 | The Two Brothers, and other poems |  |
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THE FAVOURITISMS OF HEAVEN.
In the evening we can longest tarry by the twilight shore,
For at even dreams float on for ever and for evermore:
In the evening stars that glimmer one by one from out the sky
Tell in tones that touch us nearly how in silence time fleets by:
And a voice like none beside them have the winds of falling night,
Hurrying on our spirits with them up to Memory's cloudy height.
In the evening, too, ariseth Hope with all her faëry train,
Turning from the roseate Past to tell us such shall come again.
And at chiming of the vespers, as it chanced, my thoughts I cast,
Half awake and half in dreamings, over my far-crowded Past.
And is't mine then?—Some one answers, “How or what is it to thee?
Nothing but a train of memories like a silver mist at sea:
Here and there a glory scatter'd from the starlight or the moon,
Rising like all things of time,—enthusiast! vanishing as soon.
Thine the present is—go, grasp it; thine the future may be said;
But the Past is nothing, nothing but the shadow of a shade.”
For at even dreams float on for ever and for evermore:
In the evening stars that glimmer one by one from out the sky
Tell in tones that touch us nearly how in silence time fleets by:
And a voice like none beside them have the winds of falling night,
Hurrying on our spirits with them up to Memory's cloudy height.
In the evening, too, ariseth Hope with all her faëry train,
Turning from the roseate Past to tell us such shall come again.
And at chiming of the vespers, as it chanced, my thoughts I cast,
Half awake and half in dreamings, over my far-crowded Past.
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Nothing but a train of memories like a silver mist at sea:
Here and there a glory scatter'd from the starlight or the moon,
Rising like all things of time,—enthusiast! vanishing as soon.
Thine the present is—go, grasp it; thine the future may be said;
But the Past is nothing, nothing but the shadow of a shade.”
Ceased the voice, and much I wonder'd, but I scarcely dared to doubt.
When another spirit answer'd from the silence speaking out,—
“Brother, nay—the Past seems vanish'd save to Memory's listless eye:
No—no—no—the Past is deathless and its record is on high.”
List! it rose a heaving landscape, scarce defined yet wondrous strange,
Gloom and glory like a moon-trance flitting o'er in ceaseless change.
There were springs of crystal rapture, rivulets of sorrow too,
Passion with her storm-tost surges, Peace a lake of softest blue.
Long my musings like a wanderer wandering o'er the haunts of youth,
Slow retraced each bygone feeling in their lucid depths of truth,
Till upon love's fount they centred, purest of all waves that flow,
Fed itself of heaven, yet feeding all the myriad flowers below.
When another spirit answer'd from the silence speaking out,—
“Brother, nay—the Past seems vanish'd save to Memory's listless eye:
No—no—no—the Past is deathless and its record is on high.”
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Gloom and glory like a moon-trance flitting o'er in ceaseless change.
There were springs of crystal rapture, rivulets of sorrow too,
Passion with her storm-tost surges, Peace a lake of softest blue.
Long my musings like a wanderer wandering o'er the haunts of youth,
Slow retraced each bygone feeling in their lucid depths of truth,
Till upon love's fount they centred, purest of all waves that flow,
Fed itself of heaven, yet feeding all the myriad flowers below.
Lean thy heart on mine, beloved,—listen—I have heard men say
That the fondnesses of earth will pass with earthly things away;
All the silent eloquence of clasped hands and falling tears,
All the musical low whispers like the music of the spheres,
All the thrilling strange entrancement fluttering over cheek and eye,
Like the purple lightning playing with the stars in yon blue sky;—
Things we love, because they tell us of the loving heart within,
Feelings of the inmost fountain far beyond the touch of sin;—
These, they say, are human frailties, frailties born of sense and time,
But will be no more remember'd when we reach our native clime.
There, they say, we all are one, and none can love thee least or best,
But as brethren all are equal thro' the myriads of the blest.
That the fondnesses of earth will pass with earthly things away;
All the silent eloquence of clasped hands and falling tears,
All the musical low whispers like the music of the spheres,
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Like the purple lightning playing with the stars in yon blue sky;—
Things we love, because they tell us of the loving heart within,
Feelings of the inmost fountain far beyond the touch of sin;—
These, they say, are human frailties, frailties born of sense and time,
But will be no more remember'd when we reach our native clime.
There, they say, we all are one, and none can love thee least or best,
But as brethren all are equal thro' the myriads of the blest.
It may be an idle question—be my wayward heart forgiven—
How earth's love shall wear the gorgeous bright apparelling of heaven.
It may be we are too venturous, for the light is faint and dim,
And but little knows the pilgrim of the life of seraphim.
Yet I love to think, mine own one, I shall love thee there as here,
Best of all created beings, best of all that angel sphere.
Read we not of earth the seed-time for the glorious world to come?
Faith receiving there her guerdon, sin her saddest dreariest doom?
Have not all the things of life-time issues infinite above?
And shall love reap there no harvest of the scatter'd seeds of love?
What if now we steep affection oft in weeping, oft in sighs,—
They who sow in tears, beloved, reap the rapture of the skies.
How earth's love shall wear the gorgeous bright apparelling of heaven.
It may be we are too venturous, for the light is faint and dim,
And but little knows the pilgrim of the life of seraphim.
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Best of all created beings, best of all that angel sphere.
Read we not of earth the seed-time for the glorious world to come?
Faith receiving there her guerdon, sin her saddest dreariest doom?
Have not all the things of life-time issues infinite above?
And shall love reap there no harvest of the scatter'd seeds of love?
What if now we steep affection oft in weeping, oft in sighs,—
They who sow in tears, beloved, reap the rapture of the skies.
True that we can tell but little how the full flood-tide of love
Swells from out a thousand rivulets in a thousand hearts above;
True we know not now the rapture, nor a thousandth thousandth part,
Seeing Him we loved unseen, and face to face and heart to heart,
Not a cloud to dim that sunshine, there no sorrow, no alarms,
But around thee and beneath thee spread the Everlasting arms.
There untravell'd worlds of beauty slow unfolding on our sight,
Spann'd by heaven's eternal rainbow, interwoven love and light.
But those glories none may utter: how should I then tell it thee?
For how faint and far the glimmerings of the waves of heaven's Light-sea!
Yet, mine own one, tell me truly, think'st thou we shall love the less?
Will that ocean whelm the fountains of thine own true-heartedness?
Hark, thy beating heart makes answer in its old familiar tone,
“All thine own on earth, beloved, and in glory all thine own.”
Swells from out a thousand rivulets in a thousand hearts above;
True we know not now the rapture, nor a thousandth thousandth part,
Seeing Him we loved unseen, and face to face and heart to heart,
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But around thee and beneath thee spread the Everlasting arms.
There untravell'd worlds of beauty slow unfolding on our sight,
Spann'd by heaven's eternal rainbow, interwoven love and light.
But those glories none may utter: how should I then tell it thee?
For how faint and far the glimmerings of the waves of heaven's Light-sea!
Yet, mine own one, tell me truly, think'st thou we shall love the less?
Will that ocean whelm the fountains of thine own true-heartedness?
Hark, thy beating heart makes answer in its old familiar tone,
“All thine own on earth, beloved, and in glory all thine own.”
Watton, 1844.
| The Two Brothers, and other poems | |