 | The Burden of the Bell and Other Lyrics |  |
68
CITY-CRAFT, AND SOUL-CRAFT.
“Good bye to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
Tu supple Office, low and high,
Good bye, proud World, I'm going home.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
To Grandeur with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
Tu supple Office, low and high,
Good bye, proud World, I'm going home.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
From the city's ceaseless clangour,
From its guile and strife and anger,
From the turbid stormy rushing of the eternal life-stream there,
Forth I've stolen, without warning,
Sick at heart this sunny morning,
Such existence loathing, scorning,
For the harvest it doth bear;—
Dead-sea apples, dead-sea apples, such the fruit that it doth bear—
Pluck them, ye who love such fare!
From its guile and strife and anger,
From the turbid stormy rushing of the eternal life-stream there,
Forth I've stolen, without warning,
Sick at heart this sunny morning,
Such existence loathing, scorning,
For the harvest it doth bear;—
Dead-sea apples, dead-sea apples, such the fruit that it doth bear—
Pluck them, ye who love such fare!
Pluck them, grey-beards, dull and solemn,
Climbing slow the figured column,—
Blind St. Simeons, from its summit, blinking down on men and things,
Grasp the prize of all your toiling,
All your scheming, fencing, foiling,
Three-score dusty years' turmoiling—
Grasp the guerdon that Fate brings!
Dust and ashes, dust and ashes! this the guerdon that she brings!
Hoard them, ye who crave such things!
Climbing slow the figured column,—
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Grasp the prize of all your toiling,
All your scheming, fencing, foiling,
Three-score dusty years' turmoiling—
Grasp the guerdon that Fate brings!
Dust and ashes, dust and ashes! this the guerdon that she brings!
Hoard them, ye who crave such things!
Hoard them! till Death heaps upon you
Gibes, your cunning craft hath won you—
Till the angels weep, close-folded in the shade of silver wings;
Weep to mark the final ruin
Crown at last the long misdoing—
Weep to see your souls pursuing
Paths, where Terror sits and sings;—
“No returning, no returning!”—So the ancient Terror sings—
This your guerdon that Fate brings.
Gibes, your cunning craft hath won you—
Till the angels weep, close-folded in the shade of silver wings;
Weep to mark the final ruin
Crown at last the long misdoing—
Weep to see your souls pursuing
Paths, where Terror sits and sings;—
“No returning, no returning!”—So the ancient Terror sings—
This your guerdon that Fate brings.
Thinking thus, this autumn morning,
Wilful truant, without warning
Forth I've stolen, minded truly to retrace my steps no more;
Distant now the city's noises,
Hushed its discords and harsh voices,
And a calmer hope rejoices
In my bosom, as of yore;—
Oh! calm hopes and simple pleasures! Oh! the blessëd days of yore!
I will win ye back once more.
Wilful truant, without warning
70
Distant now the city's noises,
Hushed its discords and harsh voices,
And a calmer hope rejoices
In my bosom, as of yore;—
Oh! calm hopes and simple pleasures! Oh! the blessëd days of yore!
I will win ye back once more.
Dew of heaven, the pure, the holy,
Bathe my brow and cleanse it wholly
From the soil the gold-lust leaveth—from the pallor it doth shed;
Air of heaven, blow freshly o'er me,
Cleave the mist unfurled before me,
Spirit-mist that veils the glory
And the beauty, round me spread;—
Cleave it thou too, heaven's own sunshine, smiling very soft o'er head;—
On my soul that smile be shed!
Bathe my brow and cleanse it wholly
From the soil the gold-lust leaveth—from the pallor it doth shed;
Air of heaven, blow freshly o'er me,
Cleave the mist unfurled before me,
Spirit-mist that veils the glory
And the beauty, round me spread;—
Cleave it thou too, heaven's own sunshine, smiling very soft o'er head;—
On my soul that smile be shed!
Here I close and clasp for ever
The great tome of world's endeavour,—
Ugly tome! all blotted over, first to last, with fraud and wrong;—
Soul's endeavour, upward rising,
Struggling, toiling, agonizing
For a bliss beyond all prizing,
This my aim be, staunch and strong!
Aid me, Nature, nursing mother, make me true and make me strong—
Unto thee such tasks belong.
The great tome of world's endeavour,—
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Soul's endeavour, upward rising,
Struggling, toiling, agonizing
For a bliss beyond all prizing,
This my aim be, staunch and strong!
Aid me, Nature, nursing mother, make me true and make me strong—
Unto thee such tasks belong.
Teach me as thou didst in olden
Days, with blossoms blue and golden,
With thy songs of winds and waters, and thy silence sweeter still;
Teach me with thy graver wonders,
Solemn-sounding storms and thunders,
Levin-flash, the rock that sunders,
Blackness dropt on holt and hill.
As a child, O watching mother, 'scaped e'en now from deadly ill,
Seek I thee with docile will.
Days, with blossoms blue and golden,
With thy songs of winds and waters, and thy silence sweeter still;
Teach me with thy graver wonders,
Solemn-sounding storms and thunders,
Levin-flash, the rock that sunders,
Blackness dropt on holt and hill.
As a child, O watching mother, 'scaped e'en now from deadly ill,
Seek I thee with docile will.
In mine ear still sounds the moaning
Of world-eraft, a dismal droning,—
One sole maxim, mouthed and muttered 'mid a steaming mist of lies;
“Gather, gather in full measure—
Late and early pile up treasure;
Gold is glory, power, pleasure—
Swift Time's busy shuttle flies;
Gather, gather!”—this their maxim, muttered 'neath God's smiling skies—
Teach me, thou, in other guise!
Of world-eraft, a dismal droning,—
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“Gather, gather in full measure—
Late and early pile up treasure;
Gold is glory, power, pleasure—
Swift Time's busy shuttle flies;
Gather, gather!”—this their maxim, muttered 'neath God's smiling skies—
Teach me, thou, in other guise!
Turn thy tome's clear pages over,
All its loving truths discover,
Let me read, with spirit lowly, God's eternal meanings there;
Till at last, through long probation,
I may reach Faith's higher station,
Reach a loftier revelation,
Its indwelling mercies share—
Aid me Nature, nursing Mother! aid me, Faith, and aid me, Prayer!
Lift me to the rapture there!
All its loving truths discover,
Let me read, with spirit lowly, God's eternal meanings there;
Till at last, through long probation,
I may reach Faith's higher station,
Reach a loftier revelation,
Its indwelling mercies share—
Aid me Nature, nursing Mother! aid me, Faith, and aid me, Prayer!
Lift me to the rapture there!
So when Death unfolds the portal,
Of my spirit-life immortal,
I may hear no gibes heaped on me, for false gods set up in vain;
So no eyes of angels, keeping
In high heaven their watch unsleeping,
May be dimmed with cloud of weeping
For the paths my soul hath ta'en,
But instead,—“Oh! welcome, welcome!—no more strife and no more pain!”
Be it mine to hear that strain!
Of my spirit-life immortal,
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So no eyes of angels, keeping
In high heaven their watch unsleeping,
May be dimmed with cloud of weeping
For the paths my soul hath ta'en,
But instead,—“Oh! welcome, welcome!—no more strife and no more pain!”
Be it mine to hear that strain!
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