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

A stately mansion in its park
Stands fair amid the oaks and limes,
Throstle and ousel, cuckoo and lark,
And flowers and shrubs of many climes,
And stars and tides ring out the chimes,
Telling the seasons and the times.

And many guests there come and go,
And make themselves at home in it,
Some restless, hurrying to and fro,
Some lounging where the sunbeams flit,
Some with a curious craving smit,
Some with the laugh of careless wit.

All through the woods they hunt the game,
Or snare the fish in brook and mere,
They bake the wheat by the ruddy flame,
Or roast the flesh of the fatted steer,
And draw from cellars cool the clear
Old wine that has ripened many a year.

This stately mansion is their inn,
Where many fret, and all make free;
They set the tables to lose or win,
They tune the strings to dance with glee:
Only their Host they do not see,
And many doubt if Host there be.

They think that He is far away,
And that the place is theirs by right;
They think, if He were coming, they
Could bear the searching of His light;
They think He is a dream of night,
That morn will banish from the sight.

But there are some grave men and wise
Who lead the guests to a silent room,
Wherein a golden volume lies,
And picture of One in youthful bloom,
Whose face a glory doth illume;
And by His side are a Cross and Tomb.

And this, they say, is He who made
The great house 'mong the oaks and limes,
And He is living who once was dead,
But far away in heavenly climes,
Where are no stars or tides or chimes,
Telling the seasons and the times.

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And some of His guests He keeps for bliss,
And some of them He keeps for gloom,
Some He seals with a loving kiss,
And some He stamps with the brand of doom,
Some He saves by Cross and Tomb,
Meekly dying in their room.

These He loves of very grace;
But those He leaves to die in sin,
Not evermore to see His face,
Nor ever hope of life to win:
For all the unbelieving kin
Wrath Eternal shuts them in.

And therefore all should bow the knee
At the glory of His might,
And glory of His justice see,
That surely doeth all things right;
And so in Him should they delight
Whether He heal their hearts, or smite.

Second Head of Discourse

Once, pitying much their foredoomed lot,
One came who gentle was and meek,
And burdened with long-brooding thought,

And when he heard the wise men speak,
He deeply questioned them; and they
Replied that he was vain and weak:

For this had been the faith alway
Of all the martyrs and the saints,
And all the ages stretching grey

Among the mountains of events,
Since Luther held the world at bay,
Or Paul was busy making tents.

Then silently he turned away,
And to himself the question put,
Searching the matter, night and day.

He did not argue nor dispute,
But prayed that God would lead him right,
And sat and brooded still and mute,

Until he saw, as 'twere, the white
Thin sickle of the new-born moon
That yet holds all the round of light,

And all to him grew clear as noon,
And he came singing, like a bird
That sings for very joy its tune:

He deemed it the Eternal Word,
The glory and the life of Heaven,
Which his entrancèd soul had heard.

Lo! I have sought, he said, and striven
To find the truth, and found it not,
But yet to me it hath been given,

And unto you it hath been brought.
This Host of ours our Father is,
And we the children He begot.

Upon my brow I felt His kiss,
His love is all about our steps,
And He would lead us all to bliss;

For though He comes in many shapes,
His love is throbbing in them all,
And from His love no soul escapes,
And from His mercy none can fall.

Third Head of Discourse

Now, when they heard his words, they rose,
And drove him forth into the night
With many bitter words like blows;
And said that all would now be right,
That all their trouble now would cease,
And all the house be full of peace.

Yet in the dark and in the cold,
Out in the night among the dews,
He ceased not fresh discourse to hold
Amid the limes and elms and yews;
It was “a still small voice,” and yet
They heard it in the wind and wet.

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He wandered there among the trees,
Or in the day, or in the dark,
And in the whistling of the breeze
They heard him singing like a lark;
He is our Father dear, he cried,
And for the love of man He died.

And somehow, ever as he sang,
It seemed as if the great Book shone,
And mystic, pleading voices rang
About the rooms of vaulted stone,
And tears were on the pictured face,
And it was like a haunted place.

But they went on as they had done,
Still eating of the earth's increase,
Laughing or lounging in the sun,
And vowing that they had great peace;
But no one heeded now the old
Strange story that the wise men told.

And yet the wise men were content,
And said that they had faithful been;
And to the chamber door they went,
Though not by them the lights were seen,
And read the Book and sang and prayed,
And ate their viands undismayed.

Fourth Head of Discourse

Ah! which is truth? The sovereign Will
That worketh out a purpose vast,
Beyond our ken, to end at last
In severance of the good and ill?

Or love that sweetly would enfold
All creatures in a large embrace,
And with the tears that blot its face,
Blot also out their sins untold?

Dear story of the Cross and Book!
Is it our fabling hearts that speak
Fond dreams in Thee? and shall we seek,
In vain, through every field and nook

Of Nature for a witness true,
Affirming what thy words have said
Of Him who liveth, and was dead,
And liveth to make all things new?

In vain, we try to reconcile
His hapless lot with love divine,
Who born with taint of lust or wine,
Is brought up in the lap of guile,

And gets no chance: his infant eyes
Look out on riot, vice, and hate,
And lies and blood, and horrors great,
And learn to look without surprise.

And yet I hold with them who say
That God is love, and God is light;
But this is faith, it is not sight,
And waiteth, hoping for the day.

'Tis vain to wrestle with the doubt,
Or think to reason it away,
As well go wrestle with the grey
Cold mist that creeps the hills about.

Yet I can trust, and hope and praise,
Weary and dark as is the road,
Because I see the heart of God,
When on the bitter Cross I gaze.

O fellest deed of wrath and wrong!
Yet in thine evil-seeming slept
A large assurance, that hath kept
The Faith of goodness calm and strong.