 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
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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 | |