Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | BOOK VI.
THE SPIRIT OF THE SEA. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
137
BOOK VI. THE SPIRIT OF THE SEA.
139
Magnificent, and, I would dare to think
Intuitive, the courage of the man,
The immortal Genoese, the demi-god
Of modern legend, who upon that sea
Sublimely shado wed over by a cloud
Of ignorant faiths, once turned his dipping prow
Right onward to discover worlds unknown,
And boldly plunged into the Atlantic fogs,
Lost to his age behind the fearful sea,
And no less hidden from it in the depth
And darkness of his solemn thoughts, withdrawn
Into the unshared grandeur of his dream.
Him I behold in spirit on the waves
Some breezy midnight contemplate the stars,
And pierce with gaze intense the livid gloom
Through which his prow sang cheerfully, and then,
With a blind motion suddenly possessed,
Twist the helm north or south with daring hand,
Impelled he knew not why, and yet elate
And tranquil, as a mighty seer who knows
How far his incantations may prevail.
Intuitive, the courage of the man,
The immortal Genoese, the demi-god
Of modern legend, who upon that sea
Sublimely shado wed over by a cloud
Of ignorant faiths, once turned his dipping prow
Right onward to discover worlds unknown,
And boldly plunged into the Atlantic fogs,
Lost to his age behind the fearful sea,
And no less hidden from it in the depth
And darkness of his solemn thoughts, withdrawn
Into the unshared grandeur of his dream.
Him I behold in spirit on the waves
Some breezy midnight contemplate the stars,
And pierce with gaze intense the livid gloom
Through which his prow sang cheerfully, and then,
With a blind motion suddenly possessed,
Twist the helm north or south with daring hand,
Impelled he knew not why, and yet elate
And tranquil, as a mighty seer who knows
How far his incantations may prevail.
Such, on his solitary mind at sea,
Was now the bearing of Sir Lancelot.
On Troutbeck Hill the mountain's rugged arms
Had clasped his spirit in a rude embrace,
And so confined his thoughts till they should search
The chambers of his conscience o'er and o'er,
And with the scourge of self-condemning grief
Should cleanse the temple. Now the ocean waves
Burst like a vision of infinity
Upon his heart and soul and intellect,
A sight as new, as strange, as wonderful
As though it never had been seen till now.
Cold bars were broken down, partitions rent,
His faith emancipated from all doubt,
And like the moon at sunrise, hope grew wan
Through nearness to the world which it had sought,
And by that nearness superseded now.
The wildness of his present solitude
Touched him, and with its royal touch set free
His thoughts, his habits; nay, his penitence
Became another thing from what it was.
The lashing surge, the hollow thundering voice
Spake like a pontiff who had power to annul
His excommunication: and forth with
His spirit was uplifted by the sea,
And his whole being shared the enfranchisement
Of its wild scenery: grandeur around him
Begot an inward grandeur whence he dared
To deal more boldly with himself; the joy,
Which tried its half-fledged wings in Troutbeck Vale,
And which he feared as being a joy too much,
Now forth into transcending rapture burst.
Was now the bearing of Sir Lancelot.
On Troutbeck Hill the mountain's rugged arms
Had clasped his spirit in a rude embrace,
And so confined his thoughts till they should search
140
And with the scourge of self-condemning grief
Should cleanse the temple. Now the ocean waves
Burst like a vision of infinity
Upon his heart and soul and intellect,
A sight as new, as strange, as wonderful
As though it never had been seen till now.
Cold bars were broken down, partitions rent,
His faith emancipated from all doubt,
And like the moon at sunrise, hope grew wan
Through nearness to the world which it had sought,
And by that nearness superseded now.
The wildness of his present solitude
Touched him, and with its royal touch set free
His thoughts, his habits; nay, his penitence
Became another thing from what it was.
The lashing surge, the hollow thundering voice
Spake like a pontiff who had power to annul
His excommunication: and forth with
His spirit was uplifted by the sea,
And his whole being shared the enfranchisement
Of its wild scenery: grandeur around him
Begot an inward grandeur whence he dared
To deal more boldly with himself; the joy,
Which tried its half-fledged wings in Troutbeck Vale,
And which he feared as being a joy too much,
Now forth into transcending rapture burst.
By day, by night, he looked from huge Black Combe;
The solemn sea, the deep, the unenslaved,
Rocking and roaring, angry or at rest,
Was at his feet: a gush of glorious thoughts
Rose like an unresisted tide within.
Bursts of impassioned aspiration sprang
From an impetuous strife to realize
That which was most within him, which he felt
To be a power of immortality,
Wounded with beating at its prison bars,
And now impatient grown to be uncaged.
And as he felt the knocking more and more
Of that mysterious instinct in his soul,
His spirit rose, from off its ashes rose,
Like Job of yore, and with a hardihood
Which was an act of faith it was so bold,
He turned the helm of his whole life at once;
And with calm interval of confidence
He listened the new music of his thoughts,
Which louder sang, as when they give the ship
More to the wind; then before God sank down
In breathless worship, and that broken prayer
Which the wrapt soul in such high hour may breathe.
The solemn sea, the deep, the unenslaved,
Rocking and roaring, angry or at rest,
Was at his feet: a gush of glorious thoughts
Rose like an unresisted tide within.
Bursts of impassioned aspiration sprang
141
That which was most within him, which he felt
To be a power of immortality,
Wounded with beating at its prison bars,
And now impatient grown to be uncaged.
And as he felt the knocking more and more
Of that mysterious instinct in his soul,
His spirit rose, from off its ashes rose,
Like Job of yore, and with a hardihood
Which was an act of faith it was so bold,
He turned the helm of his whole life at once;
And with calm interval of confidence
He listened the new music of his thoughts,
Which louder sang, as when they give the ship
More to the wind; then before God sank down
In breathless worship, and that broken prayer
Which the wrapt soul in such high hour may breathe.
Thus in the Knight's declining age,—decay
Unfelt, though inwardly at work,—the sea
Delivered his imprisoned thoughts, and broke
With oft recurring impulses the chain
Of heavy grief about his spirit bound,
A blessèd pupillage, but now fulfilled.
For they who would confront the thought of death
In that proximity with which the old
Must meet its silent aspect, and would fain
In unalarmed companionship therewith
Walk onward to the tomb, must first have quelled
All trivial hopes and fears, and by some shock
Of inward grace or outward providence
Have with intelligent solemnity
Dethroned the world within them, and dissolved
The meddling pageantry of visible things.
Unfelt, though inwardly at work,—the sea
Delivered his imprisoned thoughts, and broke
With oft recurring impulses the chain
Of heavy grief about his spirit bound,
A blessèd pupillage, but now fulfilled.
For they who would confront the thought of death
In that proximity with which the old
Must meet its silent aspect, and would fain
In unalarmed companionship therewith
Walk onward to the tomb, must first have quelled
All trivial hopes and fears, and by some shock
Of inward grace or outward providence
Have with intelligent solemnity
Dethroned the world within them, and dissolved
The meddling pageantry of visible things.
Thus in a hymnlike strain of glorious power
So spake the vocal Spirit of the Sea
Within Sir Lancelot's heart, as those deep bells
Of holy Advent, four times tolled, break forth
On the calm peace of the declining year,
Startling the soul perchance forgetful grown
Of all its fearful fortunes yet to come,
In the long train of less memorial feasts
And nameless Sundays, while within the shrine
The trumpet winds four several blasts of fear,
Heard from the trembling corners of the world.
For first the long terrific notice peals
Of the tremendous Advent of the Judge;
A second blast resounds to wake the soul
To meet with lamp and oil at dead of night
The Infant God, who is both Spouse and Judge:
While the third trumpet sounds in sweeter strains
Exhorting us in all our fears to find
Fresh cause for exultation in our faith;
Then the fourth trumpet, like the first one, dares
Bold love! to bid the Judge come speedily.
And thus those advent clarions wind their blasts,
In thrilling admonitions, while the Church,
With evening antiphons most like the sighs
Of the old world before Messias came,
Bids her majestic collects hand in hand
Walk with her children, until Christmas Eve
Dismisses the vibration from our ear,
And the fair Church illumined from within,
Her altars garnished for the midnight mass,
On the benighted world around outpours
Her gladsome witness of the Virgin-Born.
And children sing that night unto the Babe,
And Angels with them, scarce above their heads,
Delight to swell the echoes of the hymn
Into the tingling ear of starlit skies,
And the four tolls of Advent are displaced
By that nocturnal peal which shakes the towers,
And keeps the Christian cities all awake,
Between the midnight and the morning Mass.
142
Within Sir Lancelot's heart, as those deep bells
Of holy Advent, four times tolled, break forth
On the calm peace of the declining year,
Startling the soul perchance forgetful grown
Of all its fearful fortunes yet to come,
In the long train of less memorial feasts
And nameless Sundays, while within the shrine
The trumpet winds four several blasts of fear,
Heard from the trembling corners of the world.
For first the long terrific notice peals
Of the tremendous Advent of the Judge;
A second blast resounds to wake the soul
To meet with lamp and oil at dead of night
The Infant God, who is both Spouse and Judge:
While the third trumpet sounds in sweeter strains
Exhorting us in all our fears to find
Fresh cause for exultation in our faith;
Then the fourth trumpet, like the first one, dares
Bold love! to bid the Judge come speedily.
And thus those advent clarions wind their blasts,
In thrilling admonitions, while the Church,
With evening antiphons most like the sighs
Of the old world before Messias came,
Bids her majestic collects hand in hand
Walk with her children, until Christmas Eve
Dismisses the vibration from our ear,
And the fair Church illumined from within,
Her altars garnished for the midnight mass,
On the benighted world around outpours
Her gladsome witness of the Virgin-Born.
And children sing that night unto the Babe,
And Angels with them, scarce above their heads,
Delight to swell the echoes of the hymn
143
And the four tolls of Advent are displaced
By that nocturnal peal which shakes the towers,
And keeps the Christian cities all awake,
Between the midnight and the morning Mass.
To one within close mountains always pent
How blissful is the riot of the eye,
When it expatiates o'er the desert sea
With its exulting waters resonant,
By nought except the white horizon fenced!
Taught by thy lips, majestic Sea! how dread
Seems the vast range of man's immortal hopes,
By calm confessed more solemnly than storm,
Time how unreal, and the cells of space
How unendurable, infinity
How possible, how near, yea, at her feet
Imaged in thee! When from some cape the ear
A livelong day hath listened to thy voice,
A livelong day the eye insatiate fed
Upon thy plains, in gleamy distance stretched,
Grateful expanse, what wonder that the soul
Should feel herself there winged with thoughts as strong
As eagle's pinions, keen as eagle's eyes,
Whether for upward soaring, by the sun
Undazed and to his radiant vicinage
By royal instincts drawn, or for descent,
Stooping from some invisible altitude,
Swift and unerring on their earthly prey?
How blissful is the riot of the eye,
When it expatiates o'er the desert sea
With its exulting waters resonant,
By nought except the white horizon fenced!
Taught by thy lips, majestic Sea! how dread
Seems the vast range of man's immortal hopes,
By calm confessed more solemnly than storm,
Time how unreal, and the cells of space
How unendurable, infinity
How possible, how near, yea, at her feet
Imaged in thee! When from some cape the ear
A livelong day hath listened to thy voice,
A livelong day the eye insatiate fed
Upon thy plains, in gleamy distance stretched,
Grateful expanse, what wonder that the soul
Should feel herself there winged with thoughts as strong
As eagle's pinions, keen as eagle's eyes,
Whether for upward soaring, by the sun
Undazed and to his radiant vicinage
By royal instincts drawn, or for descent,
Stooping from some invisible altitude,
Swift and unerring on their earthly prey?
So wrought the vocal sea within his heart
That he undid the yoke of Silence laid
Upon his lips, the old ascetic fast
From words, the wholesome abstinence assigned
To raise the too light spirit, and sustain
The heavenly tone of thought thereby acquired,
As hunger on the body is imposed
A scourge to quell the frankness of the flesh,—
This first, but afterwards a means to gain
A contemplation far above the heights
The world-impeded soul can hope to reach.
Thus to the obedient doth it ever come
To find in self-denying ordinance
A two-fold use, the undressing of the soul
From its outworn attire, the purple robe
Lent by the world in cruelty to mock
Its high pretensions, and the investing it
With the pure visions and abiding joys
Of Neighborhood unto the Throne of God.
That he undid the yoke of Silence laid
Upon his lips, the old ascetic fast
From words, the wholesome abstinence assigned
To raise the too light spirit, and sustain
144
As hunger on the body is imposed
A scourge to quell the frankness of the flesh,—
This first, but afterwards a means to gain
A contemplation far above the heights
The world-impeded soul can hope to reach.
Thus to the obedient doth it ever come
To find in self-denying ordinance
A two-fold use, the undressing of the soul
From its outworn attire, the purple robe
Lent by the world in cruelty to mock
Its high pretensions, and the investing it
With the pure visions and abiding joys
Of Neighborhood unto the Throne of God.
O toil most difficult it is to tread
Our Master's royal road of hungry Fast
And aching Vigil, and a steep ascent
Leads upward far to gain the starry heights
Of Silence, when the host of vexing thoughts
And low conceptions, into tumult stirred
By all the incessant trouble of the tongue,
Through such stern discipline is banished thence;
And the tranquillity, thus hardly won,
Restores unto the fallen soul again,
In spirit found though locally withheld,
The primal garden where the Almighty talked,
Disdaining not man's feeble innocence.
Our Master's royal road of hungry Fast
And aching Vigil, and a steep ascent
Leads upward far to gain the starry heights
Of Silence, when the host of vexing thoughts
And low conceptions, into tumult stirred
By all the incessant trouble of the tongue,
Through such stern discipline is banished thence;
And the tranquillity, thus hardly won,
Restores unto the fallen soul again,
In spirit found though locally withheld,
The primal garden where the Almighty talked,
Disdaining not man's feeble innocence.
Methinks they deem but weakly of the height
To which man's love of God may well aspire,
Who in such deep observances and rules,—
By generations of ascetic Saints,
As needful found, invented and made over,
The sacred science of the Canonized,
To us poor bearers of the Cross—can see
Nought but a cold contemptuous neglect,
And handling most disdainful, of the good
And harmless creatures, and of God
A slavish unaffectionate belief,
And base opinion. Thou, dear Church of old!
And thou no less, true Church of modern days!
Canst testify the pure extatic love,
The tender spirit, self-forgetting thought,
The childlike adoration of thy Saints
Following to martyrdom the Spotless Lamb,
Their love of nature as the mirror calm
Of Him, the merciful Creator, seen
And recognized therein far more than now
When boasting knowledge hath defiled the spring
With its ignoble licence, which in pride
Repudiates the blessing of the Church,
And having bleared the eye of conscience, smites
With barrenness the regions of the mind.
Thou canst bear witness to the fervid zeal,
Wherewith they vindicated this fair earth
And the mute animals, as types beloved,
From heresy profane: thou didst behold
In them a love of Jesus unsurpassed,
An ardency of transport best concealed
Behind the curtain of a difficult tongue,
Lest in the mind impure the words should breed
Vilest similitudes of earthly love.
To which man's love of God may well aspire,
Who in such deep observances and rules,—
By generations of ascetic Saints,
As needful found, invented and made over,
The sacred science of the Canonized,
To us poor bearers of the Cross—can see
145
And handling most disdainful, of the good
And harmless creatures, and of God
A slavish unaffectionate belief,
And base opinion. Thou, dear Church of old!
And thou no less, true Church of modern days!
Canst testify the pure extatic love,
The tender spirit, self-forgetting thought,
The childlike adoration of thy Saints
Following to martyrdom the Spotless Lamb,
Their love of nature as the mirror calm
Of Him, the merciful Creator, seen
And recognized therein far more than now
When boasting knowledge hath defiled the spring
With its ignoble licence, which in pride
Repudiates the blessing of the Church,
And having bleared the eye of conscience, smites
With barrenness the regions of the mind.
Thou canst bear witness to the fervid zeal,
Wherewith they vindicated this fair earth
And the mute animals, as types beloved,
From heresy profane: thou didst behold
In them a love of Jesus unsurpassed,
An ardency of transport best concealed
Behind the curtain of a difficult tongue,
Lest in the mind impure the words should breed
Vilest similitudes of earthly love.
O then if to our fancy aught should seem
Among those reverend men uncouth or strained,
'Twere well to love the sweetly skilled device
Of an affectionate jealousy, which puts
Far from its presence, needlessly perchance,—
So men will speak, but O to those who strive,
However puny or remiss their toil,
Most needful found, and of a holy life
The lowest root and very topmost crown,—
Such blameless joys as haply might beguile
The singleness of their deep love to Christ:—
A jealousy, by true self-knowledge taught
That to be timorous with outward things
Is wisdom, for the moral world within
The shadow is of outward circumstance,
As utterly as outward seemings are
By the inward mind created and controlled.
Yet better far, so living as we do,
In softness and an anxious disesteem
Of unseen things, and homage of base wealth—
O better far if so we could mistrust
Ourselves, and nurse our hearts in humbling fear,
Lest what we bear should be a mimic Cross,
So all unlike the solemn burden borne
By those who died for Christ in ancient days!
Among those reverend men uncouth or strained,
'Twere well to love the sweetly skilled device
Of an affectionate jealousy, which puts
Far from its presence, needlessly perchance,—
So men will speak, but O to those who strive,
However puny or remiss their toil,
146
The lowest root and very topmost crown,—
Such blameless joys as haply might beguile
The singleness of their deep love to Christ:—
A jealousy, by true self-knowledge taught
That to be timorous with outward things
Is wisdom, for the moral world within
The shadow is of outward circumstance,
As utterly as outward seemings are
By the inward mind created and controlled.
Yet better far, so living as we do,
In softness and an anxious disesteem
Of unseen things, and homage of base wealth—
O better far if so we could mistrust
Ourselves, and nurse our hearts in humbling fear,
Lest what we bear should be a mimic Cross,
So all unlike the solemn burden borne
By those who died for Christ in ancient days!
But the stern yoke of Silence, self-imposed,
Sir Lancelot now put from him: and the power,
Which abstinence confers upon the use
Of daily blessings, heightened to a joy
The common gift of vocal utterance.
Prayer, sweet before, how much more sweet became,
Winged on articulate words! and thanksgivings
Flowed with a more abundant liberty,
Through the resounding channels newly turned
Of sacred language, which itself alone
Is a perpetual sacrifice of song
Unto the Eternal Word who gave at first,—
In heaven long used before, or haply then
A fresh creation for the sake of earth,—
The gift of that sweet mystery to man.
Glory and praise unto the Son be given,
Himself the first, the most expressive Word,
The Language of the Father, wherewith He
Interpreteth Himself unto mankind
By His Co-equal Son. Ah me! how pure,
How few our words should be, and full of truth,
Lest with a too light tongue and thoughtless mirth
Or worldly usage frivolous and vile,
We should profane this primitive liturgy,
This voice by God mysteriously conferred
On man, that there might never fail on earth
The sound of rational and vocal praise!
Sir Lancelot now put from him: and the power,
Which abstinence confers upon the use
Of daily blessings, heightened to a joy
The common gift of vocal utterance.
Prayer, sweet before, how much more sweet became,
Winged on articulate words! and thanksgivings
Flowed with a more abundant liberty,
Through the resounding channels newly turned
Of sacred language, which itself alone
Is a perpetual sacrifice of song
Unto the Eternal Word who gave at first,—
In heaven long used before, or haply then
A fresh creation for the sake of earth,—
The gift of that sweet mystery to man.
Glory and praise unto the Son be given,
147
The Language of the Father, wherewith He
Interpreteth Himself unto mankind
By His Co-equal Son. Ah me! how pure,
How few our words should be, and full of truth,
Lest with a too light tongue and thoughtless mirth
Or worldly usage frivolous and vile,
We should profane this primitive liturgy,
This voice by God mysteriously conferred
On man, that there might never fail on earth
The sound of rational and vocal praise!
Sir Lancelot paced for hours upon the mount,
And bent his memory to recall some words
From the grave ritual of the Holy Church,
Some turn of her wise language which might hang
Its solemn fulness of petition still
About his spirit, some sweet antiphon,
Or notable inflexion of a chant,
Which with a congruous music happily
Embalms some aspiration of the heart
Of Sion's king, the heart which hath absorbed
All hearts within its own capacious range,
And to mute feelings still in every age
Hath been a spiritual tongue, the heart
Which, after God's Own Heart select, doth now
Beat like a spirit in the depths profound
Of our humanity, and in the Church
Seven times a day with cadence audible
Times the sonorous voice of Christendom.
Such fragments, as with effort he retrieved
From the remembrance of old services,
With measured recitation did he strew
Upon the flowing wind and ample hill,
Or upward sent into the blue concave
Of starry nights. Oh! what a joy it was,
Accompanied by many a sweet relief
Of tears, and some keen reminiscences
Brought from the past, the spur upon the rose
Of his new-born delight! There is no sound
In earth or sky one half so musical,
One half so moving as man's voice, in prayer,
In praise, in meditation clothed with words
And uttered on the mountain-top, no sound
Which can attain so near the Throne of God,
Or so divine in its original.
And bent his memory to recall some words
From the grave ritual of the Holy Church,
Some turn of her wise language which might hang
Its solemn fulness of petition still
About his spirit, some sweet antiphon,
Or notable inflexion of a chant,
Which with a congruous music happily
Embalms some aspiration of the heart
Of Sion's king, the heart which hath absorbed
All hearts within its own capacious range,
And to mute feelings still in every age
Hath been a spiritual tongue, the heart
Which, after God's Own Heart select, doth now
Beat like a spirit in the depths profound
Of our humanity, and in the Church
Seven times a day with cadence audible
Times the sonorous voice of Christendom.
Such fragments, as with effort he retrieved
From the remembrance of old services,
With measured recitation did he strew
Upon the flowing wind and ample hill,
Or upward sent into the blue concave
148
Accompanied by many a sweet relief
Of tears, and some keen reminiscences
Brought from the past, the spur upon the rose
Of his new-born delight! There is no sound
In earth or sky one half so musical,
One half so moving as man's voice, in prayer,
In praise, in meditation clothed with words
And uttered on the mountain-top, no sound
Which can attain so near the Throne of God,
Or so divine in its original.
O not so sweet the noise of falling streams,
Or voluntary of the jocund breeze
Shaking its dewy wings in early morn,
Or fingering visibly its instrument
With changeful pressure of the keys, whene'er
The sunshine ripples on the waving woods!
Man's clear divided accents rise on high,
Service of natural sound more pleasing far
Than pastoral anthems breathed from off the moors
By bleating flocks, which to the wandering bell
Murmur responses, with a harmony
Set off with strange expression by the voice,
Uninterrupted, solitary, sent
From some far field or wattled pen by one
For blameless taint divided from its kind,
And listened to with sympathetic awe,
And with acclaim of beatings to console,
Exhort, or cheer, responded to by those
To whom the moorland's breezy range is free.
And not, though it be prayer, so soft a plaint
As man's, is that which rises round the farms,
The grateful supplication of the herds,
When on their placid features, gently bound
In unexpressive calm, an instinct comes,
An inward thought which moves them, on the grass
Reclining at noon-day, to low as if
They spoke to some invisible Presence nigh;
A poor pathetic sound which, like the roar
Of hungry lions, God accepts for prayer.
Or voluntary of the jocund breeze
Shaking its dewy wings in early morn,
Or fingering visibly its instrument
With changeful pressure of the keys, whene'er
The sunshine ripples on the waving woods!
Man's clear divided accents rise on high,
Service of natural sound more pleasing far
Than pastoral anthems breathed from off the moors
By bleating flocks, which to the wandering bell
Murmur responses, with a harmony
Set off with strange expression by the voice,
Uninterrupted, solitary, sent
From some far field or wattled pen by one
For blameless taint divided from its kind,
And listened to with sympathetic awe,
And with acclaim of beatings to console,
Exhort, or cheer, responded to by those
To whom the moorland's breezy range is free.
And not, though it be prayer, so soft a plaint
As man's, is that which rises round the farms,
The grateful supplication of the herds,
When on their placid features, gently bound
149
An inward thought which moves them, on the grass
Reclining at noon-day, to low as if
They spoke to some invisible Presence nigh;
A poor pathetic sound which, like the roar
Of hungry lions, God accepts for prayer.
And memory then so wrought with his intent,
That in a few short weeks he had retrieved
Whole portions of the Psalter, Collects brief
Condensing truths with deep felicity,
High-hearted antiphons, and woven words
Of sweet responsories, by marvellous power
Evoked from boyish reminiscences,
And hymns, especially the soothing words,
And grave acknowledgment of unseen foes,
Wherewith the Compline cheers us, when we seek
Our nightly sepulchre for such soft sleep
As must be scanty if it would be pure.
So with quick psalms and swift-winged litanies,
Whose reverent speed precluded wandering thoughts,
Seven times a day his soul was raised on high,
Raised to the liberty of cheerful hopes,
And snatched from those wild humors of dismay,
That strange disrelish of industrious prayer,
That causeless inward fainting of good thoughts,
And that vague perturbation of the mind,
Wherewith the demons will dispirit him
Who, for Christ's sake or for self-punishment,
Confronts the visions of a lonely life,
Its chilling aspect, and the cheerless voice
Of solitude, deep in the conscience heard.
Yea thus the demons, whose own proper realm
The anchoret invades, dispirit him
With thoughts, with apparitions, frightening sounds,
And brutal contacts, and wild glaring lights,
And imitations of celestial forms,
Till he sheds vexed and unrefreshing tears,
And like a dusty wrestler, bruised and faint,
Comes forth a vanquished victor from the strife.
That in a few short weeks he had retrieved
Whole portions of the Psalter, Collects brief
Condensing truths with deep felicity,
High-hearted antiphons, and woven words
Of sweet responsories, by marvellous power
Evoked from boyish reminiscences,
And hymns, especially the soothing words,
And grave acknowledgment of unseen foes,
Wherewith the Compline cheers us, when we seek
Our nightly sepulchre for such soft sleep
As must be scanty if it would be pure.
So with quick psalms and swift-winged litanies,
Whose reverent speed precluded wandering thoughts,
Seven times a day his soul was raised on high,
Raised to the liberty of cheerful hopes,
And snatched from those wild humors of dismay,
That strange disrelish of industrious prayer,
That causeless inward fainting of good thoughts,
And that vague perturbation of the mind,
Wherewith the demons will dispirit him
Who, for Christ's sake or for self-punishment,
Confronts the visions of a lonely life,
Its chilling aspect, and the cheerless voice
Of solitude, deep in the conscience heard.
Yea thus the demons, whose own proper realm
The anchoret invades, dispirit him
With thoughts, with apparitions, frightening sounds,
150
And imitations of celestial forms,
Till he sheds vexed and unrefreshing tears,
And like a dusty wrestler, bruised and faint,
Comes forth a vanquished victor from the strife.
But highest privilege, with fervent thanks
Acknowledged, was the power once more to breathe
On the still night or fluent air of day
The Name of Jesus, of all mortal words
Dearest and best, with sacred riches fraught
Of meditation, and an endless store
Of spiritual meanings, which distil
With slow and silent dropping in our hearts,
Most like the sweet exudings of a tree
From out whose creviced rind the honeycombs
In the warm sunshine trickle. Tuneful Name,
Too common made by sinful lips which use
Their Christian rights more boldly than beseems
Their worth, inheriting unconsciously
From past sin, ill repented of, a quick
Self-trusting temper, and unbridled tongue
By reverence unchastised!
Acknowledged, was the power once more to breathe
On the still night or fluent air of day
The Name of Jesus, of all mortal words
Dearest and best, with sacred riches fraught
Of meditation, and an endless store
Of spiritual meanings, which distil
With slow and silent dropping in our hearts,
Most like the sweet exudings of a tree
From out whose creviced rind the honeycombs
In the warm sunshine trickle. Tuneful Name,
Too common made by sinful lips which use
Their Christian rights more boldly than beseems
Their worth, inheriting unconsciously
From past sin, ill repented of, a quick
Self-trusting temper, and unbridled tongue
By reverence unchastised!
The humble Knight,
Tutored in nature's school, with sparing use
Yet with enjoyment into transport raised,
By sacred awe more keenly edged, would mix
The Blessèd Name with his soliloquies;
And, solaced thus and sweetly dignified,
His hours of lonely converse now became
Enjoyment such as he had never dreamed
Might to his wounded conscience be vouchsafed.
Of all our catholic rights, a marvellous store
And numberless, is none more sweet than that
By which we can console our grief, or else
Our love of Jesus gratify, or win
With diligent lips indulgence for our souls,
Or for the souls in penal fires detained,
The privileged iteration of that Name.
Yet never was that royal word pronounced
Without obeisance duly interposed
With an affectionate scruple; when alone,
A homage is it to the Saviour paid
As present, with a sense that Angels nigh
Were bending as that Name escaped his lips;
And in the throng of social intercourse
That gesture, in the Written Word ordained,
Witness may be unto oblivious eyes,
And gentle check restraining giddy tongues.
Tutored in nature's school, with sparing use
Yet with enjoyment into transport raised,
By sacred awe more keenly edged, would mix
The Blessèd Name with his soliloquies;
And, solaced thus and sweetly dignified,
His hours of lonely converse now became
Enjoyment such as he had never dreamed
Might to his wounded conscience be vouchsafed.
Of all our catholic rights, a marvellous store
And numberless, is none more sweet than that
By which we can console our grief, or else
151
With diligent lips indulgence for our souls,
Or for the souls in penal fires detained,
The privileged iteration of that Name.
Yet never was that royal word pronounced
Without obeisance duly interposed
With an affectionate scruple; when alone,
A homage is it to the Saviour paid
As present, with a sense that Angels nigh
Were bending as that Name escaped his lips;
And in the throng of social intercourse
That gesture, in the Written Word ordained,
Witness may be unto oblivious eyes,
And gentle check restraining giddy tongues.
Alas! how very far remote are we,
Whose Christian freedom with our growing sins
Grows in proportion, while our sense of sin
Becomes obtuse,—how far remote are we
From that deep meditative heart of love,
Which on our lowest privileges set
A price more precious than we deign to put
Upon our highest,—from the mind remote
Wherein the Church an annual feast ordained
In honor of that simple-sounding Word,
The Name of Jesus, feast of fervid hearts,
Like Bernard's, or like Bernardine's, which glow
With sweet intolerable fires within,
While all without is winter's frost and sleet.
Whose Christian freedom with our growing sins
Grows in proportion, while our sense of sin
Becomes obtuse,—how far remote are we
From that deep meditative heart of love,
Which on our lowest privileges set
A price more precious than we deign to put
Upon our highest,—from the mind remote
Wherein the Church an annual feast ordained
In honor of that simple-sounding Word,
The Name of Jesus, feast of fervid hearts,
Like Bernard's, or like Bernardine's, which glow
With sweet intolerable fires within,
While all without is winter's frost and sleet.
Nor wanted he another liberty
From which he had endeavoured to refrain,
Unwisely as self-guided men are wont,
A holy practice which he now renewed,
At first through impulse he could not control.
For self-invented penance has no balm,
But irritates the wound it fain would heal.
When he had left the Ash-tree Hermitage,
And in the storm had crossed the distant hills,
Rounding the cornice upon Walney Scar
Entangled in a fringe of lucid mist,
He turned the invidious eminence which stops
The prospect southward; suddenly, the cloud
Uplifting at that moment, down the vale,
As through a telescope, he saw the sea,
Angry and purple, far and wide outspread
In stormy grandeur: with the sight there rushed
A torrent of old memories then let loose,
As from a dungeon, by the glorious view.
Unto the ground he sank upon his knees
And, trembling, signed the Cross upon his breast,
For years unworn upon that guilty heart.
He knelt in trouble and he rose in peace;
So tranquilly the admonition wrought!
From which he had endeavoured to refrain,
Unwisely as self-guided men are wont,
A holy practice which he now renewed,
At first through impulse he could not control.
For self-invented penance has no balm,
152
When he had left the Ash-tree Hermitage,
And in the storm had crossed the distant hills,
Rounding the cornice upon Walney Scar
Entangled in a fringe of lucid mist,
He turned the invidious eminence which stops
The prospect southward; suddenly, the cloud
Uplifting at that moment, down the vale,
As through a telescope, he saw the sea,
Angry and purple, far and wide outspread
In stormy grandeur: with the sight there rushed
A torrent of old memories then let loose,
As from a dungeon, by the glorious view.
Unto the ground he sank upon his knees
And, trembling, signed the Cross upon his breast,
For years unworn upon that guilty heart.
He knelt in trouble and he rose in peace;
So tranquilly the admonition wrought!
And now with reverent licence did he seek
The aid that Sign unto his soul supplied.
Both when he knelt and when he rose from prayer,
And when a thought more touching than was wont
Flashed o'er his mind, or sight more beautiful
Than common greeted him, he bowed and signed
With love and awe the Cross upon his breast,
Partly in ritual acknowledgment
Of that invisible Presence where he stood,
Partly in admonition to himself
By outward symbol made more forcible,
And partly in the faith that Heaven so loves
The blessèd Sign, that meditated wrath
Allows herself to be thereby disarmed,
And Angels come more promptly to our aid,
While evil powers behold and, shuddering, fly.
The aid that Sign unto his soul supplied.
Both when he knelt and when he rose from prayer,
And when a thought more touching than was wont
Flashed o'er his mind, or sight more beautiful
Than common greeted him, he bowed and signed
With love and awe the Cross upon his breast,
Partly in ritual acknowledgment
Of that invisible Presence where he stood,
Partly in admonition to himself
By outward symbol made more forcible,
And partly in the faith that Heaven so loves
The blessèd Sign, that meditated wrath
Allows herself to be thereby disarmed,
And Angels come more promptly to our aid,
While evil powers behold and, shuddering, fly.
153
O blessèd Sign! which from my youth hath been
(Prompted by inward want, by books untaught,
Nor from example copied) my true shield
Against the invasion of unholy fears
Troubling my nights too populous with dreams
From thoughts by day too wildly overwrought;
Dear Sign! which hath in later years full oft
Repaired the mirror of eternal things
Within my heart, by angry mood displaced
Or by profane conceptions broken up,
How hast thou been to me memorial calm
Of my New Birth, a fence between my soul
And the dark world, a benediction felt
As the mute pressure of the Saviour's Hand,
Assuring timid love with healing touch,
Exorcist too of demons which beset
The Christian in his loneliness! May shame
Of my dear Master's Cross ne'er teach my heart
That unimpassioned lore, which would extol
The cold formalities of barren mind
Above the tender spirit of the Faith,
From which these pensive rituals are evoked!
(Prompted by inward want, by books untaught,
Nor from example copied) my true shield
Against the invasion of unholy fears
Troubling my nights too populous with dreams
From thoughts by day too wildly overwrought;
Dear Sign! which hath in later years full oft
Repaired the mirror of eternal things
Within my heart, by angry mood displaced
Or by profane conceptions broken up,
How hast thou been to me memorial calm
Of my New Birth, a fence between my soul
And the dark world, a benediction felt
As the mute pressure of the Saviour's Hand,
Assuring timid love with healing touch,
Exorcist too of demons which beset
The Christian in his loneliness! May shame
Of my dear Master's Cross ne'er teach my heart
That unimpassioned lore, which would extol
The cold formalities of barren mind
Above the tender spirit of the Faith,
From which these pensive rituals are evoked!
O sweet Theology of nature! thou
Dost the poetic sense inform and feed
With beautiful bright symbols, round us strewn
In sibylline confusion, whence we may
By diligence a Christian cypher make,
Piecing the brilliant fragments one by one
Through guess or intuition, till we read
The mystic truths of Heaven in obvious type
Illuminated on the scroll of earth.
Attractive Scholarship! thy first essay,
Thine earliest task is o'er the blessèd Cross,
In nature's alphabet the letter chief,
Most often found. With what an eye of love
Did they of old that sacred Sign detect
Among the boughs, and in the crossing clouds,
And o'er the plains, and on the skins of beasts,
And in the cloven roots by ploughs upturned!
The gentle birds before the daylight eye
Of the blue heaven outstretch their little wings,
And, while they make the Cross, are safely borne
Through the thin ether, but if they should mar
That Sign with pinions closed, they fall to earth.
He, who on shipboard ventures, gladly finds
(Once hath it been a needful aid to me!)
The mast a Cross, and when they spread the sail,
A Body hangs thereon which doth propel
The labouring vessel; and the voyage becomes
An admonition typical, the ship
Figuring the Church, the chafing sea the World,
The Body, dimly seen upon the Cross
Through the dark air and frequent drifting spray,
With no inapt similitude shows Him,
Whose Presence is the haven of our lives;
The lifting up of whose Immaculate Hands,—
Outstretched upon that cruel Tree of Life,
In the prophetic evening of the world,
Whose tardy twilight lingers round us still,—
Was the sweet Vesper Sacrifice foretold,
And for long ages sung in Hebrew psalm,
Chanted within the expectant Synagogue.
Dost the poetic sense inform and feed
With beautiful bright symbols, round us strewn
In sibylline confusion, whence we may
By diligence a Christian cypher make,
Piecing the brilliant fragments one by one
Through guess or intuition, till we read
The mystic truths of Heaven in obvious type
Illuminated on the scroll of earth.
Attractive Scholarship! thy first essay,
Thine earliest task is o'er the blessèd Cross,
In nature's alphabet the letter chief,
154
Did they of old that sacred Sign detect
Among the boughs, and in the crossing clouds,
And o'er the plains, and on the skins of beasts,
And in the cloven roots by ploughs upturned!
The gentle birds before the daylight eye
Of the blue heaven outstretch their little wings,
And, while they make the Cross, are safely borne
Through the thin ether, but if they should mar
That Sign with pinions closed, they fall to earth.
He, who on shipboard ventures, gladly finds
(Once hath it been a needful aid to me!)
The mast a Cross, and when they spread the sail,
A Body hangs thereon which doth propel
The labouring vessel; and the voyage becomes
An admonition typical, the ship
Figuring the Church, the chafing sea the World,
The Body, dimly seen upon the Cross
Through the dark air and frequent drifting spray,
With no inapt similitude shows Him,
Whose Presence is the haven of our lives;
The lifting up of whose Immaculate Hands,—
Outstretched upon that cruel Tree of Life,
In the prophetic evening of the world,
Whose tardy twilight lingers round us still,—
Was the sweet Vesper Sacrifice foretold,
And for long ages sung in Hebrew psalm,
Chanted within the expectant Synagogue.
Another change too had his outward life
Wrought imperceptibly within, a change
Not without import to the man who seeks
Admittance by whatever road he may
Into the world of spirit. As the sea
Had snapped the fetters of his mind, and thrown
The habit of his thoughts beyond the range
Of this terrestrial scene, so through his sleep
The silent night distilled that liberty
Into his dreams, which close relation bore
To his new circumstances; for erewhile
In liveliest apparitions had the past
Been nightly unimprisoned, and his soul
With darkest inundation of old sins
Insufferably possessed; but now his dreams
Knocked softly at the portals of the grave,
And entrance won, and through the livelong night
Ranged in the misty space that lies beyond,
And, home returning as the stars grew pale,
Had gathered truths which even his waking hours
Could recognize as holy and divine.
Wrought imperceptibly within, a change
Not without import to the man who seeks
Admittance by whatever road he may
Into the world of spirit. As the sea
Had snapped the fetters of his mind, and thrown
155
Of this terrestrial scene, so through his sleep
The silent night distilled that liberty
Into his dreams, which close relation bore
To his new circumstances; for erewhile
In liveliest apparitions had the past
Been nightly unimprisoned, and his soul
With darkest inundation of old sins
Insufferably possessed; but now his dreams
Knocked softly at the portals of the grave,
And entrance won, and through the livelong night
Ranged in the misty space that lies beyond,
And, home returning as the stars grew pale,
Had gathered truths which even his waking hours
Could recognize as holy and divine.
What though our dreams, which I may boldly call
One branch of human knowledge, yet elude
The form of shapely science, still shall we,
Through disesteem of universal faith,
Or doubt for wisdom taking, or a wish
To guard the frontiers of our barren sense
Against the encroachments of the world unseen,—
Shall we, who so much need them, disregard
Chance revelations to the spirit made
Through God's once chosen instrument, outpoured
By Angels through the conduits of sleep
In silent-stirring pictures, or sometimes
With an aerial music wheeling by,
Akin to sound but something far more sweet
And distant? If it be allowed to man
To look upon his own immortal soul,
Next to the vision of his God the sight
Most coveted, it can alone be given
In the clear spectral twilight of a dream.
One branch of human knowledge, yet elude
The form of shapely science, still shall we,
Through disesteem of universal faith,
Or doubt for wisdom taking, or a wish
To guard the frontiers of our barren sense
Against the encroachments of the world unseen,—
Shall we, who so much need them, disregard
Chance revelations to the spirit made
Through God's once chosen instrument, outpoured
By Angels through the conduits of sleep
In silent-stirring pictures, or sometimes
With an aerial music wheeling by,
Akin to sound but something far more sweet
And distant? If it be allowed to man
To look upon his own immortal soul,
Next to the vision of his God the sight
Most coveted, it can alone be given
In the clear spectral twilight of a dream.
156
And in the bosom of this cheerless age,
If we would duly estimate the skill,
Wherewith these rites and strong persuasions built
The Individual Mind, and gave a tone
Through that unto the Social State, not vain
Will be the admonition that such things
Unto the spirit of those times were not
Romantic speculations, as to us,
Wherewith imagination plays, and thought
Herself bewitches for a few sweet hours
From false conventions and the littleness
Of act and feeling, equalized too much
Beneath the social tyranny which now,
An intellectual feudalism, defeats
Great purposes through coward love of peace,
Dispiriting the hearts which would retrieve
Our civil grandeurs lost, or re-cement,
In all the breadth of its harmonious life,
Sovereign and subjugate at once in things
Terrene, the spiritual commonwealth
Of Holy Church. Among those ancient men
These faiths were entertained as moral powers,
Were solemnized in daily acts, the moulds
Wherein their lives were cast, and which achieved,
With mightiest effort in unlooked-for ways,
The freedom of the Individual Mind,
The choicest of all social gifts, and source
Of all political magnificence.
If we would duly estimate the skill,
Wherewith these rites and strong persuasions built
The Individual Mind, and gave a tone
Through that unto the Social State, not vain
Will be the admonition that such things
Unto the spirit of those times were not
Romantic speculations, as to us,
Wherewith imagination plays, and thought
Herself bewitches for a few sweet hours
From false conventions and the littleness
Of act and feeling, equalized too much
Beneath the social tyranny which now,
An intellectual feudalism, defeats
Great purposes through coward love of peace,
Dispiriting the hearts which would retrieve
Our civil grandeurs lost, or re-cement,
In all the breadth of its harmonious life,
Sovereign and subjugate at once in things
Terrene, the spiritual commonwealth
Of Holy Church. Among those ancient men
These faiths were entertained as moral powers,
Were solemnized in daily acts, the moulds
Wherein their lives were cast, and which achieved,
With mightiest effort in unlooked-for ways,
The freedom of the Individual Mind,
The choicest of all social gifts, and source
Of all political magnificence.
Yet if the mountain-top and boundless sea
To his enfranchisement of spirit gave
Somewhat of wildness, the dark vicinage
Of his rude cell had sights and sounds enough
To mellow and subdue, and to reclaim
Thoughts which might haply wing their flight too far.
There oft he sat, with many a sombre fold
Of weeping cloud pavilioned, while his mind
By the pale melancholy light inspired,
Drew mournful morals out of little things.
There, couched on high among the nodding ferns,
He dimly traced the curse of Adam's Fall
Ubiquitous, which won its silent way
Into the kingdoms of inanimate life,
As here and there a plant, beneath a law
Of beautiful arrangement made, transgressed,
And, with its nature breaking covenant,
Swerved from its sweet propriety of shape,
And putting forth unwonted powers in search
Of freedom, missed of beauty, and became
A thing deformed; yet ah! not like poor man
Transmitting an hereditary flaw,
But in its own sin dying on the hill.
To his enfranchisement of spirit gave
Somewhat of wildness, the dark vicinage
Of his rude cell had sights and sounds enough
To mellow and subdue, and to reclaim
Thoughts which might haply wing their flight too far.
157
Of weeping cloud pavilioned, while his mind
By the pale melancholy light inspired,
Drew mournful morals out of little things.
There, couched on high among the nodding ferns,
He dimly traced the curse of Adam's Fall
Ubiquitous, which won its silent way
Into the kingdoms of inanimate life,
As here and there a plant, beneath a law
Of beautiful arrangement made, transgressed,
And, with its nature breaking covenant,
Swerved from its sweet propriety of shape,
And putting forth unwonted powers in search
Of freedom, missed of beauty, and became
A thing deformed; yet ah! not like poor man
Transmitting an hereditary flaw,
But in its own sin dying on the hill.
And on his hermitage had curious chance
(For so we name such acts of Heaven as hide
The order and connection of their law)
Bestowed an awful faculty to train
And discipline his mind in fear; as earth
Through providential accident full oft
Thus ministers unto the soul of man.
(For so we name such acts of Heaven as hide
The order and connection of their law)
Bestowed an awful faculty to train
And discipline his mind in fear; as earth
Through providential accident full oft
Thus ministers unto the soul of man.
There is a cheerless glen outside the walls
Of old Jerusalem, a dark ravine,
Not by the action of the torrent scooped,
But in some throe of earth a fracture rent,
The gloomy vale of Josaphat, a place
Where Christian legend and wild Arab faith
With old tradition, drawn from Hebrew source,
Strangely concur to fix the solemn scene
Of the Last Judgment. There on Olivet,
Even where He wept and prayed, and bore the curse
Of all our generations, Christ shall sit,
While through the dusky strait before His Eye
The spirits, in their bodies newly clothed,
Shall defile one by one. O kindly faith!
O beautiful belief! which so could fix
The last and hardly tolerable woe
Of our humanity in that dim vale,
Where mother earth with venturous love might hope
To breathe sweet admonitions to our Lord
Of the pure Flesh which He vouchsafes to wear,
And, with allowed constraint, might so inspire
The Saviour to prevail against the Judge.
Of old Jerusalem, a dark ravine,
Not by the action of the torrent scooped,
But in some throe of earth a fracture rent,
The gloomy vale of Josaphat, a place
Where Christian legend and wild Arab faith
With old tradition, drawn from Hebrew source,
Strangely concur to fix the solemn scene
Of the Last Judgment. There on Olivet,
Even where He wept and prayed, and bore the curse
158
While through the dusky strait before His Eye
The spirits, in their bodies newly clothed,
Shall defile one by one. O kindly faith!
O beautiful belief! which so could fix
The last and hardly tolerable woe
Of our humanity in that dim vale,
Where mother earth with venturous love might hope
To breathe sweet admonitions to our Lord
Of the pure Flesh which He vouchsafes to wear,
And, with allowed constraint, might so inspire
The Saviour to prevail against the Judge.
And still more touching fitness will appear
In this tradition, if we bear in mind
That on the selfsame mount the Master sat,
While Judas bargained with the wicked priests,
On the fourth evening of the Holy Week,
With Four selected from His chosen Twelve;
And spake of Sion's fall in words that seemed
To overshoot their end, and covertly
The shadow with the substance to confuse,
Till the Last Judgment rose in His discourse,
With awful plainness; then did He once more
The kind relieving veil of figure throw
Over the aspect of figure throw
And of the Virgins spake who went to buy
Oil for their lamps at midnight—ah! too late—
And of the Talents left with Jew and Greek
By Him, who with ascending travel sought
With His true Flesh the far-off land of Heaven,
Present as God,—and of the Corporal Works
Of Mercy done by those who shall discern
Through faith their Lord vouchsafing to the End
To suffer and be needy in the Poor.
Haply, with these localities around,
If there we must confront the searching Day,
The reminiscence of the Passion might,
Even in the awful business of that Pomp,
Stir on the infinite Abyss of Love,
As the soft breaths which flutter o'er the sea
Rivet the azure calm more sweetly there.
In this tradition, if we bear in mind
That on the selfsame mount the Master sat,
While Judas bargained with the wicked priests,
On the fourth evening of the Holy Week,
With Four selected from His chosen Twelve;
And spake of Sion's fall in words that seemed
To overshoot their end, and covertly
The shadow with the substance to confuse,
Till the Last Judgment rose in His discourse,
With awful plainness; then did He once more
The kind relieving veil of figure throw
Over the aspect of figure throw
And of the Virgins spake who went to buy
Oil for their lamps at midnight—ah! too late—
And of the Talents left with Jew and Greek
By Him, who with ascending travel sought
With His true Flesh the far-off land of Heaven,
Present as God,—and of the Corporal Works
Of Mercy done by those who shall discern
Through faith their Lord vouchsafing to the End
To suffer and be needy in the Poor.
159
If there we must confront the searching Day,
The reminiscence of the Passion might,
Even in the awful business of that Pomp,
Stir on the infinite Abyss of Love,
As the soft breaths which flutter o'er the sea
Rivet the azure calm more sweetly there.
The fissure of Black Combe, wherein the Knight
Had built his little hermitage, appeared
In its rude details strangely similar
To that prophetic vale of Josaphat.
There nightly from his window would he lean
And look into the chasm wherein the moon
Troubled the darkness, but dispelled it not:
And by the hour his trembling soul would face
The Vision of the Judgment, till serene,
Yet not without alarm which faith as oft
Controlled, he could contemplate that array,
Pictured as to his memory it might be
In that most gloomy gorge by Sion's wall.
Had built his little hermitage, appeared
In its rude details strangely similar
To that prophetic vale of Josaphat.
There nightly from his window would he lean
And look into the chasm wherein the moon
Troubled the darkness, but dispelled it not:
And by the hour his trembling soul would face
The Vision of the Judgment, till serene,
Yet not without alarm which faith as oft
Controlled, he could contemplate that array,
Pictured as to his memory it might be
In that most gloomy gorge by Sion's wall.
So had he gazed full often from his tent,
Pitched on the dusty slope of Olivet
Over against the tombs of Judah's kings;
Where through the darkness the sepulchral stones
Floated, white ghastly motes, in glimmering light;
And the slant moonbeams thrown into the glen,
Just faintly silvering o'er some crisp-leaved dome
Of mastic, vainly strove to penetrate
The murky bosom of the deep ravine;
And the gaunt olive-roots, which forced aside
The fretted head-stones, seemed like crawling beasts,
In hideous volume coiled upon the earth,
Feeding by moonlight on the lately dead;
While the dim vale was fathomed by the eye
Through aid of one broad hoary seam which ran,
Most like a throbbing vein of tremulous light,
Along the raven gloom,—the channel dry
Of yellow Cedron, trickling underground.
Pitched on the dusty slope of Olivet
Over against the tombs of Judah's kings;
Where through the darkness the sepulchral stones
Floated, white ghastly motes, in glimmering light;
And the slant moonbeams thrown into the glen,
Just faintly silvering o'er some crisp-leaved dome
Of mastic, vainly strove to penetrate
The murky bosom of the deep ravine;
And the gaunt olive-roots, which forced aside
The fretted head-stones, seemed like crawling beasts,
In hideous volume coiled upon the earth,
Feeding by moonlight on the lately dead;
While the dim vale was fathomed by the eye
160
Most like a throbbing vein of tremulous light,
Along the raven gloom,—the channel dry
Of yellow Cedron, trickling underground.
Thus while the sea by day could harmonize
His thoughts, to tranquil meditation given
Upon eternal things, the cleft by night
Exhibited that grave Solemnity,
Mutely delineated on the spot,
The very thought of which can purify
The thronged imagination, and rebuke
The sin which to its presence may intrude.
Thus life, the past, was wholly put away,
And thrust behind the more engrossing thoughts
That drew him forward to the misty breadth
Of prospect, which the near approach of death
And the grave's portals, on their silent hinge
Half turned already to the prescient eye,
Disclose unto the Christian soul, informed
With some faint knowledge of the secret things
And region of vast truths, which lies beyond
And in its measure may be travelled now;—
Travelled with escort of unworldly thoughts,
Through rites with an adoring faith performed,
And by the clue from ancient days consigned
In Creeds, recited not without some stir,
Felt in high Heaven where Angels offer up
The choral liturgies of Mother Church,
And simple cottage prayers no less, complete
With the rich incense of His Merits, who
Travelled erewhile in three short solar days
The passages beyond the gates of death,
And doubtless left such mystic footprints there
As shall transcend the office of a sun,
Where neither sun nor moon are free to shine,
To be by us discovered as we go
Inevitable voyagers that way.
His thoughts, to tranquil meditation given
Upon eternal things, the cleft by night
Exhibited that grave Solemnity,
Mutely delineated on the spot,
The very thought of which can purify
The thronged imagination, and rebuke
The sin which to its presence may intrude.
Thus life, the past, was wholly put away,
And thrust behind the more engrossing thoughts
That drew him forward to the misty breadth
Of prospect, which the near approach of death
And the grave's portals, on their silent hinge
Half turned already to the prescient eye,
Disclose unto the Christian soul, informed
With some faint knowledge of the secret things
And region of vast truths, which lies beyond
And in its measure may be travelled now;—
Travelled with escort of unworldly thoughts,
Through rites with an adoring faith performed,
And by the clue from ancient days consigned
In Creeds, recited not without some stir,
Felt in high Heaven where Angels offer up
The choral liturgies of Mother Church,
And simple cottage prayers no less, complete
With the rich incense of His Merits, who
Travelled erewhile in three short solar days
The passages beyond the gates of death,
And doubtless left such mystic footprints there
As shall transcend the office of a sun,
161
To be by us discovered as we go
Inevitable voyagers that way.
And finally, as if to close the scene
Of that harmonious discipline, wherewith
The Seaside Mountain and its neighbourhood
Had furthered, and, as best it could, filled up
The education of his soul, there came
A vision of symbolical intent,
And yet a simple pomp of natural sights,
To him accorded in the open fields.
Of that harmonious discipline, wherewith
The Seaside Mountain and its neighbourhood
Had furthered, and, as best it could, filled up
The education of his soul, there came
A vision of symbolical intent,
And yet a simple pomp of natural sights,
To him accorded in the open fields.
North of the bay of Ravenglass the shore,
A champaign hitherto, begins to swell
Into blythe slopes of cultivated land.
There in a spacious field he sat, where kine,
Spotting the grass in social couples, grazed,
While he beneath a stunted oak, which leaned
To give the sea-breeze passage o'er its crown,
Stooping to save its boughs, a shelter found.
The day was one of almost breathless heat,
With unrefreshing rain-showers interspersed,
And fogs from off the sultry ocean lay
Upon the hills and plain, that seemed to shake
In the white haze-fires dancing o'er the scene
In spiral columns, while upon the west
There hung a cloud of dusky violet hue
With the live lightnings tremulously edged.
Yet was the body of the mighty cloud
Soft as a cygnet's plumage, whence there came
Low thunders, fired like distant minute-guns
Below the horizon and far-off at sea.
Then on the heated plain, which intervenes
Between the mountains and the deep, there passed
A singular mirage, pompously and slow.
With an uneasy heaving there appeared
A river huge, with glossy waters filled;
Far off it stretched into the woods, and bore
Reflected on its face the silent trees
With exquisite fidelity, and then
To a vast lake expanded, and consumed
The solid plain and laved the mountain's base.
Forthwith the mighty ridge, parting like ships
That swing upon their anchors, opened out
Into bright straits whereby the shining lake
Made islands of the summits that were left.
And in the midst, seated upon the breast
Of the clear waters, as the travellers tell
Of Mexico, a city now uprose,
Built of a dull red stone, with tower and spire
And battlemented gate, and most of all
Innumerous windmills fanning the warm air.
A champaign hitherto, begins to swell
Into blythe slopes of cultivated land.
There in a spacious field he sat, where kine,
Spotting the grass in social couples, grazed,
While he beneath a stunted oak, which leaned
To give the sea-breeze passage o'er its crown,
Stooping to save its boughs, a shelter found.
The day was one of almost breathless heat,
With unrefreshing rain-showers interspersed,
And fogs from off the sultry ocean lay
Upon the hills and plain, that seemed to shake
In the white haze-fires dancing o'er the scene
In spiral columns, while upon the west
There hung a cloud of dusky violet hue
With the live lightnings tremulously edged.
Yet was the body of the mighty cloud
Soft as a cygnet's plumage, whence there came
Low thunders, fired like distant minute-guns
Below the horizon and far-off at sea.
Then on the heated plain, which intervenes
Between the mountains and the deep, there passed
A singular mirage, pompously and slow.
162
A river huge, with glossy waters filled;
Far off it stretched into the woods, and bore
Reflected on its face the silent trees
With exquisite fidelity, and then
To a vast lake expanded, and consumed
The solid plain and laved the mountain's base.
Forthwith the mighty ridge, parting like ships
That swing upon their anchors, opened out
Into bright straits whereby the shining lake
Made islands of the summits that were left.
And in the midst, seated upon the breast
Of the clear waters, as the travellers tell
Of Mexico, a city now uprose,
Built of a dull red stone, with tower and spire
And battlemented gate, and most of all
Innumerous windmills fanning the warm air.
Then with the impulse of a whispering breeze—
By such a fragile tenure do we hold
All beautiful appearances on earth—
The pageant rocked, and into pieces fell,
Ruin grotesque! and stately visions shrank
Till they were recognized for objects tame,
From the broad landscape singled by the mist
For such transfiguration.
By such a fragile tenure do we hold
All beautiful appearances on earth—
The pageant rocked, and into pieces fell,
Ruin grotesque! and stately visions shrank
Till they were recognized for objects tame,
From the broad landscape singled by the mist
For such transfiguration.
Thus am I,
With patience never weary of the fraud,
Daily deluded by three cones of rock
Bearing aerial domes of vocal pine,
At blue Winander's head, and from my hill
The vivid silver of the lake beyond
Dazzles the sight, and cleaves the triple rocks
To separate islands, which upon the mere
Swim indistinctly and in motion seem,
Even as the Euganean hills descried
Floating like pyramids of misty blue,
By one who from his gondola at noon
Hard by the Lido looks across the sea.
With patience never weary of the fraud,
Daily deluded by three cones of rock
Bearing aerial domes of vocal pine,
At blue Winander's head, and from my hill
The vivid silver of the lake beyond
Dazzles the sight, and cleaves the triple rocks
To separate islands, which upon the mere
Swim indistinctly and in motion seem,
163
Floating like pyramids of misty blue,
By one who from his gondola at noon
Hard by the Lido looks across the sea.
But now unto the meditative Knight,
The apparition pondering, it appeared
No less than a mute prophecy of death,
On nature's part a visible shadowing forth
Of that transfiguring of earthly things
Caused by the light upon a death-bed streamed
From out eternity. Sweet type it was
Of that most beautiful apparel, veils
Clearing not hiding, which in time to come
The sacred knowledge of a future state
Shall over all the naked memories throw
Of this our mortal life, so ill discerned
In its most proper loveliness by us
Blindfold through our transgressions, and so led
By angel guides about the Promised Land,
Dwelling therein although we know it not,
Feeling the grapes of Escol, hearing sounds
As of the blessèd Jordan flowing by,
But all as dark blind men, bewildered rather
Than by great truths, so dimly taught, informed.
The apparition pondering, it appeared
No less than a mute prophecy of death,
On nature's part a visible shadowing forth
Of that transfiguring of earthly things
Caused by the light upon a death-bed streamed
From out eternity. Sweet type it was
Of that most beautiful apparel, veils
Clearing not hiding, which in time to come
The sacred knowledge of a future state
Shall over all the naked memories throw
Of this our mortal life, so ill discerned
In its most proper loveliness by us
Blindfold through our transgressions, and so led
By angel guides about the Promised Land,
Dwelling therein although we know it not,
Feeling the grapes of Escol, hearing sounds
As of the blessèd Jordan flowing by,
But all as dark blind men, bewildered rather
Than by great truths, so dimly taught, informed.
Such was the nurture which Sir Lancelot drew
From his imprisoning and secluded Vale
And the free Mountain-top, while Loneliness
Held him, an unweaned infant, at her breast.
From his imprisoning and secluded Vale
And the free Mountain-top, while Loneliness
Held him, an unweaned infant, at her breast.
Tyrant, and Tempter, Mother and Nurse austere,
Fulfilling manifold functions to us men,
How shall I name thee, mighty Solitude?
Person or Thing, a Presence, Place, or Life,
Invisible Life environing our souls?
Silent or Sounding? vacant, bare, and waste,
Or populous with motley, turbid shapes?
I know not if I love or loathe thy touch;
And while I daily grow thine intimate,
The more I converse with thy power, the less
Can I discern thy nature, but detect
Thy changeful Aspects ever multiplied,
Charms that repel and horrors that allure;
So that to gaze upon thy desert fields
Quickens such perilous impulses within,
As might most apt yet faintest figure find
In the wild fascination which disturbs
The thoughts of one on airy steeple fixed,
Or leaning verge of windy precipice,
Only that thou canst tempt us to a fall
Involving worse mishap than mangled limbs,—
Irreparable mischief to the soul!
One while I deem thee a close prudent power
That husbandeth my spirit's inward strength:
Another while thou art a preying fire,
Or fiery, wasteful, intermitting wind
Which dissipates ascetic wealth, acquired
Through difficult ordinance cheerfully performed,
And to my strife-worn temper thou dost prompt
A languid introversion of my thoughts,
Most cruel devastation of the heart.
One while thou art a fierce iconoclast,
And then a builder up, transmuting so
Thine offices that we may well proclaim
One only truth about thee sure and safe,—
That without clear vocation from on high
No Christian man may join his hand in thine,
Save for brief respite from the sinful world,
And only thus when in the vicinage
Of Church, and Priest, and ready Sacraments,
And that deep harbour, the Confessional.
Fulfilling manifold functions to us men,
How shall I name thee, mighty Solitude?
Person or Thing, a Presence, Place, or Life,
Invisible Life environing our souls?
Silent or Sounding? vacant, bare, and waste,
164
I know not if I love or loathe thy touch;
And while I daily grow thine intimate,
The more I converse with thy power, the less
Can I discern thy nature, but detect
Thy changeful Aspects ever multiplied,
Charms that repel and horrors that allure;
So that to gaze upon thy desert fields
Quickens such perilous impulses within,
As might most apt yet faintest figure find
In the wild fascination which disturbs
The thoughts of one on airy steeple fixed,
Or leaning verge of windy precipice,
Only that thou canst tempt us to a fall
Involving worse mishap than mangled limbs,—
Irreparable mischief to the soul!
One while I deem thee a close prudent power
That husbandeth my spirit's inward strength:
Another while thou art a preying fire,
Or fiery, wasteful, intermitting wind
Which dissipates ascetic wealth, acquired
Through difficult ordinance cheerfully performed,
And to my strife-worn temper thou dost prompt
A languid introversion of my thoughts,
Most cruel devastation of the heart.
One while thou art a fierce iconoclast,
And then a builder up, transmuting so
Thine offices that we may well proclaim
One only truth about thee sure and safe,—
That without clear vocation from on high
No Christian man may join his hand in thine,
Save for brief respite from the sinful world,
And only thus when in the vicinage
Of Church, and Priest, and ready Sacraments,
165
Therefore I name thee neither Place, nor Thing,
Nor Presence (for thou canst not be withdrawn)
Nor Person (for it were too bold a word,
A title wholly sacred and divine
When that which bears it is not localized),
But thou art rather a created Life,
A life without a nature of thine own,
A Capability of good or ill,
Thirsty, insatiate, limitless, profound;—
A Living Vase with an indwelling Power
Of dark possession or angelic strength,
Whose keen pervasive thrills find speedy road
Through Conscience, Intellect, and wayward Will,
Not without physical disturbance felt
In Contests, Sins, and Graces mystical.
Nor Presence (for thou canst not be withdrawn)
Nor Person (for it were too bold a word,
A title wholly sacred and divine
When that which bears it is not localized),
But thou art rather a created Life,
A life without a nature of thine own,
A Capability of good or ill,
Thirsty, insatiate, limitless, profound;—
A Living Vase with an indwelling Power
Of dark possession or angelic strength,
Whose keen pervasive thrills find speedy road
Through Conscience, Intellect, and wayward Will,
Not without physical disturbance felt
In Contests, Sins, and Graces mystical.
Thou hast a Voice, an Eye, an Ear, a Hand,
Which have by shrinking men been realized.
Thou hast a Voice—O would that we could fear,
More than we do, all sounds and silent things,
Which breed a wholesome dread of powers unseen!—
Thou hast a Voice, which in the depth of night,
Or in the utter loneliness of noon,
A tingling concourse of innumerous sounds,
Speaks to the conscience as a priest might speak,
Whose words we honour yet will not obey.
An Eye thou hast, which can expression give
To the dumb features of the earth and sky,
Or ordinary chance of daily acts,
Piercing, reproachful, terrible, to those
Who have at heart a secret weight of sin,
Or sinful details lingering unconfessed.
And silent darkness is thine open Ear,
Greedy to drink the secrets of the soul,
And prowling near like some nocturnal spy;
And therein, seeking in its uttered words
Foolish relief, unguarded conscience tells
Sins better trusted to a pitying priest.
A Hand thou hast, which thou canst lay on those
Who in the tumult of the world forget
Duty and Self, their Neighbour and their God,—
A Hand so crushing cheerfulness within,
And overlaying animal spirits so,
That underneath its pressure we may deem
Ourselves already at the Judgment Bar.
O mutable and double-featured Power!
Silent thou art and sounding, both at once:
When thou art still and seemingly inert,
Thou art the Quiver where the demons keep
Their loathsome shafts; and, when all resonant
To man's enlivened conscience, thou canst be
The Trumpet of God's Presence in the Soul!
Which have by shrinking men been realized.
Thou hast a Voice—O would that we could fear,
More than we do, all sounds and silent things,
Which breed a wholesome dread of powers unseen!—
Thou hast a Voice, which in the depth of night,
Or in the utter loneliness of noon,
A tingling concourse of innumerous sounds,
Speaks to the conscience as a priest might speak,
Whose words we honour yet will not obey.
An Eye thou hast, which can expression give
To the dumb features of the earth and sky,
Or ordinary chance of daily acts,
Piercing, reproachful, terrible, to those
Who have at heart a secret weight of sin,
Or sinful details lingering unconfessed.
And silent darkness is thine open Ear,
Greedy to drink the secrets of the soul,
166
And therein, seeking in its uttered words
Foolish relief, unguarded conscience tells
Sins better trusted to a pitying priest.
A Hand thou hast, which thou canst lay on those
Who in the tumult of the world forget
Duty and Self, their Neighbour and their God,—
A Hand so crushing cheerfulness within,
And overlaying animal spirits so,
That underneath its pressure we may deem
Ourselves already at the Judgment Bar.
O mutable and double-featured Power!
Silent thou art and sounding, both at once:
When thou art still and seemingly inert,
Thou art the Quiver where the demons keep
Their loathsome shafts; and, when all resonant
To man's enlivened conscience, thou canst be
The Trumpet of God's Presence in the Soul!
| Sir Lancelot | |