very truth we need no more: for that,
Breathing the soul of everything, supplies
The very soul of all our life's deep wants.
Parent of heaven and earth and moving things!
By whatsoever name with us, or none;
However dimly reach'd, whom yet we know
To be the soul of life, the heart of love,
The essence of all beauty, and the power
Whereby the planets roll and dewdrops fall,—
O grant that we may know Thee more and more,
Not as the past and future God, but now
And here, on plain unconsecrated ground!
We grandly see Thee in the unfrequent storm
That rends the woods and cracks the quarried rocks!
O may we know Thee in the simplest air
That gathers odours on the thymy banks,
And cheaply brings them any summer day!
We meekly say the thunder is Thy voice;
And e'en philosophy, 'mid causes lost,
At last takes up the thought. So may we know
That voice as Thine which in our wilful hearts
Whispers the simple truth, the honest right.
Then knowing it is Thine, may it command
Our ready act, however dim the end
By whatsoever name with us, or none;
However dimly reach'd, whom yet we know
To be the soul of life, the heart of love,
The essence of all beauty, and the power
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O grant that we may know Thee more and more,
Not as the past and future God, but now
And here, on plain unconsecrated ground!
We grandly see Thee in the unfrequent storm
That rends the woods and cracks the quarried rocks!
O may we know Thee in the simplest air
That gathers odours on the thymy banks,
And cheaply brings them any summer day!
We meekly say the thunder is Thy voice;
And e'en philosophy, 'mid causes lost,
At last takes up the thought. So may we know
That voice as Thine which in our wilful hearts
Whispers the simple truth, the honest right.
Then knowing it is Thine, may it command
Our ready act, however dim the end
Jane.
Amen. The conscience is indeed God's voice;
It cannot be out-reason'd; therefore 'tis
The reflex of a higher mind than ours.
As well earth burn the sun out with her fires,
As we by argument put out this light.
Eliza.
See! Evening, with the eyelids almost closed,
Looks through their long dusk lashes, half in dream,
And passes softly into deeper sleep.
Sing us a hymn and then we'll go along.
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Day pass'd from earth, and sky and cloud
Laid him in a golden shroud:
Tears, sad but beautiful, were lying
On the earth when Day was dying.
Laid him in a golden shroud:
Tears, sad but beautiful, were lying
On the earth when Day was dying.
When our course is run, O may
You and I be like the Day—
Not die but with accomplish'd duty,
And pass amid increase of beauty:
You and I be like the Day—
Not die but with accomplish'd duty,
And pass amid increase of beauty:
Then, when lost to mortal sight—
Lost in blank imagin'd night,
Our places vacant, friends repining,
We, like Day, elsewhere be shining.
[Exeunt.
Lost in blank imagin'd night,
Our places vacant, friends repining,
We, like Day, elsewhere be shining.
Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
This comes of gallantry—a wild-goose chase!
“The willing horse is always ridden blind.”
Be you but half disposed to attend a woman,
She'll keep you trotting; be you whole disposed,
And there's an end to all your own affairs.
What hindered her from coming home herself?
O, no; they can do nothing of themselves.
Madam, your leave to help you o'er—a straw!
Allow me, miss, to lift you o'er the stile!
Tuts, put a husband on the other side,
The oldest maid among them takes the leap.
“The willing horse is always ridden blind.”
Be you but half disposed to attend a woman,
She'll keep you trotting; be you whole disposed,
And there's an end to all your own affairs.
What hindered her from coming home herself?
O, no; they can do nothing of themselves.
Madam, your leave to help you o'er—a straw!
Allow me, miss, to lift you o'er the stile!
Tuts, put a husband on the other side,
The oldest maid among them takes the leap.
The agreement was to meet about half-way.
I stopp'd an instant at the gabled house;
There whistled through the dusk to haste her on;
And straight the old house whistled; every nook,
Gable, and cranny whistled, and my heart,
E'en quicker than my ear, was on the beat.
I ran, and hardly dared to look behind—
The pelt of feet was after me; but soon
The thing, whate'er it was, gave up the chase.—
I stood a while on the bridge of the sleepy stream,
And bent my eyes within its tide. I gazed
Until it took me from myself. Methought
I left my body on the bridge, and slid
Away into perdition on the back
Of a gigantic snake. A leaping trout
Restored me, and I breathed—I felt I breathed.
I stopp'd an instant at the gabled house;
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And straight the old house whistled; every nook,
Gable, and cranny whistled, and my heart,
E'en quicker than my ear, was on the beat.
I ran, and hardly dared to look behind—
The pelt of feet was after me; but soon
The thing, whate'er it was, gave up the chase.—
I stood a while on the bridge of the sleepy stream,
And bent my eyes within its tide. I gazed
Until it took me from myself. Methought
I left my body on the bridge, and slid
Away into perdition on the back
Of a gigantic snake. A leaping trout
Restored me, and I breathed—I felt I breathed.
By this, some bold bright stars, like pioneers,
Were breaking through the prairies of the skies,
And on our meads arose the creeping rime;
The air felt wet all round; and yet, no Jane!
O, hadst thou not been pulling at my heart,
My Margaret, my magnet, I'd have felt
All this were pleasant fooling. I have chased
A will-o'-wisp through many a squander'd night,
And may be none the poorer for the waste.
The heart that has no idol to enshrine
Is free to sow its hours on thriftless winds:
It reaps unconscious increase; does no crime.
But thou art my religion; every hour
To thee not dedicated is rank sin.
Pity, the cause of sin felt not its hell!
Thou, Jane, shouldst roast for this.
Were breaking through the prairies of the skies,
And on our meads arose the creeping rime;
The air felt wet all round; and yet, no Jane!
O, hadst thou not been pulling at my heart,
My Margaret, my magnet, I'd have felt
All this were pleasant fooling. I have chased
A will-o'-wisp through many a squander'd night,
And may be none the poorer for the waste.
The heart that has no idol to enshrine
Is free to sow its hours on thriftless winds:
It reaps unconscious increase; does no crime.
But thou art my religion; every hour
To thee not dedicated is rank sin.
Pity, the cause of sin felt not its hell!
Thou, Jane, shouldst roast for this.
[Exit.
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