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

I dreamt a dream. I dreamt that God was dead,
And that we all met for His burial—
Angels and men and devils—and sang or said
An awestruck Requiescat o'er the head
Of Him who was the Father of us all.

Dreams have their logic and congruities;
Granted the starting-point, and all the rest
Flows, like our fables of the birds and trees,
In spite of reason; and the dreamer sees
No strangeness, even when they are eeriest.

Methought all lights of heaven were quenched, yet light
There was, but coming from another sphere,
A lurid glimmer, and a ghastly sight;
And horrid moanings filled the dismal night,
And there were earthquakes shuddering far and near.

A while we sat in silence, as the way
At funerals is, or 'whispered 'neath our breath,
With furtive glance, and faces hard and grey,
And silent wonder who was meet to pray
A fitting prayer at this world-darkening death.

Then Satan strode to the chief mourner's place,
Though Michael frowned, and Gabriel blocked his path,
And Moses lifted up his grand, meek face,
As on that day of shame and deep disgrace
When he the tables brake in holy wrath.

“Silence!” the tempter cried; “is this a time
For family quarrels? 'Tis my rightful due,
I am the eldest born. Is it a crime
That I should sorrow most for that sublime
First Cause whom I have grieved far more than you?

“I am the Prodigal, 'tis true. What then?
Must I be always of the same wrong mind!
Is there repentance for the sons of men,
And fatted calves when they come back again,
And only swine's husks still for me to find?

542

“I have more cause for sorrow than you all
Who stayed at home, and did as you were bid,
But, ever since my most unhappy fall,
I've always meant some day up here to call,
And be forgiven for all the ill I did.

“And now it is too late. I've often heard
That said by some poor fool at my suggestion,
But never quite knew how his heart was stirred,
Till now; and really 'tis an ugly word,
Sour in the mouth, and bitter of digestion.

“Your grief is not like mine. You've lost a friend
Who loved you, but you never vexed His heart,
As I have done. Can you not then extend
Pity for one who has some ways to mend,
And some bad memories of a guilty Past?

“That's the worst of a day like this; they buzz
Like wasps—these memories—and their sting is sore,
And like the Patriarch when he came from Uz,
They won't go back—nothing unpleasant does—
But cling to you, and sting you more and more.

“I can't deny that I have told some lies,
And done some things I never should have done;
But is there any who is always wise?
And I was wroth to forfeit such a prize,
And, when you lose your temper, all is gone.

“You have believed me sometimes when I lied,
Can't you believe me now I speak the truth?
You ought to know how hard it is for pride
To say, I'm sorry. But I wish to abide
Once more among the old friends of my youth.

“Have you no kindness for me? Yes, I know,
I am blunt-spoken, have not your smooth tongues,
Am out of the way of singing hymns that flow
Like rippling waters murmuring soft and low;—
In our place we have need of all our lungs.

“You will not? You Impeccables! But you,
At least, who were my friends and followers once,
Ye men of faith who now are good and true,
Though all my arts and wiles ye, one time, knew,
Ah! ye will not refuse me this last chance?

“What! not a word? you're all in the same boat,
And none of you believe I can repent?
Well; it is somewhat hard, and might be thought
Scarce creditable to those of you who taught
Some tricks to me, for which I now relent.

543

“But I am sorry none the less, I say,
For what has happened to the Great First Cause,
Who never lost faith in the righteous way,
Nor in the Love which was His light of day
Where'er He walked, and Lord and Master was.

“It might be weak, but surely it was good—
Most goodness is a trifle weak, no doubt,
Especially if longer than you should
You still persist in your so virtuous mood,
And will not trim your sail, and veer about.

“Well; He was truly better than you all,
For He could pity one when at the worst,
Though pity, I confess, brings comfort small
To one whose back is fairly at the wall,
Beaten and baffled and hated and accursed.

“No matter; now my way of life is dim,
Stupid and without interest any more.
'Twas He that kept you—cherub and seraphim—
Out of my toils, and were it not for Him,
I should have trapped you daily by the score.

“There's no use for a Devil now, since He
Is gone; 'twould be like shadow without light;
Only where light is can the shadow be,
It was His presence that occasioned me,
And by my wrong I perfected His right.

“But now my task is done. 'Tis not worth while
Planning and plotting for the like of you.
What gives its zest to any clever wile
Is the uncertain match of truth with guile;
That gone, there's nothing worth one's while to do.

“The prize once sure is nothing—let it go,
The fisher cares not for the fish he snares;
Only to find if he can master so
The cunning that contends with his, or no,
He throws his line, and pities not nor spares.

“But you without Him! 'Tis poor sport indeed
Gulling what comes so ready to one's hand,
Wasting fine with where wit you do not need,
And plying arts to sow the wild rank weed,
Which, without art, grows native in the land.

“Life will not be worth living any more,
And for a change, what if I preached to you,
And told you to be good, and to adore
His memory whom you trembled at before?
That would be rare sport now, and something new.

“It's not the first time that I've preached indeed,
Very good preaching too and orthodox,
Exalting still the faith above the deed;
And how men did devour my words with greed,
And went away, and sinned like other folks!”

544

He stood erect, a mocking spirit bold,
Having no faith in aught but craft and lies,
And full of scorn that bitter was and cold,
And good and bad in like contempt did hold,
And even himself did fitfully despise.

Then a voice cried, “There shall be no more light,
The war is ended, evil is supreme”;
But I was fain to wrestle for the right,
And beaded drops of anguish dimmed my sight—
Then I awoke, and lo! it was a dream.

I woke up, with a trembling sense of guilt
Upon me, as if that wild dream, profane
And blasphemous, must surely have been built
Of some vile matter in my heart that dwelt,
By some base spirit lurking in my brain.

But as I brooded on it there appeared
Another meaning slowly breaking through
The lurid light, and horrid sounds, and weird
Wild phantasms of my dream; and as it cleared
Peace came to me again, and comfort grew.

I had been reading far into the night
That “ultimate analysis of things
Can find no need of God, nor any light
Shed, by the thought of Infinite wisdom and might,
On the large world which Law to order brings.”

“No need of this hypothesis,” one writ;
And the free fancy, roving like the wind
Untrammelled, shaped my dream, and guided it
With strange, unconscious reason, and flash of wit
Too daring for the common day o' th' mind.

No need of God for science! But our life
Is more than knowledge, and hath other needs,
When sorrows come, and troubles too are rife,
Or good and evil wrestle in hot strife,
And the heart fails, and wounded virtue bleeds.

Truly he said, though he that said it still
Is father of all lies, that we should be
The easy victims of his crafty skill,
Were there no God to strengthen heart and will,
And guide the soul through its perplexity.

'Tis not the making of the worlds alone
That calls for His wise thought, and shaping hand,
To frame the atom, and compact the stone,
And breathe a mystic life through flesh and bone,
And stretch the heavens above the solid land.

There be more lawless and rebellious powers
Than ordered matter, which need government
And guidance more than growth of plants and flowers,
Even these same wayward, wilful hearts of ours,
Deceitful, that on evil ways are bent.

545

And when our steps have spurned the appointed course
Of duty, and sunk in miry slough of sin,
And guilty fears rush on us with the force
Of billows, who shall heal our keen remorse,
And, speaking mercy, bring back peace within?

With lightsome heart, as if it were a thing
Too trifling to regret, one says to me,
I have no prayer to pray, no praise to sing,
Nor sacrifice nor offering do I bring,
There is no living God, and man is free.

Ah! better to be smitten day by day—
For there is comfort in His staff and rod—
Than wander in that mist, and lose thy way
Among the crags and chasms that grimly say,
No need so great now as thy need of God.