The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

A rolling upland, open and bare,
A blasted heath where the night wind moans,
Eerie and weird, to the curlews there,
And the greedy kite and the kestrel scare
Singing birds from the lightsome air.

High on the heath are the Standing Stones,
Great, gaunt stones in a mystic ring,
Girdling a barrow where heroes' bones
Crumble to dust of death that owns
Them and their wars and faiths and thrones.

Not far off is an oozy spring
Feeding a black and dismal pool;
There slow efts crawl, horse-leeches cling,
And the dragon-fly whirs on restless wing,
And near by the adder is coiled in the ling;

And once an oak made a shadow cool,
Woven of its green boughs overhead,
And blithe birds sang in the leafage full;
Now but a raven, bird of dule,
Croaks on its stump from May to Yule.

But silently watching the silent dead
Stands the grey circle of sentinels,
Scarred and lichened, as ages sped
With snows, and dripping rains over-head,
And suns, and the wasteful life they bred.

Now, evermore where the dead man dwells
The living have gone to seek for God,
And the Altar-fire of the Unseen tells,
Or the swing and the clash of Christian bells
Summon to Lauds and Canticles.

And there, of old, in that bleak abode
Of wily lapwing and shrill curlew,
To circle and cairn they carried their load
Of burdened thought, as they wearily trod
On to the brink where they lost the road.

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There dipped the Sun in the dripping dew
His earliest beams; and there he met
The Bel-fire kindling its answer true—
Light for the light in heaven that grew,
Worship-light to the Light-god due.

So men acknowledged, and paid their debt,
In the old days, to the powers above,
Giving back that they were fain to get,
And piling the faggots, dry or wet,
Still as the keen stars rose and set.

Was not the instinct true that wove
Fire-worship thus for the god of fire?
Give from below what ye get from above,
Light for the heaven-light, Love for its Love,
A holy soul for the Holy Dove.

God tunes for Himself the hallowed lyre
That shall truly His praises show;
He gives the song that He will desire,
Ever new from the trembling wire,
Ever new from the heart on fire.

Back to its fountain let it flow
Whatsoever He sends to you;
Mercy, if mercy of His ye know,
And if your joy He has made to grow,
Up to Him let its gladness go.

So in all faiths there is something true,
Even when bowing to stock or stone—
Something that keeps the Unseen in view
Beyond the stars, and beyond the blue,
And notes His gifts with the worship due.

For where the spirit of man has gone
A-groping after the Spirit divine,
Somewhere or other it touches the Throne,
And sees a light that is seen by none,
But who seek Him that is sitting thereon.

Seek but provision of bread and wine,
High-ceiled houses, and heaps of gold,
Fools to flatter, and raiment fine,
All the wealth of the sea and mine—
And nothing of God shall e'er be thine.

But who seeks Him, in the dark and cold,
With heart that elsewhere finds no rest,
Some fringe of the skirts of God shall hold,
Though round his spirit the mists may fold,
With eerie shadows, and fears untold.