 | Reverberations |  |
AQUINAS.
The story on which this poem is founded is well known. It is said that the great scholastic, touched with pity at the thought of the doom which awaited the chief of the fallen angels, broke forth into prayer on his behalf. This poem was quoted by Mr Holyoake many years ago in his controversy with Mr Brewin Grant. The Rev. Mr Molesworth, in a “History of our Own Times,” highly commended by Mr Bright, thus records his impression of Mr Holyoake's services:—
“The success of Secularism was due, in no small degree, to the qualities of Mr Holyoake, who had assiduously cultivated great natural gifts, who delivered his opinions with calm, quiet, and persuasive earnestness, and had won the favourable attention of the working classes by the enlightened interest he had on many occasions taken in their welfare, and the thorough mastery he had displayed of many social problems in the solution of which they were deeply interested.”
Compressed he sat and spake no word,
As still as any man of stone,
In streets where never voice is heard;
With massive front and air antique
He sat, did neither move nor speak,
For thought like his seemed words too weak.
From sunrise till the sun went out,
Had sat alone that man of grey,
That marble man, hard crampt by doubt;
Some kingly problem had he found,
Some new belief not wholly sound,
Some hope that overleapt all bound.
No answer to his question came,
And now he rose with hollow groan,
And eyes that seemed half love, half flame.
Pale marble face, half smile, half frown,
Brown shadow else 'mid shadows brown.
Thy Morning-star, with endless moan,
Should lift his fading orbs to thee,
And thou be happy on thy throne.
It were not kind, nay, Father, nay,
It were not just, O God, I say:
Pray for thy Lost One, Jesus, pray!
While the fair angels howl below?
All holy voices would be dumb,
All loving eyes would fill with woe,
To think the lordliest Peer of Heaven,
The starry leader of the Seven,
Would never, never, be forgiven.
O Word that made thine angel speak!
Lord! let thy pitying tears have way;
Dear God! not man alone is weak.
What is created still must fall,
And fairest still we frailest call;
Will not Christ's blood avail for all?
O Father! think upon thy child;
And look upon that dungeon wild.
O God! O Jesus! see how dark
That den of woe! O Saviour! mark
How angels weep, how groan! Hark, hark!
Restore him to his throne again.
Oh, open wide that dismal door
Which presses on the souls in pain;
So men and angels all will say,
‘Our God is good.’ Oh, day by day,
Pray for thy Lost One, Jesus, pray!”
Alone with black and dreadful Night,
Until before his pleading moan
The darkness ebbed away in light.
Then rose the saint, and “God,” said he,
“If darkness change to light with thee,
The Devil may yet an angel be.”
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