St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems By William Alexander |
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AND OTHER POEMS
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ST. AUGUSTINE'S HOLIDAY AND OTHER POEMS
TO ROBERT JOCELYN ALEXANDER.
4.
Lord! all my sins and negligences past,Whereby, though fain, I am powerless to proclaim
Some great thing, worthy of Thy worthy Name,
Pardon. And be Thy royal purple cast
ix
Flush this cold white to a red rose of shame.
And whilst Thou pardonest, Thou the very same,
My different sins, O pardon this the last—
This little song-shaft, full of motes that glance;
This little gem, full of the flaw that pales;
This little verse-book, full of verse that fails;
This little music, full of dissonance;
This little wild-rose, full of dust within;
This little sin that is brimfull of sin.
1
I. POEMS NARRATIVE, SACRED, AND REFLECTIVE.
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ST. AUGUSTINE'S HOLIDAY.
(August to December, A.D. 386.)
Synopsis.
St. Augustine retires to Cassiciacum to prepare for his baptism — His company, especially his mother Monica, his natural son Adeodatus, and the young poet Licentius—Augustine's Latin—Employment of the party—Their studies and discussions—General condition of Christian art and thought—Augustine's love of light; of the sea— Speculations about disembodied spirits—Story of the Notary of Uzala; of Gennadius—Comments upon the Psalter, especially the Penitential Psalms; upon the Miracle of Cana—Licentius reads Virgil aloud—His version of the tale of Dido—Speculations of the young poet upon Virgil's condition in the world of spirits—Conclusion.
[_]
Note.—The books of St. Augustine which belong to this period are these—“De Ordine,” “De Vit. Beat.,” “Contra Academ.,” “De Immort.,” and the “Soliloquia.” Augustine's own narrative has been closely followed throughout this poem. The thoughts attributed to him are generally to be found in his writings. Thus, his feeling for light is beautifully marked in “Confess.,” lib. x. 34. His appreciation of the ocean will be doubted by no one who reads the following sentences. “In cœli et terræ et maris multimodâ et variâ pulchritudine, in ipsius quoque maris tam grandi spectaculo, cum sese diversis coloribus induit velut vestibus, et aliquando viride atque hoc multis modis, aliquando purpureum, aliquendo cœruleum est. Quàm porro delectabiliter spectatur
4
Now the sweet arrow of the Love divine
Resistlessly had pierced Augustine's heart.
The flowers of speech he will no more entwine,
Frequent no more the rhetorician's mart.
He gazes on the sun so long denied,
And the sun-gazer groweth sunny-eyed.
Resistlessly had pierced Augustine's heart.
The flowers of speech he will no more entwine,
Frequent no more the rhetorician's mart.
He gazes on the sun so long denied,
And the sun-gazer groweth sunny-eyed.
“His forehead, deep encrimson'd with the crown;
His lips, so full of grace, all deadly pale;
My Shepherd's wounded heart with woe cast down,
My Shepherd's cheek cut with the cruel hail—
O'er what wild hills, in face of what a foam,
With what exultant arm He bore me home!
His lips, so full of grace, all deadly pale;
My Shepherd's wounded heart with woe cast down,
My Shepherd's cheek cut with the cruel hail—
O'er what wild hills, in face of what a foam,
With what exultant arm He bore me home!
“Wholly for my poor love Himself He gave.
A great gift for a miserable whole;
An ocean for a little dying wave.
And shall I offer him a divided soul,
Half of the mud that in the street doth lie,
If half the azure of the starlit sky?”
A great gift for a miserable whole;
An ocean for a little dying wave.
And shall I offer him a divided soul,
Half of the mud that in the street doth lie,
If half the azure of the starlit sky?”
Said Verecundus, “Thou art ill at ease.
My farm lies north from here but a few leagues;
Fair is its meadow-land, fair its chestnut trees.
Go rest thee well from thy thoughts' long fatigues,
Thou and thy dearest.” So Augustine went
On holiday to that green banishment—
My farm lies north from here but a few leagues;
Fair is its meadow-land, fair its chestnut trees.
Go rest thee well from thy thoughts' long fatigues,
Thou and thy dearest.” So Augustine went
On holiday to that green banishment—
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For rest enfolded in that happy haunt,
For time to meditate the Church's creed;
For prayer, that when from the baptismal font
He rises by regeneration freed,
The white life issuing thence his soul may win
To wear immaculate in a world of sin.
For time to meditate the Church's creed;
For prayer, that when from the baptismal font
He rises by regeneration freed,
The white life issuing thence his soul may win
To wear immaculate in a world of sin.
It was a little company of ten.
Over them all was Monica gently set,
A flower of womanhood for those loving men.
O winter flower, O faded violet,
By what rude fortune from thy garden toss'd,
Paled by what sun, discoloured by what frost?
Over them all was Monica gently set,
A flower of womanhood for those loving men.
O winter flower, O faded violet,
By what rude fortune from thy garden toss'd,
Paled by what sun, discoloured by what frost?
With her a boy of fifteen summers came.
Into the presence of the lad did pass
An influence from a climate as of flame;
And in those lustrous eyes of his there was
A tint of flowers and oceans far away
Amid the woods and waves of Africa.
Into the presence of the lad did pass
An influence from a climate as of flame;
And in those lustrous eyes of his there was
A tint of flowers and oceans far away
Amid the woods and waves of Africa.
Him evermore a shadow overhung,
Not of the great Numidian forests born—
The prophecy of genius that dies young,
The far cloud-film of a too radiant morn.
Ah! they who early pass through one dark gate
Have looks like thine, thou young Adeodate!
Not of the great Numidian forests born—
The prophecy of genius that dies young,
The far cloud-film of a too radiant morn.
Ah! they who early pass through one dark gate
Have looks like thine, thou young Adeodate!
Thou art of those who breathe with a strange smile
The delicate words that only genius saith;
Guests whom God spares us but a little while,
For they are wanted in the land of death,
And leave but tracks of light that was not seen,
Hints of a golden land that might have been.
The delicate words that only genius saith;
Guests whom God spares us but a little while,
For they are wanted in the land of death,
And leave but tracks of light that was not seen,
Hints of a golden land that might have been.
6
Hast thou no mother with a name to note?
It is not written in the tenderest scroll
That love and recollection ever wrote,
The perfected confession of a soul.
Into the dark she glides, a silent shame,
And a veil'd memory without a name.
It is not written in the tenderest scroll
That love and recollection ever wrote,
The perfected confession of a soul.
Into the dark she glides, a silent shame,
And a veil'd memory without a name.
And the world knoweth not what words she pray'd,
With what long wail before the altar wept,
What tale she told, what penitence she made,
What measure by her beating heart was kept,
Nor in what vale or mountain the earth lies
Upon the passionate Carthaginian's eyes.
With what long wail before the altar wept,
What tale she told, what penitence she made,
What measure by her beating heart was kept,
Nor in what vale or mountain the earth lies
Upon the passionate Carthaginian's eyes.
Well that one penitent hath found such grace
As to be silent in the silent years,
That no light hand hath lifted from her face
The silver veil enwoven of her tears.
Well that one book at least, at least one sod,
Keeps close one tender secret of our God.
As to be silent in the silent years,
That no light hand hath lifted from her face
The silver veil enwoven of her tears.
Well that one book at least, at least one sod,
Keeps close one tender secret of our God.
Well that the virgin saints of her may cry,
“Our sister comes, mute after many tears—
Some anguish rounded by a victory
Is hers, some calm after a storm of years.
O noble pity, that consoles her quite!
O large forgiveness, touching all to white!”
“Our sister comes, mute after many tears—
Some anguish rounded by a victory
Is hers, some calm after a storm of years.
O noble pity, that consoles her quite!
O large forgiveness, touching all to white!”
Next comes the laureate of the little throng,
The young Licentius, whose deft art confers
Some grace upon the later Latin song—
Waxwork, not marble, in hexameters—
Drawing in colours soft, but soon to cease,
A pastel for a proud old masterpiece.
The young Licentius, whose deft art confers
Some grace upon the later Latin song—
Waxwork, not marble, in hexameters—
Drawing in colours soft, but soon to cease,
A pastel for a proud old masterpiece.
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But one moves aye among them as the chief—
A thoughtful brow with saint engrav'd thereon.
And there was something of the Psalmist's grief,
And of the inspiration of St. John,
And of the gravity that might beseem
The Plato of that little Academe.
A thoughtful brow with saint engrav'd thereon.
And there was something of the Psalmist's grief,
And of the inspiration of St. John,
And of the gravity that might beseem
The Plato of that little Academe.
Roman his speech, not as men talk'd at Rome.
Here an apostle spake, and there a psalm,
And here philosophy had made its home.
Passion and thought he pack'd in epigram,
Marring the stone of speech wherewith he wrought,
But perfecting the likeness of his thought.
Here an apostle spake, and there a psalm,
And here philosophy had made its home.
Passion and thought he pack'd in epigram,
Marring the stone of speech wherewith he wrought,
But perfecting the likeness of his thought.
O'er all he said there hung a subtle spell.
For with him over sea a native art
He brought, an accent's glamour suiting well
Magnificent barbarisms of the heart,
Learn'd by inhaling 'neath Numidian trees
Sunny solècisms of the provinces.
For with him over sea a native art
He brought, an accent's glamour suiting well
Magnificent barbarisms of the heart,
Learn'd by inhaling 'neath Numidian trees
Sunny solècisms of the provinces.
Four lakes, that made a fourfold heav'n below,
Slept in that pleasant place, where Apennine
Grey-fissured meets the Alpine lines of snow;
Round it a symphony of light divine,
Red on the hill-side, gold along the plain,
The purpling cluster, and the yellowing grain.
Slept in that pleasant place, where Apennine
Grey-fissured meets the Alpine lines of snow;
Round it a symphony of light divine,
Red on the hill-side, gold along the plain,
The purpling cluster, and the yellowing grain.
One of those spots where busy hearts are still
And world-worn natures quietly renew'd.
I see it now, hill rising over hill,
The near ones crested with the olive wood,
And in the bluish distance, where morn breaks,
White behind all a line of snowy peaks.
And world-worn natures quietly renew'd.
I see it now, hill rising over hill,
The near ones crested with the olive wood,
And in the bluish distance, where morn breaks,
White behind all a line of snowy peaks.
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Fair sped the days. At noon, not overproud,
They help'd the rustics with the vines or herd,
Which done, full oft the autumn-tide allow'd
Sweet liberty for prayer or for the word,
Or for discourses grave, or readings made
From a page chequer'd by the chestnut shade.
They help'd the rustics with the vines or herd,
Which done, full oft the autumn-tide allow'd
Sweet liberty for prayer or for the word,
Or for discourses grave, or readings made
From a page chequer'd by the chestnut shade.
Well for the men whose spirits try to scale
The mountain peaks that overtop our lives.
There is a victory for them that fail,
Defeat alone for him who never strives.
High themes wherewith to cope makes weak men strong:—
Well for the men who lived when thought was young.
The mountain peaks that overtop our lives.
There is a victory for them that fail,
Defeat alone for him who never strives.
High themes wherewith to cope makes weak men strong:—
Well for the men who lived when thought was young.
Well for the men who lived in the long ago,
They breath'd an ampler quietude than we;
A few great books which they had time to know,
Fresh as the untiring voices of the sea,
Made the old music that is ever new:—
Well for the men who lived when books were few.
They breath'd an ampler quietude than we;
A few great books which they had time to know,
Fresh as the untiring voices of the sea,
Made the old music that is ever new:—
Well for the men who lived when books were few.
Few books were with them; but they were the best—
The Epistles, Gospels, and prophetic scroll;
The Psalter, too, wherein the ruggedest
Of Latin takes to it a Hebrew soul,
And seems to yearn for music that may reach
The mysteries that lie beyond all speech.
The Epistles, Gospels, and prophetic scroll;
The Psalter, too, wherein the ruggedest
Of Latin takes to it a Hebrew soul,
And seems to yearn for music that may reach
The mysteries that lie beyond all speech.
Others, moreover, which no sage contemns,
Nearest immortal mortals ever wrought,
Whose perfect words are the all-opulent gems
That star the broad brows of the kings of thought,
Whose lines shall live as long as numbers flow—
Plato was there, Plotin, and Cicero.
Nearest immortal mortals ever wrought,
Whose perfect words are the all-opulent gems
That star the broad brows of the kings of thought,
Whose lines shall live as long as numbers flow—
Plato was there, Plotin, and Cicero.
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They show in distance—chief the glorious Greek—
The needle-point of truth enwrapt in mist,
Not the way leading to that difficult peak—
Yet Plato preach'd magnificently Christ.
Yea, in each volume, and on every sod,
Whatever truth man troweth is of God.
The needle-point of truth enwrapt in mist,
Not the way leading to that difficult peak—
Yet Plato preach'd magnificently Christ.
Yea, in each volume, and on every sod,
Whatever truth man troweth is of God.
Now, as I write, I seem to hear the kine,
The rippling murmur of the little stream
That runs toward the bath through banks of vine,
I see the moonlit hills rise like a dream—
The very leaf which autumn-tide brought low
In Lombardy a thousand years ago;
The rippling murmur of the little stream
That runs toward the bath through banks of vine,
I see the moonlit hills rise like a dream—
The very leaf which autumn-tide brought low
In Lombardy a thousand years ago;
And as it dropped insubstantive on the rill,
And sinking help'd to break the brimming flow,
Set moving high discourse of fate and will,
Proving that chance is God's incognito—
That chance, in Heaven's tongue order, interweaves
Vaster variety than waves and leaves.
And sinking help'd to break the brimming flow,
Set moving high discourse of fate and will,
Proving that chance is God's incognito—
That chance, in Heaven's tongue order, interweaves
Vaster variety than waves and leaves.
And oft I meditate what round they made
Of solemn usage and of stately form,
On what fair frame of visible things they stay'd;
What music fell in tears or rose in storm,
What soft imaginative rites they had,
With what investiture their faith they clad.
Of solemn usage and of stately form,
On what fair frame of visible things they stay'd;
What music fell in tears or rose in storm,
What soft imaginative rites they had,
With what investiture their faith they clad.
Not then the church rose visibly encrown'd.
No mighty minster tower'd majestic yet.
No organ gave its plenitude of sound,
And on the Alpine pinnacle was set
No carven King, whose crown is of the thorn,
No Calvary crimson in the southern morn.
No mighty minster tower'd majestic yet.
No organ gave its plenitude of sound,
And on the Alpine pinnacle was set
No carven King, whose crown is of the thorn,
No Calvary crimson in the southern morn.
10
No miracle of beauty and of woe
Look'd from the wall, or for the rood was hewn,
No colour'd sunlight fell on the floor below.
Under the silver of the Italian moon,
No visible throng of angels made their home
On the white wonder of the Gothic dome.
Look'd from the wall, or for the rood was hewn,
No colour'd sunlight fell on the floor below.
Under the silver of the Italian moon,
No visible throng of angels made their home
On the white wonder of the Gothic dome.
Yet, fed with inward beauty through the years,
Much did the Church's mind anticipate
Of more majestic fanes, more tuneful tears,
Simplicity more touching, nobler state.
—So the pale bud, where quietly it grows,
Dreams itself on superbly to the rose.
Much did the Church's mind anticipate
Of more majestic fanes, more tuneful tears,
Simplicity more touching, nobler state.
—So the pale bud, where quietly it grows,
Dreams itself on superbly to the rose.
Questions by meditative wisdom ask'd
Must wait for answer till the hour beseems;
Souls were as yet unborn severely task'd
To give interpretation to such dreams;
Shapes by the master-hands as yet unfreed
Slept in the massive marble of the Creed.
Must wait for answer till the hour beseems;
Souls were as yet unborn severely task'd
To give interpretation to such dreams;
Shapes by the master-hands as yet unfreed
Slept in the massive marble of the Creed.
The picture slept within the Gospel story;
The music slept on psalms as on a sea;
In a dim dawn before its dawn of glory
The poem slept, a thought that was to be.
The schoolmen's syllogisms, a countless train,
Were folded in that strong and subtle brain.
The music slept on psalms as on a sea;
In a dim dawn before its dawn of glory
The poem slept, a thought that was to be.
The schoolmen's syllogisms, a countless train,
Were folded in that strong and subtle brain.
Christ said, “I need them.” Out the colour sprang,
The music wailed and triumph'd down the aisles,
With voices like the forest's poets sang,
Invisible thoughts grew visible in smiles—
In smiles, and tears, and songs, and the exact
Majestic speech by centuries compact.
The music wailed and triumph'd down the aisles,
With voices like the forest's poets sang,
Invisible thoughts grew visible in smiles—
In smiles, and tears, and songs, and the exact
Majestic speech by centuries compact.
11
Sometimes at morning, or at eventide,
Augustine look'd upon the lake and sky—
Not there the glory of light for which he sigh'd
In all the autumn heaven of Italy.
“Poor shadows are ye—yea, but dimly bright
To me remembering that grander light.
Augustine look'd upon the lake and sky—
Not there the glory of light for which he sigh'd
In all the autumn heaven of Italy.
“Poor shadows are ye—yea, but dimly bright
To me remembering that grander light.
“Ah, light! with its attendants all day long,
Soothing and charming with a magic touch.
It passes not like every measured song,
Its vast and variegated train is such,
Its omnipresent tide of silver flow,
The queen of all the colours of the bow.
Soothing and charming with a magic touch.
It passes not like every measured song,
Its vast and variegated train is such,
Its omnipresent tide of silver flow,
The queen of all the colours of the bow.
“O light! which Isaac and which Jacob saw
Falling upon the dim prophetic scroll,
When with closed eyes they taught the holiest law,
The light that radiates from the luminous soul—
True light thou art of an unsetting sun,
And all who see thee and who love are one.
Falling upon the dim prophetic scroll,
When with closed eyes they taught the holiest law,
The light that radiates from the luminous soul—
True light thou art of an unsetting sun,
And all who see thee and who love are one.
“And they who turn away and this disdain
Dwell in the flesh as in a shady place;
And yet of this whatever doth remain,
Whate'er half-glooming glimmer touch their face,—
Yea, all that charms—is overflow divine,
And circumfulgence of that light of Thine.
Dwell in the flesh as in a shady place;
And yet of this whatever doth remain,
Whate'er half-glooming glimmer touch their face,—
Yea, all that charms—is overflow divine,
And circumfulgence of that light of Thine.
“Yet even here, upon this lawn of rest,
I miss the splendour of my own far ocean,
The various robes which wondrously invest
The evanescent moods of his emotion—
Green of a hundred shades and the fine fall
Of azure tint and pomp purpureal.
I miss the splendour of my own far ocean,
The various robes which wondrously invest
The evanescent moods of his emotion—
Green of a hundred shades and the fine fall
Of azure tint and pomp purpureal.
12
“Fair are these waters as these hills are fair,
A fit enfolding for a rustic home;
But who their narrow beauty may compare
With that majestic amplitude of foam?
These azure reaches where the reeds scarce shake
The long calm silver of the Lombard lake,
A fit enfolding for a rustic home;
But who their narrow beauty may compare
With that majestic amplitude of foam?
These azure reaches where the reeds scarce shake
The long calm silver of the Lombard lake,
“They cannot thunder with a voice like his,
They cannot show the immeasurable line,
They have no smoke of white foam o'er the abyss,
No distances that infinitely shine,
No beat of a great heart, no pendulous swing,
No angry flap as of an eagle's wing.
They cannot show the immeasurable line,
They have no smoke of white foam o'er the abyss,
No distances that infinitely shine,
No beat of a great heart, no pendulous swing,
No angry flap as of an eagle's wing.
“He has the magic swell, the tinkling fall,
In drowsy days of truce, when skies are pure,
Monotonous, incessant, musical;
And when his trumpets sound for war, the obscure
Æonian eloquence, the vast replies
Voluminous, the interminable sighs.
In drowsy days of truce, when skies are pure,
Monotonous, incessant, musical;
And when his trumpets sound for war, the obscure
Æonian eloquence, the vast replies
Voluminous, the interminable sighs.
“The fierceness of him no man shall refrain—
See him with all his water-floods astir,
Like a great king, nigh dispossess'd of his reign,
Staggering with fated hosts, a traveller
Against the wind upon his shoreward track,
His torn white hair tormentedly blown back.
See him with all his water-floods astir,
Like a great king, nigh dispossess'd of his reign,
Staggering with fated hosts, a traveller
Against the wind upon his shoreward track,
His torn white hair tormentedly blown back.
“They have but one sweet look and steadfast tone;
Save when the tempest's battle may be set,
The war of their white passion passes soon;
His the great epic, theirs the canzonet,
And the brief storm-bursts like an angry ode,
And the floods flashing like an episode.”
Save when the tempest's battle may be set,
The war of their white passion passes soon;
His the great epic, theirs the canzonet,
And the brief storm-bursts like an angry ode,
And the floods flashing like an episode.”
13
Another while I seem'd to hear him speak:
They had been calling back weird tales of ghosts,
Stories that grimly float in lands antique,
Faint, fragmentary voices from grey coasts,
And the dim notices we sometimes have
From the far land that lies beyond the grave.
They had been calling back weird tales of ghosts,
Stories that grimly float in lands antique,
Faint, fragmentary voices from grey coasts,
And the dim notices we sometimes have
From the far land that lies beyond the grave.
“Now, hear my stories. A few years ago
Lived a boy-notary in Uzala town.
Letter'd full fair the sentences did flow
From his quick pen. At first, youth's rosy crown
He wore with laughter; then, the world abhorr'd,
Like Tertius ever writing in the Lord.
Lived a boy-notary in Uzala town.
Letter'd full fair the sentences did flow
From his quick pen. At first, youth's rosy crown
He wore with laughter; then, the world abhorr'd,
Like Tertius ever writing in the Lord.
“He sicken'd in the feverish Autumn tide,
And lay for sixteen days 'twixt death and life;
But a few days before he gently died,
And found his consolation after strife,
Faintly, half smiling, sang ere he went to rest,
‘Poculum tuum quám prœclarum est.’
And lay for sixteen days 'twixt death and life;
But a few days before he gently died,
And found his consolation after strife,
Faintly, half smiling, sang ere he went to rest,
‘Poculum tuum quám prœclarum est.’
“Then his own hand upon his forehead sign'd
The holy cross, and on his lips did trace;
And on the pillow where his head declined,
Lay the sharp shadow of an old man's face—
So worn it was—but after a little while
Back came the boy-look and the innocent smile.
The holy cross, and on his lips did trace;
And on the pillow where his head declined,
Lay the sharp shadow of an old man's face—
So worn it was—but after a little while
Back came the boy-look and the innocent smile.
“Thereafter on the third day his friends came,
To whom the tidings of his death was sent.
The priests he loved were gather'd to proclaim
Redemption's sweet and awful sacrament.
Now two days later was a vision seen.
There rose a palace from a meadow green;
To whom the tidings of his death was sent.
The priests he loved were gather'd to proclaim
Redemption's sweet and awful sacrament.
Now two days later was a vision seen.
There rose a palace from a meadow green;
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“From it funereal music sounded slow,
A faint sweet scent went out upon the air;
The great gates open'd noiselessly; and lo!
Its halls and floors were golden everywhere,
And passing stately out with sound of chants
An old man stood with two white pursuivants.
A faint sweet scent went out upon the air;
The great gates open'd noiselessly; and lo!
Its halls and floors were golden everywhere,
And passing stately out with sound of chants
An old man stood with two white pursuivants.
“And, ‘Lift me the boy's body for awhile
Heavenward,’ he said, ‘for heavenward was his walk.’
Which done, for peradventure half a mile,
Rose-trees appear'd, a bud on every stalk.
Buds of the roses red and white were they—
Such buds are virgins call'd in Africa.
Heavenward,’ he said, ‘for heavenward was his walk.’
Which done, for peradventure half a mile,
Rose-trees appear'd, a bud on every stalk.
Buds of the roses red and white were they—
Such buds are virgins call'd in Africa.
“And when the priest, his father, came that night,
And threw himself in prayer on the boy's grave,
Lo! in the glory of a silver light
A thousand rosebuds lay on it, and gave
Such attestation as mute things may give
To those whose lives unstain'd by passion live.
And threw himself in prayer on the boy's grave,
Lo! in the glory of a silver light
A thousand rosebuds lay on it, and gave
Such attestation as mute things may give
To those whose lives unstain'd by passion live.
“Of roses, my Licentius! singing next,
With Horace sing not, myrtled at his wine;
Be not thy verse with paynimry perplex'd,
But raise thy poesy to strains divine,
And tell how fitly angel hands let fall
Such virgin gifts for spirits virginal.
With Horace sing not, myrtled at his wine;
Be not thy verse with paynimry perplex'd,
But raise thy poesy to strains divine,
And tell how fitly angel hands let fall
Such virgin gifts for spirits virginal.
“Now for a graver tale. In youth I knew
Gennadius, a physician. Over sea
He came to Africa, and not a few
Brought with him of the youth of Italy;
Preferring for his science and his home
The marble streets of Carthage to his Rome.
Gennadius, a physician. Over sea
He came to Africa, and not a few
Brought with him of the youth of Italy;
Preferring for his science and his home
The marble streets of Carthage to his Rome.
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“From groping in the mechanism of our frame
There was a faltering in the good man's faith;
Not once or twice to him the question came,
Whether for man a life were after death,
Haunting him as he thought of heart and brain,
And track'd the dim tremendous path of pain.
There was a faltering in the good man's faith;
Not once or twice to him the question came,
Whether for man a life were after death,
Haunting him as he thought of heart and brain,
And track'd the dim tremendous path of pain.
“Yet still he pray'd, ‘O life of every life,
O truth believed in first, then understood,
Give me the prize that is not won by strife;
Give me faith's sweet translucent certitude.’
Then a voice came to him o'er sleep's soft sea,
Saying, ‘Arise, Gennadius, follow me.’
O truth believed in first, then understood,
Give me the prize that is not won by strife;
Give me faith's sweet translucent certitude.’
Then a voice came to him o'er sleep's soft sea,
Saying, ‘Arise, Gennadius, follow me.’
“Him following, to a certain place he fared,
Where on the right there rose a dulcet strain
Beyond all sweetness he had ever heard;
And as he listen'd to that soft refrain,
‘This,’ said the spirit who him had in trust,
‘This is the music of the perfect just.’
Where on the right there rose a dulcet strain
Beyond all sweetness he had ever heard;
And as he listen'd to that soft refrain,
‘This,’ said the spirit who him had in trust,
‘This is the music of the perfect just.’
“So he awoke, and cried, ‘A dream at best.’
But the next night the very same young man
Came, saying, ‘Gennadius, thou rememberest—
Answer, and I will help thee as I can—
The things thine eyes and ears did lately take;
Saw'st thou and heard'st in vision, or awake?
But the next night the very same young man
Came, saying, ‘Gennadius, thou rememberest—
Answer, and I will help thee as I can—
The things thine eyes and ears did lately take;
Saw'st thou and heard'st in vision, or awake?
“‘Can thy cold skill or cunning scalpel find
A way to that impenetrable lair,
The life intense of the impalpable mind?
Or canst thou tell thy purblind scholars where
The ear that hears the swell as of the sea,
The wondrous eyes wherewith thou seest me?
A way to that impenetrable lair,
The life intense of the impalpable mind?
Or canst thou tell thy purblind scholars where
The ear that hears the swell as of the sea,
The wondrous eyes wherewith thou seest me?
16
“‘So when thy body lieth in its bed,
Be it the ocean wave, or burial sod,
When thou art of the sleepers men call dead,
That in thee which is deathless may see God.
There may be gloom or gleam for the soul's eyes
In doleful dells, or bowers of Paradise.’”
Be it the ocean wave, or burial sod,
When thou art of the sleepers men call dead,
That in thee which is deathless may see God.
There may be gloom or gleam for the soul's eyes
In doleful dells, or bowers of Paradise.’”
Often he took the Psalter in his hand,
And turn'd to pages blister'd long with tears,
The balm of broken hearts in every land,
The consolation of a thousand years;
And nobly bold told penitents their bliss,
In gentle images perchance like this—
And turn'd to pages blister'd long with tears,
The balm of broken hearts in every land,
The consolation of a thousand years;
And nobly bold told penitents their bliss,
In gentle images perchance like this—
“Look when thou walkest by the winter strand,
Hath it befallen thee, that through the grey
Of the sea mist, into thy very hand,
Floated a snow-white bird through the salt spray,
Fair, but deep wounded, bubbling from its beak
A thin red foam, with faint infantine shriek?
Hath it befallen thee, that through the grey
Of the sea mist, into thy very hand,
Floated a snow-white bird through the salt spray,
Fair, but deep wounded, bubbling from its beak
A thin red foam, with faint infantine shriek?
“Which noting, to thyself thou mad'st a dirge—
‘There is no healing in this hand of mine;
Here must thou die, by the unpitying surge;
Not in the long blue distances divine,
Not in thy little happiness upborne
On seas refulgent with the rosy morn.’
‘There is no healing in this hand of mine;
Here must thou die, by the unpitying surge;
Not in the long blue distances divine,
Not in thy little happiness upborne
On seas refulgent with the rosy morn.’
“Such, and so sorely wounded, floating in,
Are penitents beside the sea of time:
Such, and so deep, the crimson stain of sin,
The scar we bear in this ungentle clime.
But lo! a healing Hand our wound above,
Strong as eternity, and soft as love.
Are penitents beside the sea of time:
Such, and so deep, the crimson stain of sin,
The scar we bear in this ungentle clime.
But lo! a healing Hand our wound above,
Strong as eternity, and soft as love.
17
“And a sweet voice that unto us hath lent
A new beginning and a nobler flight.
So to poor hearts He gives incontinent
A larger liberty of golden light;
Makes more than expiation for our fault,
And arches over us His bluest vault,
A new beginning and a nobler flight.
So to poor hearts He gives incontinent
A larger liberty of golden light;
Makes more than expiation for our fault,
And arches over us His bluest vault,
“Saying, ‘I charge thee, O my wounded bird,
Soar nearer to the heaven where'er thou art;
Let all the breezes by thy plumes be stirr'd;
I heal thee through and through, O bleeding heart!
I ask thy song, and give thee voice to sing;
I bid thee soar, and give thee strength of wing.
Soar nearer to the heaven where'er thou art;
Let all the breezes by thy plumes be stirr'd;
I heal thee through and through, O bleeding heart!
I ask thy song, and give thee voice to sing;
I bid thee soar, and give thee strength of wing.
“‘What I command I give my mourners still,
Give the delight that doth the victory gain;
Give first, and then command them as I will,
Sweet penitence taking pleasure in its pain.
I bid thee set those psalms of sorrow seven
To the allegro of the airs of Heaven.’”
Give the delight that doth the victory gain;
Give first, and then command them as I will,
Sweet penitence taking pleasure in its pain.
I bid thee set those psalms of sorrow seven
To the allegro of the airs of Heaven.’”
And yet another time methought one read
The gentle miracle of the Marriage Feast.
“Ours be the sweetness of the wine,” he said,
“The bridal benediction of our Priest;
And in the silence of our hearts be heard
The voiceless words of Him who is the Word.
The gentle miracle of the Marriage Feast.
“Ours be the sweetness of the wine,” he said,
“The bridal benediction of our Priest;
And in the silence of our hearts be heard
The voiceless words of Him who is the Word.
“Each vineyard is a purple curtain screen,
Whereon God's colours we may ever trace;
God's usual is man's always, and is seen
Paled by too constant light to common place;
And scarcely do our drowsy hearts revere
The miracle of vintage every year.
Whereon God's colours we may ever trace;
God's usual is man's always, and is seen
Paled by too constant light to common place;
And scarcely do our drowsy hearts revere
The miracle of vintage every year.
18
“God is not bound by laws Himself has made;
Water is not less wonderful than wine;
God's living finger weaves a pattern'd braid,
Yet in full liberty of love divine,
And still free notes of a new music dwell
In Heaven's sweet novelty of miracle.
Water is not less wonderful than wine;
God's living finger weaves a pattern'd braid,
Yet in full liberty of love divine,
And still free notes of a new music dwell
In Heaven's sweet novelty of miracle.
“Lo! the world's gifts are goodliest at first—
The rapturous enjoyment, the rich sense,
The revelling draught—thereafter the fierce thirst,
The dark'ning sky, the passionate impotence.
But Thou hast kept Thy light for our eclipse—
Kept Thy good wine for pale and dying lips.”
The rapturous enjoyment, the rich sense,
The revelling draught—thereafter the fierce thirst,
The dark'ning sky, the passionate impotence.
But Thou hast kept Thy light for our eclipse—
Kept Thy good wine for pale and dying lips.”
And once, when near its end their idlesse drew,
It chanced the afternoon was mild and fine.
The Master cried, “What ho! the sky is blue.
Come, poet, read the verse thou call'st divine.
Nay, and I will not blame thee overmuch
If thou mix with it thine own gentle touch.
It chanced the afternoon was mild and fine.
The Master cried, “What ho! the sky is blue.
Come, poet, read the verse thou call'st divine.
Nay, and I will not blame thee overmuch
If thou mix with it thine own gentle touch.
“Thy Virgil bring. With him thou shalt bring flowers,
Odours emparadised in some fadeless phrase.
Thou shalt set bees a-humming in the bowers,
And make us weep for old immortal days;
And, pagan though he be, yet shall we bless
God's gift in him of exquisite tenderness.
Odours emparadised in some fadeless phrase.
Thou shalt set bees a-humming in the bowers,
And make us weep for old immortal days;
And, pagan though he be, yet shall we bless
God's gift in him of exquisite tenderness.
“Fling, then, o'er us the great magician's spell,
Read with meet cadence while the eve is clear
Tell o'er again what our hearts know so well.
The moonlit sea shall quiver as we hear—
In one six-beated line a tale be stored,
A garden gather'd in one perfect word.”
Read with meet cadence while the eve is clear
Tell o'er again what our hearts know so well.
The moonlit sea shall quiver as we hear—
In one six-beated line a tale be stored,
A garden gather'd in one perfect word.”
19
To whom Licentius. “Lately I was thinking
Of the delicious love-tale Virgil wrought—
Out of his cup my spirit had been drinking;
Rather, I sank into his ocean thought.
And with the tide I swam that summer sea,
And all its waves grew buoyant under me.
Of the delicious love-tale Virgil wrought—
Out of his cup my spirit had been drinking;
Rather, I sank into his ocean thought.
And with the tide I swam that summer sea,
And all its waves grew buoyant under me.
“There was a murmur in my ears and heart,
Whereof the larger music came from him;
But of mine own there was a little part,
Little indeed to his, and harsh and dim.
Of Homer's mighty song and high intent
Sonorous echo, theft magnificent
Whereof the larger music came from him;
But of mine own there was a little part,
Little indeed to his, and harsh and dim.
Of Homer's mighty song and high intent
Sonorous echo, theft magnificent
“He made; but ah! I marr'd whate'er I stole—
He the rich-fruited scion, the stem I
Of the poor pomegranate, lending to the whole
Only the red tint of my poverty—
He like the bird's white wing above the river,
I the white shadow that can reach it never.
He the rich-fruited scion, the stem I
Of the poor pomegranate, lending to the whole
Only the red tint of my poverty—
He like the bird's white wing above the river,
I the white shadow that can reach it never.
“Listen! I breath'd our soft Numidian air;
I saw Elissa to the hunting go;
The golden-netted sunshine of her hair
Flicker'd in sunshine as it fell below.
The golden baldrick flung she round her breast,
The golden fibula clasp'd her purple vest.
I saw Elissa to the hunting go;
The golden-netted sunshine of her hair
Flicker'd in sunshine as it fell below.
The golden baldrick flung she round her breast,
The golden fibula clasp'd her purple vest.
“With yellow jasper stone his sword hilt starr'd,
He how majestic, like a prince indeed,
How stately she, how regal of regard!
A huntress on her white Massylian steed.
And, though the jocund morning waxes late,
Herself impatient makes her lover wait,—
He how majestic, like a prince indeed,
How stately she, how regal of regard!
A huntress on her white Massylian steed.
And, though the jocund morning waxes late,
Herself impatient makes her lover wait,—
20
“Who looks like Phœbus, when he Cynthus treads,
After the Lycian snows and streams ice-mute,
Walking with murmurous rush of river-beds;
While heav'n is silver o'er him, and underfoot
Anemones spring, and daffodils are born
For golden tassels to his bugle horn.
After the Lycian snows and streams ice-mute,
Walking with murmurous rush of river-beds;
While heav'n is silver o'er him, and underfoot
Anemones spring, and daffodils are born
For golden tassels to his bugle horn.
“Ah me! how beautiful to her he seem'd,
To whom such fascination there was given.
The mountain-tops whereon his boyhood dream'd,
Had forests haunted by the hosts of Heaven.
Out of the sunset sky ablaze with flame,
Out of the silver silences he came;
To whom such fascination there was given.
The mountain-tops whereon his boyhood dream'd,
Had forests haunted by the hosts of Heaven.
Out of the sunset sky ablaze with flame,
Out of the silver silences he came;
“Came with the music of the Idalian pines
Round him, with whisper'd message from the star,
His mother's herald o'er the mountain lines,
Until dawn steeps her pure pale primrose bar
In rosiest colour'd radiance ever born
Out of the ivory palaces of morn;—
Round him, with whisper'd message from the star,
His mother's herald o'er the mountain lines,
Until dawn steeps her pure pale primrose bar
In rosiest colour'd radiance ever born
Out of the ivory palaces of morn;—
“Came with such touch of moonlight on his sail,
From such resplendent distances of foam,
With all the loveliness of such a tale,
The spell of such a visionary home;
And finely floated round that princely form
A mystery of the battle and the storm.
From such resplendent distances of foam,
With all the loveliness of such a tale,
The spell of such a visionary home;
And finely floated round that princely form
A mystery of the battle and the storm.
“Full soon she sobs, ‘Stay if my prayer avails;
Train me to bear the last long parting thus;
Stay till our Afric wild-flow'rs fill the dales,
Till yon waves look less strange and dangerous,
Till I shall discipline this poor heart so
That with the swallows I may let thee go.
Train me to bear the last long parting thus;
Stay till our Afric wild-flow'rs fill the dales,
Till yon waves look less strange and dangerous,
Till I shall discipline this poor heart so
That with the swallows I may let thee go.
21
“‘Ah! an thou fleest, then my wraith be found
Where'er thy fateful footsteps yet shall stand—
My very shadow shall be gold-encrown'd,
My very shadow shall be sad and grand;
My shadow haunt thee on each sea and lawn,
Mute in the moonlight, dying in the dawn.’
Where'er thy fateful footsteps yet shall stand—
My very shadow shall be gold-encrown'd,
My very shadow shall be sad and grand;
My shadow haunt thee on each sea and lawn,
Mute in the moonlight, dying in the dawn.’
“Perchance he would have stay'd, but not in vain
The calling to our purpose on us lies.
Our lives are links in a remorseless chain.
Of what avail to her that his heart sighs
‘Elissa, and a Carthaginian home.’
When Heaven and all its influence will have Rome?
The calling to our purpose on us lies.
Our lives are links in a remorseless chain.
Of what avail to her that his heart sighs
‘Elissa, and a Carthaginian home.’
When Heaven and all its influence will have Rome?
“Soon this hath passed. The parting all is o'er,
And all her passionate reproach of him,
And all the watching from the salt seashore
Of the sail fading o'er the ocean rim—
Of the sail fading on the cruel sea,
On the false wave not half so false as he.
And all her passionate reproach of him,
And all the watching from the salt seashore
Of the sail fading o'er the ocean rim—
Of the sail fading on the cruel sea,
On the false wave not half so false as he.
“Night, gentle night, rush'd from the Afric sky.
Head under wing the birds of wave and air
Slept, hushing all their sweet small poesy.
If we have our forgetfulness of care,
So have those little hearts in bower and brake,
And the still dreamland of the starlit lake.
Head under wing the birds of wave and air
Slept, hushing all their sweet small poesy.
If we have our forgetfulness of care,
So have those little hearts in bower and brake,
And the still dreamland of the starlit lake.
“But she her fiery bed premeditates,
And ‘Let him see the smoke, a far off breath,’
She wails; ‘a blur on Summer's lustrous gates,
And bear with him the omen of my death—
Ah no! my poor heart be, till it wax dim,
A taper on a shrine, and burn for him.
And ‘Let him see the smoke, a far off breath,’
She wails; ‘a blur on Summer's lustrous gates,
And bear with him the omen of my death—
Ah no! my poor heart be, till it wax dim,
A taper on a shrine, and burn for him.
22
“‘And if so be that Herè in her ruth
Send Iris with the hopes and hues of heav'n
To hang above my death, I pray in sooth
That half the sweetness may to him be given,
And half my rainbow melt away in rose
And violet on the ocean where he goes.’
Send Iris with the hopes and hues of heav'n
To hang above my death, I pray in sooth
That half the sweetness may to him be given,
And half my rainbow melt away in rose
And violet on the ocean where he goes.’
“This passed away—and then meseem'd to tread
This underworld in visionary sleep.
Æneas-like I visited the dead.
Behold! a spirit pass'd, who seem'd to weep
Not hopelessly. ‘Young Poet!’ did he say,
Men call'd me Maro while I saw the day.
This underworld in visionary sleep.
Æneas-like I visited the dead.
Behold! a spirit pass'd, who seem'd to weep
Not hopelessly. ‘Young Poet!’ did he say,
Men call'd me Maro while I saw the day.
“‘Each of us poets hath his proper gift;
Not all the gift to use the gift aright.
Red cups of battle or of wine they lift
Wildly, and stain what should be lily white.
Each bloom has thus its cankerworm within,
Each splendid line is thus a splendid sin.
Not all the gift to use the gift aright.
Red cups of battle or of wine they lift
Wildly, and stain what should be lily white.
Each bloom has thus its cankerworm within,
Each splendid line is thus a splendid sin.
“‘And others sang high strains with mean intent
Or for the tyrant of their little time,
Or gave to hatred what for love was meant;
Less than immortal made immortal rhyme,
So that the satire with the years has grown
A fossil scorpion with a sting of stone.
Or for the tyrant of their little time,
Or gave to hatred what for love was meant;
Less than immortal made immortal rhyme,
So that the satire with the years has grown
A fossil scorpion with a sting of stone.
“‘The Latin tongue was lent me at my will.
Lo! the flowers fade upon the summer leas
The storm of battle passes, and is still;
But sorrow is a deeper thing than these—
Sorrow for human things lasts through the years
I was the first that chose the gift of tears.
Lo! the flowers fade upon the summer leas
The storm of battle passes, and is still;
But sorrow is a deeper thing than these—
Sorrow for human things lasts through the years
I was the first that chose the gift of tears.
23
“‘I used it as an instrument to express
Beyond all battle camps, and courts of kings,
The majesty of human tenderness,
Sweet ruth for the vicissitudes of things—
The subtle pathos, the magnetic touch,
The broken voice that tells the heart so much.
Beyond all battle camps, and courts of kings,
The majesty of human tenderness,
Sweet ruth for the vicissitudes of things—
The subtle pathos, the magnetic touch,
The broken voice that tells the heart so much.
“‘Once the dim prophecies floating round the earth
I gather'd—thornless roses, stormless seas,
Meadows in blossom for a better birth,
Mother and child, nova progenies—
All this I twined for all the race of man
In higher strains than aught Sicilian.
I gather'd—thornless roses, stormless seas,
Meadows in blossom for a better birth,
Mother and child, nova progenies—
All this I twined for all the race of man
In higher strains than aught Sicilian.
“‘And is it nothing that I taught all this,
That through the world's confusion sweetly smiled
Before me the conception of our bliss,
The happiest Mother, the divinest Child,
That scarcely once or twice did touch impure
Fall on my virginal emportraiture?’
That through the world's confusion sweetly smiled
Before me the conception of our bliss,
The happiest Mother, the divinest Child,
That scarcely once or twice did touch impure
Fall on my virginal emportraiture?’
“Then with low voice he ask'd, ‘And is there hope?
Or must I wander always—lost, lost, lost?’
Out like a rose the dawn began to ope,
This side and that the clouds were crimson cross'd,
And manifold voices round us seem'd to say,
‘Yea, there is hope, but it is far away.’
Or must I wander always—lost, lost, lost?’
Out like a rose the dawn began to ope,
This side and that the clouds were crimson cross'd,
And manifold voices round us seem'd to say,
‘Yea, there is hope, but it is far away.’
“Ah! not so far—for low and winning sweet,
‘Venite, invenietis,’ some one said;
Like breath of balm upon the heart it beat.
Light ran along the region of the dead.
The echoes multiplied from east to west,
‘Venite ad me omnes—suave est.’”
‘Venite, invenietis,’ some one said;
Like breath of balm upon the heart it beat.
Light ran along the region of the dead.
The echoes multiplied from east to west,
‘Venite ad me omnes—suave est.’”
24
Licentius ceased. To Elissa's tale at even
A hundred times within the twenty years
Augustine's tender heart had duly given
The tributary offering of his tears.
Yet,—while the boy's big drops of ruth he chid,
The salt dew trembled on the Master's lid.
A hundred times within the twenty years
Augustine's tender heart had duly given
The tributary offering of his tears.
Yet,—while the boy's big drops of ruth he chid,
The salt dew trembled on the Master's lid.
And Monica thought how first she read the tale
In her Numidian home at eventide,
Thought of Æneas with each sunlit sail,
Thought of Elissa with each wave that died.
The saint perhaps condemned it, but alas!
The woman sigh'd, and said how sweet it was.
In her Numidian home at eventide,
Thought of Æneas with each sunlit sail,
Thought of Elissa with each wave that died.
The saint perhaps condemned it, but alas!
The woman sigh'd, and said how sweet it was.
As to the boy's deep ruth and tender prayer
For Virgil, be there silence grave and wise.
The mother of the Master was aware
How the first woodland walk through which we rise
To the precipitous mountain peak of truth
Is love—the sunlit heresy of youth.
For Virgil, be there silence grave and wise.
The mother of the Master was aware
How the first woodland walk through which we rise
To the precipitous mountain peak of truth
Is love—the sunlit heresy of youth.
The holiday is o'er—the rest is done.
Cassiciácum lies in sunny mist;
They turn toward it, praying every one,
“To Verecundus do thou give, O Christ!
For that sweet rest beneath the happy skies
The fadeless greenery of Thy Paradise.”
Cassiciácum lies in sunny mist;
They turn toward it, praying every one,
“To Verecundus do thou give, O Christ!
For that sweet rest beneath the happy skies
The fadeless greenery of Thy Paradise.”
Never was yet to-day whose incompleteness
Fail'd not in somewhat of the bliss it brought,
Till it inherited the dim faint sweetness,
The immaculate azure of the sky of thought;
Till we baptized the dead hours far away
By the ethereal name of yesterday.
Fail'd not in somewhat of the bliss it brought,
Till it inherited the dim faint sweetness,
The immaculate azure of the sky of thought;
Till we baptized the dead hours far away
By the ethereal name of yesterday.
25
So “My one holiday,” oft the old man cried;
“When shall the Bishop's holiday come again?”
When the fierce Huns are on the mountain-side,
And he lies sick to death in August; when
The cactus flowers of Hippo 'neath the blue
Are steep'd with crimson blood-drops through and through;
“When shall the Bishop's holiday come again?”
When the fierce Huns are on the mountain-side,
And he lies sick to death in August; when
The cactus flowers of Hippo 'neath the blue
Are steep'd with crimson blood-drops through and through;
When through the date groves in the scarce-lit dales
Over the Seybous and his dreaming calms,
The importunate sweetness of the nightingales
Comes to the old man falling asleep with psalms;
And, a thin thread of scarlet, morning breaks
Silently on the Atlantéan peaks.
Over the Seybous and his dreaming calms,
The importunate sweetness of the nightingales
Comes to the old man falling asleep with psalms;
And, a thin thread of scarlet, morning breaks
Silently on the Atlantéan peaks.
26
AN OLD VOLUME OF SERMONS.
Sancti Bernardi in Cantica.
Synopsis.
Study of the Song of Songs—Two schools of interpretation—The first represented by M. Renan's “Le Cantique”—The vaudeville theory —The second represented by St. Bernard's LXXXVI. Sermons upon Canticles—The influence of the book upon the saint's life— His early days—His mother Aleth—His renunciation of the world and of the worldly side of the Church—He brings with him his whole family, including his father, Sir Tescelin, and his sister, Humbeline —Clairvaux—Spiritual power of St. Bernard's teaching—Visit of St. Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, to Clairvaux—His death there —Death of his brother Girard—Incapacity of nature to console— St. Bernard's sermon on Cant. i. 5—The Pope visits Clairvaux— Simplicity of his reception—Sermon on Cant. ii. 16—Conclusion —Cant. v. 2, 5—Summary of the spiritual interpretation.
[_]
Note.—In the composition of this poem, I have constantly availed myself of the interesting and accurate notices (Note sur Fontaine-les-Dijon, patrie de St. Bernard, par l'Abbé Chenevet) and other local papers in the fourth volume of Migne's edition of St. Bernard's works, pp. 1621-1661.
The death of St. Malachy at Clairvaux took place in 1148. St.
Bernard has written the archbishop's life, which is here closely followed.
The visit of Pope Innocent to Clairvaux was many years earlier,
in 1131. Ernald's account has been carefully used. “A pauperibus
Christi, non purpurâ et bysso ornatis, nec cum deauratis Evangeliis
occurrentibus, sed pannosis agminibus scopulosam bajulantibus crucem,
non tumultuantium classicorum tonitruo, non clamosâ jubilatione, sed
suppressâ modulatione affectuosissime susceptus est. Flebant episcopi,
fleba tipse summus Pontifex; omnes mirabantur congregationis illius
gravitatem. Nihil in ecclesiâ illâ videbat Romanus quod cuperet.
Nihil in oratorio nisi nudos viderunt parietes. Solennitas non cibis, sed
virtutibus agebatur. Panis ibi autopyrus pro simila, pro careno sapa,
pro rhombis olera, pro quibuslibet deliciis legumina ponebantur. Si
forte piscis inventus est, domino Papæ appositus est, et aspectu, non
usu, in commune profecit” (St. Bernard, “Vita,” lib. ii., Auctore
Ernaldo., ap. opp. S. Bernard, iv. 272). Passages from the Sermons
on the Canticles are freely transferred to the poem. Mr. Frederic
Harrison's beautiful and appreciative article on St. Bernard did not
reach me until my verses were almost finished. Of such a writer one
can but say, “Cum talis sis, utinam noster esoes.”27
I read the “Song of Songs”—I thought it pure,
The very flame of the full love of God;
And over it there hung the clear obscure
Of Syrian night, and scents were blown abroad
Whose very names breathe on us mystic breath—
Myrrh, and the violet-striped habatseleth.
The very flame of the full love of God;
And over it there hung the clear obscure
Of Syrian night, and scents were blown abroad
Whose very names breathe on us mystic breath—
Myrrh, and the violet-striped habatseleth.
Strange words of beauty hung upon mine ear—
Semada, that is scent and flower in one
Of the young vine-blooms in the prime of the year;
Senir, Amana, Carmel, Lebanon,
Eloquent of rivers and of mountain trees,
Dim in the Oriental distances.
Semada, that is scent and flower in one
Of the young vine-blooms in the prime of the year;
Senir, Amana, Carmel, Lebanon,
Eloquent of rivers and of mountain trees,
Dim in the Oriental distances.
And purple paradise of pomegranate flowers,
Kopher, kinnamon, balsam, wealth of nard,
And things that thickets fill in summer hours,
Blue as a sky white-clouded, golden-starr'd,
Whereby we may surmise not far from thence
Mountains of myrrh and hills of frankincense.
Kopher, kinnamon, balsam, wealth of nard,
And things that thickets fill in summer hours,
Blue as a sky white-clouded, golden-starr'd,
Whereby we may surmise not far from thence
Mountains of myrrh and hills of frankincense.
28
I read the Hebrew late into the night;
At last the lilies faded, and the copse
Had no more fragrance, and I lost delight,
As when in some sweet tongue a poem stops,
Half understood—yet being once begun,
Our hearts are strangely poorer when 'tis done.
At last the lilies faded, and the copse
Had no more fragrance, and I lost delight,
As when in some sweet tongue a poem stops,
Half understood—yet being once begun,
Our hearts are strangely poorer when 'tis done.
Two volumes lay before me. One a tome
Which heretofore for years had stood between
Tender Augustine, terrible Hierome;
And the last Father's name was duly seen
In faded letters betwixt leather thongs—
“Saint Bernard's Sermons on the Song of Songs.”
Which heretofore for years had stood between
Tender Augustine, terrible Hierome;
And the last Father's name was duly seen
In faded letters betwixt leather thongs—
“Saint Bernard's Sermons on the Song of Songs.”
The other, fresh from Paris, “Le Cantique,”
Look'd a thin volume of a new romance.
Yet did I pray, “O Spirit whom I seek,
Teach me by which of these two lights of France,
The unbegun Beginning I may reach,
Thy sweetest novelty in oldest speech.”
Look'd a thin volume of a new romance.
Yet did I pray, “O Spirit whom I seek,
Teach me by which of these two lights of France,
The unbegun Beginning I may reach,
Thy sweetest novelty in oldest speech.”
So the two books I read; the first whereof,
A drama of earth's flame this song did deem—
Five acts with epilogue, tale of true love,
Shepherd and vine-dresser—such shiyr shyriym
Idyllic as Theocritus might trill—
Say rather, a soft Hebrew vaudeville.
A drama of earth's flame this song did deem—
Five acts with epilogue, tale of true love,
Shepherd and vine-dresser—such shiyr shyriym
Idyllic as Theocritus might trill—
Say rather, a soft Hebrew vaudeville.
Solomon sweeps by with threescore mighty men,—
Poor dove, all fluttering in the falcon's beak,
So foully carried from her quiet glen!
He flashes on with her so sweetly weak,
Elderly, evil-eyed, and evil-soul'd,
Scented and cruel in a cloud of gold.
Poor dove, all fluttering in the falcon's beak,
So foully carried from her quiet glen!
He flashes on with her so sweetly weak,
Elderly, evil-eyed, and evil-soul'd,
Scented and cruel in a cloud of gold.
29
To the accursèd palace they have come.
Dresses like rainbows float through the Harem.
To the faint plash of fountains never dumb
Are sung wild songs of earth's unholiest flame.
The large-eyed odalisks are lolling there;
The tambour taps, and bounds the bayadère.
Dresses like rainbows float through the Harem.
To the faint plash of fountains never dumb
Are sung wild songs of earth's unholiest flame.
The large-eyed odalisks are lolling there;
The tambour taps, and bounds the bayadère.
Ah! as in dreams her shepherd singing stands:
“Arise, my love, my fair one, come away;
The winter has pass'd over into lands
Whose heritage is rain, whose heavens are grey.
Flow'rs for my flow'r, the turtle's voice is heard—
It is the green time for the singing bird.
“Arise, my love, my fair one, come away;
The winter has pass'd over into lands
Whose heritage is rain, whose heavens are grey.
Flow'rs for my flow'r, the turtle's voice is heard—
It is the green time for the singing bird.
“The exhalation of the vine-bloom flows
On the rich air. Why is my white dove mute
In the cleft of the rock? Behold, the fig-tree throws
Her aromatic heart into her fruit.
Save for me only spring is everywhere.
O let me hear thee from thy mountain stair.”
On the rich air. Why is my white dove mute
In the cleft of the rock? Behold, the fig-tree throws
Her aromatic heart into her fruit.
Save for me only spring is everywhere.
O let me hear thee from thy mountain stair.”
Which hearing, in her heart she hums her lilt,
Learnt long ago of some dark vine-dresser.
Sing it, O maiden, whensoe'er thou wilt.
The vine-leaf shadow o'er thee is astir—
“Let not the little foxes from thee 'scape,
Spoiling our vines that have the tender grape.”
Learnt long ago of some dark vine-dresser.
Sing it, O maiden, whensoe'er thou wilt.
The vine-leaf shadow o'er thee is astir—
“Let not the little foxes from thee 'scape,
Spoiling our vines that have the tender grape.”
And so, O peasant girl, be won for wife.
No young Theresa of the Hebrews thou;
Yet an illusion traverses thy life
Which gives ideal light to thy dark brow,
Which makes home beautiful, and proudly sings
Songs of defiant purity to kings.
No young Theresa of the Hebrews thou;
Yet an illusion traverses thy life
Which gives ideal light to thy dark brow,
Which makes home beautiful, and proudly sings
Songs of defiant purity to kings.
30
And if no ecstasy lights up thy face,
No flame of seraphim consumes thy heart;
If thou hast natural truth, not heavenly grace;
At least, O sunburnt Shulamite! thou art
A tender witness to a purer lot
In the base centuries when love was not.
No flame of seraphim consumes thy heart;
If thou hast natural truth, not heavenly grace;
At least, O sunburnt Shulamite! thou art
A tender witness to a purer lot
In the base centuries when love was not.
I smiled a moment. Then a discontent
Filled me with grief and spiritual shame.
“Where then?” I cried, “is the old ravishment,
The ointment pour'd forth of the Holiest Name?
This song was once as fair for souls to mark
As the sod fresh cut to the prison'd lark—
Filled me with grief and spiritual shame.
“Where then?” I cried, “is the old ravishment,
The ointment pour'd forth of the Holiest Name?
This song was once as fair for souls to mark
As the sod fresh cut to the prison'd lark—
“A daisied sod whereon the bird in rapture
Quivers, remembering a little while
The large inheritance before his capture,
When from some azure and unmeasured mile
He rain'd down music, where the shadows pass
From the white cloud-sails o'er the glittering grass.”
Quivers, remembering a little while
The large inheritance before his capture,
When from some azure and unmeasured mile
He rain'd down music, where the shadows pass
From the white cloud-sails o'er the glittering grass.”
And a voice said, “Take thou the other book;
Therewith the life of the great Abbot scan.
Behold its peace and purity, and look!
He guides the restless intellect of man—
All streams that from all monasteries part,
And the king's council, and the woman's heart.
Therewith the life of the great Abbot scan.
Behold its peace and purity, and look!
He guides the restless intellect of man—
All streams that from all monasteries part,
And the king's council, and the woman's heart.
“He cleaves through heresy with one bright word,
Weak with the weakest, stronger than the strong,
Holds love a sharper weapon than the sword,
Helpeth all them to right who suffer wrong;
And as he walks the world, in street or dell,
The dry earth blossoms into miracle.”
Weak with the weakest, stronger than the strong,
Holds love a sharper weapon than the sword,
Helpeth all them to right who suffer wrong;
And as he walks the world, in street or dell,
The dry earth blossoms into miracle.”
31
I read the double columns thro' and thro',
Till the Saint's eyes look'd at me from the line.
Methought the heav'n above the book was blue,
And love's green land before me lay divine;
And, “Hearken to him,” said a voice to me,
Cor meum vulnerasti is the key,
Till the Saint's eyes look'd at me from the line.
Methought the heav'n above the book was blue,
And love's green land before me lay divine;
And, “Hearken to him,” said a voice to me,
Cor meum vulnerasti is the key,
“Whereto the riddle is no riddle more.
The Bride and Spouse he ever doth rehearse,
One epithalamium sings he o'er and o'er—
Christ and the Church; and for the measured verse
Forbidden true Cistercians, as he knows,
Takes a saint's vengeance in impassion'd prose.”
The Bride and Spouse he ever doth rehearse,
One epithalamium sings he o'er and o'er—
Christ and the Church; and for the measured verse
Forbidden true Cistercians, as he knows,
Takes a saint's vengeance in impassion'd prose.”
“What time the world in winter morn is white,
The prints upon the snow are for thine eye
A record of the chronicles of night—
Such snow be this sweet song, a mystery
On whose white surface thou may'st see the faint
And heavenward traces of a pilgrim saint.”
The prints upon the snow are for thine eye
A record of the chronicles of night—
Such snow be this sweet song, a mystery
On whose white surface thou may'st see the faint
And heavenward traces of a pilgrim saint.”
“Draw me,” One saith. “We will run after Thee.”
The Boy's eyes open'd on a golden land—
Forest and chase, river and lilied lea,
And steeds to rein, and vassals to command,
And the light rippled in the summer air
In softer gold on Bernard's chestnut hair.
The Boy's eyes open'd on a golden land—
Forest and chase, river and lilied lea,
And steeds to rein, and vassals to command,
And the light rippled in the summer air
In softer gold on Bernard's chestnut hair.
Full shy he was, and grave and sweet of speech,
Of skill in riding and running at the ring,
And ever ready to give right to each;
Which seeing, his father smiled upon the thing,
And said to Aleth, with a proud bright glance,
“What if our boy be Burgundy's first lance?
Of skill in riding and running at the ring,
And ever ready to give right to each;
Which seeing, his father smiled upon the thing,
And said to Aleth, with a proud bright glance,
“What if our boy be Burgundy's first lance?
32
“What if he wed a maid of high estate?
With her a castle by broad acres girt.
He that will greatly rise must wisely wait;
So I will mail him in his battle-shirt,
And send him to the wars, that he may be
All that beseems a knight of his degree.”
With her a castle by broad acres girt.
He that will greatly rise must wisely wait;
So I will mail him in his battle-shirt,
And send him to the wars, that he may be
All that beseems a knight of his degree.”
But Lady Aleth, faintly smiling, said,
“Ah, this boy Bernard is of other stamp.
But yesterday he sigh'd, ‘I will not wed.
Mother, I hate the revel and the camp,
The drops of blood upon our castle walks,
And the fierce beauty of my father's hawks.
“Ah, this boy Bernard is of other stamp.
But yesterday he sigh'd, ‘I will not wed.
Mother, I hate the revel and the camp,
The drops of blood upon our castle walks,
And the fierce beauty of my father's hawks.
“‘I will no poesy of earthly loves,
I put from me all Ovid's magic spell;
Two voices hold me only—one the dove's,
The Spouse's one, in God's sweet canticle;
And my heart hears one singing every day,
“Arise, my love, my fair one, come away.”’”
I put from me all Ovid's magic spell;
Two voices hold me only—one the dove's,
The Spouse's one, in God's sweet canticle;
And my heart hears one singing every day,
“Arise, my love, my fair one, come away.”’”
“What must be, must,” replied Sir Tescelin.
“Squires carry knights' spurs germinant at their heel;
Young priest becomes young prelate without sin;
If Bishop Bernard at the altar kneel,
Were he less saint, an if his saintship gain
A glorious abbacy, a broad domain?”
“Squires carry knights' spurs germinant at their heel;
Young priest becomes young prelate without sin;
If Bishop Bernard at the altar kneel,
Were he less saint, an if his saintship gain
A glorious abbacy, a broad domain?”
But “Nay,” quoth she, “nor may this come to pass.
Now, I will tell thee what is in his heart
In his own words, yesterday after Mass:
‘Mother, a voice is calling me apart;
All the day long it sayeth within me,
“Draw me, O Lord; we will run after Thee.”
Now, I will tell thee what is in his heart
In his own words, yesterday after Mass:
‘Mother, a voice is calling me apart;
All the day long it sayeth within me,
“Draw me, O Lord; we will run after Thee.”
33
“‘Sometimes meseems the trump of Judgment sounds;
Sometimes God pierceth me, and sometimes wins,
With great attraction of the five sweet Wounds,
With fierce light flashing on my little sins.
That which I yearn for is not court nor strife,
But the beginning of a saintly life—
Sometimes God pierceth me, and sometimes wins,
With great attraction of the five sweet Wounds,
With fierce light flashing on my little sins.
That which I yearn for is not court nor strife,
But the beginning of a saintly life—
“‘The lore that scarcely may be learn'd aright
From any parchment on a dusty shelf,
The stern self-discipline of God's true knight,
Who bravely wars the warfare against self,
Bow'd in a penitence at the bleeding Feet,
Whereof the very bitterness is sweet.
From any parchment on a dusty shelf,
The stern self-discipline of God's true knight,
Who bravely wars the warfare against self,
Bow'd in a penitence at the bleeding Feet,
Whereof the very bitterness is sweet.
“‘Sinful with all the sinful I would go
To the one heart human, and yet divine;
Nor lavish all my love on aught below,
Nor bow too deeply at another shrine,
As if in all heav'n's host there were for such
A truer pity or a tenderer touch.
To the one heart human, and yet divine;
Nor lavish all my love on aught below,
Nor bow too deeply at another shrine,
As if in all heav'n's host there were for such
A truer pity or a tenderer touch.
“‘Nothing from self, all from His perfect Name—
To say the good thing in me is mine own,
That were as if the chamber wall should claim
The golden sunbeam shimmering on the stone;
That were to drain the ocean with thy lips,
Or turn back Jordan with thy finger-tips.
To say the good thing in me is mine own,
That were as if the chamber wall should claim
The golden sunbeam shimmering on the stone;
That were to drain the ocean with thy lips,
Or turn back Jordan with thy finger-tips.
“‘Perchance our Church has too much of the earth;
Our abbots, peradventure, are too rich;
We ask too often—“What is the see worth?”
Forget the fane to overgild the niche.
Give me no jewell'd mitre, no red garb,
No bowing vassals, and no milk-white barb.
Our abbots, peradventure, are too rich;
We ask too often—“What is the see worth?”
Forget the fane to overgild the niche.
Give me no jewell'd mitre, no red garb,
No bowing vassals, and no milk-white barb.
34
“‘Nay, over-gaudy grown with time that grows,
Religion robes herself in rainbow dyes.
Ah, sighs and tears! the sighs she doth enclose
In bubbles, and the tears she petrifies;
And pomp enwrappeth in a golden pall
The rich rigidity of ritual.
Religion robes herself in rainbow dyes.
Ah, sighs and tears! the sighs she doth enclose
In bubbles, and the tears she petrifies;
And pomp enwrappeth in a golden pall
The rich rigidity of ritual.
“‘First, let the soul be beautiful within;
Then the soul's beauty duly shall create
Form, colour, harmony, to awe and win—
Outward from inward as inseparate
As music from the river when it flows,
Shadow from light, or fragrance from the rose.
Then the soul's beauty duly shall create
Form, colour, harmony, to awe and win—
Outward from inward as inseparate
As music from the river when it flows,
Shadow from light, or fragrance from the rose.
“‘My portion be the austere and lowly fane,
The quiet heart that praises ere it sings,
The genuine tears that fall like timely rain,
The happy liberty from outward things,
The wing that winnoweth the ample air,
The heaven's gate touch'd by the soft hand of prayer.
The quiet heart that praises ere it sings,
The genuine tears that fall like timely rain,
The happy liberty from outward things,
The wing that winnoweth the ample air,
The heaven's gate touch'd by the soft hand of prayer.
“‘The sunshine-veinèd vintage stored for years,
Quaff'd with quaint laughter in the refectory,
Of this I will have none—but tender tears,
The lore of saints, the spiritual glory,
The brotherhood, the cross whereof one saith,
No ill thing glides where'er it shadoweth.
Quaff'd with quaint laughter in the refectory,
Of this I will have none—but tender tears,
The lore of saints, the spiritual glory,
The brotherhood, the cross whereof one saith,
No ill thing glides where'er it shadoweth.
“‘I saw a great Cistercian abbey rise,
And out of heaven there fell a voice divine—
“Enter in, son of Aleth! on this wise,
Reformer of the Order, all is thine.
Rise, come away;” whereon I did rejoice
In the irresistible music of that voice.
And out of heaven there fell a voice divine—
“Enter in, son of Aleth! on this wise,
Reformer of the Order, all is thine.
Rise, come away;” whereon I did rejoice
In the irresistible music of that voice.
35
“‘“But first,” I pleaded, “Lord, thou know'st I have
Six brothers and a sister, in all seven.
Lover of souls, O infinite to save,
Give me all these for company in heaven.
Draw them in also;” and then bolder grown—
“I would be saved, O Lord, but not alone.”
Six brothers and a sister, in all seven.
Lover of souls, O infinite to save,
Give me all these for company in heaven.
Draw them in also;” and then bolder grown—
“I would be saved, O Lord, but not alone.”
“‘And then I saw sculptured above the gate
“The vale of Wormwood is a vale of Light;”
And outside there was wailing, war, and hate,
And a voice of agony out in the black night;
But in I drew the six from that wild teen,
And last of all my fair-hair'd Humbeline.
“The vale of Wormwood is a vale of Light;”
And outside there was wailing, war, and hate,
And a voice of agony out in the black night;
But in I drew the six from that wild teen,
And last of all my fair-hair'd Humbeline.
“‘Then, thee, my mother, too, I drew thee in—
Not fair as thou art now, but cold and pale.
O gentlest heart that ever conquer'd sin!
O Christ's sweet Shulamite in the nun's white veil!
And on thy lips I laid the Host that hour,
And rain'd down tears on thee, my winter flower!
Not fair as thou art now, but cold and pale.
O gentlest heart that ever conquer'd sin!
O Christ's sweet Shulamite in the nun's white veil!
And on thy lips I laid the Host that hour,
And rain'd down tears on thee, my winter flower!
“‘And last of all my father. I could hear
What were the things that to himself he said:
“Will he not leave me for another year?
Can he not wait till the old man is dead?
I would much rather die in my old room
Than in a cloister of Cistercian gloom.
What were the things that to himself he said:
“Will he not leave me for another year?
Can he not wait till the old man is dead?
I would much rather die in my old room
Than in a cloister of Cistercian gloom.
“‘“I would much rather rest with my rough race,
Close to the altar, in the church I built;
I would the villagers should see my face
And Aleth's marble under a canopy gilt,
Whispering—This was a joyous knight and just,
They say he is a thousand years in dust.
Close to the altar, in the church I built;
I would the villagers should see my face
And Aleth's marble under a canopy gilt,
Whispering—This was a joyous knight and just,
They say he is a thousand years in dust.
36
“‘“A thousand years he wears his shirt of mail,
And his good hound is couchant at his feet;
If that tough cheek of his be deathly pale,
'Tis but the stone that makes such paleness meet,
And in his calm eye come what tide soe'er
Is sure regard of everlasting prayer.
And his good hound is couchant at his feet;
If that tough cheek of his be deathly pale,
'Tis but the stone that makes such paleness meet,
And in his calm eye come what tide soe'er
Is sure regard of everlasting prayer.
“‘“Yet is it certain what monks say—that souls
Are lost in circles of light as in a flood,
That the saints worship day and night in stoles,
Posed without end in marble attitude,
Or like the angels on a vestment shown
Stitch'd in a sapphire prayer before the throne?
Are lost in circles of light as in a flood,
That the saints worship day and night in stoles,
Posed without end in marble attitude,
Or like the angels on a vestment shown
Stitch'd in a sapphire prayer before the throne?
“‘“All the night long Sir Tescelin looks to the east,
And the sweet lady by him never stirs.
But when the thin moon wanes down to her least,
And dawn plays faint about his marble spurs,
Doth he not sometimes seem to waken? Hist!
Doth the white falcon flutter on his fist?
And the sweet lady by him never stirs.
But when the thin moon wanes down to her least,
And dawn plays faint about his marble spurs,
Doth he not sometimes seem to waken? Hist!
Doth the white falcon flutter on his fist?
“‘“All the night long he prays, I have no doubt,
When o'er the October moon the big clouds whirl,
And ever and anon she cometh out
With fleece of rainbow and of mother o' pearl—
Her flying touch some minutes' space being still
White on the broken waters by the mill.
When o'er the October moon the big clouds whirl,
And ever and anon she cometh out
With fleece of rainbow and of mother o' pearl—
Her flying touch some minutes' space being still
White on the broken waters by the mill.
“‘“But is not yon stiff hound about to yawn?
The lady to hear mass as is her wont?
Are not the rustics going to the lawn
To see the gallants gathering for the hunt?
Ah! this is idle talk, for well know I
Such things are not in that eternity.
The lady to hear mass as is her wont?
Are not the rustics going to the lawn
To see the gallants gathering for the hunt?
Ah! this is idle talk, for well know I
Such things are not in that eternity.
37
“‘“But what and if my appointed time draws near,
And I and all I have is doom'd to death;
And what and if for all that I hold dear,
The grace of the fashion of it vanisheth;
And if this poor old heart at last must go
Like a tree broken by its weight of snow—
And I and all I have is doom'd to death;
And what and if for all that I hold dear,
The grace of the fashion of it vanisheth;
And if this poor old heart at last must go
Like a tree broken by its weight of snow—
“‘“May I not die upon my Aleth's bed,
With shadows of the long familiar trees
Making their chequer-work upon my head,
Amid the humming of my yellow bees,
Where to the sun my peacocks spread their stains
Upon my castle terrace of Fontaines?”
With shadows of the long familiar trees
Making their chequer-work upon my head,
Amid the humming of my yellow bees,
Where to the sun my peacocks spread their stains
Upon my castle terrace of Fontaines?”
“‘Nay, for all that, dear father, at the fold
Thou knockest. Thy son openeth, and from heaven
A voice falls musical for thee: “Behold
Thou and thy children whom the Lord has given.
Listen to Bernard's voice, and enter in,
Sweet Lady Aleth, stout Sir Tescelin!”’”
Thou knockest. Thy son openeth, and from heaven
A voice falls musical for thee: “Behold
Thou and thy children whom the Lord has given.
Listen to Bernard's voice, and enter in,
Sweet Lady Aleth, stout Sir Tescelin!”’”
The Abbey stands in Clairvaux. Bernard speaks
From the stone pulpit by the brethren hewn,
Of the “Name,” or “Lilies,” or “Till morning breaks,”
Making discourse till late in the afternoon;
Pathos and majesty in his speech were blent,
Sweetness magnetic and magnificent.
From the stone pulpit by the brethren hewn,
Of the “Name,” or “Lilies,” or “Till morning breaks,”
Making discourse till late in the afternoon;
Pathos and majesty in his speech were blent,
Sweetness magnetic and magnificent.
“Whence skillest thou?” his brother Girard said,
“To trace these love-links ever feast and fast?
Thou hast not much perused the deathless dead;
Yet shall these words of thine for ever last,
Little in space, but sparks of living flame,
Little indeed, but roses all the same.
“To trace these love-links ever feast and fast?
Thou hast not much perused the deathless dead;
Yet shall these words of thine for ever last,
Little in space, but sparks of living flame,
Little indeed, but roses all the same.
38
“And happy we, to whom in thee are given
Such sweets both new and old, such lily flowers,
Such precious antepast of feasts of heaven.
High joy for us of these monastic bowers,
To gather on this green Burgundian sod
Thy pale gold honey, O thou bee of God.”
Such sweets both new and old, such lily flowers,
Such precious antepast of feasts of heaven.
High joy for us of these monastic bowers,
To gather on this green Burgundian sod
Thy pale gold honey, O thou bee of God.”
“I know not brother,” and the Abbot smiled;
“Yet thou rememberest the forest well.
A few years since the snow was on it piled.
Thou knowest how often ere the vesper bell,
My meditation was prolonged—and ye
Said it was sweet—perchance in flattery.
“Yet thou rememberest the forest well.
A few years since the snow was on it piled.
Thou knowest how often ere the vesper bell,
My meditation was prolonged—and ye
Said it was sweet—perchance in flattery.
“Nathless the young narcissus snow-drops came
With spring (our rustics call them ‘angels’ tears’);
A hundred greens were out, no two the same;
The happy promise given by young years
For ever, and for evermore belied,
Lit the young leaves, and smiled some hours, and died.
With spring (our rustics call them ‘angels’ tears’);
A hundred greens were out, no two the same;
The happy promise given by young years
For ever, and for evermore belied,
Lit the young leaves, and smiled some hours, and died.
“So came the spring to Burgundy. Then spoke
A voice from out the depths where earth's life stirs.
The ‘Song of Songs’ reads well under the oak—
A soft interpretation sigh the firs;
And God's good Spirit taught me what to teach
Through the uncountable whispers of the beech.
A voice from out the depths where earth's life stirs.
The ‘Song of Songs’ reads well under the oak—
A soft interpretation sigh the firs;
And God's good Spirit taught me what to teach
Through the uncountable whispers of the beech.
“From the anemones pass'd to me my thought,
Through the woods trembling in their thin white robe.
A subtler music came to me unsought
Upon the washing of the murmurous Aube;
And the long sunset rays on the great boles
Wrote me the comment of the holy souls.
Through the woods trembling in their thin white robe.
A subtler music came to me unsought
Upon the washing of the murmurous Aube;
And the long sunset rays on the great boles
Wrote me the comment of the holy souls.
39
“For were the Canticle a passion strain,
And if it spake of aught beneath the sky,
Then from its images thy heart could gain
A love-snatch only, or a botany;
Whereas, he finds in it who truly tries,
Strength from the strong, and wisdom from the wise.
And if it spake of aught beneath the sky,
Then from its images thy heart could gain
A love-snatch only, or a botany;
Whereas, he finds in it who truly tries,
Strength from the strong, and wisdom from the wise.
“Here is the ocean of the love divine
For the whole Church. What smaller than a sea
Can hold a sea? and yet thy heart and mine
Reflection of it hath for thee and me,
As one clear bubble sphereth for the eye
The azure amplitude of wave and sky.
For the whole Church. What smaller than a sea
Can hold a sea? and yet thy heart and mine
Reflection of it hath for thee and me,
As one clear bubble sphereth for the eye
The azure amplitude of wave and sky.
“And this love-strain is never over-told.
When God Himself is our musician, say,
Wilt thou correct Him to a strain less bold,
And teach the mighty Master how to play?
Two, two alone can hear these tender things—
The soul that listens, and the soul that sings.”
When God Himself is our musician, say,
Wilt thou correct Him to a strain less bold,
And teach the mighty Master how to play?
Two, two alone can hear these tender things—
The soul that listens, and the soul that sings.”
Late, late, in the October afternoon,
The monks sat listening spell-bound in the choir;
The voice went ringing on, a lovely tune,
A touch of pathos, or a shaft of fire.
The sunset flared blood-red, the wild marsh hen
Shriek'd through the long reed lances of the fen.
The monks sat listening spell-bound in the choir;
The voice went ringing on, a lovely tune,
A touch of pathos, or a shaft of fire.
The sunset flared blood-red, the wild marsh hen
Shriek'd through the long reed lances of the fen.
Within was spring. Voice to low breezes set
Through the greenwood, over the mountain's brink—
Voice of Christ's dove, His undefilèd—yet,
Not so much sweet itself of song, I think,
As the soft sign whereby we understand
That all things sweet are gathering in the land.
Through the greenwood, over the mountain's brink—
Voice of Christ's dove, His undefilèd—yet,
Not so much sweet itself of song, I think,
As the soft sign whereby we understand
That all things sweet are gathering in the land.
40
“O that some saint might come to us, and teach
From his rich certainty our poor perhaps!
Yea, by his death preach what I cannot preach—
How earth's hopes scare at last, as when there taps
Some broken branch of bloom through storm and rain,
Like death's white finger on the window-pane.”
From his rich certainty our poor perhaps!
Yea, by his death preach what I cannot preach—
How earth's hopes scare at last, as when there taps
Some broken branch of bloom through storm and rain,
Like death's white finger on the window-pane.”
Scarce was the sermon done, the blessing o'er,
A train of horsemen halted at the gate.
“My Lord the Abbot,” said the janitor,
“One like an angel comes to us full late,
Primate of a green island o'er the sea;
His name, too, is an angel's—Malachy.”
A train of horsemen halted at the gate.
“My Lord the Abbot,” said the janitor,
“One like an angel comes to us full late,
Primate of a green island o'er the sea;
His name, too, is an angel's—Malachy.”
Four or five days flow'd on in fair discourse;
Gracious his speech and stately his regard.
Oft would he warn them with prophetic force
That he was come to them to meet the Lord.
He rode to Clairvaux in October mist,
The Feast-day of St. Luke the Evangelist.
Gracious his speech and stately his regard.
Oft would he warn them with prophetic force
That he was come to them to meet the Lord.
He rode to Clairvaux in October mist,
The Feast-day of St. Luke the Evangelist.
Something of fever flush'd his pallid cheek;
To Bernard mournfully a little while
Out of his spirit's trouble did he speak
Of certain tribesmen in his restless isle.
“Patience,” he cried, “that tree of hidden root,
And bitter rind, that hath so sweet a fruit,
To Bernard mournfully a little while
Out of his spirit's trouble did he speak
Of certain tribesmen in his restless isle.
“Patience,” he cried, “that tree of hidden root,
And bitter rind, that hath so sweet a fruit,
“Be the good guerdon of the bishop's heart,
The turbulent sheep who shepherds in that land.
Full often must he bear, with breaking heart,
The long ingratitude, the plot well plann'd,
The deep suspicion hid with laughing eye,
The poison'd dagger sheath'd with flattery.
The turbulent sheep who shepherds in that land.
Full often must he bear, with breaking heart,
The long ingratitude, the plot well plann'd,
The deep suspicion hid with laughing eye,
The poison'd dagger sheath'd with flattery.
41
“They do possess such imitative grace,
Such exquisite sympathy when needed most,
Such fine emotion feign'd with mobile face,
Such passionate speech—withal the enormous boast,
The shallowness of hearts that seem so deep,
The candid lie that makes you laugh and weep.
Such exquisite sympathy when needed most,
Such fine emotion feign'd with mobile face,
Such passionate speech—withal the enormous boast,
The shallowness of hearts that seem so deep,
The candid lie that makes you laugh and weep.
“O grand traditions, forged me any morn,
Ethereal sentiment for solid gold,
Vows soon unvow'd, oaths laughingly forsworn,
Facts no historian happens to have told,
Fair, faint, false legends of a golden spring,
A past that never was a present thing.
Ethereal sentiment for solid gold,
Vows soon unvow'd, oaths laughingly forsworn,
Facts no historian happens to have told,
Fair, faint, false legends of a golden spring,
A past that never was a present thing.
“The thrush sings sweetest with his speckled breast
Against the hawthorn jags, their poets say;
His loveliest notes are agony exprest,
So that the little pain seems rapture: they,
So sharp, so soft, so pitiless, so forlorn,
Sing like the thrush, and stab ye like the thorn.
Against the hawthorn jags, their poets say;
His loveliest notes are agony exprest,
So that the little pain seems rapture: they,
So sharp, so soft, so pitiless, so forlorn,
Sing like the thrush, and stab ye like the thorn.
“God's pardon rest on them. All that is o'er,
The time of my departure is at hand,
And here my rest shall be for evermore,
Far from Armagh and from that fatal land.”
So he; yet still his frame was full of grace,
And death seem'd distant from that comely face,
The time of my departure is at hand,
And here my rest shall be for evermore,
Far from Armagh and from that fatal land.”
So he; yet still his frame was full of grace,
And death seem'd distant from that comely face,
Yet on All Saints, “Behold,” the leeches said,
“Before to-morrow must the Archbishop die;”
Her loftiest rite the monastery made,
And sang her music of festivity.
Thankless the task, inopportune the art,
To sing sweet songs to sorrow's heavy heart.
“Before to-morrow must the Archbishop die;”
Her loftiest rite the monastery made,
And sang her music of festivity.
Thankless the task, inopportune the art,
To sing sweet songs to sorrow's heavy heart.
42
And sorrow was in that Cistercian home—
Sorrow untuned the chant of choir and priest.
One only tasted of Christ's honeycomb,
One only knew the fulness of the feast.
All Saints to Malachy was but the small
Dim vesper of his glorious festival.
Sorrow untuned the chant of choir and priest.
One only tasted of Christ's honeycomb,
One only knew the fulness of the feast.
All Saints to Malachy was but the small
Dim vesper of his glorious festival.
“Lover and friend are darkness—light within.
Love is eternal; and I love my Lord,
And love ye all; haply my love may win
Somewhat from Thee, O Christ! whom I regard
Humanly pitying, for man's heart is Thine;
Divinely helping, being Thyself divine.
Love is eternal; and I love my Lord,
And love ye all; haply my love may win
Somewhat from Thee, O Christ! whom I regard
Humanly pitying, for man's heart is Thine;
Divinely helping, being Thyself divine.
“Let me not fall into the bitter pain
Of death eternal for any pains of death.
Let Christ's omnipotence manifested reign,
Making omnipotent one who languisheth,
Whose thought and will and memory growing dim,
A trinity of misery, call to Him.”
Of death eternal for any pains of death.
Let Christ's omnipotence manifested reign,
Making omnipotent one who languisheth,
Whose thought and will and memory growing dim,
A trinity of misery, call to Him.”
So, near the twilight was the veil withdrawn.
Into a morn-red sea did his sail sweep—
A sea not dim with twilight, flushed with dawn,
If grey mists melt, if God's belovèd sleep,
Why search the sea mists when he sails no more?
Why weep for him whose weeping all is o'er?
Into a morn-red sea did his sail sweep—
A sea not dim with twilight, flushed with dawn,
If grey mists melt, if God's belovèd sleep,
Why search the sea mists when he sails no more?
Why weep for him whose weeping all is o'er?
Then, though all look'd to see the fair soul sail
Into the mystery o'er life's furthest line,
The moment that it cross'd might none prevail
To note for a memorial, or divine
The very moment on God's clock to tell
When all was over, and when all was well.
Into the mystery o'er life's furthest line,
The moment that it cross'd might none prevail
To note for a memorial, or divine
The very moment on God's clock to tell
When all was over, and when all was well.
43
Only the Abbot softly said—“Behold,
Life is a sea, whose waters ever swing;
A wood, whose leaves like bells are ever toll'd.
A tranquil God makes tranquil everything.
Here is no trembling leaf, no wrinkling wave,
But such serenity as sleepers have.
Life is a sea, whose waters ever swing;
A wood, whose leaves like bells are ever toll'd.
A tranquil God makes tranquil everything.
Here is no trembling leaf, no wrinkling wave,
But such serenity as sleepers have.
“Sleep, brother, sleep, until the golden year;
Until thou sing, ‘Let us arise and see
If the vine flourish—whether the grapes appear,
If all the red buds gem the Passion tree?’
Till on our hearts shall breathe a better day,
And chase the clouds of human things away.”
Until thou sing, ‘Let us arise and see
If the vine flourish—whether the grapes appear,
If all the red buds gem the Passion tree?’
Till on our hearts shall breathe a better day,
And chase the clouds of human things away.”
Ah! never sorrow comes that comes alone.
Deep calleth unto deep, and wave to wave;
Saint calleth unto saint, and ere hath grown
Grass on one sod, there is another grave.
The angels of one death-bed come again—
White clouds returning after God's own rain.
Deep calleth unto deep, and wave to wave;
Saint calleth unto saint, and ere hath grown
Grass on one sod, there is another grave.
The angels of one death-bed come again—
White clouds returning after God's own rain.
And Girard died. The funeral just o'er,
The monks were gather'd. Now, it happen'd so
That in the scroll which Bernard evermore
His garden made eternally in blow,
Unto the place in order was he come—
Nigra, O filiæ! sed formosa sum.”
The monks were gather'd. Now, it happen'd so
That in the scroll which Bernard evermore
His garden made eternally in blow,
Unto the place in order was he come—
Nigra, O filiæ! sed formosa sum.”
“Curtains of Solomon, tents of Kedar—such
This body is—the tent which robs our sight
So that it sees not through the foldings much
Of the uncircumscribèd plenitude of light.”
Thus in the presence of these childlike men
He tells his sorrows sweetly o'er again.
This body is—the tent which robs our sight
So that it sees not through the foldings much
Of the uncircumscribèd plenitude of light.”
Thus in the presence of these childlike men
He tells his sorrows sweetly o'er again.
44
By the bier tearless had stood Clairvaux's chief,
Tearless the rite intoned in priestly vest,
And done despite unto the spirit of grief,
Lest they, perchance, should say who knew not Christ,
“See, the pierced Hand dries not all tears that flow,
The wounded Heart is not for every woe.”
Tearless the rite intoned in priestly vest,
And done despite unto the spirit of grief,
Lest they, perchance, should say who knew not Christ,
“See, the pierced Hand dries not all tears that flow,
The wounded Heart is not for every woe.”
“And shall they say thou knowest me no more,
After this human flesh which we wear still,
Than I am known by light waves on the shore,
Or breezes blowing round a sunny hill?
Ah! there be some who bid us mourners dwell
With Nature's sympathies, so shall it be well.
After this human flesh which we wear still,
Than I am known by light waves on the shore,
Or breezes blowing round a sunny hill?
Ah! there be some who bid us mourners dwell
With Nature's sympathies, so shall it be well.
“Mystic condolences of morn and eve
Shall touch the heartache tenderly away,
The rivers and the great woods interweave
A consolation lips can never say;
And with the sighing of the summer sea,
Come cadences that chant, ‘we pity thee.’
Shall touch the heartache tenderly away,
The rivers and the great woods interweave
A consolation lips can never say;
And with the sighing of the summer sea,
Come cadences that chant, ‘we pity thee.’
“It is not so; who truly mourn shall trace
Something sardonic in that fixed regard,
The quiet sarcasm of a great cold face,
Staring for ever on, terribly starr'd—
A silver depth of delicate despair,
An uncompassionate silence everywhere.
Something sardonic in that fixed regard,
The quiet sarcasm of a great cold face,
Staring for ever on, terribly starr'd—
A silver depth of delicate despair,
An uncompassionate silence everywhere.
“Ah! as we weep three voices bid us guess,
Three contradictions cross above our dead;
Earth answers us ‘perhaps,’ and ‘no,’ and ‘yes.’
‘Perhaps,’ by glad streams is conjecturèd;
Resurgent roses breathe faint ‘yes’; but ‘no’
Sighs o'er the undeceiving death-white snow.
Three contradictions cross above our dead;
Earth answers us ‘perhaps,’ and ‘no,’ and ‘yes.’
‘Perhaps,’ by glad streams is conjecturèd;
Resurgent roses breathe faint ‘yes’; but ‘no’
Sighs o'er the undeceiving death-white snow.
45
“How speaks that pitiless power impersonal?
‘I who stand stirless on the starlit tracts;
I who impalpably pervade the All;
I who am white on the long cataracts;
I through oeonian centuries who perform
Instinct of spring, or impulse of the storm;
‘I who stand stirless on the starlit tracts;
I who impalpably pervade the All;
I who am white on the long cataracts;
I through oeonian centuries who perform
Instinct of spring, or impulse of the storm;
“‘I in the greenwood who at May-time move
With straggling clouds of hyacinth dark blue;
Who neither laugh nor weep, nor hate nor love,
Who sleep at once and work, both old and new—
Work with such myriad wheels that interlace,
Sleep with such splendid dreams upon my face;—
With straggling clouds of hyacinth dark blue;
Who neither laugh nor weep, nor hate nor love,
Who sleep at once and work, both old and new—
Work with such myriad wheels that interlace,
Sleep with such splendid dreams upon my face;—
“‘When thou hast ask'd me “Are my loved ones near?
Surely this golden silence doth contain
Them deathlessly; their dim eyes hold some tear
Delicious, born not of the showers of pain”—
When thou hast question'd me at hush of eve,
What right hast thou to say that I deceive?
Surely this golden silence doth contain
Them deathlessly; their dim eyes hold some tear
Delicious, born not of the showers of pain”—
When thou hast question'd me at hush of eve,
What right hast thou to say that I deceive?
“‘Perhaps they say, “I pardon thee that wrong;
Nay, love thee more divinely for it all;”
Perhaps they strengthen thee when thou art strong,
Perhaps they walk with thee when shadows fall.
But this is all I have for thee; the fair
Absolute certitude is other where.’
Nay, love thee more divinely for it all;”
Perhaps they strengthen thee when thou art strong,
Perhaps they walk with thee when shadows fall.
But this is all I have for thee; the fair
Absolute certitude is other where.’
“But we will comfort us for him to-day
Whom in that altar tomb of ours we hid.
Faith's ‘Yes’ shall rise although the sky be grey,
Like a bird singing on a coffin-lid,
And like a rescuer victorious Hope
Wade far out in death's foam to catch the rope.
Whom in that altar tomb of ours we hid.
Faith's ‘Yes’ shall rise although the sky be grey,
Like a bird singing on a coffin-lid,
And like a rescuer victorious Hope
Wade far out in death's foam to catch the rope.
46
“Think'st thou of me bath'd in the sea of bliss?
Art thou unmindful of me, holy mind?
Thou who of light hast enter'd the abyss,
Art thou with God's great splendour intertwined,
A chalice with His fulness fill'd too high
For wine-drops of earth's colour'd memory?
Art thou unmindful of me, holy mind?
Thou who of light hast enter'd the abyss,
Art thou with God's great splendour intertwined,
A chalice with His fulness fill'd too high
For wine-drops of earth's colour'd memory?
“Then must I think of thee, my Girard, aye,
As I might think upon some lucent tide;
As I might think of some fair summer day,
Profuse of shadows on the mountain-side;
As I might think of the high snows far kenn'd,
A cold white splendid quiet without end?
As I might think upon some lucent tide;
As I might think of some fair summer day,
Profuse of shadows on the mountain-side;
As I might think of the high snows far kenn'd,
A cold white splendid quiet without end?
“Nay, that were life which truly liveth not,
Life lower than our life, and not above.
Thou, thou art near to God in thy fair lot;
Nearer to God is fuller of God's love—
Fuller of Him who looks on us to bless,
Who is impassible, not compassionless.
Life lower than our life, and not above.
Thou, thou art near to God in thy fair lot;
Nearer to God is fuller of God's love—
Fuller of Him who looks on us to bless,
Who is impassible, not compassionless.
“God's life is to have mercy and forgive;
One spirit with Him, thou, my Girard, art;
Wherefore thro' that great life which thou dost live
There is unsuffering sympathy in thy heart.
Thou carest, though no care can pass thy gate,
And passioning not art still compassionate.
One spirit with Him, thou, my Girard, art;
Wherefore thro' that great life which thou dost live
There is unsuffering sympathy in thy heart.
Thou carest, though no care can pass thy gate,
And passioning not art still compassionate.
“O, that strange tide! what time the midnight came—
Thy last. The darkness darkened not. It grew
Into a dawn for thee—a flush of flame,
A midnight dawn, translucent through and through.
Dying he sings, or e'er his lips grow dumb,
‘Laudate in excelsis Dominum.’
Thy last. The darkness darkened not. It grew
Into a dawn for thee—a flush of flame,
A midnight dawn, translucent through and through.
Dying he sings, or e'er his lips grow dumb,
‘Laudate in excelsis Dominum.’
47
“Then with such look as erst I saw him cast
In dear old days upon Sir Tescelin,
‘Father,’ he cried, ‘my Father, oh, how vast
Our glory to be sons!’ and so pass'd in
To perfect climates—spring, and summer sun,
Autumn's exuberance, winter's rest in one.”
In dear old days upon Sir Tescelin,
‘Father,’ he cried, ‘my Father, oh, how vast
Our glory to be sons!’ and so pass'd in
To perfect climates—spring, and summer sun,
Autumn's exuberance, winter's rest in one.”
Sweet was the last day when the Pontiff rode
From Lyons to Clairvaux. Upon the hill
The burning sunset had already glow'd.
Superbly looks the retinue, and still
The Roman clergy and the courtly throng
Wait for the pageant and the perfect song.
From Lyons to Clairvaux. Upon the hill
The burning sunset had already glow'd.
Superbly looks the retinue, and still
The Roman clergy and the courtly throng
Wait for the pageant and the perfect song.
They paused, but no procession went to meet
The movement of the rainbow-colour'd wave;
No carpet was there for the Pontiff's feet,
No crowd of knights and dames, as in the nave
Of Rheims or Rouen; and as on he fared
No herald bow'd to him, no trumpet blared.
The movement of the rainbow-colour'd wave;
No carpet was there for the Pontiff's feet,
No crowd of knights and dames, as in the nave
Of Rheims or Rouen; and as on he fared
No herald bow'd to him, no trumpet blared.
Lo! for the purple prelates, monks in serge;
For the gemm'd crucifix a cross of stone;
For music dying on the vast dim verge
Of the groin'd roof, a sweet low monotone,
Like the sea's sigh heard on a headland path—
Such mystic beauty the Church Latin hath.
For the gemm'd crucifix a cross of stone;
For music dying on the vast dim verge
Of the groin'd roof, a sweet low monotone,
Like the sea's sigh heard on a headland path—
Such mystic beauty the Church Latin hath.
Now it sounds grand, and solemnly it rolls.
Like blind men hearing ocean, so hear we
Therein the adoration of all souls,
Voices out of a vast eternity,
The wondrous sighs that soar while they complain,
The unperturbèd rapture, the sweet pain.
Like blind men hearing ocean, so hear we
Therein the adoration of all souls,
Voices out of a vast eternity,
The wondrous sighs that soar while they complain,
The unperturbèd rapture, the sweet pain.
48
Now intervolving richly type with type,
Reticulated sounds with sounds enlace—
The thoughts by summers long of prayers made ripe,
Writ by some gentle Tacitus of grace.
Leaf shadows on them now, a bird-lilt chime—
Now a grand hammer-stroke of triple rhyme.
Reticulated sounds with sounds enlace—
The thoughts by summers long of prayers made ripe,
Writ by some gentle Tacitus of grace.
Leaf shadows on them now, a bird-lilt chime—
Now a grand hammer-stroke of triple rhyme.
They sang; straight out those heartfelt praises broke,
Like the old arrows kindling as they flew;
They speak the accent that their Master spoke,
Seeing life's highest object clearly through
Earth's perturbations—like the calm star higher
Seen steadfast through the comet's hair of fire.
Like the old arrows kindling as they flew;
They speak the accent that their Master spoke,
Seeing life's highest object clearly through
Earth's perturbations—like the calm star higher
Seen steadfast through the comet's hair of fire.
Each knight bethought him of the tender days,
Of small hands lifted at his mother's knee;
Each priest felt purer with that burst of praise,
Each bishop fell to praying for his see.
While knight and priest and bishop concert kept,
The Pontiff lifted up his voice, and wept.
Of small hands lifted at his mother's knee;
Each priest felt purer with that burst of praise,
Each bishop fell to praying for his see.
While knight and priest and bishop concert kept,
The Pontiff lifted up his voice, and wept.
“Out of the ground the evil weed shall spring,
The pestilence shall spread o'er Christian lands;
Black shall the plague be, fell the blossoming—
Behold, the self-convicted sophist stands,
Posing those principles, denying these,
Weaving himself into parentheses.”
The pestilence shall spread o'er Christian lands;
Black shall the plague be, fell the blossoming—
Behold, the self-convicted sophist stands,
Posing those principles, denying these,
Weaving himself into parentheses.”
“The gold dust rub thou off the radiant moth,
The death's head of the heresy show thou there;
From the fell skull tear thou the fine cerecloth,
Lift up thy voice, O Bernard! do not spare,
Though the swarms thicken round thee, though the fly
Of France shall hiss to that of Italy.”
The death's head of the heresy show thou there;
From the fell skull tear thou the fine cerecloth,
Lift up thy voice, O Bernard! do not spare,
Though the swarms thicken round thee, though the fly
Of France shall hiss to that of Italy.”
49
“What though Abelard promise new-born thought,
And Arnold liberty—that word of fire;
Speak thou calm truth from God's own treasure brought,
The better freedom from our own desire;
The Church's dogma lion-like in rest
Of strong repose that faces foemen best.”
And Arnold liberty—that word of fire;
Speak thou calm truth from God's own treasure brought,
The better freedom from our own desire;
The Church's dogma lion-like in rest
Of strong repose that faces foemen best.”
Time for collation, food of garden growth,
The ripe fruit crush'd into the temperate cup;
Then, silence made, proudly and gladly both
The seneschal proclaimeth, standing up:
“Enough for each and all the brethren hope,
And one fair fish for our dread lord the Pope.”
The ripe fruit crush'd into the temperate cup;
Then, silence made, proudly and gladly both
The seneschal proclaimeth, standing up:
“Enough for each and all the brethren hope,
And one fair fish for our dread lord the Pope.”
The sumptuous Roman in that stern hall miss'd
The chased orfevery, the peacock's pride,
The heavy cup, the tint of amethyst;
And each to each around the table sigh'd,
“Well till the light of Burgundy wax dim
To hear a saint, but not to dine with him!”
The chased orfevery, the peacock's pride,
The heavy cup, the tint of amethyst;
And each to each around the table sigh'd,
“Well till the light of Burgundy wax dim
To hear a saint, but not to dine with him!”
But the Pope, wholly wrapp'd in Bernard, learn'd
That love hath lore which makes it wondrous wise.
Still in the lamp of these saints' hearts have burn'd
Time's clearest lights; they with their gentle eyes,
In the deep fold of God's pavilion hid,
Knew the world better than the worldlings did.
That love hath lore which makes it wondrous wise.
Still in the lamp of these saints' hearts have burn'd
Time's clearest lights; they with their gentle eyes,
In the deep fold of God's pavilion hid,
Knew the world better than the worldlings did.
Then to the church. No pictured forms were there.
With the eternal golden headache cinct;
No heaven of precious stones without soft air
Or sunny distance sweetly indistinct.
“I love,” said Bernard, “no such rigid sky;
Our heaven is Christ, not lapis lazuli.”
With the eternal golden headache cinct;
No heaven of precious stones without soft air
Or sunny distance sweetly indistinct.
“I love,” said Bernard, “no such rigid sky;
Our heaven is Christ, not lapis lazuli.”
50
The Romans look'd for altar cloth's design,
Fulgent as the Byzantine work, and stiff
With rough meandering of the golden line;
A miracle of colouring—as if
In charmèd looms the sunset clouds were trick'd,
And magic wrought the matchless acupict.
Fulgent as the Byzantine work, and stiff
With rough meandering of the golden line;
A miracle of colouring—as if
In charmèd looms the sunset clouds were trick'd,
And magic wrought the matchless acupict.
The Romans look'd for vestments to display,
Radiant with all the colours of the morn,
Rich with pineapple, and pomegranate spray:
But Bernard pray'd—“Let art again be born,
With beauty not this lower atmosphere's.
He paints Christ ill who paints Him not with tears.”
Radiant with all the colours of the morn,
Rich with pineapple, and pomegranate spray:
But Bernard pray'd—“Let art again be born,
With beauty not this lower atmosphere's.
He paints Christ ill who paints Him not with tears.”
Then after psalms and vespers all expect,
The Pontiff bow'd and bade the Abbot speak.
He rose, his chestnut hair with thin grey fleck'd,
A little flush upon his pallid cheek,
And oped the Song at that place of the lay
Which saith, “Pascitur inter lilia.”
The Pontiff bow'd and bade the Abbot speak.
He rose, his chestnut hair with thin grey fleck'd,
A little flush upon his pallid cheek,
And oped the Song at that place of the lay
Which saith, “Pascitur inter lilia.”
Preluding something for the knights' behalf,
Of virgin knights who keep a virgin will—
Serious, who almost deem it sin to laugh,
Bearing the red cross upon Sion's hill;
Who with strong arm corporeal possest
The place corporeal of our Jesus' rest,
Of virgin knights who keep a virgin will—
Serious, who almost deem it sin to laugh,
Bearing the red cross upon Sion's hill;
Who with strong arm corporeal possest
The place corporeal of our Jesus' rest,
He added—“Jesus, Lily for our eyes.
Lo! from the midst those spikelets all of gold,
Cinct with the white disposèd circlet-wise.
Golden divinity in this behold,
With fair Humanity pure white around Him,
Christ with the crown wherewith his Mother crown'd Him.
Lo! from the midst those spikelets all of gold,
Cinct with the white disposèd circlet-wise.
Golden divinity in this behold,
With fair Humanity pure white around Him,
Christ with the crown wherewith his Mother crown'd Him.
51
“Lily and lilies, fair perfumèd towers,
And all things that be His true lilies are—
His birth, His words, His works, His passion hours,
His life risen beyond the morning star.
Joy to our sinful hearts from each is sent;
For each is white, and each is redolent.
And all things that be His true lilies are—
His birth, His words, His works, His passion hours,
His life risen beyond the morning star.
Joy to our sinful hearts from each is sent;
For each is white, and each is redolent.
“Ah! we are poor, and yet it shall be well
If we can keep our narrow garden so
That He who feeds among the lilies dwell
In hearts where we have made one lily grow—
So that each little life be turned by grace
Into one lily perfect in its place.”
If we can keep our narrow garden so
That He who feeds among the lilies dwell
In hearts where we have made one lily grow—
So that each little life be turned by grace
Into one lily perfect in its place.”
I closed both books; the double spell was o'er.
I slept, but a voice spake with gentle might,
“Open to me, open the long closèd door;
My locks are fillèd with the drops of night.
From some far shore, perchance across the sea,
Through drift and rain, O soul, I come to thee.”
I slept, but a voice spake with gentle might,
“Open to me, open the long closèd door;
My locks are fillèd with the drops of night.
From some far shore, perchance across the sea,
Through drift and rain, O soul, I come to thee.”
I saw a Hand, and raised my hands from thence—
Were my hands wet with myrrh or tears so late?
If there were myrrh, 'twas myrrh of penitence;
Of penitence that I had made him wait.
If there were tears, it was because I knew
That Hand of love was love-pierced through and through.
Were my hands wet with myrrh or tears so late?
If there were myrrh, 'twas myrrh of penitence;
Of penitence that I had made him wait.
If there were tears, it was because I knew
That Hand of love was love-pierced through and through.
Then to the Frenchman's vaudeville I turn'd—
There stands a law for every tongue of man,
They only can interpret who have learn'd;
To the unlearn'd it is barbarian.
Lay of the lily, dreamland of the dove!
Love hath a tongue they only know who love.
There stands a law for every tongue of man,
They only can interpret who have learn'd;
To the unlearn'd it is barbarian.
Lay of the lily, dreamland of the dove!
Love hath a tongue they only know who love.
“Nullos se magistros habuisse nisi quercus et fagos joco illo gratioso inter amicos dicere solet.” (S. Bernard, Vita, opp. iv. 240.)
52
THE NEW ATLANTIS.
Argument.
I. Oxford in 1845—reading the New Atlantis of Bacon—II. Vision of the Island—III. Imaginatively applied to an idealized Oxford— IV. Oxford in 1885—Disappointment—Discord of Faith and Science in an age of Criticism—V. The inner work—the hope of reconciliation.
I
A city of young life astir for fame,
With generations each of three years’ date,—
The waters fleeting, yet the fount the same—
Where old age hardly enters thro’ the gate.
With generations each of three years’ date,—
The waters fleeting, yet the fount the same—
Where old age hardly enters thro’ the gate.
Forty years since! Thoughts now long over-blown
Had just begun to quicken in the germ.
We sat discussing subjects dimly known
One pleasant evening of the Summer Term.
Had just begun to quicken in the germ.
We sat discussing subjects dimly known
One pleasant evening of the Summer Term.
So question came of all things new and old,
And how the Movement sped and where should lead?
Some, peradventure, scorn'd, but more wax'd bold,
And bravely flaunted their triumphant creed.
And how the Movement sped and where should lead?
Some, peradventure, scorn'd, but more wax'd bold,
And bravely flaunted their triumphant creed.
53
Grave grew the talk, and golden grew the gloom;
The reason might be weak, the voice was strong.
Outside, by fits and starts, from room to room,
Boy call'd to boy, like birds, in bursts of song.
The reason might be weak, the voice was strong.
Outside, by fits and starts, from room to room,
Boy call'd to boy, like birds, in bursts of song.
Of forms they talked that rose, as if in joy,
Like magic isles from an enchanted foam;
They prophesied (no prophet like a boy!)
Some fairer Oxford and some freer Rome,—
Like magic isles from an enchanted foam;
They prophesied (no prophet like a boy!)
Some fairer Oxford and some freer Rome,—
An Oxford of a more majestic growth—
A Rome that sheds no blood, and makes no slave—
The perfect flower and quintessence of both,
More reverent science, faith by far more brave.
A Rome that sheds no blood, and makes no slave—
The perfect flower and quintessence of both,
More reverent science, faith by far more brave.
Faith should have broader brow and bolder eye,
Science sing “Angelus” at close of day;
Faith have more liberal and lucent sky,
And science end by learning how to pray.
Science sing “Angelus” at close of day;
Faith have more liberal and lucent sky,
And science end by learning how to pray.
And “Hail the hour,” they cried, “when each high morn
England, at one, shall stand at the church gate,
And vesper bells o'er all the land be borne,
And Newman mould the Church, and Gladstone stamp the State.”
England, at one, shall stand at the church gate,
And vesper bells o'er all the land be borne,
And Newman mould the Church, and Gladstone stamp the State.”
Now, when all left me, on my table lay
A volume of my Bacon, where was writ
By that great hand, in the evening of his day,
The fairest fable sunshine ever lit.
A volume of my Bacon, where was writ
By that great hand, in the evening of his day,
The fairest fable sunshine ever lit.
While in the dusk white chestnut blossoms paled
Above the black old wall, on the great tree,
The book and talk commingled, and I sail'd
Across a vast unnavigated sea.
Above the black old wall, on the great tree,
The book and talk commingled, and I sail'd
Across a vast unnavigated sea.
54
II
The enchanted island rose before me, drawn
More beautiful than words of mine may reach;
It lay magnificent in a magic dawn,
And full of boscage to the foam-fringed beach.
More beautiful than words of mine may reach;
It lay magnificent in a magic dawn,
And full of boscage to the foam-fringed beach.
How well the city of the sons of knowledge
Stood, giving pleasant prospect to the sea!
The fabulous and fancied island college
Unfabled and unfancied grew for me.
Stood, giving pleasant prospect to the sea!
The fabulous and fancied island college
Unfabled and unfancied grew for me.
In secret conclave of a sea so vast—
Earth's widest wilderness of waves ring'd round—
No mariner ever caught from any mast
A glimpse or inkling of that happy ground.
Earth's widest wilderness of waves ring'd round—
No mariner ever caught from any mast
A glimpse or inkling of that happy ground.
Yet now (such fair adventure did I win!)
That I could see and hear whate'er of state
Or thought, or work, or worship, was within
That muse-discovered island fortunate.
That I could see and hear whate'er of state
Or thought, or work, or worship, was within
That muse-discovered island fortunate.
I saw the House of Solomon strongly stand,
No fane so noble springs from any sod;
The oracle and lanthorn of the land,
Where nature is the interpreter of God.
No fane so noble springs from any sod;
The oracle and lanthorn of the land,
Where nature is the interpreter of God.
The College of the Six Day's Work well call'd,
Whence traders issue—not for gain or might,
For gold or silk, for spice or emerald—
Only for God's first creature, which is light.
Whence traders issue—not for gain or might,
For gold or silk, for spice or emerald—
Only for God's first creature, which is light.
I saw the masters of the speech and pen,
Those cunning in the secret cause of things;
Whose aspect was as if they pitied men—
A temperate race, a commonwealth of kings.
Those cunning in the secret cause of things;
Whose aspect was as if they pitied men—
A temperate race, a commonwealth of kings.
55
And, reverencing self, each soul was great,
And, reverencing God, to each was brought
With long calm striving strength inviolate,
With virgin purity victorious thought.
And, reverencing God, to each was brought
With long calm striving strength inviolate,
With virgin purity victorious thought.
Being such they scorn the mob's vain fierce desires,
Whereof coherent reading may not be,
Like the wild message interrupted wires
Send in magnetic storms below the sea.
Whereof coherent reading may not be,
Like the wild message interrupted wires
Send in magnetic storms below the sea.
Deep caverns had they in the mountains wrought,
High watch-towers for the clouds and starry tracts;
And many a spacious house where light was caught
From tumbling tides and thunderous cataracts.
High watch-towers for the clouds and starry tracts;
And many a spacious house where light was caught
From tumbling tides and thunderous cataracts.
Gardens they had where they perused the flowers,
And each had more than fairy tales to tell,
For with it bees that buzz'd in golden hours
Conspired to work a patient miracle.
And each had more than fairy tales to tell,
For with it bees that buzz'd in golden hours
Conspired to work a patient miracle.
Exquisite distillations, dainty work
Of excellent lustre, gems elsewhere unfound,
They lack'd not, nor the music that doth lurk
In tremulous string and half inaudible sound.
Of excellent lustre, gems elsewhere unfound,
They lack'd not, nor the music that doth lurk
In tremulous string and half inaudible sound.
The chemistry of sunlight and of star
They knew; the long slow change of earth and man;
The bells and rings that sweet and dainty are—
The universal calm æonian;
They knew; the long slow change of earth and man;
The bells and rings that sweet and dainty are—
The universal calm æonian;
The families of all children of the cloud;
The innumerable lives all waves that throng;
Each medicinal plant with pow'r endow'd;
The birds of every wing and every song.
The innumerable lives all waves that throng;
Each medicinal plant with pow'r endow'd;
The birds of every wing and every song.
56
Pictures they had, silent and old, and yet
Sweeter than music, richer-hued than rose,
And statues of their great men, stirless set,
Praxitelean shapes in passionless repose.
Sweeter than music, richer-hued than rose,
And statues of their great men, stirless set,
Praxitelean shapes in passionless repose.
A place of leafiness, a land of rivers,
A clime where frosts in rain and sunshine pass,
And temperate nature, half-regretful, shivers
The rose in heaven, the diamond on the grass.
A clime where frosts in rain and sunshine pass,
And temperate nature, half-regretful, shivers
The rose in heaven, the diamond on the grass.
A land of distant forests purple-domed,
Of sunlit sails slow passing park-girt halls,
As sweet a land as traveller ever roam'd
Through scented limes, by passioning waterfalls.
Of sunlit sails slow passing park-girt halls,
As sweet a land as traveller ever roam'd
Through scented limes, by passioning waterfalls.
Yet deem'd I “Something wants where all is fair,”
I sigh'd, “Man doth not live alone by bread”—
“What of the higher life, whose breath is prayer?
What of the touch of sacraments?” I said.
I sigh'd, “Man doth not live alone by bread”—
“What of the higher life, whose breath is prayer?
What of the touch of sacraments?” I said.
Behold! a chime of bells rang toward the east,
To a cathedral moved a white-robed host,
And of the wisest each man was a priest,
And broadest brows were those that brighten'd most.
To a cathedral moved a white-robed host,
And of the wisest each man was a priest,
And broadest brows were those that brighten'd most.
Within, i’ the midst, was a scroll clasp'd with gold,
And one stood forth of look more sweet than strong,
And (for the day was festival) he told
“The Finding of the Book,” in measured song.
And one stood forth of look more sweet than strong,
And (for the day was festival) he told
“The Finding of the Book,” in measured song.
“One eve like this, a thousand years ago,
Our merchantmen of light were weary grown;
Wise men are strong, but for the strong 'tis woe
To know the holiest of truth unknown.
Our merchantmen of light were weary grown;
Wise men are strong, but for the strong 'tis woe
To know the holiest of truth unknown.
57
“Lo! through the trees, like bits intensely shining
Cramp'd in the painted window, first there came,
Cut into diamonds by the boughs entwining
The orange flashes of the sea aflame.
Cramp'd in the painted window, first there came,
Cut into diamonds by the boughs entwining
The orange flashes of the sea aflame.
“And then through all the cloister'd aisles of beech,
The fluted stems from whence the builder learns,
There pass'd a softer breath than any speech—
A dying light stream'd inward on the ferns.
The fluted stems from whence the builder learns,
There pass'd a softer breath than any speech—
A dying light stream'd inward on the ferns.
“Those trees stand waiting through the silent years,
Expecting some one who doth never come;
So sternly happy over human tears,
To human words so eloquently dumb.
Expecting some one who doth never come;
So sternly happy over human tears,
To human words so eloquently dumb.
“They wait some song that winters never sing,
Some summer blue that eye hath never seen,
The far-off foot-fall of some spell-bound spring,
That lingers unimaginably green.
Some summer blue that eye hath never seen,
The far-off foot-fall of some spell-bound spring,
That lingers unimaginably green.
“But through them passed that eve a mystic breath,
A hint from God to all their leaves was given,
Some inarticulate news of life and death,
The anticipation of some gift from Heaven.
A hint from God to all their leaves was given,
Some inarticulate news of life and death,
The anticipation of some gift from Heaven.
“And when the sun had sunk, and the night was
Cloudy and calm; some mile into the sea
Upon our eastern coast it came to pass
A light unspeakable hover'd far a-lee.
Cloudy and calm; some mile into the sea
Upon our eastern coast it came to pass
A light unspeakable hover'd far a-lee.
“There sail'd a pillar from some shore unknown,
Pillar with cross atop, and both of light;
And all the ocean hush'd its stormy tone,
And awe was on the azure infinite.
Pillar with cross atop, and both of light;
And all the ocean hush'd its stormy tone,
And awe was on the azure infinite.
58
“The throng upon the strand made not a stir,
But boats put forth to see the lights divine,
And the crews stood as in a theatre,
Beholding this, as if a heavenly sign.
But boats put forth to see the lights divine,
And the crews stood as in a theatre,
Beholding this, as if a heavenly sign.
“And after prayer the wisest of our wise,
Toward the pillar rowed with muffled oar,
Half fear'd that at one sound beneath the skies,
The delicate dream might fade for evermore.
Toward the pillar rowed with muffled oar,
Half fear'd that at one sound beneath the skies,
The delicate dream might fade for evermore.
“When, as the boat drew near the light of God,
The moon being partly hid by pearly bars,
Pillar and cross did cast themselves abroad
Into a firmament of many stars.
The moon being partly hid by pearly bars,
Pillar and cross did cast themselves abroad
Into a firmament of many stars.
“What ark was that? How chanced it on the tide?
No gallant ship upon the ocean rode,
No lights were lit the mariners to guide,
On pencilled spars no sail was moon-besnow'd.
No gallant ship upon the ocean rode,
No lights were lit the mariners to guide,
On pencilled spars no sail was moon-besnow'd.
“Sole there remain'd that tiny cedar ark,
Wherefrom there grew one small green branch of palm,
Which open'd, nothing but the Book they mark,
Wherein is written every holy Psalm;
Wherefrom there grew one small green branch of palm,
Which open'd, nothing but the Book they mark,
Wherein is written every holy Psalm;
“And all the histories of the Hebrew years,
And all the treasury of soul-complaints,
And all the dim magnificence of seers,
And all the sighs and silences of saints.
And all the treasury of soul-complaints,
And all the dim magnificence of seers,
And all the sighs and silences of saints.
“And all the visions by the Patmian shore,
Cycle in cycle orbing manifold,
And all the hopes that make the sweet heav'n more
Than a mere mist of amethyst and gold.
Cycle in cycle orbing manifold,
And all the hopes that make the sweet heav'n more
Than a mere mist of amethyst and gold.
59
“And chief enshrined above earth's waves of strife,
The unfathomable words that Jesus saith—
And all the loveliness of one white Life,
And all the pathos of one perfect Death.”
The unfathomable words that Jesus saith—
And all the loveliness of one white Life,
And all the pathos of one perfect Death.”
III
On the next eve, beside our glorious river,
Forth from the throng I walk'd among the trees,
The rustle of whose leaves keeps time for ever
To holy bells of ancient colleges.
Forth from the throng I walk'd among the trees,
The rustle of whose leaves keeps time for ever
To holy bells of ancient colleges.
“I will do justice to this place,” I cried,
“Endow it with imaginative gleam,
And let its outward frame be glorified
With something of the glory of my dream.”
“Endow it with imaginative gleam,
And let its outward frame be glorified
With something of the glory of my dream.”
Whereon my Oxford rose with airy motion,
Superbly touch'd by sunset's magic spell,
Most like the fabulous college girt with ocean
Far beyond Cambalene and Tyrambel.
Superbly touch'd by sunset's magic spell,
Most like the fabulous college girt with ocean
Far beyond Cambalene and Tyrambel.
And I could see and hear what fortuned there,
The forms and voices of a noble band,
In love and all sweet brotherhood walking fair,
The thinkers and the workers hand in hand.
The forms and voices of a noble band,
In love and all sweet brotherhood walking fair,
The thinkers and the workers hand in hand.
Not only those who know all lights and shadows,
On waves of language as they rise and fall,
And live their life upon the Attic meadows
Beneath the plane in worlds Platonical;
On waves of language as they rise and fall,
And live their life upon the Attic meadows
Beneath the plane in worlds Platonical;
60
Or those who the fine tissue of the lyre
Antique can follow through its difficult woof,
Or who can march with soul that doth not tire
Through the long process of the perfect proof.
Antique can follow through its difficult woof,
Or who can march with soul that doth not tire
Through the long process of the perfect proof.
Eyes, too, were there, deep orbs whereto was given
Another and a vaster world to win,
The passionless pathway of the stars of heav'n
Without, the subtler universe within—
Another and a vaster world to win,
The passionless pathway of the stars of heav'n
Without, the subtler universe within—
Histories that seem to have no steadfast end,
By one majestic purpose bounden still,
As rushing cataracts hang at distance kenn'd
One great white wonder from the purple hill—
By one majestic purpose bounden still,
As rushing cataracts hang at distance kenn'd
One great white wonder from the purple hill—
The quiet chronicles of rocks and flowers,
The mystery of life enwrapped in awe,
The interworking of dissimilar powers
Where all is harmony, for all is law,
The mystery of life enwrapped in awe,
The interworking of dissimilar powers
Where all is harmony, for all is law,
Through light's long tide and ocean's silver roll,
From the pale primrose to the furthest star,
In all the harp of man's immortal soul
No strife to desecrate, no string to jar.
From the pale primrose to the furthest star,
In all the harp of man's immortal soul
No strife to desecrate, no string to jar.
Each after each, some house of light upsprings,
A visible sign of knowledge larger grown,
Where cunning hands have heap'd up precious things,
And cut thy vision, Verulam, in stone.
A visible sign of knowledge larger grown,
Where cunning hands have heap'd up precious things,
And cut thy vision, Verulam, in stone.
Oh, lamps too long unlit, now bravely burning—
One true philosophy that lives and grows;
Oh, happy hand of reverential learning,
That brushes snails from Faith's unfolding rose!
One true philosophy that lives and grows;
Oh, happy hand of reverential learning,
That brushes snails from Faith's unfolding rose!
61
Nor shall want strain of verse superbly wrought,
For aye sweet Poesy renews her youth,
Hangs songs like hawthorn from the sharpest thought,
And daisies o'er the ploughshare track of Truth.
For aye sweet Poesy renews her youth,
Hangs songs like hawthorn from the sharpest thought,
And daisies o'er the ploughshare track of Truth.
And aye let Science disenchant at will,
And set her features free from passion's trace
A new enchantment waits upon her still,
New lights of passion fall upon her face.
And set her features free from passion's trace
A new enchantment waits upon her still,
New lights of passion fall upon her face.
And aye as Poesy is said to die,
Her resurrection comes. She doth create
New heaven, new earth, an ampler sea and sky,
A fairer Nature, and a nobler fate;
Her resurrection comes. She doth create
New heaven, new earth, an ampler sea and sky,
A fairer Nature, and a nobler fate;
For stealth of Science, poverty of Fact,
Indemnifies herself in gold of song,
And claims her heritage in that blue tract
Of land which lies beyond the reach of wrong.
Indemnifies herself in gold of song,
And claims her heritage in that blue tract
Of land which lies beyond the reach of wrong.
And being divine, believeth the Divine,
And being beautiful, creates the fair,
And always sees a further mountain line,
And stands delighted on a starrier stair.
And being beautiful, creates the fair,
And always sees a further mountain line,
And stands delighted on a starrier stair.
Last, as the evening light wax'd richly dim,
Melodious voice of yearning unsufficed,
Uprose Magnificat, and holy hymn,
And wisdom's strong heart fell asleep in Christ.
Melodious voice of yearning unsufficed,
Uprose Magnificat, and holy hymn,
And wisdom's strong heart fell asleep in Christ.
IV
Years—forty years—have pass'd away since then,
And boys who bent to manhood's earliest strife
Are in the silent land, or see as men
Few diamond spray-drops on the mill-wheel life.
And boys who bent to manhood's earliest strife
Are in the silent land, or see as men
Few diamond spray-drops on the mill-wheel life.
62
What high fulfilment hath thy vision found?
What fair adventure hath thy fancy brought?
With what rich wreaths is thy Utopia crown'd?
And what success hath fallen to thy thought?
What fair adventure hath thy fancy brought?
With what rich wreaths is thy Utopia crown'd?
And what success hath fallen to thy thought?
The thinkers and the workers walk apart
Upon the banks of Isis and of Cam.
The worker from the thing miscall'd his heart
Casts forth like ice his morsell'd epigram.
Upon the banks of Isis and of Cam.
The worker from the thing miscall'd his heart
Casts forth like ice his morsell'd epigram.
The thinker owns of mere subjective worth
His thought, and piles his doubts like flakes of snow,
And o'er a darken'd universe drivels forth
His feeble and immeasurable “No.”
His thought, and piles his doubts like flakes of snow,
And o'er a darken'd universe drivels forth
His feeble and immeasurable “No.”
And that sweet story. Ah! the Book enfolden
Unstain'd and glorious by the branch of palm,
O'er it the shaft of light and cross more golden,
Round it the sea's illimitable calm;
Unstain'd and glorious by the branch of palm,
O'er it the shaft of light and cross more golden,
Round it the sea's illimitable calm;
Came it so gently within cedar barr'd,
And floated it on waves so grandly lit,
And kept the angels such a watch and ward,
And arch'd such tender azure over it,
And floated it on waves so grandly lit,
And kept the angels such a watch and ward,
And arch'd such tender azure over it,
That the white page should be so darkly blotted
By the high treason of the sceptic's ink,
And the one story of a life unspotted
Fall into four as certain critics think?
By the high treason of the sceptic's ink,
And the one story of a life unspotted
Fall into four as certain critics think?
That the sweet breath of miracle should die,
Like the brief odour of the cedarn ark,
On earth's one truest page be branded—Lie!
On its one chronicle of sunlight—Dark?
Like the brief odour of the cedarn ark,
On earth's one truest page be branded—Lie!
On its one chronicle of sunlight—Dark?
63
And He whom we adore with bended head,
What tints are these the mockers intermix?
The riddle of the years is poorly read,
A contradiction loads the crucifix.
What tints are these the mockers intermix?
The riddle of the years is poorly read,
A contradiction loads the crucifix.
They call Him King. They mourn o'er His eclipse,
And fill a cup of half-contemptuous wine,
Foam the froth'd rhetoric for the death-white lips,
And ring the changes on the word “divine.”
And fill a cup of half-contemptuous wine,
Foam the froth'd rhetoric for the death-white lips,
And ring the changes on the word “divine.”
Divinely gentle—yet a sombre giant;
Divinely perfect—yet imperfect man:
Divinely calm—yet recklessly defiant;
Divinely true—yet half a charlatan.
Divinely perfect—yet imperfect man:
Divinely calm—yet recklessly defiant;
Divinely true—yet half a charlatan.
They torture all the record of the Life,
Give—what from France and Germany they get,
To Calvary carry a dissecting-knife,
Parisian patchouli to Olivet.
Give—what from France and Germany they get,
To Calvary carry a dissecting-knife,
Parisian patchouli to Olivet.
They talk of critical battle-flags unfurl'd,
Of the wing'd sweep of science high and grand—
And sometimes publish to a yawning world
A book of patchwork learning second-hand.
Of the wing'd sweep of science high and grand—
And sometimes publish to a yawning world
A book of patchwork learning second-hand.
Wing'd did they say? but different wings uplift
The little living ecstasy sunward borne,
And the brown-feather'd thief, with one poor gift—
To stoop and twitter as it steals the corn.
The little living ecstasy sunward borne,
And the brown-feather'd thief, with one poor gift—
To stoop and twitter as it steals the corn.
Ah! up the chapel-aisles, in rows more thin,
The priests pass eastward, and the scholars come,
And half-sad faces wear Arouet's grin,
And half the old Magnificats are dumb.
The priests pass eastward, and the scholars come,
And half-sad faces wear Arouet's grin,
And half the old Magnificats are dumb.
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Hush'd be such strains of bitterness or hate;
A hidden faith doth Oxford strongly keep.
If less of blue the wave irradiate,
A purer salt lies many a fathom deep.
A hidden faith doth Oxford strongly keep.
If less of blue the wave irradiate,
A purer salt lies many a fathom deep.
Patience! God's House of Light shall yet be built,
In years unthought of, to some unknown song,
And from the fanes of Science shall her guilt
Pass like a cloud. How long, O Lord, how long?—
In years unthought of, to some unknown song,
And from the fanes of Science shall her guilt
Pass like a cloud. How long, O Lord, how long?—
When Faith shall grow a man, and Thought a child,
And that in us which thinks with that which feels
Shall everlastingly be reconciled,
And that which questioneth with that which kneels.
And that in us which thinks with that which feels
Shall everlastingly be reconciled,
And that which questioneth with that which kneels.
And that true Book—the lovely dream is o'er
Which saw it shelter'd well beneath the palm,
Sent by a saint from some mysterious shore,
Its tiny frigate floating o'er a calm.
Which saw it shelter'd well beneath the palm,
Sent by a saint from some mysterious shore,
Its tiny frigate floating o'er a calm.
No vessel bore it to a sacred isle,
No magic kept it from the salt sea-spray,
It had no perfect charm of Grecian style,
No shaft of glory heralded its way.
No magic kept it from the salt sea-spray,
It had no perfect charm of Grecian style,
No shaft of glory heralded its way.
Yet, peradventure, shall diviner seem
The chronicle of a severer truth,
Than all the fabulous colouring of the dream
That tinted it so richly in our youth.
The chronicle of a severer truth,
Than all the fabulous colouring of the dream
That tinted it so richly in our youth.
And yet, for all the puzzle of the lines,
All the discordant copies stain'd with age,
A more miraculous lore it intertwines,
A grander Christ looks radiant from its page.
All the discordant copies stain'd with age,
A more miraculous lore it intertwines,
A grander Christ looks radiant from its page.
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For all the stammering of those simple men,
A four-fold unity of truth they reach:
Drops as of light fall from their trembling pen,
And Christ speaks through them with a tenderer speech.
A four-fold unity of truth they reach:
Drops as of light fall from their trembling pen,
And Christ speaks through them with a tenderer speech.
And through all time our father's faith shall speed,
And the old utterance be sent abroad,
And eastward chanted rise the changeless creed—
O Light from Light, O very God from God!
And the old utterance be sent abroad,
And eastward chanted rise the changeless creed—
O Light from Light, O very God from God!
But for the New Atlantis—for the Church
Where faith and knowledge heart-united dwell—
I think it lies far-off beyond our search,
Enfolded by the Hills Delectable.
Where faith and knowledge heart-united dwell—
I think it lies far-off beyond our search,
Enfolded by the Hills Delectable.
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SUPER FLUMINA
I.
I read again that wondrous song,So strongly sweet and sweetly strong,
That ancient poem, whose music shivers
With a chime of rolling rivers
Through the forest of the psalms—
Now it droppeth some golden bead,
Hebrew litany, or creed,
On its rosary of the reed:
Now among the dark-green palms,
And through the harp-hung willows grey,
It yearneth its sweet self away.
And then the stream is fleck'd with froth,
And then the psalm is white with wrath,
And all the sorrow of the verse
Swells out majestic to a curse.
“Blessèd be thou, Psalm!” I said,
“Whether thy deep words be read
Soft and low with bended head;
Or whether chance at vesper-tide
In some minster grand and grey,
By the organ glorified,
Soft the Süper Flumina
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While the hush of eve grows stiller,
Till you seem to hear a river,
Willows tremble, harp-strings quiver,
And a beautiful regret
To the heavenly Sion set.”
“And why,” I thought, “must she be still,
The Muse, that with her hallow'd fire
Those chosen shepherds did inspire
Of Bethlehem and of Horeb's hill;
And now, in exile chants again,
Not less divinely, such a strain,
As he the son of Jesse play'd
In Kedron's olive-hoary glade,
The glittering grief upon his brow?
In Christ's own church must she rest now,
Fair, angel-fair, but frozen, like
A marble maid whose death-white fingers
Enclasp a harp, o'er which she lingers
Stone-silent, but may never strike?”
II.
Musing thus a spirit brightStood by me that summer night:
“Come where the river rolleth calm
Of that Babylonian psalm;
Thou shalt learn, by me reveal'd,
Why those holy lips are seal'd.”
III.
Then on a great Assyrian quay,Fast by the town of Nineveh,
At noon of night, methought I stood
Where Tigris went with glimmering flood.
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With old grim kings, enthroned, encrown'd.
Strange-visaged chief, and wingèd bull,
Pine-cone, and lotus wonderful.
Embark'd, I floated fast and far,
For I was bound to Babylon.
I saw the great blue lake of Wan,
And that green island Ahktamar.
I saw above the burning flat
The lone and snow-capp'd Ararat.
But ever spell-bound on I pass,
Sometimes hearing my shallop creep,
With its cool rustle, through the deep
Mesopotamian meadow grass.
And now (as when by moons of old,
Grandly with wrinkling silver roll'd,
It glimmer'd on through grove and lea,
For the starry eyes of Raphael
Journeying to Ecbatane)
The ancient Tigris floweth free,
Through orange-grove, and date-tree dell,
To pearl and rainbow-colour'd shell,
And coral of the Indian sea.
Take down the sail, and strike the mast,
Here is Euphrates old, at last.
Begirt with many a belt of palm,
Round fragrant garden-beds of balm,
(In one whereof old Chelcias' daughter
Went to walk down beside the water,
The lily both in heart and name,
Whose white leaf hath no blot of shame,)
Grandly the king of rivers greets
His Sheshach's hundred-gated streets.
Through the great town the river rolls,
69
Whose awful waves are living souls.
High up, the gardens folded fair,
Rainbow'd round many a marble stair,
Hang gorgeous in the starlit air;
And trees droop down o'er spouted fountains,
That once the hunter Mede saw set
Far off upon the purple mountains,
Blossom'd with white and violet.
But o'er the sea of living souls,
And o'er the garden, and the wave,
A muffled bell, methinketh tolls,
“For thee, earth's chief ones stir the grave.”
And rises to the stars a cry
Of triumph and of agony,
Far over all the ancient East—
“How hath the golden city ceased!”
In shadow of his dim blue room,
High overhead in painted gloom,
Like sunset cloud-encompass'd, Bel
Sleeps golden in his oracle.
Falleth a voice of far-off Pæans
Down where the lion banner droops:
“There is a sword on the Chaldeans;
Bel boweth down and Nebo stoops.”
Ah! I hear a sound of woe
By Euphrates come and go,
From the Lebanonian snow.
Rolling wave and sighing breeze
Wash'd through firs and cedar-trees—
And the chesnuts' plumes of white
Tossing in a fierce delight—
And a voice that calls and calls,
Through the algums, set like walls,
70
Deepening aye the voice increased,
River near, and forest far,
Half like funeral, half like feast,
“Fallen, O thou Morning Star!”
And on by many a basalt column,
Euphrates sang most sad and solemn,
As if the prophet scroll below
His billows touch'd him with a woe;
As if e'en now he felt the beat
Of those predestined Persian feet;
As if through all his sea-like plain,
Through all his moonlit roll he hears
A music of immortal tears—
A sobbing as of gods in pain—
A prophecy of far-off years,
When Babylon should become a heap,
Sleeping a perpetual sleep,
In the Lord's strong indignation,
A wilderness, a desolation:
High gate buried, broad wall broken,
Deed undone, and dree unspoken,
Wise men silent, captains drunken,
Out of her the great voice sunken,
Sea dried up, and fountain shrunken.
IV.
'Tis starlight. In the fiery heatNo longer doth the landscape wink,
And flicker to the water's brink;
It washes by high gates of brass,
Between its mounds like mountain ridges,
And white-stoled forms on fairy bridges,
71
With their sails moon-besilvered, pass.
Gleams from the naphtha cressets fall
By Esarhaddon's sun-bright hall.
The soldier rests him from the wars,
Mylitta's girls their dances weave,
The wise men in the lustrous eve
Watch the great weird Chaldean stars,
Bells in blue Heaven's cathedral chime—
Hands on the silver clock of Time—
“What of the night? what of the night?”
Read, ye astrologers, aright!
V.
Who are these sitting by the billows,With their harps hung upon the willows?
For some among the captor throngs
Bid them sing one of Sion's songs.
VI.
“Golden hopes are faded like the sunset,Wan and wither'd like the morning moon,
Golden songs are silent on the mountains,
Golden harps of Judah out of tune.
Ah! we cannot sing those songs divinest,
For, O Sion! we remember Thee,
Ah! our hearts miss sorely in this valley,
The wild beauty of the hill and sea.
If there must be music from the exiles,
Set we words of battle to the harp,
Sweep it as the wild wind sweeps the forest,
Let the curse rise high, and fall down sharp!”
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VII.
What time on Judah's hills they trod,Science of song to them was given,
The harpers on the harps of God,
The poets of the King of Heaven.
Mournful their strains, but through them still
The hope of their return is seen,
Like a sun-silver'd sail between
Dark sea and darkly purple hill.
Strange race! that reads for ever scrolls,
With future glories pictured bright,
As sunsets' golden pencils write
Those slanting sentences of light,
When tree-tops dusk, on dark green boles.
By the broad pulses of this river,
Keeping one even time for ever,
Since Amraphel was King of Shinar,
They long for Jordan's spray and shout,
And linkèd music long drawn out,
Passioning with song diviner,
From waterfall to waterfall.
O, for the line of long green meadows,
Waters whose gleams are silver shadows,
Whose glooms, where wood-hung hills rise higher,
Are darkness dash'd with silver fire,
And glens through which those waters come,
With many a crashing downward call,
With sweeping sound of battle pomp,
With blaring of the battle trump
And double of the battle drum.
And sometimes dawn-blush'd, as with twine
Of rosy flowers of Palestine,
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And sometimes yellowing in the noons,
But always gushing like the swell
Of shawms and cymbals raised to Him
Who dwells between the Cherubim,
The Holy One of Israel.
VIII.
I saw the star-lights all depart,I heard a shiver thro' the leaf,
I heard the river moan and start
As if rememb'ring that old grief
He had in Eden, when the swell
Of Gihon and of Hiddekel
Told him that earth's glory fell.
I saw the white moon fade and fade,
Until her silver flower was laid
Dead on the morning's passionate heart
But ere the city was dislimn'd,
And ere the starlit stream was dimm'd,
And ere the exiles ceased to weep
Beside Euphrates' mighty sweep,
That spirit came to me and said:
“Seest thou, why sacred song is dead?
Faith sets those tunes of sorrow high,
Love gives that longing to each eye,
Hope pledges them the victory.
O exiles from a brighter home!
O weepers by a wilder foam!
O poets to whom God has given
On earth the starry harps of Heaven!
When to the city far off kenn'd
With love like theirs your eye shall bend,
74
As hills look nigh when rain is near;
When by life's stream your faith shall sigh,
When ye shall look with hope as high,
For Christ's eternal victory;
God's Church, as in the years of old,
Shall chant, and her sweet voice returning
Shall touch the eyes with happy yearning,
Shall teach the deep heart's harp of gold.”
75
THE ISLAND CHURCH.
Poor was the peasant, poor and heavy-hearted,
Gone were his fields, his children, and his wife,
The kindly friends of other days departed,
The fine lights faded from the hills of life.
Gone were his fields, his children, and his wife,
The kindly friends of other days departed,
The fine lights faded from the hills of life.
Glad threads of speech, if rough, the labourers mingle
By their own fires, where their own smoke-wreaths curl,
But Onni sat beside the stranger's ingle,
And steeped in tears the scant bread of a churl.
By their own fires, where their own smoke-wreaths curl,
But Onni sat beside the stranger's ingle,
And steeped in tears the scant bread of a churl.
The young have hope; but on his head was shaken
The snow that summer sun shall never thaw,
Yet bless'd are they whom Heaven has undertaken
To chasten and to teach from God's own law.
The snow that summer sun shall never thaw,
Yet bless'd are they whom Heaven has undertaken
To chasten and to teach from God's own law.
O bread of God! O fields for ever sunny!
O fadeless flowers upon life's craggiest shelves!
O better substance, more enduring money,
By grace laid up within our hearts themselves!
O fadeless flowers upon life's craggiest shelves!
O better substance, more enduring money,
By grace laid up within our hearts themselves!
Midsummer Day! All night the child has folden
Himself in expectation, heart and head,
Like bee in some rich flow'r-bell dusty golden,
With long sleep pleasantly disquieted.
Himself in expectation, heart and head,
Like bee in some rich flow'r-bell dusty golden,
With long sleep pleasantly disquieted.
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Midsummer Day! All night the rivers going
By heath and holm triumphantly have slid;
All night a soft and silver overflowing
From joy expected bathed the sleeper's lid.
By heath and holm triumphantly have slid;
All night a soft and silver overflowing
From joy expected bathed the sleeper's lid.
Midsummer Day! At morn the maiden merry
Dons her green kirtle; in the hawthorn lane
The farmer's boy beneath the rows of cherry
Brings hampers full of flow'rs in the wane.
Dons her green kirtle; in the hawthorn lane
The farmer's boy beneath the rows of cherry
Brings hampers full of flow'rs in the wane.
Midsummer Day! The sad and wrinkled peasant
Smiles as he stands erect upon the sod:
“In holy church to-day it will be pleasant
To taste the liberty of the sons of God.'
Smiles as he stands erect upon the sod:
“In holy church to-day it will be pleasant
To taste the liberty of the sons of God.'
Midsummer Day! They smother up the altar
With coronals, the brightest of the year;
The village choir have practised well the Psalter,
The grand old hymns to Finland ever dear.
With coronals, the brightest of the year;
The village choir have practised well the Psalter,
The grand old hymns to Finland ever dear.
The feast of flowers! The old priest has conn'd over
A brand-new homily—joyful yet perplexed—
Redolent of garden bloom and meadow-clover;
“Behold the lilies,” is the good man's text.
A brand-new homily—joyful yet perplexed—
Redolent of garden bloom and meadow-clover;
“Behold the lilies,” is the good man's text.
The feast of flowers! Sky, ocean, earth, seem turning
All things to flowers. Midsummer winds expire
In perfumed music through the roses, burning
Like wreaths of red flame on the gilded wire.
All things to flowers. Midsummer winds expire
In perfumed music through the roses, burning
Like wreaths of red flame on the gilded wire.
Flowers in the churches! Every birchen column
Blushes like dawn, or gleams as when it snows;
Their sweet breath in the holy air is solemn,
Like warbled music when it comes and goes.
Blushes like dawn, or gleams as when it snows;
Their sweet breath in the holy air is solemn,
Like warbled music when it comes and goes.
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Flowers on the window-sill, and in the chamber,
Flowers round the great stem of the village tree,
And far away of infinite blue and amber
The rose of heaven, the violet of the sea.
Flowers round the great stem of the village tree,
And far away of infinite blue and amber
The rose of heaven, the violet of the sea.
Speaks out the peasant Onni: “O my master!
But for a little while let me away.
Hark, through the woodland walks is rising faster
The voice of them that keep their holiday.
But for a little while let me away.
Hark, through the woodland walks is rising faster
The voice of them that keep their holiday.
“All winter long, when the wild wind was grieving,
Thou know'st I drudged for thee in wet and cold;
All spring, when God's great sunshine was inweaving
Through forest-leaves his thousand nets of gold,
Thou know'st I drudged for thee in wet and cold;
All spring, when God's great sunshine was inweaving
Through forest-leaves his thousand nets of gold,
“I work'd thy flax; and still the bounding river
Swept with his sound of trumpets through the glade,
But my poor ear was sicken'd with the shiver
That the monotonous shuttle always made.
Swept with his sound of trumpets through the glade,
But my poor ear was sicken'd with the shiver
That the monotonous shuttle always made.
“Worse, worse than that; for we our gathering festal
Once in the twelvemonth only have down here,
But saints and angels, on the sea of crystal,
Their feast of flowers keep round th' eternal year.
Once in the twelvemonth only have down here,
But saints and angels, on the sea of crystal,
Their feast of flowers keep round th' eternal year.
“And much I dread, lest, when my dear Lord call me,
The chants of Heaven sound strange within my heart,
The low base influence of the earth enthral me,
Till I forget how I may bear my part.
The chants of Heaven sound strange within my heart,
The low base influence of the earth enthral me,
Till I forget how I may bear my part.
“Yea, worse than all, six months how long and dreary,
This starving soul of mine is unsufficed
With that sweet invitation to the weary,
The music of the promises of Christ.
This starving soul of mine is unsufficed
With that sweet invitation to the weary,
The music of the promises of Christ.
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“O master!—let me call thee, O, my brother!—
I pray thee by all prayers thy heart may search,
I pray thee by the days when with thy mother
Thou kept'st the feast, O let me go to church!”
I pray thee by all prayers thy heart may search,
I pray thee by the days when with thy mother
Thou kept'st the feast, O let me go to church!”
But the churl pointed to the stream, where sombre
A great white mist was creeping from the hill,
Dulling the splendid laughters without number
That twinkled on the water by the mill,
A great white mist was creeping from the hill,
Dulling the splendid laughters without number
That twinkled on the water by the mill,
And said with thick voice, eloquent of the flagon,
“There lies thy way to church, thou preaching loon!
Go in that boat alone, I have no waggon—
Perhaps thy prayers to church will bring thee soon.”
“There lies thy way to church, thou preaching loon!
Go in that boat alone, I have no waggon—
Perhaps thy prayers to church will bring thee soon.”
And Onni heard speechless, and taking only
The oar, full heavy for that wrinkled hand,
A weak adventurer in his vessel lonely,
Pray'd inly, “God of ocean and of land!
The oar, full heavy for that wrinkled hand,
A weak adventurer in his vessel lonely,
Pray'd inly, “God of ocean and of land!
“Sweetly and strongly at Thy will far-bringing
All fins in waves, all plumes upon the breeze,
Beautiful birds to western forest winging,
And whatso passeth through the paths of seas,
All fins in waves, all plumes upon the breeze,
Beautiful birds to western forest winging,
And whatso passeth through the paths of seas,
“Me, of more value, with my soul immortal,
Mine infinite futurity, than they,
Me, a wing'd voyager to Thy starry portal,
Lead, loving Father! to Thy church to-day.”
Mine infinite futurity, than they,
Me, a wing'd voyager to Thy starry portal,
Lead, loving Father! to Thy church to-day.”
Wearily, wearily, drags the oar, and slowly,
Like a man blinded by the snow athwart
His smarting eyelids, trails the boat, and wholly
Lost in the fog, the rower loses heart.
Like a man blinded by the snow athwart
His smarting eyelids, trails the boat, and wholly
Lost in the fog, the rower loses heart.
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And ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, in the distance,
The church bells sounded over holt and hill.
He dropp'd his oars, and, weary of resistance,
Let the strong river bear him at its will,
The church bells sounded over holt and hill.
He dropp'd his oars, and, weary of resistance,
Let the strong river bear him at its will,
Until at last the bark's keel sharply grated
Upon the white sand of a little isle;
Then ding dong, ding dong, to the man belated.
The bells first clash'd, then ceased a little while.
Upon the white sand of a little isle;
Then ding dong, ding dong, to the man belated.
The bells first clash'd, then ceased a little while.
White clung the colourless mist on the island forest,
Unbeautifying its green depths and fells;
Sad were his thoughts, but just when grief was sorest,
A silver music changed upon the bells.
Unbeautifying its green depths and fells;
Sad were his thoughts, but just when grief was sorest,
A silver music changed upon the bells.
Then the mist thinn'd; the lustrous sky, from off it
Sweeping one cloud, left interspace of blue,
One isle of summer-light, one voiceless prophet
Of sunny touches that make all things new;
Sweeping one cloud, left interspace of blue,
One isle of summer-light, one voiceless prophet
Of sunny touches that make all things new;
And kenn'd beyond the furthest intervening
Of dark green hall, and sombre colonnade,
The northern river far away was sheening
Like the dark blue of some Damascan blade.
Of dark green hall, and sombre colonnade,
The northern river far away was sheening
Like the dark blue of some Damascan blade.
“Ah, in the church are psalms divinely tender”—
Yet here is music too, not earthly born,
Dropp'd downward by the skylarks as they render
Some air heard up beside the gates of morn.
Yet here is music too, not earthly born,
Dropp'd downward by the skylarks as they render
Some air heard up beside the gates of morn.
And in the woodland depths, with restless shiver,
From branch to branch the countless wild birds sing;
So the swift bow of a musician ever
Flits with the melody from string to string.
From branch to branch the countless wild birds sing;
So the swift bow of a musician ever
Flits with the melody from string to string.
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“Ah, in the church the flowers are surely glorious,
And the old pillars look full bright and brave;
And the great organ, trembling yet victorious,
Keeps quivering on like light upon the wave.
And the old pillars look full bright and brave;
And the great organ, trembling yet victorious,
Keeps quivering on like light upon the wave.
“And better still, the good Priest of Christ's merits
Speaks to believing hearts, right glad yet awed,
And launches sinful yet forgiven spirits
On that great deep, the promises of God;—
Speaks to believing hearts, right glad yet awed,
And launches sinful yet forgiven spirits
On that great deep, the promises of God;—
“Whilst I, far off from church, like one in blindness
Groping, lose sacrament and pastoral tone.
The Lord commandeth not His loving kindness,
I am cast out from His pavilion.”
Groping, lose sacrament and pastoral tone.
The Lord commandeth not His loving kindness,
I am cast out from His pavilion.”
Yet here are flowers, and light, and voices mystic—
Were never such, since when, as Scripture tells,
The High Priest in the Holiest moved majestic
With gems oraculous and with golden bells.
Were never such, since when, as Scripture tells,
The High Priest in the Holiest moved majestic
With gems oraculous and with golden bells.
And here are pillared pines, like columns soaring,
With branches tall that like triforiums are,
And a soft liturgy of winds adoring,
With echoes from some temple-gate ajar.
With branches tall that like triforiums are,
And a soft liturgy of winds adoring,
With echoes from some temple-gate ajar.
And that no consecration may be wanted,
One gently passes through the haunted place—
Not like Him on the crucifixes painted,
With white, cold, agèd, agonizing face—
One gently passes through the haunted place—
Not like Him on the crucifixes painted,
With white, cold, agèd, agonizing face—
Not crown'd with thorns, and ever bleeding, bleeding,
Stains on that rigid form more dark than wine—
Not dead but living, beautiful exceeding,
Divinely Human, Humanly Divine.
Stains on that rigid form more dark than wine—
Not dead but living, beautiful exceeding,
Divinely Human, Humanly Divine.
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And Onni prays the prayer that knows no measure
By bead, or clock, or count of regular chime—
The prayer which is the fulness of all pleasure,
In words unutter'd, and transcending time.
By bead, or clock, or count of regular chime—
The prayer which is the fulness of all pleasure,
In words unutter'd, and transcending time.
His worship ended, Nature sang no longer,
But grown contemplative was silent too;
And now made gladder, calmer, holier, stronger,
He raised his voice, and bade his soft adieu.
But grown contemplative was silent too;
And now made gladder, calmer, holier, stronger,
He raised his voice, and bade his soft adieu.
“O, fellow-worshippers with me and Nature,
Who sang God's praises with my soul forlorn,
Wild flower, and forest tree, and wingèd creature,
And all the sunny sanctities of morn,
Who sang God's praises with my soul forlorn,
Wild flower, and forest tree, and wingèd creature,
And all the sunny sanctities of morn,
“River, whom God hath taught to be my pilot,
Needles of light that dart through larch and birch,
Ripples that were the music of mine islet,
And pines that were the pillars of my church—
Needles of light that dart through larch and birch,
Ripples that were the music of mine islet,
And pines that were the pillars of my church—
“Peace, and Farewell.” Then happier and faster
He glided homeward down the watery way,
And with a gentle smile, said, “Thank you, Master,
“I was at church, I kept my feast to-day.”
He glided homeward down the watery way,
And with a gentle smile, said, “Thank you, Master,
“I was at church, I kept my feast to-day.”
The idea of this poem is taken from one by Runeberg, of which I have only seen a literal French translation.
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HINTS OF THE DIVINE.
A SEA GLEAM.
'Twas a sullen summer day;
Skies were neither dark nor clear,
Heaven in the distance sheer
Over sharp cliffs sloped away—
Ocean did not yet appear.
Skies were neither dark nor clear,
Heaven in the distance sheer
Over sharp cliffs sloped away—
Ocean did not yet appear.
Not as yet a white sail shimmer'd,
Not with full expanse divine
Did the great Atlantic shine;
Only very far there glimmer'd
Dimly one long tremulous line.
Not with full expanse divine
Did the great Atlantic shine;
Only very far there glimmer'd
Dimly one long tremulous line.
In the hedge were roses snow'd
Or blush'd o'er by summer morn,
Right and left grew fields of corn,
Stretching greenly from the road—
From the hay a breath was borne.
Or blush'd o'er by summer morn,
Right and left grew fields of corn,
Stretching greenly from the road—
From the hay a breath was borne.
Not of small sweet wild rose twine,
Not of young corn waving free,
Not of clover fields thought we;
Only to that dim bright line
Looking, cried we, “'Tis the sea.”
Not of young corn waving free,
Not of clover fields thought we;
Only to that dim bright line
Looking, cried we, “'Tis the sea.”
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In life's sullen summer day
Lo! before us dull hills rise,
And above, unlovely skies,
Slope off with their bluish grey
Into some far mysteries.
Lo! before us dull hills rise,
And above, unlovely skies,
Slope off with their bluish grey
Into some far mysteries.
Love's sweet roses, hope's young corn,
Green fields whisper'd round and round
By the breezes landward bound
(Yet, ah! scalded too and torn
By the sea winds), there are found.
Green fields whisper'd round and round
By the breezes landward bound
(Yet, ah! scalded too and torn
By the sea winds), there are found.
And at times in life's dull day,
From the flower, and the sod,
And the hill our feet have trod
To a brightness far away,
Turn we saying, “This is God.”
From the flower, and the sod,
And the hill our feet have trod
To a brightness far away,
Turn we saying, “This is God.”
AMONG THE SAND-HILLS.
From the ocean half a rood
To the sand-hills long and low
Ever and anon I go;
Hide from me the gleaming flood,
Only listen to its flow.
To the sand-hills long and low
Ever and anon I go;
Hide from me the gleaming flood,
Only listen to its flow.
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To those billowy curls of sand
Little of delight is lent—
As it were a yellow tent,
Here and there by some wild hand
Pitch'd, and overgrown with bent.
Little of delight is lent—
As it were a yellow tent,
Here and there by some wild hand
Pitch'd, and overgrown with bent.
Some few buds like golden beads
Cut in stars on leaves that shine
Greenly, and a fragrance fine
Of the ocean's delicate weeds,
Of his fresh and foamy wine.
Cut in stars on leaves that shine
Greenly, and a fragrance fine
Of the ocean's delicate weeds,
Of his fresh and foamy wine.
But the place is music haunted.
Let there blow what wind soever;—
Now as by a stately river,
A monotonous requiem's chanted;
Now you hear great pine woods shiver.
Let there blow what wind soever;—
Now as by a stately river,
A monotonous requiem's chanted;
Now you hear great pine woods shiver.
Frequent when the tides are low
Creep for hours sweet sleepy hums.
But when in the spring tide comes,
Then the silver trumpets blow
And the waters beat like drums.
Creep for hours sweet sleepy hums.
But when in the spring tide comes,
Then the silver trumpets blow
And the waters beat like drums.
And the Atlantic's roll full often,
Muffled by the sand-hills round,
Seems a mighty city's sound,
Which the night-wind serves to soften
By the waker's pillow drown'd:
Muffled by the sand-hills round,
Seems a mighty city's sound,
Which the night-wind serves to soften
By the waker's pillow drown'd:
Seems a salvo—state or battles—
Through the purple mountain gaps
Heard by peasants; or perhaps
Seems a wheel that rolls or rattles;
Seems an eagle's wing that flaps;
Through the purple mountain gaps
Heard by peasants; or perhaps
Seems a wheel that rolls or rattles;
Seems an eagle's wing that flaps;
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Seems a peal of thunder, caught
By the mountain pines and tuned
To a marvellous gentle sound;
Wailings where despair is not,—
Hearts self-hushing some heart wound.
By the mountain pines and tuned
To a marvellous gentle sound;
Wailings where despair is not,—
Hearts self-hushing some heart wound.
Still what winds there blow soever,
Wet or shine, by sun or star,
When white horses plunge afar,
When the palsied forth-lines shiver,
When the waters quiet are;
Wet or shine, by sun or star,
When white horses plunge afar,
When the palsied forth-lines shiver,
When the waters quiet are;
On the sand-hills where waves boom,
Or with ripples scarce at all
Tumble not so much as crawl,
Ever do we know of whom
Cometh up the rise and fall.
Or with ripples scarce at all
Tumble not so much as crawl,
Ever do we know of whom
Cometh up the rise and fall.
Need is none to see the ships,
None to mark the mid-sea jet
Softening into violet,
While those old pre-Adamite lips
To those boundary heaps are set.
None to mark the mid-sea jet
Softening into violet,
While those old pre-Adamite lips
To those boundary heaps are set.
Ah! we see not the great foam
That beyond us strangely rolls,
Whose white-wingèd ships are souls
Sailing from the port called Home,
When the signal bell, Death, tolls.
That beyond us strangely rolls,
Whose white-wingèd ships are souls
Sailing from the port called Home,
When the signal bell, Death, tolls.
And we catch not the broad shimmer,
Catch not yet the hue divine,
Of the purpling hyaline;
Of the heaving and the glimmer
Life's sands cheat our straining eyne.
Catch not yet the hue divine,
Of the purpling hyaline;
Of the heaving and the glimmer
Life's sands cheat our straining eyne.
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But by wondrous sounds not shut
From those sand-hills, we may be
Sure that a diviner sea
Than earth's keels have ever cut
Floweth from eternity.
From those sand-hills, we may be
Sure that a diviner sea
Than earth's keels have ever cut
Floweth from eternity.
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CHRIST ON THE SHORE.
In the silence of the morning,
Of the morning grey and clouded,
Mist enshrouded,
On the shore of Galilee,
Like a shape upon a column,
Sad and solemn
Christ is standing by the sea,
In the silence of the morning.
Of the morning grey and clouded,
Mist enshrouded,
On the shore of Galilee,
Like a shape upon a column,
Sad and solemn
Christ is standing by the sea,
In the silence of the morning.
On the waters cold and misty,
Like a rock, its dark back lifting
Through the drifting
Vapours, heaves the fisher's boat.
Still through grey-fog hood and mantle
That most gentle
Watcher looketh where they float
On the waters cold and misty.
Like a rock, its dark back lifting
Through the drifting
Vapours, heaves the fisher's boat.
Still through grey-fog hood and mantle
That most gentle
Watcher looketh where they float
On the waters cold and misty.
Hearts are waiting, eyes are weeping,
Comes a voice, a susurration;
Tribulation
Melteth, melteth like the mist;
Yet, like music rich and olden
Hiding golden
Words, that sweet voice hideth Christ
From the hearts that wait, and weep Him.
Comes a voice, a susurration;
Tribulation
Melteth, melteth like the mist;
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Hiding golden
Words, that sweet voice hideth Christ
From the hearts that wait, and weep Him.
In another morning silence,
When a greyer fog falls dreary
And we weary
With the sea's beat evermore,
Cometh One, and pale and wounded,
Mist-surrounded,
Looketh from another shore
In another morning silence.
When a greyer fog falls dreary
And we weary
With the sea's beat evermore,
Cometh One, and pale and wounded,
Mist-surrounded,
Looketh from another shore
In another morning silence.
Other waters cold and misty
On the wet sands grandly singing,
Bear a swinging
Little bark call'd Life by men;
While the bark is swinging slowly,
That most Holy
Watcher looks: light silvers then
On the waters cold and misty.
On the wet sands grandly singing,
Bear a swinging
Little bark call'd Life by men;
While the bark is swinging slowly,
That most Holy
Watcher looks: light silvers then
On the waters cold and misty.
Hearts are waiting, eyes are weeping,
Falls a voice, O sweet but broken!
Falls a token
Light bedimm'd with blinding mist.
Take us where there are no ocean's
Wild commotions;
Where we shall not know, O Christ!
Weary hearts, or tear-wet eyelids.
Falls a voice, O sweet but broken!
Falls a token
Light bedimm'd with blinding mist.
Take us where there are no ocean's
Wild commotions;
Where we shall not know, O Christ!
Weary hearts, or tear-wet eyelids.
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A FINE DAY IN HOLY WEEK.
There is a rapturous movement, a green growing
Among the hills and valleys once again,
And silent rivers of delight are flowing
Into the hearts of men.
Among the hills and valleys once again,
And silent rivers of delight are flowing
Into the hearts of men.
There is a purple weaving on the heather,
Night drops down starry gold upon the furze,
Wild rivers and wild birds sing songs together,
Dead nature breathes and stirs.
Night drops down starry gold upon the furze,
Wild rivers and wild birds sing songs together,
Dead nature breathes and stirs.
Is this the season when our hearts should follow
The Man of Sorrows to the hills of scorn?
Must not our pilgrim grief be scant and hollow
On such a sunny morn?
The Man of Sorrows to the hills of scorn?
Must not our pilgrim grief be scant and hollow
On such a sunny morn?
Will not the silver trumpet of the river
Wind us to gladsomeness against our will?
The subtle eloquence of sunlight shiver
What sadness haunts us still?
Wind us to gladsomeness against our will?
The subtle eloquence of sunlight shiver
What sadness haunts us still?
If I might choose these notes should all be duller,
That silver trump should fail in Passion week;
The mountain-crowning sky wear one pale colour,
Pale as my Saviour's cheek.
That silver trump should fail in Passion week;
The mountain-crowning sky wear one pale colour,
Pale as my Saviour's cheek.
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And day and night there should be one slow raining,
With mournful plash, upon the moor and moss,
And on the hill one tree, its bare arms straining;
Bare as my Saviour's cross.
With mournful plash, upon the moor and moss,
And on the hill one tree, its bare arms straining;
Bare as my Saviour's cross.
Nay, if thy heart were sorrowful exceeding,
Its pulses big with that divinest woe,
These natural things would only set it bleeding
To think it should be so—
Its pulses big with that divinest woe,
These natural things would only set it bleeding
To think it should be so—
To think that guilty and degraded Nature
Could look as joyful as she looketh now,
When the warm blood has dropp'd from her Creator
Upon her branded brow.
Could look as joyful as she looketh now,
When the warm blood has dropp'd from her Creator
Upon her branded brow.
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A PRAYER.
Oh, when my hour is come, if so Thou wilt,Let the sweet blossoms of the bough of love
Hang o'er my bed. But, howsoe'er it be,
Thro' the night watches, till the birds awake
Their sad importunate music, till the morn
Pale on the pane, oh, let me wait for God!
Gently, my Saviour! stand beside the door;
Gently, my Saviour! through the lattice glide;
Dip my life's leaves, adust with thought and care,
In sacramental dews, and make them gold.
Rest over me in love, O piercèd One!
Smile on me sadly through my mist of sin,
Smile on me sweetly from Thy crown of thorns.
As the dawn looketh on the great dark hills,
As the hills dawn-touch'd on the great dark sea,
Dawn on my heart's great darkness, Prince of Peace!
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WAVES, WAVES, WAVES.
Waves, waves, waves,
Graceful arches lit with night's pale gold,
Boom like thunder thro' the mountain roll'd;
Hiss, and make their music manifold,
Sing, and work for God along the strand.
Graceful arches lit with night's pale gold,
Boom like thunder thro' the mountain roll'd;
Hiss, and make their music manifold,
Sing, and work for God along the strand.
Leaves, leaves, leaves,
Beautified by Autumn's withering breath;
Ivory skeletons, carven fair by death,
Float and drift at a sublime command.
Beautified by Autumn's withering breath;
Ivory skeletons, carven fair by death,
Float and drift at a sublime command.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts,
Beating wavelike on the mind's strange shore,
Rustling leaf-like through it evermore—
Oh that they might follow God's good hand!
Beating wavelike on the mind's strange shore,
Rustling leaf-like through it evermore—
Oh that they might follow God's good hand!
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BELOW AND ABOVE.
Down below, the wild November whistling,
Thro' the beech's dome of burning red,
And the Autumn sprinkling penitential
Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head.
Thro' the beech's dome of burning red,
And the Autumn sprinkling penitential
Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head.
Down below, a pall of airy purple
Darkly hanging from the mountain side,
And the sunset from his eyebrow staring
O'er the long roll of the leaden tide.
Darkly hanging from the mountain side,
And the sunset from his eyebrow staring
O'er the long roll of the leaden tide.
Up above, the tree with leaf unfading
By the everlasting river's brink,
And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin
Never yet the sun was known to sink.
By the everlasting river's brink,
And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin
Never yet the sun was known to sink.
Down below, the white wings of the sea-bird,
Dash'd across the furrows dark with mould,
Flitting like the memories of our childhood
Through the trees now waxen pale and old.
Dash'd across the furrows dark with mould,
Flitting like the memories of our childhood
Through the trees now waxen pale and old.
Down below, imaginations quivering
Through our human spirits like the wind,
Thoughts that toss like leaves about the woodland,
Hopes like sea-birds flash'd across the mind.
Through our human spirits like the wind,
Thoughts that toss like leaves about the woodland,
Hopes like sea-birds flash'd across the mind.
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Up above, the host no man can number,
In white robes, a palm in every hand,
Each some work sublime for ever working
In the spacious tracts of that great land.
In white robes, a palm in every hand,
Each some work sublime for ever working
In the spacious tracts of that great land.
Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish,
Tender care, sweet love for us below,
Noble pity free from anxious terror,
Larger love without a touch of woe.
Tender care, sweet love for us below,
Noble pity free from anxious terror,
Larger love without a touch of woe.
Down below, a sad mysterious music,
Wailing through the woods, and on the shore;
Burden'd with a grand majestic secret
That keeps sweeping from us evermore.
Wailing through the woods, and on the shore;
Burden'd with a grand majestic secret
That keeps sweeping from us evermore.
Up above, a music that entwineth
With eternal threads of golden sound
The great poem of this strange existence,
All whose wondrous meaning has been found.
With eternal threads of golden sound
The great poem of this strange existence,
All whose wondrous meaning has been found.
Down below, the church to whose poor window
Glory by the autumnal trees is lent,
And a knot of worshippers in mourning,
Missing some one at the Sacrament.
Glory by the autumnal trees is lent,
And a knot of worshippers in mourning,
Missing some one at the Sacrament.
Up above, the burst of Hallelujah,
And (without the sacramental mist
Wrapt around us like a sunlit halo)
The great vision of the face of Christ.
And (without the sacramental mist
Wrapt around us like a sunlit halo)
The great vision of the face of Christ.
Down below, cold sunlight on the tombstones
And the green wet turf with faded flowers—
Winter roses, once like young hopes burning,
Now beneath the ivy dripp'd with showers.
And the green wet turf with faded flowers—
Winter roses, once like young hopes burning,
Now beneath the ivy dripp'd with showers.
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And the new-made grave within the churchyard,
And the white cap on that young face pale,
And the watcher, ever as it dusketh,
Rocking to and fro with that long wail.
And the white cap on that young face pale,
And the watcher, ever as it dusketh,
Rocking to and fro with that long wail.
Up above, a crown'd and happy spirit,
Like an infant in the eternal years,
Who shall grow in love and light for ever,
Order'd in his place among his peers.
Like an infant in the eternal years,
Who shall grow in love and light for ever,
Order'd in his place among his peers.
O the sobbing of the winds of Autumn,
And the sunset streak of stormy gold,
And the poor heart thinking in the churchyard,
“Night is coming, and the grave is cold”!
And the sunset streak of stormy gold,
And the poor heart thinking in the churchyard,
“Night is coming, and the grave is cold”!
O the pale and plash'd and sodden'd roses,
And the desolate heart that grave above,
And the white cap shaking as it darkens
Round that shrine of memory and love!
And the desolate heart that grave above,
And the white cap shaking as it darkens
Round that shrine of memory and love!
O the rest for ever, and the rapture,
And the hand that wipes the tears away,
And the golden homes beyond the sunset,
And the hope that watches o'er the clay!
And the hand that wipes the tears away,
And the golden homes beyond the sunset,
And the hope that watches o'er the clay!
All Saints' Day, 1857.
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ROBERT BURNS.
A Fragment.
Scotland, meet nurse of the poetic spirit,
Gave to the boy his lyre;
From whose wild heart her ballad-bards inherit
Their pathos and their fire.
Gave to the boy his lyre;
From whose wild heart her ballad-bards inherit
Their pathos and their fire.
She did but touch them with her inspiration,
Put harps into their hand;
There was enough of love, and indignation,
And legend in the land.
Put harps into their hand;
There was enough of love, and indignation,
And legend in the land.
To them the “gurly” ocean brought a wailing
Of girls in “kames o' goud;”
“Sir Patrick and our true loves are not sailing”
Home, for the sea's their shroud.
Of girls in “kames o' goud;”
“Sir Patrick and our true loves are not sailing”
Home, for the sea's their shroud.
Fair Elfland's Queen, when summer twilight brought her,
Rode through the diamond dew;
The jingling spurs were out by Eden water,
Moss-troopers not a few.
Rode through the diamond dew;
The jingling spurs were out by Eden water,
Moss-troopers not a few.
The slow pathetic strain went dying, dying,
Griefless at last to be,
Turf-happ'd and sound asleep, with Helen lying
On fair Kirkconnel lea.
Griefless at last to be,
Turf-happ'd and sound asleep, with Helen lying
On fair Kirkconnel lea.
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She lends its crimson glory to the heather,
Mist wraps the hills afar,
Blends natural and human things together,
Storm, sunshine, love, and war.
Mist wraps the hills afar,
Blends natural and human things together,
Storm, sunshine, love, and war.
Mother of many songs on field and ocean,
Lost love that weeps and yearns,
Mother of homely faith and high devotion,
And most of Robert Burns.
Lost love that weeps and yearns,
Mother of homely faith and high devotion,
And most of Robert Burns.
All Scottish legends did his fancy fashion,
All airs that richly flow,
Laughing with frolic, tremulous with passion,
Broken with love-lorn woe:
All airs that richly flow,
Laughing with frolic, tremulous with passion,
Broken with love-lorn woe:
Ballads whose beauties years have long been stealing
And left few links of gold,
Under his quaint and subtle touch of healing
Grew fairer, not less old.
And left few links of gold,
Under his quaint and subtle touch of healing
Grew fairer, not less old.
Grey Cluden, and the vestals' choral cadence,
His might awoke therewith;
Till boatmen hung their oars to hear the maidens
Upon the banks of Nith.
His might awoke therewith;
Till boatmen hung their oars to hear the maidens
Upon the banks of Nith.
His, too, the strains of battle nobly coming
From Bruce, or Wallace wight,
Such as the Highlander shall oft be humming
Before some famous fight.
From Bruce, or Wallace wight,
Such as the Highlander shall oft be humming
Before some famous fight.
Nor only these—for him the hawthorn hoary
Was with new wreaths enwrought,
The crimson-tippèd daisy wore fresh glory,
Born of poetic thought.
Was with new wreaths enwrought,
The crimson-tippèd daisy wore fresh glory,
Born of poetic thought.
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From the “wee cow'ring beastie” he could borrow
A moral strain sublime,
A noble tenderness of human sorrow,
In wondrous wealth of rhyme.
A moral strain sublime,
A noble tenderness of human sorrow,
In wondrous wealth of rhyme.
Oh but the mountain breeze must have been pleasant,
Upon the sunburnt brow
Of that poetic and triumphant peasant
Driving his laurell'd plough!
Upon the sunburnt brow
Of that poetic and triumphant peasant
Driving his laurell'd plough!
Him on whom Heav'n bestow'd the heart's fine flashes,
The lyrist's delicate art;
While man wrote out for symbol on his ashes
A broken lyre and heart.
The lyrist's delicate art;
While man wrote out for symbol on his ashes
A broken lyre and heart.
Yea, and himself of wassail, praise, and passion,
Drank deeply in his years,
And thereof for his future fame did fashion
A veil of smiles and tears.
Drank deeply in his years,
And thereof for his future fame did fashion
A veil of smiles and tears.
Smiles for the song that hath such rare beguilement,
Laughter, and love to win;
Tears for the dust, and ashes, and defilement,
Tears for the shame and sin.
Laughter, and love to win;
Tears for the dust, and ashes, and defilement,
Tears for the shame and sin.
O the wild wit that mars the holy hymning!
The stains upon the stole!
The spray-drops from the sea of passion dimming
The windows of the soul!
The stains upon the stole!
The spray-drops from the sea of passion dimming
The windows of the soul!
Hush! the man's sighs, his longings, and his laughter
Are silent now by Doun;
The music of the immortal song lives after,
A many mingled tune.
Are silent now by Doun;
The music of the immortal song lives after,
A many mingled tune.
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And all at last, with solemn sweet surprises,
In anthems die away,
And o'er the glee of Tam O' Shanter rises
The “Cotter's Saturday.”
In anthems die away,
And o'er the glee of Tam O' Shanter rises
The “Cotter's Saturday.”
And from a multitude beside the river,
And on the mountain sod,
Sweetly goes up for ever, and for ever,
“Come, let us worship God.”
And on the mountain sod,
Sweetly goes up for ever, and for ever,
“Come, let us worship God.”
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A THOUGHT FOR THE ROYAL BRIDAL.
All winter long
I tarried in a strange, monotonous land,
Among pine forests—an eternal throng
Of green plumes, changeless o'er the changeless sand,
Whereto the ocean singeth one sole song,
Heard swinging heavily by sun or star,
On its Biscayan bar.
I tarried in a strange, monotonous land,
Among pine forests—an eternal throng
Of green plumes, changeless o'er the changeless sand,
Whereto the ocean singeth one sole song,
Heard swinging heavily by sun or star,
On its Biscayan bar.
But with the spring
I see the mountains topp'd with sunny white,
Like silver clouds beyond imagining,
Rise in the cloudless blue, and, day or night,
'Tis sweet to hear clear-water'd Adour sing,
And watch the shadows which far forests throw
On Pyrenean snow.
I see the mountains topp'd with sunny white,
Like silver clouds beyond imagining,
Rise in the cloudless blue, and, day or night,
'Tis sweet to hear clear-water'd Adour sing,
And watch the shadows which far forests throw
On Pyrenean snow.
All the year through
There hung a grand monotony of grief
O'er England, ever quiet, ever true.
Speeches and elegies perchance were brief,
But voices faltered, till the whole world knew
She mourn'd her Prince—from evil tongues secure
Because his heart was pure.
There hung a grand monotony of grief
O'er England, ever quiet, ever true.
Speeches and elegies perchance were brief,
But voices faltered, till the whole world knew
She mourn'd her Prince—from evil tongues secure
Because his heart was pure.
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Worthy to bear
Half the Crown's crushing burden in the State
Where monarchy but cometh forth more fair
From fires of revolution, where to fate
The king may yield; but still the throne is there,
As drops that make the rainbow on the river
Perish—the rainbow never!
Half the Crown's crushing burden in the State
Where monarchy but cometh forth more fair
From fires of revolution, where to fate
The king may yield; but still the throne is there,
As drops that make the rainbow on the river
Perish—the rainbow never!
But lo! with spring
(I will not say our grief hath fled for good,
But it is time-touch'd to a gentler thing),
The Princess comes whose noble womanhood
Is better than the circlet of a king:
Surely young grass and flowers are clothing now
The furrows of God's plough.
(I will not say our grief hath fled for good,
But it is time-touch'd to a gentler thing),
The Princess comes whose noble womanhood
Is better than the circlet of a king:
Surely young grass and flowers are clothing now
The furrows of God's plough.
Ah! Princess, come!
Come, Princess! in the war-ship, o'er the wave;
Come, Princess! o'er the favourable foam;
With blazing streets, with banners of the brave,
With arches they will hail thee to thy home;
With these, and the long thunders of the cheers
Falling in rain of tears.
Come, Princess! in the war-ship, o'er the wave;
Come, Princess! o'er the favourable foam;
With blazing streets, with banners of the brave,
With arches they will hail thee to thy home;
With these, and the long thunders of the cheers
Falling in rain of tears.
In tears!—in tears!—
Remembering who, with pageantry as grand,
Pass'd through the acclaim of people and of peers,
When, with her princely spouse at her right hand,
She went in state among the endless cheers,
And “let her people see her” as she rolled
On, in a cloud of gold.
Remembering who, with pageantry as grand,
Pass'd through the acclaim of people and of peers,
When, with her princely spouse at her right hand,
She went in state among the endless cheers,
And “let her people see her” as she rolled
On, in a cloud of gold.
Sweet lady! pass
On to St. George's Chapel. Wear as free
The royal jewels, in a starry mass
Clustered, as doth some bride of low degree
Her wreath from orchard or from meadow-grass.
Surely when joy so trembles to a tear
The dead are strangely near.
On to St. George's Chapel. Wear as free
The royal jewels, in a starry mass
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Her wreath from orchard or from meadow-grass.
Surely when joy so trembles to a tear
The dead are strangely near.
From where his true
Heart-love of beauty feeds on the uncreated
And ancient Beauty that is ever new;
Where his deep thirst for purity is sated,
And his high soul hath found a work to do
Sublimer than the work on earth he wrought,
And full of nobler thought;
Heart-love of beauty feeds on the uncreated
And ancient Beauty that is ever new;
Where his deep thirst for purity is sated,
And his high soul hath found a work to do
Sublimer than the work on earth he wrought,
And full of nobler thought;
Surely one spirit,
Full of a tender care that is not dread,
Full of sweet love that doth no touch inherit
Of fear or woe—one of the living dead,
Stoled in the robe made white by Christ's dear merit,
With benediction for the princely pair,
Stands on the altar stair.
Full of a tender care that is not dread,
Full of sweet love that doth no touch inherit
Of fear or woe—one of the living dead,
Stoled in the robe made white by Christ's dear merit,
With benediction for the princely pair,
Stands on the altar stair.
Here, missing sore
Old England, and her streets ablaze with lights,
The illumination, when the day is o'er,
Shall be the splendours that on starry nights
From silver snows stream to heaven's silver floor;
And for a nation's cheers, the silent prayer
Breath'd on the mountain air.
Old England, and her streets ablaze with lights,
The illumination, when the day is o'er,
Shall be the splendours that on starry nights
From silver snows stream to heaven's silver floor;
And for a nation's cheers, the silent prayer
Breath'd on the mountain air.
Bagnères de Bigorre, 1861.
132
A CONTRAST.
I
Outside, over the lea,Thunderous sky of a May-day morn,
Soft sad green of the growing corn,
The blackbird under the red-leaf'd tree,
A host of cowslips where shadows pass
From sailing clouds above the grass.
Things of the spring and summer born,
Nothing faded, nothing forlorn,
But all looks tenderly for me
Outside, over the lea.
II
Far away a room I see.An old man lying in mortal pain,
With thin hands clasp'd again and again.
One chant only cometh to me—
Miserere Domine!
All is vanity!
Far away a room I see.
133
III
Yet over sorrow and over deathCometh at last a song that saith—
This, this is the victory,
Even our faith.
Love maketh all the crooked straight,
And love bringeth love to all that wait,
And laughter and light and dewy tear
to the hard blind eyes of Fate.
All shall look tenderly yet and free
Outside over the lea,
And deep within the heart of me.
145
ADRIFT ON THE ARCTIC SEA.
I see a ship adrift upon the tide,
Methinks she maketh past King William's Land;
The stars are glimmering through her rifted side,
Her mast is like a giant's broken wand.
Methinks she maketh past King William's Land;
The stars are glimmering through her rifted side,
Her mast is like a giant's broken wand.
What, is there no one standing at the wheel?
An awful ship indeed without a stir;
Yet through the icebergs steers the rolling keel,
Like death's pale horses panting after her.
An awful ship indeed without a stir;
Yet through the icebergs steers the rolling keel,
Like death's pale horses panting after her.
Well done, O silent ship! the bar is past,
The icy battlement left upon the lee;
Why doth no gallant sailor climb the mast
To view the glory of that iceless sea?
The icy battlement left upon the lee;
Why doth no gallant sailor climb the mast
To view the glory of that iceless sea?
O silent ship and crew! the starriest crown
Of all earth's mariners your deed hath won;
But lo! the ship first reels, and then goes down,
And with her all her crew—a skeleton.
Of all earth's mariners your deed hath won;
But lo! the ship first reels, and then goes down,
And with her all her crew—a skeleton.
So when some thinker wins the prize of thought,
And his keel cuts the just-discover'd wave,
Down with him goes the work that he has wrought—
He finds at once a passage and a grave.
And his keel cuts the just-discover'd wave,
Down with him goes the work that he has wrought—
He finds at once a passage and a grave.
146
PAINTING FOR TIME.
One sunny eventide,
At a great painter's side,
A maiden paced glad eyed.
Enchanted did she see
That glorious gallery.
Beauty and strength were there,
The heroic and the fair,
Faces superbly wrought
By the creative thought.
Happy she walk'd, and proud,
Yet something like a cloud
Just touch'd the maiden's brow.
Quoth he, “What thinkest thou?”
“Master,” she said, “this place
Is haunted with all grace.
There, where shafts falling late
Those forms irradiate,
Lo! as I gaze, they seem
To pass into a dream.
A dream—but, as men say,
Ere sea-frets gather grey,
While still is light to scan,
That stream Northumbrian,
The shadow of the spire,
And the autumn trees on fire
Look as real as the things
To our imaginings.
So gazing here I think,
As by that river's brink
Shadow and substance stand
Inverted by thy hand—
The shadows I and you,
They only fix'd and true,
They those alone who live,
And we insubstantive,
Yet on their features all
Whose semblance fills the hall
Why hath thy hand let fall
That wanness as of snow?
Master, I long to know.”
At a great painter's side,
A maiden paced glad eyed.
Enchanted did she see
That glorious gallery.
Beauty and strength were there,
The heroic and the fair,
Faces superbly wrought
By the creative thought.
Happy she walk'd, and proud,
Yet something like a cloud
Just touch'd the maiden's brow.
Quoth he, “What thinkest thou?”
“Master,” she said, “this place
Is haunted with all grace.
There, where shafts falling late
Those forms irradiate,
Lo! as I gaze, they seem
To pass into a dream.
A dream—but, as men say,
Ere sea-frets gather grey,
While still is light to scan,
That stream Northumbrian,
147
And the autumn trees on fire
Look as real as the things
To our imaginings.
So gazing here I think,
As by that river's brink
Shadow and substance stand
Inverted by thy hand—
The shadows I and you,
They only fix'd and true,
They those alone who live,
And we insubstantive,
Yet on their features all
Whose semblance fills the hall
Why hath thy hand let fall
That wanness as of snow?
Master, I long to know.”
“Heed not what now appears.
In the abyss of years;
In the unapparent morn
Of centuries unborn,
Something more fair and fine
Than thou canst now divine;
Some magic colour thrown
On the white monotone,
Some unimagined dye
Under the distant sky
Of the futurity,
Shall yet unlighted eyes
Transcendently surprise.
Say not—this colouring pale
Is but of small avail.
The hues thou dost create
Are too immaculate.
Flood them with warmer flood,
Paint with more passionate blood,
As with red grape's rich juice
The whiteness interfuse.
Men generations hence
Shall thank my abstinence
Prophetic and sublime.”
He cried, “I paint for time,
And these shall live in light,
Ideal and infinite
Of dawns when I lie dead.
I paint for time,” he said.
In the abyss of years;
In the unapparent morn
Of centuries unborn,
Something more fair and fine
Than thou canst now divine;
Some magic colour thrown
On the white monotone,
Some unimagined dye
Under the distant sky
Of the futurity,
Shall yet unlighted eyes
Transcendently surprise.
Say not—this colouring pale
Is but of small avail.
The hues thou dost create
Are too immaculate.
148
Paint with more passionate blood,
As with red grape's rich juice
The whiteness interfuse.
Men generations hence
Shall thank my abstinence
Prophetic and sublime.”
He cried, “I paint for time,
And these shall live in light,
Ideal and infinite
Of dawns when I lie dead.
I paint for time,” he said.
Laughter, or love, or tears,
Who would bequeath his peers,
Far through the distant years;
Who would a work descry
Man's heart will not let die,
While lives mortality;
He with an aim sublime
Must also paint for time,
And proudly wise let fall
Applauses temporal.
Who would bequeath his peers,
Far through the distant years;
Who would a work descry
Man's heart will not let die,
While lives mortality;
He with an aim sublime
Must also paint for time,
And proudly wise let fall
Applauses temporal.
161
II. CHARACTERS, INSCRIPTIONS, ETC.
R. C. TRENCH, ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.
“Laureatus spiritu scriptis coronatur suis.”
Thou whom we miss and mourn,
Though not yet graveward borne,
Who by this act of faith
Hast antedated death,—
Thee our love speaks about,
As if thy presence out
Had stately to the vast
Darkness and silence pass'd;
As if all light that lies
Deep in those thoughtful eyes,
Splendour and shadowy grace
Of that pathetic face,
All the strange music known
Unto thy voice alone,
Of prayer and sorrow born,
Mix'd with majestic scorn
Of baseness and of ill,—
As if all these were still;
As if the light and sound
Were changed for the profound
Quiet and darken'd spot
Where all things are forgot.
Thou, in all working such
As thy true hand did touch,
Thou, with an aim sublime,
Master, didst write for time.
Thou scornedst to imprint
One evanescent tint
Upon the measured page
Thou mad'st so grave and sage.
Wherefore the years shall look
With thanks upon thy book.
Though not yet graveward borne,
Who by this act of faith
Hast antedated death,—
Thee our love speaks about,
As if thy presence out
Had stately to the vast
Darkness and silence pass'd;
As if all light that lies
Deep in those thoughtful eyes,
Splendour and shadowy grace
Of that pathetic face,
All the strange music known
Unto thy voice alone,
Of prayer and sorrow born,
Mix'd with majestic scorn
Of baseness and of ill,—
As if all these were still;
164
Were changed for the profound
Quiet and darken'd spot
Where all things are forgot.
Thou, in all working such
As thy true hand did touch,
Thou, with an aim sublime,
Master, didst write for time.
Thou scornedst to imprint
One evanescent tint
Upon the measured page
Thou mad'st so grave and sage.
Wherefore the years shall look
With thanks upon thy book.
Thou, when an angry spell
On clamorous hundreds fell;
Or sometimes when men press'd
Thorns to that patient breast,
Or their suspicion laid
Upon that stately head,
Slowly didst turn away
Heart-wounded from the fray,
And unto God alone
Madest majestic moan.
On clamorous hundreds fell;
Or sometimes when men press'd
Thorns to that patient breast,
Or their suspicion laid
Upon that stately head,
Slowly didst turn away
Heart-wounded from the fray,
And unto God alone
Madest majestic moan.
God! by whose will created
The time and man are mated,
Give us such chiefs again,
Give us such kings of men
Who shout no narrow creed,
And do no little deed,
But to their work impart
A grace-touch'd human heart.
The time and man are mated,
Give us such chiefs again,
Give us such kings of men
Who shout no narrow creed,
And do no little deed,
But to their work impart
A grace-touch'd human heart.
165
DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP WHATELY.
Fast falls the October rain, and dull and leaden
Stretch the low skies, without one line of blue;
And up the desolate streets, with sobs that deaden
The rolling wheels, the winds come rolling too.
Stretch the low skies, without one line of blue;
And up the desolate streets, with sobs that deaden
The rolling wheels, the winds come rolling too.
Faster than rain fall teardrops, bells are tolling;
The dark sky suits the melancholy heart;
From the church organs awfully is rolling
Down the draped fanes, the requiem of Mozart.
The dark sky suits the melancholy heart;
From the church organs awfully is rolling
Down the draped fanes, the requiem of Mozart.
O tears beyond control of half a nation,
O sorrowful music, what have ye to say?
Why take men up so deep a lamentation?
What prince or great man hath there fall'n to-day?
O sorrowful music, what have ye to say?
Why take men up so deep a lamentation?
What prince or great man hath there fall'n to-day?
Only an old Archbishop, growing whiter
Year after year, his stature proud and tall,
Palsied and bow'd, as by his heavy mitre;
Only an old Archbishop—that is all!
Year after year, his stature proud and tall,
Palsied and bow'd, as by his heavy mitre;
Only an old Archbishop—that is all!
Only the hands that held with feeble shiver
The marvellous pen—by others outstretch'd o'er
The children's heads—are folded now for ever
In an eternal quiet—nothing more!
The marvellous pen—by others outstretch'd o'er
The children's heads—are folded now for ever
In an eternal quiet—nothing more!
166
No martyr he, o'er fire and sword victorious;
No saint in silent rapture kneeling on;
No mighty orator with voice so glorious
That thousands sigh when that sweet voice is gone.
No saint in silent rapture kneeling on;
No mighty orator with voice so glorious
That thousands sigh when that sweet voice is gone.
Yet in Heaven's great cathedral, peradventure,
There are crowns rich above the rest, with green
Places of joy peculiar where they enter
Whose fires and swords no eye hath ever seen.
There are crowns rich above the rest, with green
Places of joy peculiar where they enter
Whose fires and swords no eye hath ever seen.
They who have known the truth, the truth have spoken
With few to understand and few to praise,
Casting their bread on waters, half heart-broken,
For men to find it after many days.
With few to understand and few to praise,
Casting their bread on waters, half heart-broken,
For men to find it after many days.
And better far than eloquence—that golden
And spangled juggler dear to thoughtless youth—
The luminous style through which there is beholden
The honest beauty of the face of Truth.
And spangled juggler dear to thoughtless youth—
The luminous style through which there is beholden
The honest beauty of the face of Truth.
And better than his loftiness of station,
His power of logic, or his pen of gold,
The half unwilling homage of a nation
Of fierce extremes to one who seem'd so cold;
His power of logic, or his pen of gold,
The half unwilling homage of a nation
Of fierce extremes to one who seem'd so cold;
The purity by private ends unblotted,
The love that slowly came with time and tears,
The honourable age, the life unspotted,
That is not measured merely by its years.
The love that slowly came with time and tears,
The honourable age, the life unspotted,
That is not measured merely by its years.
And better far than flowers that blow and perish
Some sunny week the roots deep laid in mould
Of quickening thoughts, which long blue summers cherish,
Long after he who planted them is cold.
Some sunny week the roots deep laid in mould
Of quickening thoughts, which long blue summers cherish,
Long after he who planted them is cold.
167
Yea, there be saints who are not like the painted
And haloed figures fix'd upon the pane,
Not outwardly, and visibly ensainted,
But hiding deep the light which they contain.
And haloed figures fix'd upon the pane,
Not outwardly, and visibly ensainted,
But hiding deep the light which they contain.
The rugged gentleness, the wit whose glory
Flash'd like a sword because its edge was keen,
The fine antithesis, the flowing story,
Beneath such things the sainthood is not seen,
Flash'd like a sword because its edge was keen,
The fine antithesis, the flowing story,
Beneath such things the sainthood is not seen,
Till in the hours when the wan hand is lifted
To take the bread and wine, through all the mist
Of mortal weariness our eyes are gifted
To see a quiet radiance caught from Christ;
To take the bread and wine, through all the mist
Of mortal weariness our eyes are gifted
To see a quiet radiance caught from Christ;
Till from the pillow of the thinker, lyingted
In weakness, comes the teaching then best taught;
That the true crown for any soul in dying
Is Christ not genius, and is faith not thought.
In weakness, comes the teaching then best taught;
That the true crown for any soul in dying
Is Christ not genius, and is faith not thought.
O wondrous lights of death, the great unveiler,
Lights that come out above the shadowy place,
Just as the night, that makes our small world paler,
Shows us the star-sown amplitudes of space!
Lights that come out above the shadowy place,
Just as the night, that makes our small world paler,
Shows us the star-sown amplitudes of space!
Rest then, O martyr, pass'd from anguish mortal;
Rest then, O saint, sublimely free from doubt;
Rest then, O patient thinker, o'er the portal,
Where there is peace for brave hearts wearied out.
Rest then, O saint, sublimely free from doubt;
Rest then, O patient thinker, o'er the portal,
Where there is peace for brave hearts wearied out.
O long unrecognized, thy love too loving,
Too wise thy wisdom, and thy truth too free!
As on the searchers after truth are moving,
They may look backward with deep thanks to thee.
Too wise thy wisdom, and thy truth too free!
As on the searchers after truth are moving,
They may look backward with deep thanks to thee.
168
By his dear Master's holiness made holy
All lights of hope upon that forehead broad,
Ye mourning thousands quit the Minster slowly,
And leave the great Archbishop with his God.
All lights of hope upon that forehead broad,
Ye mourning thousands quit the Minster slowly,
And leave the great Archbishop with his God.
169
DEATH OF LORD J. G. BERESFORD, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND.
To his rest among the saints of old
That our stately Primate must be laid,
In an ever hallow'd mould,
That the good Archbishop sleepeth well,
Tongue and pen unto the people tell;
Drape the great cathedral where he pray'd,
Let the bell be toll'd.
That our stately Primate must be laid,
In an ever hallow'd mould,
That the good Archbishop sleepeth well,
Tongue and pen unto the people tell;
Drape the great cathedral where he pray'd,
Let the bell be toll'd.
Not for marvellous speech or musings grand,
Not for martyr's pains! Those noble eyes
Open'd on a golden land;
With him beauty, honour, wealth, and power
Grew like hue and fragrance with the flower;
Stormless, all in sunshine did he rise
And in sunshine stand.
Not for martyr's pains! Those noble eyes
Open'd on a golden land;
With him beauty, honour, wealth, and power
Grew like hue and fragrance with the flower;
Stormless, all in sunshine did he rise
And in sunshine stand.
Taylor, round the altar twining roses,
Colour'd by the summer of his touch;
Ken, his music who discloses,
Half by angels, half by thrushes taught;
Butler's regal majesty of thought,—
Ireland's princely Primate had not such:
Weep where he reposes.
Colour'd by the summer of his touch;
Ken, his music who discloses,
Half by angels, half by thrushes taught;
Butler's regal majesty of thought,—
Ireland's princely Primate had not such:
Weep where he reposes.
170
Ay, whilst now the white sail of his soul
Watch we glimmering round death's misty cape,
Slowly let the organ roll!
From our clouded hearts let raindrops fall
To the soft breath of the ritual;
Solemnly the old cathedral drape,
Let the church bells toll!
Watch we glimmering round death's misty cape,
Slowly let the organ roll!
From our clouded hearts let raindrops fall
To the soft breath of the ritual;
Solemnly the old cathedral drape,
Let the church bells toll!
Strong is eloquence, and lore is deep—
But for kingly quiet so sustain'd
That it seem'd a saintly sleep,
For the lore that was so simply wise,
For the lordly presence and calm eyes,
For the love and purity unfeign'd,
Let the people weep.
But for kingly quiet so sustain'd
That it seem'd a saintly sleep,
For the lore that was so simply wise,
For the lordly presence and calm eyes,
For the love and purity unfeign'd,
Let the people weep.
Not by fourteen thousand bits of gold
Measured, but by books at Resurrection
Of the perfect just unroll'd,
Ah! it must have been a weary weight,
Fifty years of such a high estate—
Well! he need not fear the recollection,—
Let the bell be toll'd.
Measured, but by books at Resurrection
Of the perfect just unroll'd,
Ah! it must have been a weary weight,
Fifty years of such a high estate—
Well! he need not fear the recollection,—
Let the bell be toll'd.
Ah! the great bell tolleth—there blow never
Twice the self-same flowers, but other ones;
Flows not twice the self-same river.
All that majesty of prayers and alms,
All that sweetness as of chanted psalms
Round the brow half princely, half St. John's,
It is gone for ever.
Twice the self-same flowers, but other ones;
Flows not twice the self-same river.
All that majesty of prayers and alms,
All that sweetness as of chanted psalms
Round the brow half princely, half St. John's,
It is gone for ever.
Ah! the great bell tolls, but through the cloud,
If we see aright, and through the mist,
Larger eyed and broader brow'd,
With his stainless lawn divinely brighter,
With a crown and not a heavy mitre,
In the full cathedral fane of Christ
Is the Archbishop bow'd.
If we see aright, and through the mist,
171
With his stainless lawn divinely brighter,
With a crown and not a heavy mitre,
In the full cathedral fane of Christ
Is the Archbishop bow'd.
Leave him with the Bishop of our souls,
Leave the princely old man with the bless'd;
Need is none of Fame's false scrolls:
Calm is on his brow from God's own climate,
Softly draw the curtain round our Primate,
Let the angels sing him to his rest,—
Ah! the great bell tolls!
Leave the princely old man with the bless'd;
Need is none of Fame's false scrolls:
Calm is on his brow from God's own climate,
Softly draw the curtain round our Primate,
Let the angels sing him to his rest,—
Ah! the great bell tolls!
July 26, 1862.
175
ON READING SOME LINES BY WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER.
As when at night we tread the lonely deck,
In the first hour of moonlight on the wave,
Far, far away, the watcher marks some streak
Which dying day hath pencill'd o'er his grave:
In the first hour of moonlight on the wave,
Far, far away, the watcher marks some streak
Which dying day hath pencill'd o'er his grave:
So more than living lights, beyond all fair,
In living genius, is departed worth—
Man's spirit makes love-tokens of whate'er
Hath come from genius now no more on earth.
In living genius, is departed worth—
Man's spirit makes love-tokens of whate'er
Hath come from genius now no more on earth.
As in a gold-clasp'd volume closely hid,
The pale, pale leaves of some remember'd rose,
Dating the heart's deep chronicles unbid,
Suggest more thought than all which greenly grows;
The pale, pale leaves of some remember'd rose,
Dating the heart's deep chronicles unbid,
Suggest more thought than all which greenly grows;
As in the winter, from some marble jar,
Whose sides are honey'd with a rosy breath,
You catch faint footfalls of the spring afar,
And find a memory in the scent of death:
Whose sides are honey'd with a rosy breath,
You catch faint footfalls of the spring afar,
And find a memory in the scent of death:
So these, the characters of Butler's pen,
Are more to us than all that, day by day,
Are traced by mightiest hands of living men,—
T'is death that makes them more esteem'd than they.
Are more to us than all that, day by day,
Are traced by mightiest hands of living men,—
T'is death that makes them more esteem'd than they.
176
'Tis not because the affluent fancy flung
Such pearls of price ungrudging at thy feet,
'Tis not because that blessèd poet sung
His Heavenly Master's truth in words so sweet:
Such pearls of price ungrudging at thy feet,
'Tis not because that blessèd poet sung
His Heavenly Master's truth in words so sweet:
No; 'tis because the heavy churchyard mould
Lies on the dear one in that lonely dell—
Lies on the hand that held the pen of gold,
The brain that thought so wisely, and so well.
Lies on the dear one in that lonely dell—
Lies on the hand that held the pen of gold,
The brain that thought so wisely, and so well.
Nay, say not so;—write epitaphs like these
For sons of song who fling light words abroad,
Whose art is canker'd with a sore disease,
Who feed a flame that tends not up to God.
For sons of song who fling light words abroad,
Whose art is canker'd with a sore disease,
Who feed a flame that tends not up to God.
But he, the empurpled cross with healing shadow
Was the great measure of the much he knew;
'Twas this he saw on mountain, and on meadow,
The only beautiful, the sternly true.
Was the great measure of the much he knew;
'Twas this he saw on mountain, and on meadow,
The only beautiful, the sternly true.
Not vague to him the great Laudate still
Stirring the strong ones of the waterflood,
And the deep heart of many an ancient hill,
And light-hung chords of every vocal wood;—
Stirring the strong ones of the waterflood,
And the deep heart of many an ancient hill,
And light-hung chords of every vocal wood;—
Not dark the language written on the wide
Marmoreal ocean—written on the sky,
On the scarr'd volume of the mountain side,
On many-pagèd flowers that lowly lie;—
Marmoreal ocean—written on the sky,
On the scarr'd volume of the mountain side,
On many-pagèd flowers that lowly lie;—
Nor dark, nor vague; not Nature, but her God;
Nor only Nature's God, but Three in One,
Father, Redeemer, Comforter—bestow'd
On hearts made temples by the Incarnate Son.
Nor only Nature's God, but Three in One,
Father, Redeemer, Comforter—bestow'd
On hearts made temples by the Incarnate Son.
177
All sweetest strains rang hollow to his ear,
Wanting this key-note; earthy, of the earth,
Seeming like beauty to the eye of fear,
Like the wild anguish of a harlot's mirth.
Wanting this key-note; earthy, of the earth,
Seeming like beauty to the eye of fear,
Like the wild anguish of a harlot's mirth.
True Poet, true Philosopher—to whom
Beauty was one with truth, and truth with beauty;
True Priest, no flowers so sweet upon thy tomb
As those pure blossoms won from rugged duty.
Beauty was one with truth, and truth with beauty;
True Priest, no flowers so sweet upon thy tomb
As those pure blossoms won from rugged duty.
He might have sung as precious songs as e'er
Made our tongue golden since its earliest burst,
But those poetic wreaths him seem'd less fair
Than moral truth o'er science wide dispersed.
Made our tongue golden since its earliest burst,
But those poetic wreaths him seem'd less fair
Than moral truth o'er science wide dispersed.
He might have read man's nature deeper far
Than any since his broad-brow'd namesake died,
But like those Eastern Sages, so the star
He follow'd—till he found the cradle side.
Than any since his broad-brow'd namesake died,
But like those Eastern Sages, so the star
He follow'd—till he found the cradle side.
And now, ye mountains and ye voiceful streams!
For your interpreter ye need not weep;
On the eternal hills fall brighter gleams,
Through Eden more delightful rivers sweep.
For your interpreter ye need not weep;
On the eternal hills fall brighter gleams,
Through Eden more delightful rivers sweep.
Friends, kinsmen, fellow-chruchmen, fellow-men,
Yes, ye may weep, but be it not for him.
Life might have brought him larger lore—what then?
It would have kept him from the seraphim.
Yes, ye may weep, but be it not for him.
Life might have brought him larger lore—what then?
It would have kept him from the seraphim.
Dear hand, dear lines, in them still undeparted
Tokens I see of one before the Throne,—
Butler the child-like, and the tender-hearted,
Taken so young by Him who takes His own.
Tokens I see of one before the Throne,—
Butler the child-like, and the tender-hearted,
Taken so young by Him who takes His own.
178
DEATH OF THE EARL OF DERBY.
“Ille ego qui quondam.”
As looks a hero after fields of battle
On those whose skill hath been the charge to shun,
On craven cohorts with unbloody armour,
Chattering of the achievements they have done—
A tragic look and solemn,
Sorrow, contempt, and pity all in one:
On those whose skill hath been the charge to shun,
On craven cohorts with unbloody armour,
Chattering of the achievements they have done—
A tragic look and solemn,
Sorrow, contempt, and pity all in one:
So when those fatal nights of great debating
And pettiest sequel paled to their last dawn,
So look'd our Derby ere he left for ever
The red-bench'd chamber with its rows long drawn—
Look'd on his broken party,
Look'd ominous on the triple lines of lawn,
And pettiest sequel paled to their last dawn,
So look'd our Derby ere he left for ever
The red-bench'd chamber with its rows long drawn—
Look'd on his broken party,
Look'd ominous on the triple lines of lawn,
And then pass'd out; but ere he left he turn'd him
And on his gather'd Peers he gazed again—
So in the olden days some strong pathetic
Face of a wounded prophet gazed, and then
Sank in God's darkness grandly
From out the infinite littleness of men,—
And on his gather'd Peers he gazed again—
So in the olden days some strong pathetic
Face of a wounded prophet gazed, and then
Sank in God's darkness grandly
From out the infinite littleness of men,—
179
Pass'd from the petty policies around him
To ampler spheres, where all is large and deep,—
Pass'd to the summer morning in its calmness,
Colouring the space divine and skiey sweep
O'er Westminster and London
That starts and talks and tosses in its sleep;—
To ampler spheres, where all is large and deep,—
Pass'd to the summer morning in its calmness,
Colouring the space divine and skiey sweep
O'er Westminster and London
That starts and talks and tosses in its sleep;—
Pass'd onward for a little, peradventure,
To realms enchanted, loved in days gone by,
To hear the music intricate yet familiar
That Horace meditates, or with kindling eye
To listen to the ancient
Majestic roll of Homer's poetry;
To realms enchanted, loved in days gone by,
To hear the music intricate yet familiar
That Horace meditates, or with kindling eye
To listen to the ancient
Majestic roll of Homer's poetry;
Pass'd for a while to think of manly triumphs
Won in the full assembly of the State,
Long since, when principles were powers in England,
When parties and their orators were great,
The golden days when Stanley
Was still the star and marvel of debate;
Won in the full assembly of the State,
Long since, when principles were powers in England,
When parties and their orators were great,
The golden days when Stanley
Was still the star and marvel of debate;
When, not with swollen limb and pallid forehead
And faltering memory, but with faultless word
And rolling fire of eloquence and sarcasm
He spoke the speeches that a nation heard,
And all the stormy pulses
Of the Commons House of Parliament were stirr'd;—
And faltering memory, but with faultless word
And rolling fire of eloquence and sarcasm
He spoke the speeches that a nation heard,
And all the stormy pulses
Of the Commons House of Parliament were stirr'd;—
Pass'd to the things of more abiding import,
The silent agonies of frame and brain,
That sometimes bring the sick man from Christ's Presence
The light that makes so many mysteries plain,
The solemn wine of gladness
That cometh with the sacrament of pain;—
The silent agonies of frame and brain,
That sometimes bring the sick man from Christ's Presence
The light that makes so many mysteries plain,
The solemn wine of gladness
That cometh with the sacrament of pain;—
180
Pass'd to the chamber in his lordly mansion,
Where still his mother Church with music mild
From her old book of promise and of pardon
The weary hours of lassitude beguiled,
And, like a soldier's mother,
Breath'd of her sweetest to her bravest child.
Where still his mother Church with music mild
From her old book of promise and of pardon
The weary hours of lassitude beguiled,
And, like a soldier's mother,
Breath'd of her sweetest to her bravest child.
Now that last look we saw upon his features
Is surely changed into a tender bliss.
No more of scorn, or pain, or pity—something
Gentler than arrow-touch of Artemis,
Repose and adoration,
And whatsoever else immortal is.
Is surely changed into a tender bliss.
No more of scorn, or pain, or pity—something
Gentler than arrow-touch of Artemis,
Repose and adoration,
And whatsoever else immortal is.
Ah! ye do well to bear him out from Knowsley,
Quietly, as he charged you, to the aisle.
No harm that muffled bells be heard from steeples,
Or that flags half-mast high be hung awhile;
But let not any herald
Break the wand o'er him, and proclaim his style.
Quietly, as he charged you, to the aisle.
No harm that muffled bells be heard from steeples,
Or that flags half-mast high be hung awhile;
But let not any herald
Break the wand o'er him, and proclaim his style.
Only what time the vault is dimly lighted
Among the proud old Earls the bier be set;
And of retainer rough, and sturdy tenant,
And noble kindred, every cheek be wet;
And on the blazon'd coffin
Be duly seen the cap and coronet.
Among the proud old Earls the bier be set;
And of retainer rough, and sturdy tenant,
And noble kindred, every cheek be wet;
And on the blazon'd coffin
Be duly seen the cap and coronet.
Sufficient is all England's proclamation
Of him whose chaplet many a leaf entwines—
The noblest giver of the noblest largesse;
Whose name for ever on her record shines;
Who, for a while turned poet,
Pour'd his large rhetoric into Homer's lines.
Of him whose chaplet many a leaf entwines—
The noblest giver of the noblest largesse;
Whose name for ever on her record shines;
Who, for a while turned poet,
Pour'd his large rhetoric into Homer's lines.
181
Sufficient for his witness to his country
The work that only patriot spirits can
Work in the plenitude of truth and genius,
The loftiest life-work of directest plan—
Rest, Edward, Earl of Derby,
A very perfect knight and gentleman.
The work that only patriot spirits can
Work in the plenitude of truth and genius,
The loftiest life-work of directest plan—
Rest, Edward, Earl of Derby,
A very perfect knight and gentleman.
182
THE DERRY STATUE TO THE MEMORY OF SIR R. A. FERGUSON, M.P.
Ah, raise it up—
Raise up the statue in the storied town;
Make it a sign of sorrow and renown,
Like flags that tell us where a ship went down.
Raise up the statue in the storied town;
Make it a sign of sorrow and renown,
Like flags that tell us where a ship went down.
Ah, raise it up—
Raise up the statue in the quiet square;
Crowning the street that rises, like a stair,
Up from the river in the gloom or glare.
Raise up the statue in the quiet square;
Crowning the street that rises, like a stair,
Up from the river in the gloom or glare.
And let it front
At eve or dawn, or with a nameless charm
Of mystic darkness on its folded arm,
The Foyle that brims and brightens by the Farm.
At eve or dawn, or with a nameless charm
Of mystic darkness on its folded arm,
The Foyle that brims and brightens by the Farm.
Why raise it up?
Where are the great lines there that we may seek,
As of the statesman with pale brow and cheek,
As of the senator in act to speak?
Where are the great lines there that we may seek,
As of the statesman with pale brow and cheek,
As of the senator in act to speak?
Not such are here,
If life-drawn truth have moulded it; not such,
If inspiration, by some happy touch,
Have stamp'd in bronze the presence loved so much.
If life-drawn truth have moulded it; not such,
If inspiration, by some happy touch,
Have stamp'd in bronze the presence loved so much.
183
Yet raise it up.
Methinks the shaggy brow speaks honest scorn,
And sharp and kindly as a frosty morn
Is the man's wholesome influence reborn.
Methinks the shaggy brow speaks honest scorn,
And sharp and kindly as a frosty morn
Is the man's wholesome influence reborn.
Ah, raise it up—
Show us the rugged gentleness, the true eyes
Of him who never wrought for place or prize,
Who lack'd the golden eloquence—that lies!
Show us the rugged gentleness, the true eyes
Of him who never wrought for place or prize,
Who lack'd the golden eloquence—that lies!
Ah, raise it up—
And let it tell, as far as sculpture can,
For those who have congenial hearts to scan,
The noble quietness of an honest man.
And let it tell, as far as sculpture can,
For those who have congenial hearts to scan,
The noble quietness of an honest man.
Yet scarcely tell
The lines that gather on that kindly brow,
The cares that wither and the pains that bow—
He has forgotten them, and we will now.
The lines that gather on that kindly brow,
The cares that wither and the pains that bow—
He has forgotten them, and we will now.
And often here,
Come from the heather'd hill, where ever higher,
Summer by summer, creeps the yellow fire
Of the ripe corn right up the mountain's spire—
Come from the heather'd hill, where ever higher,
Summer by summer, creeps the yellow fire
Of the ripe corn right up the mountain's spire—
And often here,
When in the busy square the parted meet,
Peasant and stately gentleman shall greet
A face they know, a presence sadly sweet.
When in the busy square the parted meet,
Peasant and stately gentleman shall greet
A face they know, a presence sadly sweet.
Ah me! ah me!
The souls in white, who with a single aim
Have wrought or thought for us, they may not claim
Or care to hear the echoes of their name.
The souls in white, who with a single aim
Have wrought or thought for us, they may not claim
Or care to hear the echoes of their name.
184
They may not heed
If men remember them or not below—
Earth's bells are muffled for them as with snow,
Perchance unheard o'er the dark river's flow.
If men remember them or not below—
Earth's bells are muffled for them as with snow,
Perchance unheard o'er the dark river's flow.
Yet raise it up—
Raise up the statue, in this land and time,
When to tell truth heads all the lists of crime,
And lives are low, and only words sublime.
Raise up the statue, in this land and time,
When to tell truth heads all the lists of crime,
And lives are low, and only words sublime.
189
III. WITHERED LAUREL LEAVES.
196
THE DEATH OF JACOB.
Ατινα εστιν αλληγοροϝ/μενα.
I read how Israel, after life's long lent,
Enter'd the quiet Easter-Eve of Faith.
We do thee grievous wrong, O eloquent,
And just and mighty Death!
Enter'd the quiet Easter-Eve of Faith.
We do thee grievous wrong, O eloquent,
And just and mighty Death!
Life is a cave,
where shadows gleam and glide
Between our dim eyes and a distant light;
Faint breaks the booming of the outer tide,
Faint falls its line of white.
Between our dim eyes and a distant light;
Faint breaks the booming of the outer tide,
Faint falls its line of white.
When in the cave our spirits darkling stand,
Where the light strangely flickers on the floor,
Comes death, and softly leads us by the hand
Unto the cavern door.
Where the light strangely flickers on the floor,
Comes death, and softly leads us by the hand
Unto the cavern door.
I saw the Syrian sunset's meteor crown
Hang over Bethel for a little space;
I saw a gentle wanderer lie down
With tears upon his face.
Hang over Bethel for a little space;
I saw a gentle wanderer lie down
With tears upon his face.
197
Sheer up the fathomless, transparent blue,
Rose jasper battlement, and crystal wall;
Rung all the night air, piercèd through and through
With songs angelical.
Rose jasper battlement, and crystal wall;
Rung all the night air, piercèd through and through
With songs angelical.
And a great ladder was set up the while
From earth to heaven, with angels on each round,
Barks that bore precious freight to earth's far isle,
Or sail'd back homeward bound.
From earth to heaven, with angels on each round,
Barks that bore precious freight to earth's far isle,
Or sail'd back homeward bound.
Ah! many a time we look, on starlit nights,
Up to the sky as Jacob did of old,
Look longing up to the eternal lights
To spell their lines of gold;
Up to the sky as Jacob did of old,
Look longing up to the eternal lights
To spell their lines of gold;
But nevermore, as to the Hebrew lone,
Each on his way the angels walk abroad;
And nevermore we hear with audible tone
The awful voice of God.
Each on his way the angels walk abroad;
And nevermore we hear with audible tone
The awful voice of God.
Yet, to pure eyes, the ladder still is set,
And angel visitants still come and go;
Many bright messengers are moving yet
From this dark world below.
And angel visitants still come and go;
Many bright messengers are moving yet
From this dark world below.
Thoughts, that are surely Faith's outspreading wings;
Prayers of the Church, aye keeping time and tryst;
Heart-wishes, making bee-like murmurings,
Their flower the Eucharist;
Prayers of the Church, aye keeping time and tryst;
Heart-wishes, making bee-like murmurings,
Their flower the Eucharist;
Spirits elect, through suffering render'd meet
For those high mansions; from the nursery door,
Bright babes that climb up with their clay-cold feet
Unto the golden floor;—
For those high mansions; from the nursery door,
Bright babes that climb up with their clay-cold feet
Unto the golden floor;—
198
These are the messengers, for ever wending
From earth to Heaven, that faith alone may scan;
These are the angels of our God, ascending
Upon the Son of Man.
From earth to Heaven, that faith alone may scan;
These are the angels of our God, ascending
Upon the Son of Man.
I saw a tent beside the lotos river;
I saw an old man bow'd upon his bed;
Methought the river sang, “I roll for ever,
But he will soon be dead.
I saw an old man bow'd upon his bed;
Methought the river sang, “I roll for ever,
But he will soon be dead.
“Long since, his grandsire walk'd beside my stream;
His wife, a lily, lit my lilied meadows:
Long since they glided, like a magic dream,
Into the old world shadows.
His wife, a lily, lit my lilied meadows:
Long since they glided, like a magic dream,
Into the old world shadows.
“Up where his grandsire rests the mummy goes,
Up to the shrivell'd lily's mask of clay,—
But on my rolling music grandly flows,
And it shall flow for aye!”
Up to the shrivell'd lily's mask of clay,—
But on my rolling music grandly flows,
And it shall flow for aye!”
Whereto another voice kept chanting on,
“The shadows come, the shadows go, old river!
But when thy music shall be mute and gone,
He shall sing psalms for ever.”
“The shadows come, the shadows go, old river!
But when thy music shall be mute and gone,
He shall sing psalms for ever.”
And then methought, beside that pastoral tent,
The ladder rose from the green land below;
Fair spiritual creatures made descent,
And beckon'd him to go.
The ladder rose from the green land below;
Fair spiritual creatures made descent,
And beckon'd him to go.
199
But up the stream of days he seem'd to float,
And twice seven years was toiling for his wife;
And all his thought lay heaving like a boat
On the long swell of life.
And twice seven years was toiling for his wife;
And all his thought lay heaving like a boat
On the long swell of life.
How statuelike that shape in shadows deep—
Like one of marble in the minster's rest,
With a pale babe—not dead, but gone to sleep
For ever on her breast.
Like one of marble in the minster's rest,
With a pale babe—not dead, but gone to sleep
For ever on her breast.
And the white mother's breast may seem to heave,
And the white babe to feel about her face;
'Tis but our restless hearts that thus deceive
The quiet of the place.
And the white babe to feel about her face;
'Tis but our restless hearts that thus deceive
The quiet of the place.
And Rachel look'd upon her Israel,—wann'd
Like a white flower with the summer rain,
So she with sweat of child-birth,—her thin hand
Laid on the counterpane.
Like a white flower with the summer rain,
So she with sweat of child-birth,—her thin hand
Laid on the counterpane.
Near Ephrath there's a pillar'd tomb apart;
It throws a shadow on her where she lies—
And she, a shadow on her husband's heart,
Of household memories.
It throws a shadow on her where she lies—
And she, a shadow on her husband's heart,
Of household memories.
Then by the death-bed two fair boys bent down—
So bend two wild flowers where the dark firs rise.
Fell first upon the younger's golden crown
Faith's blessing sunlight-wise.
So bend two wild flowers where the dark firs rise.
Fell first upon the younger's golden crown
Faith's blessing sunlight-wise.
200
Gather yourselves together, hear ye well,
Your fair adventure from the lips of death!
Gather yourselves, ye sons of Israel!
Hear what in song he saith;
Your fair adventure from the lips of death!
Gather yourselves, ye sons of Israel!
Hear what in song he saith;
That so the old men, in the after times,
May find the wingèd words by memory sought;
Tracing the golden feathers of their rhymes
Through the thick leaves of thought.
May find the wingèd words by memory sought;
Tracing the golden feathers of their rhymes
Through the thick leaves of thought.
Darkly, O Reuben, doth the tower of Edar
Hang down its heavy shadow on the lea;
Dark droops the shadow of the mountain cedar;
Dark droops thy deed o'er thee.
Hang down its heavy shadow on the lea;
Dark droops the shadow of the mountain cedar;
Dark droops thy deed o'er thee.
With him, O brothers of the bloody hand!
Hard by the lustful heart dwell hearts of hate!
Be ye left lone and scatter'd in the land,
Who left love desolate.
Hard by the lustful heart dwell hearts of hate!
Be ye left lone and scatter'd in the land,
Who left love desolate.
Sweet ring the merry tabret and the pipe
On Judah's mountains all the vintage long,
From the first flower, until the grape is ripe,
Soundeth a pleasant song.
On Judah's mountains all the vintage long,
From the first flower, until the grape is ripe,
Soundeth a pleasant song.
201
Whelp of the lion, thee thy brethren praise,
The weir wolf couches at thy kingly feet,
The hissing of the serpent guards thy ways
Where horse and horsemen meet.
The weir wolf couches at thy kingly feet,
The hissing of the serpent guards thy ways
Where horse and horsemen meet.
Old lion of the hills, the Heavens assign
Rule unto thee, and law, and high estate,
Till Shiloh come forth of the lion line,
On whom the nations wait.
Rule unto thee, and law, and high estate,
Till Shiloh come forth of the lion line,
On whom the nations wait.
Through all thy waters lift a battle shout,
Shout forth, O Jordan, for a warrior comes;
Dark forests, roll your stormy music out,
Like a long roll of drums.
Shout forth, O Jordan, for a warrior comes;
Dark forests, roll your stormy music out,
Like a long roll of drums.
Clash all your boughs, like shields that shock and sound,
Where, with his shield and buckler, Gad appears;
Lift your tall stems like sheaves of lances, bound
Over his plump of spears.
Where, with his shield and buckler, Gad appears;
Lift your tall stems like sheaves of lances, bound
Over his plump of spears.
From Joseph's blossom'd valleys sail abroad
The pale blue vapours born of living rills;
From his high head are seen the stars of God
Crowning the eternal hills.
The pale blue vapours born of living rills;
From his high head are seen the stars of God
Crowning the eternal hills.
And the white tents of Issachar are spread,
Couch'd in good rest the craven fears each comer;
In sooth a pleasant land of drowsy-head
Lit by the sleepy summer.
Couch'd in good rest the craven fears each comer;
In sooth a pleasant land of drowsy-head
Lit by the sleepy summer.
202
Asher is grey with many an olive-tree,
And Napthali puts forth his goodly boughs.
Seen from the shore, Zebulon's silver sea
Shines round Zidonian prows.
And Napthali puts forth his goodly boughs.
Seen from the shore, Zebulon's silver sea
Shines round Zidonian prows.
Hush'd is the song, the tribesmen all are bless'd,
According to his blessing, every one;
But still the old man's spirit may not rest
Until he charge each son—
According to his blessing, every one;
But still the old man's spirit may not rest
Until he charge each son—
Not where the Pharaohs lie, with incense breath'd
Round awful galleries, grim with shapes of wrath,
Hawk-headed, vulture-pinion'd, serpent-wreath'd,
Hued like an Indian moth—
Round awful galleries, grim with shapes of wrath,
Hawk-headed, vulture-pinion'd, serpent-wreath'd,
Hued like an Indian moth—
But lay him where, from forest or green slope
To Mamre's cave, the low wind breatheth balm,
Chanteth a litany of immortal hope,
Singeth a funeral psalm.
To Mamre's cave, the low wind breatheth balm,
Chanteth a litany of immortal hope,
Singeth a funeral psalm.
Then slowly upward did the cold death creep
From foot and face with its strange lines of white,
Like foam-streaks on a river, dark and deep,
Lash'd by the winds all night.
From foot and face with its strange lines of white,
Like foam-streaks on a river, dark and deep,
Lash'd by the winds all night.
And then the feet were gather'd in the bed,
The silver stairs were all astir with wings—
Whatever lauds are sweetly sung, or said,
Or struck on plausive strings,
The silver stairs were all astir with wings—
Whatever lauds are sweetly sung, or said,
Or struck on plausive strings,
Whatever harmony conch or trumpet rolls,
From angels swell'd, address'd to entertain
With gratulation high those purgèd souls
For which the Lamb was slain.
From angels swell'd, address'd to entertain
With gratulation high those purgèd souls
For which the Lamb was slain.
203
We die—but no unearthly breezes bless,
Blown from futurity, the parting soul—
Through tangled mazes of our consciousness
No prophet-sunlights roll;
Blown from futurity, the parting soul—
Through tangled mazes of our consciousness
No prophet-sunlights roll;
Yet as what time the softly floating mist
Hangs o'er the hush'd sea and the leafy land,
Nature, a passionate pale evangelist,
Takes pen and scroll in hand,
Hangs o'er the hush'd sea and the leafy land,
Nature, a passionate pale evangelist,
Takes pen and scroll in hand,
And, looking upward, writes beneath the sea
A colourless story, beautiful but dim:
So Jacob saw the Lord in mystery,
And darkly sang of Him.
A colourless story, beautiful but dim:
So Jacob saw the Lord in mystery,
And darkly sang of Him.
But unto us He comes in fuller light,
His pale and dying lips with woe foredone—
No need to seek, through many a day and night,
By starlight for the sun!
His pale and dying lips with woe foredone—
No need to seek, through many a day and night,
By starlight for the sun!
So come, O Shiloh! with the thorn-crown'd head;
Come, with the fountain flowing forth abroad;
Bring faith the sacred Eucharistic bread,
Give her the wine of God.
Come, with the fountain flowing forth abroad;
Bring faith the sacred Eucharistic bread,
Give her the wine of God.
Come, with the open'd arms for sin to see
The sacramental side for sinners riven.
Oh, in the hour of death we climb by Thee
Up to the gate of Heaven!
The sacramental side for sinners riven.
Oh, in the hour of death we climb by Thee
Up to the gate of Heaven!
Like a tall ship that beareth slow and proud
A fallen chief—for pall and plume in motion
The death-dark top-mast and the death-white shroud
Drift o'er the silver ocean.
A fallen chief—for pall and plume in motion
The death-dark top-mast and the death-white shroud
Drift o'er the silver ocean.
204
Silent the helmsman stands beside the wheel,
Silent the mariners in their watches wait,
And a great music rolls before the keel
As through an abbey gate:
Silent the mariners in their watches wait,
And a great music rolls before the keel
As through an abbey gate:
Like that tall ship a grand procession comes
Up from old Father Nile to Hebron's hill;
But no dead march is beat upon the drums,
And every trump is still.
Up from old Father Nile to Hebron's hill;
But no dead march is beat upon the drums,
And every trump is still.
Heartsore, and footsore with the march of life—
Soldier of God, whose fields were foughten well—
Resteth him from the cumbrance and the strife
World-wearied Israel.
Soldier of God, whose fields were foughten well—
Resteth him from the cumbrance and the strife
World-wearied Israel.
Twelve harps of life are round that unstrung lyre,
Twelve living flowers are round that wither'd one,
Twelve clouds with his red sunset all on fire
Are round that sunken sun.
Twelve living flowers are round that wither'd one,
Twelve clouds with his red sunset all on fire
Are round that sunken sun.
Those twelve brave hearts are tolling evermore,
For every heart beats like a muffled bell,
And still they ring, “Thy march of life is o'er—
O weary soul, rest well.”
For every heart beats like a muffled bell,
And still they ring, “Thy march of life is o'er—
O weary soul, rest well.”
Still it sails onward, where the Red Sea fills
With snowy drift of shells his coral bowers,
On through the wondrous land of rose-red hills
To that of rose-red flowers:
With snowy drift of shells his coral bowers,
On through the wondrous land of rose-red hills
To that of rose-red flowers:
205
The land where aye, through many a purple gap,
The wanderer sees a mountain wall upspring,
And ever in his ear the wild waves flap
Like a great eagle's wing;
The wanderer sees a mountain wall upspring,
And ever in his ear the wild waves flap
Like a great eagle's wing;
Meet battlement for the race that dwells alone,
Music to match, monotonous and grave,
The tongue, whose dark old words are all its own,
Pure as the mid-sea wave.
Music to match, monotonous and grave,
The tongue, whose dark old words are all its own,
Pure as the mid-sea wave.
Ever I walk with that funereal train—
The stars shine over it for tapers tall,
And Jordan's music is the requiem strain
Drawn out from fall to fall.
The stars shine over it for tapers tall,
And Jordan's music is the requiem strain
Drawn out from fall to fall.
Come, O thou south wind! with thy fragrance faint,
Bring from those folded forests, on thy breath,
Balm for the mummy, lying like a saint,
Upon his car of death.
Bring from those folded forests, on thy breath,
Balm for the mummy, lying like a saint,
Upon his car of death.
Bear him, ye bearers! lay him down at last
In still Machpelah, down by Leah's side—
On that pale bridegroom shimmering is cast,
Laid by that awful bride.
In still Machpelah, down by Leah's side—
On that pale bridegroom shimmering is cast,
Laid by that awful bride.
Rests he not well whose pilgrim staff and shoon
Lie in his tent—for through the golden street
They walk, and stumble not, on roads star-strewn,
With their unsandall'd feet?
Lie in his tent—for through the golden street
206
With their unsandall'd feet?
Rests he not well who keepeth watch and ward,
In sweet possession of the land loved most,
Till, marshall'd by the Angel of the Lord,
Shall come the Heaven-sent host?
In sweet possession of the land loved most,
Till, marshall'd by the Angel of the Lord,
Shall come the Heaven-sent host?
Who has not felt, within some churchyard spot,
When evening's pencil shades the pale-gold sky,
“Here, at the closing of my life's calm lot,
Here would I love to lie?
When evening's pencil shades the pale-gold sky,
“Here, at the closing of my life's calm lot,
Here would I love to lie?
“Here, where the poet thrush so often pours
His requiem, hidden in green aisles of lime,
And, bloody red along the sycamores,
Creepeth the summer-time;
His requiem, hidden in green aisles of lime,
And, bloody red along the sycamores,
Creepeth the summer-time;
“Where through the ruin'd church's broken walls
Glimmers all night the vast and solemn sea,
As through our broken hopes the brightness shines,
Of our eternity.”
Glimmers all night the vast and solemn sea,
As through our broken hopes the brightness shines,
Of our eternity.”
But when we die, we rest, far, far away;
Not over us the lime-trees lift their bowers,
And the young sycamores their shadows sway
O'er graves that are not ours.
Not over us the lime-trees lift their bowers,
And the young sycamores their shadows sway
O'er graves that are not ours.
Yet he is happy, wheresoe'er he lie,
Round whom the purple calms of Eden spread; Who sees his Saviour with the heart's pure eye,
He is the happy dead!
Round whom the purple calms of Eden spread; Who sees his Saviour with the heart's pure eye,
He is the happy dead!
207
By the rough brook of life no more he wrestles,
Huddling its hoarse waves until night depart;
No more the pale face of a Rachel nestles
Upon his broken heart.
Huddling its hoarse waves until night depart;
No more the pale face of a Rachel nestles
Upon his broken heart.
He is encircled by the quiet home,
From whose safe hold no little lamb is lost;
The Jegar-sahadutha of the tomb
No Laban ever crost!
From whose safe hold no little lamb is lost;
The Jegar-sahadutha of the tomb
No Laban ever crost!
I saw again. Behold! Heaven's open door;
Behold! a throne—the Seraphim stood o'er it;
The white-robed Elders fell upon the floor,
And flung their crowns before it.
Behold! a throne—the Seraphim stood o'er it;
The white-robed Elders fell upon the floor,
And flung their crowns before it.
I saw a wondrous book; an Angel strong
To heaven and earth proclaim'd his loud appeals:
But a hush pass'd across the seraph's song,
For none might loose the seals.
To heaven and earth proclaim'd his loud appeals:
But a hush pass'd across the seraph's song,
For none might loose the seals.
Then fast as rain to death-cry of the year,
Tears of St. John to that sad cry were given—
It was a wondrous thing to see a tear
Fall on the floor of Heaven.
Tears of St. John to that sad cry were given—
It was a wondrous thing to see a tear
Fall on the floor of Heaven.
And a sweet voice said, “Weep not: wherefore fails,
Eagle of God, thy heart, the high and leal?
The Lion out of Judah's tribe prevails
To loose the sevenfold seal.”
Eagle of God, thy heart, the high and leal?
The Lion out of Judah's tribe prevails
To loose the sevenfold seal.”
208
'Twas Israel's voice; and straightway, up above,
Stood in the midst a wondrous Lamb, snow white,
Heart-wounded with the deep sweet wounds of love,
Eternal, Infinite.
Stood in the midst a wondrous Lamb, snow white,
Heart-wounded with the deep sweet wounds of love,
Eternal, Infinite.
Then rose the song no ear had heard before;
Then from the white-robed throng high anthem woke;
And fast as spring-tide on the sealess shore,
The Hallelujahs broke.
Then from the white-robed throng high anthem woke;
And fast as spring-tide on the sealess shore,
The Hallelujahs broke.
Who dreams of God when passionate youth is high,
When first life's weary waste his feet have trod,—
Who seeth angels' footfalls in the sky,
Working the work of God,—
When first life's weary waste his feet have trod,—
Who seeth angels' footfalls in the sky,
Working the work of God,—
His sun shall fade as gently as it rose;
Through the dark woof of death's approaching night
His faith shall shoot, at life's prophetic close,
Some threads of golden light;
Through the dark woof of death's approaching night
His faith shall shoot, at life's prophetic close,
Some threads of golden light;
For him the silver ladder shall be set—
His Saviour shall receive his latest breath.—
He walketh to a fadeless coronet,
Up through the gate of death.
His Saviour shall receive his latest breath.—
He walketh to a fadeless coronet,
Up through the gate of death.
Being the Poem to which an Accessit was awarded by the judges of the best Poem on a Sacred Subject, in the University of Oxford, June 1, 1857.
Ιδε γαρ ανθρωπους οιον εν καταγειω οικησει σπηλαιωδει . . . φως δε αϝ)τοις πυρος ανωθεν και πορρωθεν καομενον οπισθεν αυτων, κ.τ.Χ. (Plat.)
St. John i. 51. “The disciples could not but think of the ladder of Heaven at Bethel, when our Lord uttered these well-known words.” (Stier's “Words of Jesus.”) The words απ αρτι υψεσθε must be understood of the abiding continuous vision of faith, not of any momentary manifestation.
“Abraham went down to sojourn in Egypt. . . . When Abraham was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she was very fair.” (Gen. xii. 10, 14.)
“And Israel stretched out his right hand, and laid it upon Ephraim's head, who was the younger, . . . guiding his hands wittingly.” (Gen. xlviii. 14.) “By faith Jacob, when he was a dying, blessed both the sons of Joseph.” (Heb. xi. 21.)
See Hengstenberg's answer to the objections to Jacob's prophecy arising from its poetical character, and proving that the difficulty of handing down such a composition was diminished by its metrical cast. (“Christologes,” lxviii. 70.)
Gen. xlix. 4.—“And Israel spread his tent beyond the tower of Edar; and when Israel dwelt in that land, Reuben went and lay with Bilhah his father's concubine.” (Gen. xxxv. 21, 22.)
And they slew Hamor and Shechem . . . with the edge of the sword, and took Dinah out of of Shechem's house.” (Gen. xxxiv. 26.)
Alluding to the geographical position of Benjamin, “ravening as a wolf,” and Dan, “a serpent by the way, biting horse's heels.”
See Lieutenant Van de Velde's account of the vapours in the vale of Shechem, which render the scenery so peculiar.
The sluggish and unwarlike character of the tribe of Issachar is amply illustrated by its subsequent history.
“And Joseph went up to bury his father, . . . and there went up with him both chariots and horsemen: and it was a very great company.” (Gen. 1. 7-9.)
Dean Stanley compares the shells of the Red Sea to bleaching bones, or white porcelain. “The mountains of the Sinaitic peninsula were described by Diodorus Siculus, as of a bright scarlet hue; viewed even in the soberest light, it gives a richness to the landscape” (p. 11). For the profusion of scarlet flowers characteristic of Palestine, see ibid., p. 138.
Capientur signa haud levia de ingreniis populorum ex linguis ipsorum. Hebræi verbis tam paucis et minimè commistis utuntur, ut plane ex lingua ipsa quis perspiciat gentem fuisse illam Nazaræam, et a reliquis gentibus separatam. (Bacon, “De Aug. Scien.,” lib. vi. ch. 1.)
“And Laban called it Jegar-sahadutha. . . . This heap be witness that I will not pass over this heap to thee for harm.” (Gen. xxxi. 47, 52.)
“And one of the elders said unto me, Weep not,” etc. “Videtur esse Patriarcha Jacobus, quia ex ipsius vaticinio Christo nomen leonis tribuitur.” (cf. Bengel, in loco.)
233
TWO SONNETS FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT.
II.
[The coast descended to the brook of reeds]
“And the coast descended unto the river Kanah (brook of reeds),
southwards.” (Joshua xvii. 9.)
The coast descended to the brook of reeds,
The river Kanah, southward. In the stream
The armour of Manasseh used to gleam,
Marching right up to do those daring deeds
Upon the Canaanite. Wave to wave succeeds,
O ancient river, age succeeds to age.
I ask thee nothing of the battle's rage,
Or how the hewing of the forest speeds
In the land of giants. Only I would know,
Do those old reeds within thy channel quiver,
Making a music when the breezes blow?
And do their mottled lances slant as ever?
Do they outlive man's strength—God's weakest things,
Of older race than all our lives of kings?
235
THE LIGHTED BUILDING.
There is a building by yon river loneAnd walking homewards, upon wintry nights,
When on the thorn the bitter north wind smites,
And in mine ear the rustling broom makes moan,—
Or on some mild dusk evening, ere hath shone
The moonlight on the Mourne,—the place doth seem
A blank and purposeless pile beside the stream.
But suddenly lit up, mine eye hath known
A line of lustrous windows all ablaze;—
A palace of enchantment exquisite,
A fairy fabric self-illuminated:—
Dark building of God's word! with what amaze
The heart surveys thee, what time thou art lit
As from within by Him who thee created.
Camus, 1862.
236
THOUGHTS BY THE SEA.
I
I had been reading Paul's great argument,Where, after those strange chapters, darkly penn'd,
He bursts out with ω βαθος at the end;
When—whether thought or memory might present
Such picture—lo! a galleon was bent
Under reef'd topsails through a strait to drop.
Hung o'er with cliffs that almost touch'd at top.
Dark o'er the dreary sea the vessel went,
Till instantaneously she had pass'd through
A touch of moonlight on her sails; before her,
World without end, the waves; the blue sky o'er her.
Behold, I thought, an image grandly true!
After Predestination's narrow road
The silver ocean of the Love of God.
II
A hot day in September. A white mistClung to the vale, and up the hill a blur,
As of thin smoke, part blue, part silverer,
Stretch'd o'er the corn. The ripples lazily kiss'd
As on the bent I lay their sound to list.
237
I saw a green down stretch without a stir.
A curlew was the only harmonist.
The sole shapes there were gulls, that in the heat
Strutted upon the sward a space and back,
White-plumed; and crows, like crones in shawls of black
Dropp'd glossy from the shoulders to the feet.
But far afield, howe'er the day may burn,
Harvesters work—and that is much to learn.
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