Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley. In Three Vols |
 | I, II, III. |
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WHAT ARE MYSTERIES? |
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 | Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems |  |
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WHAT ARE MYSTERIES?
The Majesty of yon dread Heavens of Night,
A vault of gloom and fire—of shade and light—
The pomp of Summer, and the Winter's waste,
The sweeping Lightning in its dazzling haste,
The rushing Comet on its path of fear,
The voice of Winds in their sublime career,
The roll of Seas that own a deep controul—
The shock of tempests that disturbs the Soul;
These are not Mysteries—they are things sublime,
But unto these the strong-plumed thought can climb.
A vault of gloom and fire—of shade and light—
The pomp of Summer, and the Winter's waste,
The sweeping Lightning in its dazzling haste,
The rushing Comet on its path of fear,
The voice of Winds in their sublime career,
The roll of Seas that own a deep controul—
The shock of tempests that disturbs the Soul;
These are not Mysteries—they are things sublime,
But unto these the strong-plumed thought can climb.
The flight of Time, upon his noiseless way,
The birth of Light, the wondrous Spring of Day,
The change of Seasons on their 'stablished round—
Nature's august rehearsal underground,
Where still her work of preparation vast
She carrieth on, till perfect grown at last
She bursts upon the stage, and forth to sight
Acts her great part i' the face of Heaven and light;
These are not Mysteries—to these things at once
The Soul, with all her voices, gives response.
The birth of Light, the wondrous Spring of Day,
The change of Seasons on their 'stablished round—
Nature's august rehearsal underground,
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She carrieth on, till perfect grown at last
She bursts upon the stage, and forth to sight
Acts her great part i' the face of Heaven and light;
These are not Mysteries—to these things at once
The Soul, with all her voices, gives response.
Seed-time and Harvest-time, that ever know
Their due recurrences in constant flow,
The fountains of the waters—full and free,
That never emptied or exhausted be!
The difference of Earth's climates, which supply
Productions endless in diversity!
The mingling Elements and all their laws,
Whose veil great Science' hand but half withdraws;
These are not Mysteries—these the Soul receives,
Unquestioning—and undoubtingly believes!
Their due recurrences in constant flow,
The fountains of the waters—full and free,
That never emptied or exhausted be!
The difference of Earth's climates, which supply
Productions endless in diversity!
The mingling Elements and all their laws,
Whose veil great Science' hand but half withdraws;
These are not Mysteries—these the Soul receives,
Unquestioning—and undoubtingly believes!
And, Oh! the powers of that deep Soul intense,
Its crowned and spiritual magnificence,
Its musical enthusiasms sublime—
Its hopes that scorn the horizon of brief Time!
Its thoughts that thunder-strike great Nature's throne,
And make the grandeurs of her state their own!
That share her sceptered majesty, and bind
Her scattered beams in one broad blaze of Mind!
Are these things Mysteries? No! the aspiring thought
Knows—feels—whence the heav'nly inspiration's caught!
Its crowned and spiritual magnificence,
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Its hopes that scorn the horizon of brief Time!
Its thoughts that thunder-strike great Nature's throne,
And make the grandeurs of her state their own!
That share her sceptered majesty, and bind
Her scattered beams in one broad blaze of Mind!
Are these things Mysteries? No! the aspiring thought
Knows—feels—whence the heav'nly inspiration's caught!
The ignoble littleness of daily life—
Its dearth, its gloom, its sordor, and its strife;
Its vain and vapid schemes—its petty dreams—
Its vaporous hopes—like ignis-fatuus gleams;
Its poor desires—its dull and dead demands,
Its struggles in Art's adamantine bands;
Its drudgings in vile Custom's beaten ways,
The unworthy part the immortal Spirit plays;
These things are Mysteries, which we may not sound,
Which day by day more startle and surround!
Its dearth, its gloom, its sordor, and its strife;
Its vain and vapid schemes—its petty dreams—
Its vaporous hopes—like ignis-fatuus gleams;
Its poor desires—its dull and dead demands,
Its struggles in Art's adamantine bands;
Its drudgings in vile Custom's beaten ways,
The unworthy part the immortal Spirit plays;
These things are Mysteries, which we may not sound,
Which day by day more startle and surround!
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Aye! the accursed cold calculating Art,
Which masks and petrifies the worldly heart—
Masks it—and round it seems superfluous thrown,
Like the cold moss that shrouds the colder stone;
The absorbing interest in the low and vain,
The little care for all that most should chain
The Spirit—in its own starred sphere supreme—
The dull deep trance—or phrenzied fever-dream;
These—these are Mysteries—awful and profound,
By no eye fathomed—by no hand unbound!
Which masks and petrifies the worldly heart—
Masks it—and round it seems superfluous thrown,
Like the cold moss that shrouds the colder stone;
The absorbing interest in the low and vain,
The little care for all that most should chain
The Spirit—in its own starred sphere supreme—
The dull deep trance—or phrenzied fever-dream;
These—these are Mysteries—awful and profound,
By no eye fathomed—by no hand unbound!
The impetuous competition—fond and wild—
For the poor dross that hath so long defiled
This groaning World—the dross of Wealth and Pride,
For which all nobler things seem thrust aside;
The Avarice, Luxury—th' envy strife, and hate,
Which this fair Earth so foully desecrate;
The ravening Passions, with their fiery surge,
Which centuries still to circling centuries urge;
These—these things are—these things must ever be
The height, and crown, and front of Mystery!
For the poor dross that hath so long defiled
This groaning World—the dross of Wealth and Pride,
For which all nobler things seem thrust aside;
The Avarice, Luxury—th' envy strife, and hate,
Which this fair Earth so foully desecrate;
The ravening Passions, with their fiery surge,
Which centuries still to circling centuries urge;
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The height, and crown, and front of Mystery!
And all Life's trite and trivial accidents
The causes mean—the mocking consequents—
The foiled endeavours—the ill-weighed effects—
The strange observances, more strange neglects—
The mad devotion to the present day,
Which melts, like snow-flakes in the grasp, away;
The awful oblivion of the time to come,
While ev'ry step we take—is o'er some tomb;
These things are fearful Mysteries—these things make
The pondering Mind to shrink—the Soul to shake.
The causes mean—the mocking consequents—
The foiled endeavours—the ill-weighed effects—
The strange observances, more strange neglects—
The mad devotion to the present day,
Which melts, like snow-flakes in the grasp, away;
The awful oblivion of the time to come,
While ev'ry step we take—is o'er some tomb;
These things are fearful Mysteries—these things make
The pondering Mind to shrink—the Soul to shake.
All things in Nature too, slight, brief, and frail—
That seem but made in vain—but formed to fail
Like very bubbles on her sea-broad scene—
But no! my Soul—these are not base nor mean;
Nothing in mighty Nature's glorious chain
Can be of little worth, or made in vain;
But all things there imperatively tend
To some unseen, unknown, but certain end;
Yet these things for our thoughts perplexed must be,
Bound in the shadowy veil of Mystery!
That seem but made in vain—but formed to fail
Like very bubbles on her sea-broad scene—
But no! my Soul—these are not base nor mean;
Nothing in mighty Nature's glorious chain
Can be of little worth, or made in vain;
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To some unseen, unknown, but certain end;
Yet these things for our thoughts perplexed must be,
Bound in the shadowy veil of Mystery!
Ev'n the most fragile flower in Summer's wreath,
That looks on Life but to decline in Death,
The frail ephemeron that sports an hour,
Then fades forgotten in its birth-place bower,
The mote that floats within the sunny beam,
All have their parts to play—howe'er we deem—
All have their place, their portion, and their part,
While thou, wise Nature, their instructress art;
These scarce are Mysteries to the sage's mind,
Though their full reasons he may fail to find!
That looks on Life but to decline in Death,
The frail ephemeron that sports an hour,
Then fades forgotten in its birth-place bower,
The mote that floats within the sunny beam,
All have their parts to play—howe'er we deem—
All have their place, their portion, and their part,
While thou, wise Nature, their instructress art;
These scarce are Mysteries to the sage's mind,
Though their full reasons he may fail to find!
But all those weak, those worthless vanities,
Which worldly natures ever seek and prize—
Those miserable gewgaws, base and mean,
That are indeed but bubbles on the scene,
Those wretched fooleries that we well may call
Little and low, that have no worth at all—
The trappings and the tinsels that can please
The cheated sense—these things are Mysteries—these!—
And thought and feeling—heart, and soul, and mind
Shall ever these unravelled Mysteries find!
Which worldly natures ever seek and prize—
Those miserable gewgaws, base and mean,
That are indeed but bubbles on the scene,
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Little and low, that have no worth at all—
The trappings and the tinsels that can please
The cheated sense—these things are Mysteries—these!—
And thought and feeling—heart, and soul, and mind
Shall ever these unravelled Mysteries find!
| Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems | |