 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
614
FUGITIVE PIECES
THE ELDER'S DAUGHTER
Cast her forth in her shame,
She is no daughter of mine;
We had an honest name,
All of our house and line;
And she has brought it to shame.
She is no daughter of mine;
We had an honest name,
All of our house and line;
And she has brought it to shame.
What are you whispering there,
Parleying with sin at the door?
I have no blessing for her;
She is dead to me evermore;
Dead! would to God that she were!
Parleying with sin at the door?
I have no blessing for her;
She is dead to me evermore;
Dead! would to God that she were!
Dead! and the grass o'er her head!
There is no shame in dying:
They were wholesome tears we shed
Where all her wee sisters are lying;
And the love of them is not dead.
There is no shame in dying:
They were wholesome tears we shed
Where all her wee sisters are lying;
And the love of them is not dead.
I did not curse her, did I?
I meant not that, O Lord:
We are cursed enough already;
Let her go with never a word:
I have blessed her often already.
I meant not that, O Lord:
We are cursed enough already;
Let her go with never a word:
I have blessed her often already.
You are the mother that bore her,
I do not blame you for weeping;
They had all gone before her,
And she had our hearts a-keeping;
And oh, the love that we bore her!
I do not blame you for weeping;
They had all gone before her,
And she had our hearts a-keeping;
And oh, the love that we bore her!
I thought that she was like you;
I thought that the light in her face
Was your youth and its morning dew,
And the winsome look of grace:
But she was never like you.
I thought that the light in her face
Was your youth and its morning dew,
And the winsome look of grace:
But she was never like you.
Is the night dark and wild?
Dark is the way of sin—
The way of an erring child,
Dark without and within—
And tell me not she was beguiled.
Dark is the way of sin—
The way of an erring child,
Dark without and within—
And tell me not she was beguiled.
What should beguile her, truly?
Did we not bless them both?
There was gold between them duly,
And we blessed their plighted troth,
Though I never liked him truly.
Did we not bless them both?
There was gold between them duly,
And we blessed their plighted troth,
Though I never liked him truly.
Let us read a word from the Book;
I think that my eyes grow dim;
She used to sit in the nook
There, by the side of him,
And hand me the holy Book.
I think that my eyes grow dim;
She used to sit in the nook
There, by the side of him,
And hand me the holy Book.
I wot not what ails me to-night,
I cannot lay hold on a text.
O Jesus! guide me aright,
For my soul is sore perplexed,
And the Book seems dark as the night.
I cannot lay hold on a text.
O Jesus! guide me aright,
For my soul is sore perplexed,
And the Book seems dark as the night.
Ah! the night is stormy and dark,
And dark is the way of sin;
And the stream will be swollen too; and hark
How the water roars in the Lynn!
There's an ugly ford in the dark.
And dark is the way of sin;
And the stream will be swollen too; and hark
How the water roars in the Lynn!
There's an ugly ford in the dark.
What did you say? To-night
Might she sleep in her little bed?
Her bed so pure and white!
How often I've thought and said,
They were both so pure and white.
Might she sleep in her little bed?
Her bed so pure and white!
How often I've thought and said,
They were both so pure and white.
615
But that was a lie—for she
Was a whited sepulchre;
Yet oh she was white to me,
And I've buried my heart in her;
And it's dead wherever she be.
Was a whited sepulchre;
Yet oh she was white to me,
And I've buried my heart in her;
And it's dead wherever she be.
Nay, she never could lay her head
Again in the little white room,
Where all her wee sisters were laid;
She would see them still in the gloom,
All chaste and pure—but dead.
Again in the little white room,
Where all her wee sisters were laid;
She would see them still in the gloom,
All chaste and pure—but dead.
We will go all together,
She, and you, and I;
There's the black peat-hag 'mong the heather
Where we could all of us lie,
And bury our shame together.
She, and you, and I;
There's the black peat-hag 'mong the heather
Where we could all of us lie,
And bury our shame together.
Any foul place will do
For a grave to us now in our shame;
She may lie with me and you,
But she shall not sleep with them,
And the dust of my fathers, too.
For a grave to us now in our shame;
She may lie with me and you,
But she shall not sleep with them,
And the dust of my fathers, too.
Is it sin, you say, I have spoken?
I know not; my head feels strange;
And something in me is broken;
Lord, is it the coming change?
Forgive the word I have spoken.
I know not; my head feels strange;
And something in me is broken;
Lord, is it the coming change?
Forgive the word I have spoken.
I scarce know what I have said;
Was I hard on her for her fall?
That was wrong, but the rest were dead,
And I loved her more than them all—
For she heired all the love of the dead.
Was I hard on her for her fall?
That was wrong, but the rest were dead,
And I loved her more than them all—
For she heired all the love of the dead.
One by one as they died,
The love, that was owing to them,
Centred on her at my side;
And then she brought us to shame,
And broke the crown of my pride.
The love, that was owing to them,
Centred on her at my side;
And then she brought us to shame,
And broke the crown of my pride.
Lord, pardon mine erring child:
Do we not all of us err?
Dark was my heart and wild;
Oh might I but look on her
Once more, my lost loved child!
Do we not all of us err?
Dark was my heart and wild;
Oh might I but look on her
Once more, my lost loved child!
For I thought, not long ago,
That I was in Abraham's bosom;
And she lifted a face of woe,
Like some pale, withered blossom,
Out of the depths below.
That I was in Abraham's bosom;
And she lifted a face of woe,
Like some pale, withered blossom,
Out of the depths below.
Do not say, when I am gone,
That she has brought my grey hairs to the grave;
Women do that; but let her alone,
She'll have sorrow enough to brave,
That would turn her heart into stone.
That she has brought my grey hairs to the grave;
Women do that; but let her alone,
She'll have sorrow enough to brave,
That would turn her heart into stone.
Is that her hand in mine?
Now, give me thine, sweet wife:
I thank Thee, Lord, for this grace of Thine,
And light, and peace, and life;
And she is Thine and mine.
Now, give me thine, sweet wife:
I thank Thee, Lord, for this grace of Thine,
And light, and peace, and life;
And she is Thine and mine.
THE MYSTERY
“Through desire a man, having
separated himself, seeketh and intermeddleth
with all wisdom.”—Prov. xviii. i.
O the haunted house on the moorland, how lone and desolate,
In its antique fashions grand, it seems to frown upon its fate!
Looking over the bleak moorland, looking over to the sea,
Defiant in the haughtiness of some great memory.
In its antique fashions grand, it seems to frown upon its fate!
Looking over the bleak moorland, looking over to the sea,
Defiant in the haughtiness of some great memory.
Few trees are there and stunted, for the salt-wind blows across,
And swathes their twigs in lichens grey, and flakes of ragged moss;
And the cotton-grass nods in the fishpond beside the spotted rush,
And the newt creeps thro' their sodden roots where they grow rank and lush.
And swathes their twigs in lichens grey, and flakes of ragged moss;
And the cotton-grass nods in the fishpond beside the spotted rush,
And the newt creeps thro' their sodden roots where they grow rank and lush.
616
But moor and marsh and stunted tree, with mosses overrun,
And the Druid stone where the raven sits blinking in the sun—
All are bleaker from its neighbourhood, and grouped around it lie,
As round a desolate thought that fills a subtle painter's eye.
And the Druid stone where the raven sits blinking in the sun—
All are bleaker from its neighbourhood, and grouped around it lie,
As round a desolate thought that fills a subtle painter's eye.
Straggling over half an acre, with a rough-hewn masonry,
There are portals heavy-arched, and gables crested with the fleur-de-lis,
Mounted turrets, curious windows, and armorial bearings quaint,
Full of rare fantastic meanings as the dreams of some old saint.
There are portals heavy-arched, and gables crested with the fleur-de-lis,
Mounted turrets, curious windows, and armorial bearings quaint,
Full of rare fantastic meanings as the dreams of some old saint.
And the grim old tower looms darkly with its shadow over all;
Beast unclean and bird unholy brood or burrow in its wall;
Moans the wind thro' long blind lobbies—distant doors are heard to slap,
And the paint falls from the panels, and the mouldering tapestries flap.
Beast unclean and bird unholy brood or burrow in its wall;
Moans the wind thro' long blind lobbies—distant doors are heard to slap,
And the paint falls from the panels, and the mouldering tapestries flap.
Falls the paint from scripture stories, all blurred with mildew damp,
Fade the ancient knights and ladies from the tapestries quaint and cramp;
And of all the rare carved mantels only here and there are seen
A bunch of flowers and vine leaves, with a satyr's face between.
Fade the ancient knights and ladies from the tapestries quaint and cramp;
And of all the rare carved mantels only here and there are seen
A bunch of flowers and vine leaves, with a satyr's face between.
Through chinks the sun is breaking, the rain breaks through the roof;
There are sullen pools in the corners, and sullen drops aloof;
And flitting as in woodlands, strange lights are in the rooms,
And to and fro they glimmer, alter nating with glooms.
There are sullen pools in the corners, and sullen drops aloof;
And flitting as in woodlands, strange lights are in the rooms,
And to and fro they glimmer, alter nating with glooms.
And him that shelters there a-night from the wild storm or rain,
Will death or madness set upon, and leaguer him amain
With eldritch shapes, and eerie sounds of sorrow and of sin,
And cries of utter wailing that make the blood grow thin.
Will death or madness set upon, and leaguer him amain
With eldritch shapes, and eerie sounds of sorrow and of sin,
And cries of utter wailing that make the blood grow thin.
O the haunted house on the moorland, how lone and desolate,
In its antique fashions grand, it seems to frown upon its fate!
But sit not thou in its tapestried rooms about the midnight drear,
When the chains clank on the staircase, and the groaning step draws near.
In its antique fashions grand, it seems to frown upon its fate!
But sit not thou in its tapestried rooms about the midnight drear,
When the chains clank on the staircase, and the groaning step draws near.
The chains clank on the staircase, and the step is coming slow,
And the doors creak on their hinges, and the lamp is burning low,
And thou listenest too intently, and thy heart is throbbing fast;—
Be thou coward now or bold, 'twere better face the stormy blast.
And the doors creak on their hinges, and the lamp is burning low,
And thou listenest too intently, and thy heart is throbbing fast;—
Be thou coward now or bold, 'twere better face the stormy blast.
Better face the storm without, you think? Alas! I cannot tell:
Perhaps we lose the power, perhaps we lose the wish as well;
For I have watched and pondered many a weary night and day,
Ever listening thus intently in our mystic house of clay;
Perhaps we lose the power, perhaps we lose the wish as well;
For I have watched and pondered many a weary night and day,
Ever listening thus intently in our mystic house of clay;
Ever listening to its strangeness, to its sorrow and its sin,
With a boldness and a terror, and a throbbing heart within;
Bold to know the very thing which I feared indeed to see,
Would the lamp but only hold till I searched the mystery.
With a boldness and a terror, and a throbbing heart within;
Bold to know the very thing which I feared indeed to see,
Would the lamp but only hold till I searched the mystery.
617
For is not this our human life even such a wreck of greatness,
Where the trace of an ancient grandeur marks an equal desolateness?
Since that which hath been is not, or only serves to wake
A thirst for truth and beauty, which, alas! it cannot slake.
Where the trace of an ancient grandeur marks an equal desolateness?
Since that which hath been is not, or only serves to wake
A thirst for truth and beauty, which, alas! it cannot slake.
And the ruin of its greatness casts all round an air of gloom;
Earth's loveliness is darkened by the shadow of our doom;
And the richness of our nature only adds a bitter point
Of irony to the thought that all is plainly out of joint.
Earth's loveliness is darkened by the shadow of our doom;
And the richness of our nature only adds a bitter point
Of irony to the thought that all is plainly out of joint.
And fitfully, as through a chink, the higher world of God
Breaks in to make more visible our waste and drear abode;
And syllables and whispers, all discordant to rehearse,
Hint unutterable harmonies in the great Universe.
Breaks in to make more visible our waste and drear abode;
And syllables and whispers, all discordant to rehearse,
Hint unutterable harmonies in the great Universe.
And there are pictured tapestries in chambers of the brain,
The memories of a higher state which still with us remain,
But faded all and mildewed they but deepen our regret,
Like twilight glories telling of a glory that is set.
The memories of a higher state which still with us remain,
But faded all and mildewed they but deepen our regret,
Like twilight glories telling of a glory that is set.
And mingling with the traces of a wondrous beauty still,
There are lustful satyr faces turning all the good to ill;
And like birds unholy nestling and defiling every part,
Oh, the broods of evil passions in the corners of the heart.
There are lustful satyr faces turning all the good to ill;
And like birds unholy nestling and defiling every part,
Oh, the broods of evil passions in the corners of the heart.
And if thou watch there thoughtful, in silence of the night,
With a longing and a listening too intent to know the right;
Have a care, for there are phantoms—be thou cowardly or bold,—
That syllable and whisper what shall make the blood run cold.
With a longing and a listening too intent to know the right;
Have a care, for there are phantoms—be thou cowardly or bold,—
That syllable and whisper what shall make the blood run cold.
Oh to rid me of that longing! to stand aloof and free
From the dread, or from the power of the dread Infinity!
Oh to grasp, or to be careless of, the subtle thoughts that fly
And shun the sense, like flower-smells, the closer we come nigh!
From the dread, or from the power of the dread Infinity!
Oh to grasp, or to be careless of, the subtle thoughts that fly
And shun the sense, like flower-smells, the closer we come nigh!
Just to dwell among the little things of life, and be content
With its ordinary being and its ordinary bent;
Still to wade in the clear shallows and the old accustomed fords,
'Mong the thin and easy truths and the babbling of old words!
With its ordinary being and its ordinary bent;
Still to wade in the clear shallows and the old accustomed fords,
'Mong the thin and easy truths and the babbling of old words!
To think and feel, and comprehend all I might think and feel,
With a heart that never sickened, and a brain that did not reel
Under the sense of mystery and mighty shadows, cast
Upon the soul from life and death—the future and the past.
With a heart that never sickened, and a brain that did not reel
Under the sense of mystery and mighty shadows, cast
Upon the soul from life and death—the future and the past.
So thou'rt crushed beneath a shadow!—Ah! I would that I could smile
With your satisfied philosophy; but on my heart the while
The shadow of the Infinite is laid oppressively,
And though I know that it is light, alas! it darkens me.
With your satisfied philosophy; but on my heart the while
The shadow of the Infinite is laid oppressively,
And though I know that it is light, alas! it darkens me.
618
In the lonesomeness and thoughtfulness of the still midnight hour,
Hast thou never felt the mystery of being, and its power?—
The great light from the Godhead, and the cross-light from man,
From that which is and ought to be—the portion and the plan?
Hast thou never felt the mystery of being, and its power?—
The great light from the Godhead, and the cross-light from man,
From that which is and ought to be—the portion and the plan?
How they are twined and parted, yet firmly linkèd still
By necessity of being in the dread Almighty will!
Hast thou never yearned to see the sun break thro' this gathered haze,
Though he quenched thy little hearth-fire by the glory of his blaze?
By necessity of being in the dread Almighty will!
Hast thou never yearned to see the sun break thro' this gathered haze,
Though he quenched thy little hearth-fire by the glory of his blaze?
Never felt the eager longing in the inner heart of men,
Like a tiger pacing restless to and fro his narrow den,
For his mighty limbs grow irksome with the lack of room to play,
And he pineth for a leap—a bound into the night or day?
Like a tiger pacing restless to and fro his narrow den,
For his mighty limbs grow irksome with the lack of room to play,
And he pineth for a leap—a bound into the night or day?
Ah, me! to be a botanist or book-worm! just to task
A herbal or a history to answer all I'd ask;
And be content to live, and work, and die, and rot—nor ever
Writhe with a mighty longing and a sense of high endeavour.
A herbal or a history to answer all I'd ask;
And be content to live, and work, and die, and rot—nor ever
Writhe with a mighty longing and a sense of high endeavour.
Why are all things yet a question? What is nature? What is man?
What is truth? and what is duty? Why, answer as we can,
Has the soul a deeper question still to put, when all is done,
Which goes echoing into darkness, and answer there is none?
What is truth? and what is duty? Why, answer as we can,
Has the soul a deeper question still to put, when all is done,
Which goes echoing into darkness, and answer there is none?
Oh, I've heard that echo often dies in mockery away
In the distance of conception, like the waters of a bay
Surging far into a lone sea cave—you cannot tell how far—
And there is neither light of torch, nor light of moon or star.
In the distance of conception, like the waters of a bay
Surging far into a lone sea cave—you cannot tell how far—
And there is neither light of torch, nor light of moon or star.
Can I will, and can I be, and do, all I have thought and felt?
Can I mould mine opportunity, and shake off sin and guilt?
Is life so thin-transparent, as men have thought and said?
And God a mere onlooker to see the game well played?
Can I mould mine opportunity, and shake off sin and guilt?
Is life so thin-transparent, as men have thought and said?
And God a mere onlooker to see the game well played?
'Twixt the willing and the being—'twixt the darkness and the light,
Is there no interval for Him to exercise His might?
Then perish all my hesitance, and all your power and pelf;—
I will be loyal to the truth, and royal to myself.
Is there no interval for Him to exercise His might?
Then perish all my hesitance, and all your power and pelf;—
I will be loyal to the truth, and royal to myself.
I will call out from the depths a boundless truth—a certain key
To unlock the ancient secrets of our hoar perplexity;
For the glow of one vast certainty would banish chaos-night,
And canopy my soul as with a dome of rainbow light.
To unlock the ancient secrets of our hoar perplexity;
For the glow of one vast certainty would banish chaos-night,
And canopy my soul as with a dome of rainbow light.
O the sounding waves should speak to me, and be well understood;
The violet should tell the secret of its pensive mood;
And the dew-drops why their tears are formed on the eyelash of the light,
And that lorn wind in the woodland why it sobs the livelong night.
The violet should tell the secret of its pensive mood;
And the dew-drops why their tears are formed on the eyelash of the light,
And that lorn wind in the woodland why it sobs the livelong night.
619
For the whole creation groaneth with a sorrow not its own,
And to all its many voices grief is still the undertone,
And on all its sunny aspects lies a shadow I would fain
Lift, and know with what a birth it is travailing in pain.
And to all its many voices grief is still the undertone,
And on all its sunny aspects lies a shadow I would fain
Lift, and know with what a birth it is travailing in pain.
I would speak with the wild Arab deep-throat guttural truth, and sound
The heart-depths of ascetic, squatting loathsome on the ground:
Taste all truths of past or present, and all truths of clime and race,
Where'er a true Divinity was deemed to have a place.
The heart-depths of ascetic, squatting loathsome on the ground:
Taste all truths of past or present, and all truths of clime and race,
Where'er a true Divinity was deemed to have a place.
I would know all creeds and gospels, and how they played their part,
Each with its place appointed for this changeful human heart:
Each with a dawn of progress, and a share of good and ill,
Each with its work appointed by the Eternal will.
Each with its place appointed for this changeful human heart:
Each with a dawn of progress, and a share of good and ill,
Each with its work appointed by the Eternal will.
But tossing on the ocean of a changeable belief,
To deem there is no certainty and hope for no relief,
With no faith in the old cause ways and the lamplights, it is dreary
To be wandering as I wander now, so aimless, dark, and weary.
To deem there is no certainty and hope for no relief,
With no faith in the old cause ways and the lamplights, it is dreary
To be wandering as I wander now, so aimless, dark, and weary.
Woe's me! but life is rigid—is not plastic to my will;
Thoughts they come and go, like spirits with the mist about them still;
And the strife is ineffectual towards lighting up the soul,
Like the faint and glimmering twilights that creep around the pole.
Thoughts they come and go, like spirits with the mist about them still;
And the strife is ineffectual towards lighting up the soul,
Like the faint and glimmering twilights that creep around the pole.
To myself I am all mystery: I fain would act my part;
But the problem of existence aches unsolved within my heart.
How can this life be possible?—What matter now to ask?
'Tis already a necessity—an urgent, hourly task.
But the problem of existence aches unsolved within my heart.
How can this life be possible?—What matter now to ask?
'Tis already a necessity—an urgent, hourly task.
Ah! there the clouds break up; and lo! a clear bright star uprearing,
Its face deep, deep in heaven, beside the crystal throne appearing:
Though life be dreary, and truth be dark; yet duty is not so:
Lay thy hand then to its labour, and thy heart into the blow.
Its face deep, deep in heaven, beside the crystal throne appearing:
Though life be dreary, and truth be dark; yet duty is not so:
Lay thy hand then to its labour, and thy heart into the blow.
Like the light of a dark lantern is the guiding light for thee,
A circle on the earth just where thy foot should planted be:
But turn it to the mountains that encompass life and doom,
And it flickers like a shadow, and only shows the gloom.
A circle on the earth just where thy foot should planted be:
But turn it to the mountains that encompass life and doom,
And it flickers like a shadow, and only shows the gloom.
O the haunted house on the moorland, all lone and desolate,
Let it stand in its antique fashions frowning grimly on its fate;
But brood not thou with thought intense about the dark midnight,
But turn thee to thy task, and do thy work with all thy might.
Let it stand in its antique fashions frowning grimly on its fate;
But brood not thou with thought intense about the dark midnight,
But turn thee to thy task, and do thy work with all thy might.
The day is short and changeful, the night is drawing on,
And maybe there is light beyond, and maybe there is none;
But the grief and pain and struggle, and the hoar perplexity,
Will not yield their secrets up to any questioning of thee.
And maybe there is light beyond, and maybe there is none;
But the grief and pain and struggle, and the hoar perplexity,
Will not yield their secrets up to any questioning of thee.
620
THE REVELATION
He was wont to creep and stumble, with a slow uncertain pace,
And a supplicating doubt o'er all his hard, unbending face;
And our mirth would make him scornful, and our pity made him wince,
When the fitful moody dream was on, perverting the good sense.
And a supplicating doubt o'er all his hard, unbending face;
And our mirth would make him scornful, and our pity made him wince,
When the fitful moody dream was on, perverting the good sense.
He was sharp, too, with his reasons, and his deep, invet'rate sneer
Mocked the highest and divinest without reverence or fear;
And our pious saws and customs, he would laugh at them, and call
The old lace that did embroider the hypocrisy of all.
Mocked the highest and divinest without reverence or fear;
And our pious saws and customs, he would laugh at them, and call
The old lace that did embroider the hypocrisy of all.
For the world seemed out of joint to him, and rotten to the core,
With Gods and creeds, once credited, but credible no more,
And duties high, heroic, that once were bravely done;
But for action, we had babbling only now beneath the sun.
With Gods and creeds, once credited, but credible no more,
And duties high, heroic, that once were bravely done;
But for action, we had babbling only now beneath the sun.
And there was nothing sacred in the universe to him—
No lights of awe and wonder—no temple fitly dim;
Ever scornfully he reasoned, ever battled with his lot,
And he rent, not understanding, the fine sanctities of thought.
No lights of awe and wonder—no temple fitly dim;
Ever scornfully he reasoned, ever battled with his lot,
And he rent, not understanding, the fine sanctities of thought.
But the blind old man is altered to a cheerful hopefulness,
And now serenest thought and joy are mantling in his face;
At one with his own spirit, at one with all his kind,
At one with God's great universe—he sees though he is blind.
And now serenest thought and joy are mantling in his face;
At one with his own spirit, at one with all his kind,
At one with God's great universe—he sees though he is blind.
And it's all that sweet child's doing; see them at the lattice there,
How his fingers steal amid the long brown clusters of her hair;
And she looks up with her thoughtful eys of lustrous, loving blue,
And tells him of the rosebuds that are peeping into view.
How his fingers steal amid the long brown clusters of her hair;
And she looks up with her thoughtful eys of lustrous, loving blue,
And tells him of the rosebuds that are peeping into view.
They say he found her one night, humming o'er a quiet tune,
As he walked, in mournful sadness, beneath the tranquil moon;
Yet sporting in his sorrow, mourning with a scornful mirth,
Like a blind old Samson grappling with the pillars of the earth.
As he walked, in mournful sadness, beneath the tranquil moon;
Yet sporting in his sorrow, mourning with a scornful mirth,
Like a blind old Samson grappling with the pillars of the earth.
And she came upon him gently, as an angel from the Lord,
And she led him with a loving hand, and with a pious word;
And she fringed the dark clouds of his soul with lights of heaven's own grace,
And she breathed into his life a breath of tranquil hopefulness.
And she led him with a loving hand, and with a pious word;
And she fringed the dark clouds of his soul with lights of heaven's own grace,
And she breathed into his life a breath of tranquil hopefulness.
And he's no more sharp with reasons; thought sits calmly on his brow,
And the dew upon his thoughts is not changed to hoar-frost now;
And he plays such rare sweet music with a natural pathos low;
There is no sorrow in it, yet 'twill make your tears to flow.
And the dew upon his thoughts is not changed to hoar-frost now;
And he plays such rare sweet music with a natural pathos low;
There is no sorrow in it, yet 'twill make your tears to flow.
For he's full of all bird-singing, and the cheery ring of bells,
The rain that drizzles on the leaves, the dripping sound of wells,
And the bearded barley's rustling, and the sound of winds and brooks,
That in the quiet evening floats about the woodland nooks;
The rain that drizzles on the leaves, the dripping sound of wells,
And the bearded barley's rustling, and the sound of winds and brooks,
That in the quiet evening floats about the woodland nooks;
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And the old ocean-murmurs, and all the hum of bees,
And varied modulations of the many-sounding trees,
These tune his heart to melodies, that lighten all its load;
Yet their gladness hath a sadness, though it speak to him of God.
And varied modulations of the many-sounding trees,
These tune his heart to melodies, that lighten all its load;
Yet their gladness hath a sadness, though it speak to him of God.
And he knows all shapes of flowers: the heath, the fox-glove with its bells,
The palmy ferns' green elegance, fanned in soft woodland smells;
The milkwort on the mossy turf his nice-touch fingers trace,
And the eye-bright, though he sees it not, he finds it in its place.
The palmy ferns' green elegance, fanned in soft woodland smells;
The milkwort on the mossy turf his nice-touch fingers trace,
And the eye-bright, though he sees it not, he finds it in its place.
And it's all that sweet child's doing, as they saunter by the brook,
If they be not singing by the way, she reads the blessed Book;
Reads the story of the sorrow of the man that loved us all,
Till the eyes that cannot see her let the tears in gladness fall.
If they be not singing by the way, she reads the blessed Book;
Reads the story of the sorrow of the man that loved us all,
Till the eyes that cannot see her let the tears in gladness fall.
Oh, a blessed work is thine, fair child; and even so we find
When we, bedridden with sick thoughts, are wandering in our mind
From the simple truth of nature, how blissful is the calm
When Faith holds up the aching head, and presses with her palm.
When we, bedridden with sick thoughts, are wandering in our mind
From the simple truth of nature, how blissful is the calm
When Faith holds up the aching head, and presses with her palm.
That's the keynote of existence; the right tone is caught at length;
Cometh Faith upon the soul, and we go on in love and strength;
We go on with surest footstep, by the dizziest brinks of thought,
And in its deep abysses see the God whom we had sought.
Cometh Faith upon the soul, and we go on in love and strength;
We go on with surest footstep, by the dizziest brinks of thought,
And in its deep abysses see the God whom we had sought.
We were sometime dark and dreary, we were sometime wroth and proud,
Warring with our fate defiant, scornful of the vacant crowd,
Thoughtful of the seeming discords, and the impotence of will,
And questioning the universe for meanings hard and ill.
Warring with our fate defiant, scornful of the vacant crowd,
Thoughtful of the seeming discords, and the impotence of will,
And questioning the universe for meanings hard and ill.
Cometh Faith upon the spirit, and the spirit is serene,
Seeing beauty in the duty, and God where these are seen—
God in every path of duty, beaming gracious from above,
And clothing every sorrow with the garment of His love.
Seeing beauty in the duty, and God where these are seen—
God in every path of duty, beaming gracious from above,
And clothing every sorrow with the garment of His love.
And the dark cloud is uplifted, and the mists of doubt grow thin,
Leaving drops of dew behind them, as the light comes breaking in;
And the surges of the passion into quiet slumbers fall,
And the discords do but hint a grander harmony through all.
Leaving drops of dew behind them, as the light comes breaking in;
And the surges of the passion into quiet slumbers fall,
And the discords do but hint a grander harmony through all.
For around the Man of Sorrows all the sorrows of our lot
Find their law and light in Him, whose life is our divinest thought;
And the Infinite, the Dreaded, draws nigh to thee and me
In the sacrament of sorrow—we are blind and yet we see.
Find their law and light in Him, whose life is our divinest thought;
And the Infinite, the Dreaded, draws nigh to thee and me
In the sacrament of sorrow—we are blind and yet we see.
For if the way of man here is a way of grief and loss,
Even so the way of Godhead was upon the bitter cross,—
Upon the bitter cross, and along a tearful story,
Till the wreath of thorns became the crown of heaven's imperial glory.
Even so the way of Godhead was upon the bitter cross,—
Upon the bitter cross, and along a tearful story,
Till the wreath of thorns became the crown of heaven's imperial glory.
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So the sorrow and the sacrifice, whereat we do repine,
Are but symbols of the kinship 'twixt the human and divine—
But the law of highest Being and of highest honour given;
For the wreath of cruel thorns is now the empire crown of heaven.
Are but symbols of the kinship 'twixt the human and divine—
But the law of highest Being and of highest honour given;
For the wreath of cruel thorns is now the empire crown of heaven.
Rest thee on that faith divine, and all the history of man
Round its thread will crystallise in order of a glorious plan;
For the grief is still divinest, and our strains of deepest gladness
Show their kindred by their trembling ever on the verge of sadness.
Round its thread will crystallise in order of a glorious plan;
For the grief is still divinest, and our strains of deepest gladness
Show their kindred by their trembling ever on the verge of sadness.
Rest thee on that holy faith, and all the misty mountain tops,
Where thy thoughts were cold and cloudy, shall beam forth with radiant hopes;
And the harmony of all things, never uttered into ears,
Shall be felt in deep heart-heavings, like the music of the spheres.
Where thy thoughts were cold and cloudy, shall beam forth with radiant hopes;
And the harmony of all things, never uttered into ears,
Shall be felt in deep heart-heavings, like the music of the spheres.
'Tis the shallow stream that babbles—'tis in shallows of the sea
Where its ineffectual labours for a mighty utterance be;
All the spoken truth is ripple—surge upon the shore of Death;
There is but a silent swell amid the depths of love and faith.
Where its ineffectual labours for a mighty utterance be;
All the spoken truth is ripple—surge upon the shore of Death;
There is but a silent swell amid the depths of love and faith.
But be still, and hear the Godhead, how His solemn footsteps fall
In the story of the sorrow of the Man who loved us all;
Be still, and let Him lead thee along the brink of awe,
Where the mystery of sorrow solves the mystery of Law.
In the story of the sorrow of the Man who loved us all;
Be still, and let Him lead thee along the brink of awe,
Where the mystery of sorrow solves the mystery of Law.
And the mournfulness and scornfulness will haply melt away,
They were frost-work on your windows, and they dimm'd the light of day;
And you took their phantom pictures for the scenery of earth,
And never saw in truth the world that made your mournful mirth.
They were frost-work on your windows, and they dimm'd the light of day;
And you took their phantom pictures for the scenery of earth,
And never saw in truth the world that made your mournful mirth.
Only let the Heaven-child, Jesus, lead thee meekly on the path,
Through thy troubles, strewn with blossoms of a kindly aftermath;
And for reasons sharp and bitter, quiet thoughts will rise in thee,
As when light, instead of lightning, gleams upon the earth and sea.
Through thy troubles, strewn with blossoms of a kindly aftermath;
And for reasons sharp and bitter, quiet thoughts will rise in thee,
As when light, instead of lightning, gleams upon the earth and sea.
And the world will murmur sweetly many songs into thine ear,
From the harvest and the vintage, as their gladness crowns the year;
From the laughter of the children, glancing lightsome as life's foam;
From the Sabbath of the weary, and the sanctities of home.
From the harvest and the vintage, as their gladness crowns the year;
From the laughter of the children, glancing lightsome as life's foam;
From the Sabbath of the weary, and the sanctities of home.
Yea, the sickness and the sorrows, and the mourner's bitter grief
Will have strains of holy meaning, notes of infinite relief,
Whispering of the love and wisdom that are in a Father's rod;
And their sadness will have gladness speaking thus to thee of God.
Will have strains of holy meaning, notes of infinite relief,
Whispering of the love and wisdom that are in a Father's rod;
And their sadness will have gladness speaking thus to thee of God.
And if He give thee waters of sorrow to thy fate,
He will give them songs to murmur, though but half articulate,
Like the brooks that murmur pensive, and you not know what they say,
But the grass and flowers are brightest where they sing along their way.
He will give them songs to murmur, though but half articulate,
Like the brooks that murmur pensive, and you not know what they say,
But the grass and flowers are brightest where they sing along their way.
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Thus in thoughtful contemplation of the full-orbed life divine,
Shall the fragmentary reason find the Law that doth combine
All the seeming antinomies of the Infinite decree
That has linked the highest Being with the highest misery.
Shall the fragmentary reason find the Law that doth combine
All the seeming antinomies of the Infinite decree
That has linked the highest Being with the highest misery.
Ye that dwell among your reasons, what is that ye call a God,
But the lengthening shadow of yourselves that falls upon your road;
The shadow of a Self supreme, that orders all our fate,
Sitting bland in contemplation of the ruins desolate?
But the lengthening shadow of yourselves that falls upon your road;
The shadow of a Self supreme, that orders all our fate,
Sitting bland in contemplation of the ruins desolate?
Oh, your subtle logic-bridges, spanning over the abyss
From the finite, with its sadness, to the Infinite of bliss!
You would find out God by logic, lying far from us, serene,
In a weighty proposition, with a hundred links between!
From the finite, with its sadness, to the Infinite of bliss!
You would find out God by logic, lying far from us, serene,
In a weighty proposition, with a hundred links between!
And you send your thoughts on every side in search of Him forsooth!
Speeding over the broad universe to find the only truth
That lies at your hand for ever. Get thee eye-salve, man, and pray:
God is walking in the garden, and it is the noon of day.
Speeding over the broad universe to find the only truth
That lies at your hand for ever. Get thee eye-salve, man, and pray:
God is walking in the garden, and it is the noon of day.
Roll up these grave-clothes, lay them in a corner of the tomb;
He is risen from dead arguments; what seek ye in their gloom?
Leave the linen robes and spices—foolish hearts are thine and mine,
How could love and faith be called upon to bury the divine?
He is risen from dead arguments; what seek ye in their gloom?
Leave the linen robes and spices—foolish hearts are thine and mine,
How could love and faith be called upon to bury the divine?
Oh, not this the way of Faith, not this the way of holy Love,
Where the Christ of human story, and the Christ of heaven above,
Blends the duty and the beauty—blends the human and divine,
By His crown of many sorrows ever glorifying thine.
Where the Christ of human story, and the Christ of heaven above,
Blends the duty and the beauty—blends the human and divine,
By His crown of many sorrows ever glorifying thine.
Tell me no more of your reasons; do not call me to embark
On a voyage to the tropics with an iceberg for an ark,
Swaying grandly o'er the billows, shining brightly in the sun,
But to melt away beneath me ere the voyage be half done.
On a voyage to the tropics with an iceberg for an ark,
Swaying grandly o'er the billows, shining brightly in the sun,
But to melt away beneath me ere the voyage be half done.
I heed not of your logic; I am well convinced of God:
'Tis the purpose He is working, and the path that He has trod
Through the mystery of misery—the labyrinth of sin,
That clouds the world around, and overcasts the sould within.
'Tis the purpose He is working, and the path that He has trod
Through the mystery of misery—the labyrinth of sin,
That clouds the world around, and overcasts the sould within.
And you've not discovered God—and I care not though you did—
That is not the ancient secret from the generations hid;
'Tis the purpose, and the moral, and the harmony of life,
That we ravel in unravelling till exhausted with the strife.
That is not the ancient secret from the generations hid;
'Tis the purpose, and the moral, and the harmony of life,
That we ravel in unravelling till exhausted with the strife.
And my heart was all despairing, and my soul was dark and dreary,
And the night was coming fast on me—a lonesome night and eerie—
As bit by bit the wreck went down, and all I clung to most,
Turned to straws and drifting bubbles, and was in the darkness lost.
And the night was coming fast on me—a lonesome night and eerie—
As bit by bit the wreck went down, and all I clung to most,
Turned to straws and drifting bubbles, and was in the darkness lost.
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And my heart grew more despairing, and my soul more dark and dreary,
Till I saw the Godhead bending, faint and meek, and very weary;
Not in blessedness supernal, sitting easy on a throne,
Dealing sorrows unto others, with no sorrow of His own.
Till I saw the Godhead bending, faint and meek, and very weary;
Not in blessedness supernal, sitting easy on a throne,
Dealing sorrows unto others, with no sorrow of His own.
And I read in His great sorrows the significance of mine—
Even the Law of highest Being, proving kin with the divine;
Love travailing in pain with a birth of nobleness,
And dying into Life with sure development of bliss.
Even the Law of highest Being, proving kin with the divine;
Love travailing in pain with a birth of nobleness,
And dying into Life with sure development of bliss.
Then the discords lost their terror, and the harmonies began
To be heard in sweetest snatches, where a peaceful spirit ran
Through strangest variations of the universal pain,
With the still recurring cadence of the cross for its refrain.
To be heard in sweetest snatches, where a peaceful spirit ran
Through strangest variations of the universal pain,
With the still recurring cadence of the cross for its refrain.
Snatches of the concord, never fully uttered unto man,
Yet discovering in their pathos, the dim outline of the plan,
Whereby the pain and sorrow, and the evil might be wrought,
Into the rarest beauty, and highest unisons of thought.
Yet discovering in their pathos, the dim outline of the plan,
Whereby the pain and sorrow, and the evil might be wrought,
Into the rarest beauty, and highest unisons of thought.
Heed not, then, the many reasons—the cross-lights and the broken,
That are glimmering all around thee with half-meanings but half-spoken;
Turn thee to the Man of Sorrows—ECCE HOMO!—look on God;
He will ease thee of thy sorrows, opening blossoms in the rod.
That are glimmering all around thee with half-meanings but half-spoken;
Turn thee to the Man of Sorrows—ECCE HOMO!—look on God;
He will ease thee of thy sorrows, opening blossoms in the rod.
All the creeds are but an effort feebly to interpret Him,
Like the sunlight—through a prism that breaks into a chamber dim;
Hie thee forth into the daylight, wherefore darken thus thy room,
And then moan that there is only light enough to show the gloom?
Like the sunlight—through a prism that breaks into a chamber dim;
Hie thee forth into the daylight, wherefore darken thus thy room,
And then moan that there is only light enough to show the gloom?
ECCE HOMO! all ye nations, tribes, and peoples of the earth,
Leave the priests their poor devices, and the scribes their barren dearth;
Here is flesh and blood and feeling—thou shalt eat of Him and live,
And walk with Him in glory whom the heavens did once receive.
Leave the priests their poor devices, and the scribes their barren dearth;
Here is flesh and blood and feeling—thou shalt eat of Him and live,
And walk with Him in glory whom the heavens did once receive.
And your path shall be a path of light, your tears a morning shower;
All the germs of nature opening fragrant, underneath the power
Of the quiet light that claspeth all the world in its embrace,
And makes it beam and prattle up into the Father's face.
All the germs of nature opening fragrant, underneath the power
Of the quiet light that claspeth all the world in its embrace,
And makes it beam and prattle up into the Father's face.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |