 | Lazarus And other Poems |  |
1
LAZARUS.
I
The sun was setting, and the good ship sailed
Into Massilia's harbour. On her prow,
All golden, glittering in the crimson light,
The Dioscuri shone. A motley crowd
Were mingled on the deck; swarth figures clothed
In strange apparel, from the further East,
Bringing their spice and balm from Lebanon
To tempt our western beauties; Æthiop boys,
Bound for the market, crouching side by side
With blue-eyed Thracians; merchants with their wares,
The wools of famed Miletus, and the dyes
Of Thyatira, noble in their hues,
As is the purple ocean when the sun,
Sinking in glory, flushes all the waves;
The woven goat's hair from Ancyra's loom,
And silver shrines of Artemis, and figs
From Smyrna's hills, and honey from the slopes
Of famed Hymettus, with its scent of thyme;
And strange, rich fruits that glowed in beds of moss,
The Median apple and the Pontic pear,
And rough pomegranate with its gem-like cells.
Jews too were there. the men of alien race
And alien creed, who shrank from Heathen touch,
And ate not with the others, but apart,
From well-filled baskets took their bread and fish,
With solemn words of blessing. They had come,
Dealers in gold and silver, goodly pearls,
And rubies rare, and purple amethysts
From Indian shores, a ransom for a king.
Into Massilia's harbour. On her prow,
All golden, glittering in the crimson light,
The Dioscuri shone. A motley crowd
Were mingled on the deck; swarth figures clothed
In strange apparel, from the further East,
Bringing their spice and balm from Lebanon
To tempt our western beauties; Æthiop boys,
Bound for the market, crouching side by side
With blue-eyed Thracians; merchants with their wares,
The wools of famed Miletus, and the dyes
Of Thyatira, noble in their hues,
As is the purple ocean when the sun,
Sinking in glory, flushes all the waves;
The woven goat's hair from Ancyra's loom,
And silver shrines of Artemis, and figs
From Smyrna's hills, and honey from the slopes
Of famed Hymettus, with its scent of thyme;
2
The Median apple and the Pontic pear,
And rough pomegranate with its gem-like cells.
Jews too were there. the men of alien race
And alien creed, who shrank from Heathen touch,
And ate not with the others, but apart,
From well-filled baskets took their bread and fish,
With solemn words of blessing. They had come,
Dealers in gold and silver, goodly pearls,
And rubies rare, and purple amethysts
From Indian shores, a ransom for a king.
They landed and were scattered: some to friends
Who stood expectant; some to wile the time
In taverns, where the wine-cup circled round,
And song and dance made merry; some to trade
In the full market, where the dealers met.
But one there was, who, silent all the way,
Had companied with none; who, silent now
And lonely, waited on the quay, and found
No friends to welcome. No adventurer he,
With cunning wares; no wanderer roaming far
To see the cities, note the lives of men;
But fixed and strong in mood, as one who seeks
The longed-for goal, and slacks not till he finds.
Some eight-and-twenty summers he had seen,
And still the brow was smooth and eye undimmed,
As in youth's brightest prime; but all the glee,
The mirth, the sunshine of the golden dawn
Had vanished, and a twilight grey had come
Before its time. No curling locks flowed down,
Fragrant with spikenard, over silky vest;
No jewelled fingers played with golden chain;
But plain and rough he stood, as is the sage
Who calls the Porch his master; russet serge
Was all his raiment, and his hair, cut close
To noble brow, revealed the noble eye
That looked with eager glance on things and men,
And turned through all the mists from earth to Heaven.
Leaving that crowd, and threading on his way
Through street and lane, he passed unheeding by
The halls of senates and the shrines of gods,
And onward journeyed to the suburb poor
And dark and squalid, where Massilian Jews
Were fain to dwell. And coming there, he asked
For one named Eleazar. For a while
He found him not: they had not heard the name;
No Jew so called had traded in their mart,
Or worshipped in their synagogue. At last
Some traces met his search. In dreary huts,
Where hunger ever haunted, they could tell
Of bread that came from him, of angel words
From lips of sisters who, in constant love,
Had shared his home and helped him in his age:
And now they both were gone, and he was left.
Who stood expectant; some to wile the time
In taverns, where the wine-cup circled round,
And song and dance made merry; some to trade
In the full market, where the dealers met.
But one there was, who, silent all the way,
Had companied with none; who, silent now
And lonely, waited on the quay, and found
No friends to welcome. No adventurer he,
With cunning wares; no wanderer roaming far
To see the cities, note the lives of men;
But fixed and strong in mood, as one who seeks
The longed-for goal, and slacks not till he finds.
Some eight-and-twenty summers he had seen,
And still the brow was smooth and eye undimmed,
As in youth's brightest prime; but all the glee,
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Had vanished, and a twilight grey had come
Before its time. No curling locks flowed down,
Fragrant with spikenard, over silky vest;
No jewelled fingers played with golden chain;
But plain and rough he stood, as is the sage
Who calls the Porch his master; russet serge
Was all his raiment, and his hair, cut close
To noble brow, revealed the noble eye
That looked with eager glance on things and men,
And turned through all the mists from earth to Heaven.
Leaving that crowd, and threading on his way
Through street and lane, he passed unheeding by
The halls of senates and the shrines of gods,
And onward journeyed to the suburb poor
And dark and squalid, where Massilian Jews
Were fain to dwell. And coming there, he asked
For one named Eleazar. For a while
He found him not: they had not heard the name;
No Jew so called had traded in their mart,
Or worshipped in their synagogue. At last
Some traces met his search. In dreary huts,
Where hunger ever haunted, they could tell
Of bread that came from him, of angel words
From lips of sisters who, in constant love,
Had shared his home and helped him in his age:
And now they both were gone, and he was left.
4
So guided, the young stranger from the coasts
Of distant Asia found the mean abode
Of him he sought for. Knocking at the gate,
A low voice bade him enter, and he found,
Stretched on his couch, with snow-white hair and beard,
Calm with the calm of sunset, the old man
Whom he had sought so long, and heard his voice
As startled by the lifting of the latch:
“Who comes,” he asked, “at this unwonted hour
To break the usual stillness of my life?
What dost thou here, O stranger? Youth draws back
From age's death-bed. I have nought to give:
No heaped-up riches will reward the toil
That waits for dead men's treasures. Go thy way,
And leave me to myself; or tell thy tale
In fewest words, that I may rest again.”
So speaking, turning weary eyes, he looked
(As the one lamp shot forth its flickering gleam)
At the old book that lay beneath his hands,
At the rough cross that stood beside his couch,
At the white skull that spake to him of death.
Of distant Asia found the mean abode
Of him he sought for. Knocking at the gate,
A low voice bade him enter, and he found,
Stretched on his couch, with snow-white hair and beard,
Calm with the calm of sunset, the old man
Whom he had sought so long, and heard his voice
As startled by the lifting of the latch:
“Who comes,” he asked, “at this unwonted hour
To break the usual stillness of my life?
What dost thou here, O stranger? Youth draws back
From age's death-bed. I have nought to give:
No heaped-up riches will reward the toil
That waits for dead men's treasures. Go thy way,
And leave me to myself; or tell thy tale
In fewest words, that I may rest again.”
So speaking, turning weary eyes, he looked
(As the one lamp shot forth its flickering gleam)
At the old book that lay beneath his hands,
At the rough cross that stood beside his couch,
At the white skull that spake to him of death.
But he, the stranger, meekly made reply.
“Nay, father, blame me not. I have not come
Through greed of gain, or aimless, poor caprice,
To break upon thy silence. I was told
By one I honour, one, of whom I think
Thou know'st the name, to seek thee in thine age.
Jochanan, once of green Bethsaida's hills,
Now elder of the Church of Ephesus,
He sends thee greeting, bids thee welcome me;
Reminds thee of the former days, of youth
Rescued from evil, of thy Lord's great love,
And adding message strange (when I in grief
And bitterness of heart was seeking help),
Bade thee to list my tale with open ears,
And, having heard it all, to tell me thine.”
“Nay, father, blame me not. I have not come
Through greed of gain, or aimless, poor caprice,
To break upon thy silence. I was told
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Thou know'st the name, to seek thee in thine age.
Jochanan, once of green Bethsaida's hills,
Now elder of the Church of Ephesus,
He sends thee greeting, bids thee welcome me;
Reminds thee of the former days, of youth
Rescued from evil, of thy Lord's great love,
And adding message strange (when I in grief
And bitterness of heart was seeking help),
Bade thee to list my tale with open ears,
And, having heard it all, to tell me thine.”
“That name, my son,” the old man answered then,
“Recalls a vanished past. From distant years
Old faces throng around me, and the stream,
Long frozen into stillness, melts again,
And sweeps me on its current. Many a month
Has passed since last I heard it. Then they told
How he, with reverent fondness, lingered still,
As truest son to holiest mother vowed,
With her whose sorrow was like none on earth,
Till she too slept in peace, and then went forth
To bear his witness, and through many a clime
Pressed onward, till at last on Asia's shores
He landed, where the young Timotheos strove,
Unequal, with the dangers of the time,
And there abode. Since then no news has come,
And I would fain inquire how fares he now,
How meets he there the peril and the toil,
The life so strange to one whose earlier age
In quiet passed on fair Tiberias' lake,
Or Galilean hills, and now, when eld
Has come, dwells there in lordly Ephesus,
A prophet to the nations. I would know
If still that fiery temper flashes forth
Which marked him Son of Thunder, eagle eyes
Now filled with wrath, and now in ecstasy
Of silent love uplifted to the Throne;
Or have perchance the gathering shadows brought
To him, as unto me, the calm of eve,
Fair presage of the sweeter sleep of death?”
“Recalls a vanished past. From distant years
Old faces throng around me, and the stream,
Long frozen into stillness, melts again,
And sweeps me on its current. Many a month
Has passed since last I heard it. Then they told
How he, with reverent fondness, lingered still,
As truest son to holiest mother vowed,
With her whose sorrow was like none on earth,
Till she too slept in peace, and then went forth
To bear his witness, and through many a clime
Pressed onward, till at last on Asia's shores
He landed, where the young Timotheos strove,
Unequal, with the dangers of the time,
And there abode. Since then no news has come,
6
How meets he there the peril and the toil,
The life so strange to one whose earlier age
In quiet passed on fair Tiberias' lake,
Or Galilean hills, and now, when eld
Has come, dwells there in lordly Ephesus,
A prophet to the nations. I would know
If still that fiery temper flashes forth
Which marked him Son of Thunder, eagle eyes
Now filled with wrath, and now in ecstasy
Of silent love uplifted to the Throne;
Or have perchance the gathering shadows brought
To him, as unto me, the calm of eve,
Fair presage of the sweeter sleep of death?”
“What he is now,” the stranger answered then,
“My tale itself will show. In letters plain,
As in an open scroll, is written there
The man's whole being, all the pitying love,
And all the fiery wrath, and all the zeal
For God's unchanging truth. But I forget:
I linger on the threshold, and the way
Is long and weary, and the time is short.
My childhood grew in Smyrna. Happy years,
Blameless and pure, the orient dawn of life,
Passed on in silence. Mine the thrice-blest lot
To call a Christian, father, and to learn
My earliest lessons from a mother's lips
Who shared his faith and hope. And so I grew,
Not as the heathen youth, who reckless mock
The gods they worship, and with speech impure
Defile their widening thoughts, but blameless, clean
From spot of sensual taint. My voice was heard,
Clear, full, and strong to raise the lofty chant,
Or read the records of the saints of God,
Or tell the tale, that never waxes old,
The great good news of all the works of Christ.
So bright the morn, so dark and foul my sin,
Falling, as soon as I fell. The day drew near
When, trained to all the answers which the soul
With clearest conscience makes before its God,
I came to be baptised. The cleansing stream,
Bright as the river of the fount of life,
Flowed by me clear and calm. They plunged me in,
And I rose up new-born. With garments white
They clothed me, and awhile I lived as one
Who would not stain those garments by his sin,
Lest he, the teacher-priest with hoary hair,
Should sorrow o'er my fall. In earlier days,
When yet a youth, I caught his watchful eye:
My clear Hosanna drew his listening ear:
And, as of old his Master bade them bring
The little children, and with yearning love
Received them in His arms, so now thy friend,
With solemn words of blessing, laid his hands
Upon my waving hair, and gave me o'er
To Polycarp, the shepherd of our flock;
‘As one who, going on a journey, leaves
His choicest treasure to his chosen friend,
So leave I now with thee this fair young soul,
More precious than all noblest pearls of price,
For thee to watch and cherish. Take good heed
Thou fail not to restore with usury.’
“My tale itself will show. In letters plain,
As in an open scroll, is written there
The man's whole being, all the pitying love,
And all the fiery wrath, and all the zeal
For God's unchanging truth. But I forget:
I linger on the threshold, and the way
Is long and weary, and the time is short.
My childhood grew in Smyrna. Happy years,
Blameless and pure, the orient dawn of life,
Passed on in silence. Mine the thrice-blest lot
To call a Christian, father, and to learn
My earliest lessons from a mother's lips
7
Not as the heathen youth, who reckless mock
The gods they worship, and with speech impure
Defile their widening thoughts, but blameless, clean
From spot of sensual taint. My voice was heard,
Clear, full, and strong to raise the lofty chant,
Or read the records of the saints of God,
Or tell the tale, that never waxes old,
The great good news of all the works of Christ.
So bright the morn, so dark and foul my sin,
Falling, as soon as I fell. The day drew near
When, trained to all the answers which the soul
With clearest conscience makes before its God,
I came to be baptised. The cleansing stream,
Bright as the river of the fount of life,
Flowed by me clear and calm. They plunged me in,
And I rose up new-born. With garments white
They clothed me, and awhile I lived as one
Who would not stain those garments by his sin,
Lest he, the teacher-priest with hoary hair,
Should sorrow o'er my fall. In earlier days,
When yet a youth, I caught his watchful eye:
My clear Hosanna drew his listening ear:
And, as of old his Master bade them bring
The little children, and with yearning love
Received them in His arms, so now thy friend,
With solemn words of blessing, laid his hands
8
To Polycarp, the shepherd of our flock;
‘As one who, going on a journey, leaves
His choicest treasure to his chosen friend,
So leave I now with thee this fair young soul,
More precious than all noblest pearls of price,
For thee to watch and cherish. Take good heed
Thou fail not to restore with usury.’
“So parted he, and that good bishop strove
To keep his trust. He taught me, prayed with me,
And, as I told, went with me to the stream,
And brought me out of darkness into light.
But, ah! too soon the shadows gathered thick;
I wearied of that calm restraint of life,
And craved for joy, and fame, and high emprise,
And fellowship with others of mine age.
They gathered round me, and their life flowed on,
In one full stream of mirth, and song, and glee;
They drew me to their banquets; rich and bright
The red wine sparkled in the golden cups,
And wreaths of roses scented all the air,
And Tyrian couches wooed voluptuous rest;
And songs like those which once Anacreon sang
Woke echoes in the air; and dark-eyed girls
Wove the gay dance, and kindled young desire.
I listened, looked, and yielded. Bright and fresh
That life appeared. I shared those joyous feasts,
And bound myself to join, for weal or woe,
The band whose labours bore such goodly fruit:
Nor did I shrink when time stripped off the veil
That hid the inner foulness, and disclosed
A den of robbers. On each hand that seized
My hand with brother's grasp were stains of blood;
Those golden cups were torn from dying men;
Those fair young girls lured victims to their doom:
And yet I drew not back. I sought to quench
The pain of guilt by ever new desires,
The restless venture and the lawless love;
And, strong and bold as is the unbroken steed,
I gloried in my shame, and, sinning once,
Sinned on exulting, chief, supreme in guilt.
To keep his trust. He taught me, prayed with me,
And, as I told, went with me to the stream,
And brought me out of darkness into light.
But, ah! too soon the shadows gathered thick;
I wearied of that calm restraint of life,
And craved for joy, and fame, and high emprise,
And fellowship with others of mine age.
They gathered round me, and their life flowed on,
In one full stream of mirth, and song, and glee;
They drew me to their banquets; rich and bright
The red wine sparkled in the golden cups,
And wreaths of roses scented all the air,
And Tyrian couches wooed voluptuous rest;
And songs like those which once Anacreon sang
Woke echoes in the air; and dark-eyed girls
Wove the gay dance, and kindled young desire.
I listened, looked, and yielded. Bright and fresh
That life appeared. I shared those joyous feasts,
9
The band whose labours bore such goodly fruit:
Nor did I shrink when time stripped off the veil
That hid the inner foulness, and disclosed
A den of robbers. On each hand that seized
My hand with brother's grasp were stains of blood;
Those golden cups were torn from dying men;
Those fair young girls lured victims to their doom:
And yet I drew not back. I sought to quench
The pain of guilt by ever new desires,
The restless venture and the lawless love;
And, strong and bold as is the unbroken steed,
I gloried in my shame, and, sinning once,
Sinned on exulting, chief, supreme in guilt.
“So lived I: and the madness of the time
Had well-nigh blotted out the thoughts of youth,
The holy forms, and faces calm and pale
Which once had been familiar, when it chanced
That two, who owned me captain of their band,
Brought in a prisoner. Old he was, and weak;
And yet he trembled not, nor offered gold
As ransom; nor on bended knees begged life;
But, like a traveller who has reached his goal,
Like shepherd who has found his wandering sheep,
Cried out, exulting, ‘Onward! lead me on!
I seek your master: to this end am come
Five long days' journey; lead me on to him.’
They led him in: and lo! I knew at once
The great Apostle; saw the self-same face,
Transfigured with the glory of his love,
And heard the deep, full tones that once, of old,
Had spoken words of blessing. Flushed with shame,
I would have turned and fled; but he pressed on,
Forgetting age's weakness, and with cries
Eager and broken into sobs, pursued.
‘My child; mine own! why fleest thou from me,
Thy father? Old I am, and all unarmed
To do thee hurt. Oh! fear me not, my son,
But rather pity. Yet is hope of life;
I, I will make thy peace with Christ, my Lord;
I will endure thy scourging, die thy death,
And as the Lord did give His life for us,
Will offer mine for thee. Oh, stay! Oh, turn!
Believe me, Christ hath sent me.’
Had well-nigh blotted out the thoughts of youth,
The holy forms, and faces calm and pale
Which once had been familiar, when it chanced
That two, who owned me captain of their band,
Brought in a prisoner. Old he was, and weak;
And yet he trembled not, nor offered gold
As ransom; nor on bended knees begged life;
But, like a traveller who has reached his goal,
Like shepherd who has found his wandering sheep,
Cried out, exulting, ‘Onward! lead me on!
I seek your master: to this end am come
Five long days' journey; lead me on to him.’
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The great Apostle; saw the self-same face,
Transfigured with the glory of his love,
And heard the deep, full tones that once, of old,
Had spoken words of blessing. Flushed with shame,
I would have turned and fled; but he pressed on,
Forgetting age's weakness, and with cries
Eager and broken into sobs, pursued.
‘My child; mine own! why fleest thou from me,
Thy father? Old I am, and all unarmed
To do thee hurt. Oh! fear me not, my son,
But rather pity. Yet is hope of life;
I, I will make thy peace with Christ, my Lord;
I will endure thy scourging, die thy death,
And as the Lord did give His life for us,
Will offer mine for thee. Oh, stay! Oh, turn!
Believe me, Christ hath sent me.’
“So I stood,
With eyes bent low, and, casting down my spear,
In sudden tremor shook in every limb,
And, falling at his feet, I wept for shame,
Weeping for joy as well. The evil taint
That poisoned all my life was healed; I stood
Once more renewed, baptised again with tears.
With eyes bent low, and, casting down my spear,
In sudden tremor shook in every limb,
And, falling at his feet, I wept for shame,
Weeping for joy as well. The evil taint
That poisoned all my life was healed; I stood
Once more renewed, baptised again with tears.
“The change had come. The better life went on:
But still I wavered: visions of the past
Still vexed the brain; the snake still slept within:
And ever and anon its venom ran,
Stirring the pulses of the old desire,
Benumbing holier purpose. Then the gloom
Of hopeless sadness seized me. Awful words,
‘Too late!’ ‘In vain!’ were written on my life;
And then in my distress I turned to him,
My father and my guide, and sought for help:—
‘Give me some spell to bid these visions flee;
Some charm to raise me from this blank despair.
These hands hang down, and on the upward path
These feeble knees wax weary. Is there none
Whose feet have travelled on the self-same track,
Who knows the deep recesses of our life,
The hidden things of darkness, and can give
The secret of his conquest? Thou, O saint!
The loved one of thy Lord, from earliest youth
Spotless and pure, hast never known my fall,
Nor sinned as I have sinned. With all thy love,
Thou canst not gauge my weakness; and I shrink
From vexing thee with all my tales of woe,
The haunting echoes of the sin-stained past.’
But still I wavered: visions of the past
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And ever and anon its venom ran,
Stirring the pulses of the old desire,
Benumbing holier purpose. Then the gloom
Of hopeless sadness seized me. Awful words,
‘Too late!’ ‘In vain!’ were written on my life;
And then in my distress I turned to him,
My father and my guide, and sought for help:—
‘Give me some spell to bid these visions flee;
Some charm to raise me from this blank despair.
These hands hang down, and on the upward path
These feeble knees wax weary. Is there none
Whose feet have travelled on the self-same track,
Who knows the deep recesses of our life,
The hidden things of darkness, and can give
The secret of his conquest? Thou, O saint!
The loved one of thy Lord, from earliest youth
Spotless and pure, hast never known my fall,
Nor sinned as I have sinned. With all thy love,
Thou canst not gauge my weakness; and I shrink
From vexing thee with all my tales of woe,
The haunting echoes of the sin-stained past.’
“And thus he gave his answer. ‘Know, my son,
Thy help comes not from man. No brother's arm
Can stay thee in that conflict. Yet there lives
One who knows more than others,—one whose eyes
Have looked behind the veil, and, learning there
The mysteries of death, have seen his life
Far other than he deemed. And he, perchance,
May give thee what thou seekest. He, at last
Victorious in a strife where once he failed,
May tell the secret of his late success.
But thou must journey far: on distant shores,
Where ships bound westward bring our Asian wares
Into Massilia's harbour, dwells the man
Of whom I tell thee. Once there lived with him
Two sisters, pure and saintly, serving God,
One most in action, one in thought and prayer;
But if they live I know not. He, I trust,
Is not yet gone. Long since he pledged his word,
Whene'er he heard the summons to depart,
To send me tidings. Then my lips may tell
The wondrous tale which now the silence veils:
Till then those lips are sealed, and thou must hear
The story from himself. God speed thy way,
And when thou reachest far Massilia's port,
Go, ask for Eleazar (or, perchance,
They call him Lazarus there), and say from me,
His friend Jochanan greets him, and for love
Of his dear Lord beseeches him to hear
Thy tale, and, having heard, to tell thee his.’”
Thy help comes not from man. No brother's arm
Can stay thee in that conflict. Yet there lives
One who knows more than others,—one whose eyes
Have looked behind the veil, and, learning there
12
Far other than he deemed. And he, perchance,
May give thee what thou seekest. He, at last
Victorious in a strife where once he failed,
May tell the secret of his late success.
But thou must journey far: on distant shores,
Where ships bound westward bring our Asian wares
Into Massilia's harbour, dwells the man
Of whom I tell thee. Once there lived with him
Two sisters, pure and saintly, serving God,
One most in action, one in thought and prayer;
But if they live I know not. He, I trust,
Is not yet gone. Long since he pledged his word,
Whene'er he heard the summons to depart,
To send me tidings. Then my lips may tell
The wondrous tale which now the silence veils:
Till then those lips are sealed, and thou must hear
The story from himself. God speed thy way,
And when thou reachest far Massilia's port,
Go, ask for Eleazar (or, perchance,
They call him Lazarus there), and say from me,
His friend Jochanan greets him, and for love
Of his dear Lord beseeches him to hear
Thy tale, and, having heard, to tell thee his.’”
Then answered Eleazar. “Mine is not
The wisdom that thou seekest; yet, may-be,
From this poor, faltering tongue our God shall send
His oracle of peace. Know first, our paths
Are not the same. My guilt was not as thine;
I never knew the danger or the joy
Of that wild robber-life. My days were spent
In blameless peace and study of our law,
And frequent prayers; and all our Rabbis taught,
Who sat in Moses' seat, I learnt and did.
Of all the youth in great Jerusalem
My fame stood fairest, and the honoured seats,
Nearest the ark, in every synagogue
Were offered me of right. And yet I sinned
A seven-fold sin, corroding all the life,
More deadly far than thine, defying cure,
But for the mercy, wide and wonderful,
Of God our Father.
The wisdom that thou seekest; yet, may-be,
From this poor, faltering tongue our God shall send
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Are not the same. My guilt was not as thine;
I never knew the danger or the joy
Of that wild robber-life. My days were spent
In blameless peace and study of our law,
And frequent prayers; and all our Rabbis taught,
Who sat in Moses' seat, I learnt and did.
Of all the youth in great Jerusalem
My fame stood fairest, and the honoured seats,
Nearest the ark, in every synagogue
Were offered me of right. And yet I sinned
A seven-fold sin, corroding all the life,
More deadly far than thine, defying cure,
But for the mercy, wide and wonderful,
Of God our Father.
How my earlier years
Were taught, I told thee. In that morn of life
My father died, and I was left of three
The youngest, yet the heir. The stored-up wealth
Of many years; rich robes of gorgeous hue,
And gems that sparkled, set in Ophir's gold,
And coins of many lands, and bonds that pledged
The borrower to the highest rate of use,
And wide-spread fields, and vineyards planted thick
With choicest vine, and barns that still o'erflowed
With corn, heaped up against a time of dearth
To sell at famine prices;—this was mine:
And those who honoured most my virtues, bowed
Yet more before my wealth.
Were taught, I told thee. In that morn of life
My father died, and I was left of three
The youngest, yet the heir. The stored-up wealth
Of many years; rich robes of gorgeous hue,
And gems that sparkled, set in Ophir's gold,
And coins of many lands, and bonds that pledged
The borrower to the highest rate of use,
And wide-spread fields, and vineyards planted thick
With choicest vine, and barns that still o'erflowed
With corn, heaped up against a time of dearth
To sell at famine prices;—this was mine:
14
Yet more before my wealth.
Yet One there was
Who bowed to neither: One whose life rebuked
Our selfish quiet. A Rabbi, like the rest,
He came among us; taught in synagogues,
And reasoned in the Temple; yet our Scribes
Disowned Him; for His youth had grown in shade,
Away from all the schools where seven long years
The sons of Hillel or of Shammai toil
Through law, tradition, comment, till at last
The Master of the Wise, with solemn state,
The key of knowledge placing in their hands,
Admits them to their office. He had learnt
His wisdom elsewhere, startling all men's minds
With mighty words, as one who, clothed with power,
Came as a prophet. And the words were strange,
And stranger yet the life. Not clad as they
In stately robes that swept the ground they trod,
With golden ring, and ivory staff, and shoes
Of costliest texture; but in sackcloth coarse,
The raiment of the poorest, and the thongs
Of leathern sandals tied across His feet,
So stood He in our presence.
Who bowed to neither: One whose life rebuked
Our selfish quiet. A Rabbi, like the rest,
He came among us; taught in synagogues,
And reasoned in the Temple; yet our Scribes
Disowned Him; for His youth had grown in shade,
Away from all the schools where seven long years
The sons of Hillel or of Shammai toil
Through law, tradition, comment, till at last
The Master of the Wise, with solemn state,
The key of knowledge placing in their hands,
Admits them to their office. He had learnt
His wisdom elsewhere, startling all men's minds
With mighty words, as one who, clothed with power,
Came as a prophet. And the words were strange,
And stranger yet the life. Not clad as they
In stately robes that swept the ground they trod,
With golden ring, and ivory staff, and shoes
Of costliest texture; but in sackcloth coarse,
The raiment of the poorest, and the thongs
Of leathern sandals tied across His feet,
So stood He in our presence.
And the themes
Were startling that He spake of. I have heard
Our wisest teachers talk in full debate,
And fill our Sanhedrim with floods of speech,
Hot, vehement, and angry; arguing still,
If men, who vowed their substance to the Lord,
Might feed their father's or their mother's age,
Or in their zeal must leave them both to starve;
Or whether on the holy Sabbath morn
The fisherman who set his nets o'ernight,
Might leave them while he rested; or, if storm
Should fall upon his flock, the shepherd's feet
Might without blame go forth upon the hills
To seek the wandering sheep. All this I heard
Day after day debated: but the man
Of whom I speak came preaching other things
Than this,—God's kingdom for the pure and meek;
Peace, love, forgiveness, to the contrite heart;
The blessings of the poor, the snares and woes
Which wealth and praise and honour bring to men.
We listened and we smiled. ‘The peasant's son
Speaks as a peasant; grudges us the pay
And honour of our calling; fain would rise
Upon our downfall.’ So they spake: and I,
In my thick darkness thought and spake as they.
Were startling that He spake of. I have heard
Our wisest teachers talk in full debate,
And fill our Sanhedrim with floods of speech,
15
If men, who vowed their substance to the Lord,
Might feed their father's or their mother's age,
Or in their zeal must leave them both to starve;
Or whether on the holy Sabbath morn
The fisherman who set his nets o'ernight,
Might leave them while he rested; or, if storm
Should fall upon his flock, the shepherd's feet
Might without blame go forth upon the hills
To seek the wandering sheep. All this I heard
Day after day debated: but the man
Of whom I speak came preaching other things
Than this,—God's kingdom for the pure and meek;
Peace, love, forgiveness, to the contrite heart;
The blessings of the poor, the snares and woes
Which wealth and praise and honour bring to men.
We listened and we smiled. ‘The peasant's son
Speaks as a peasant; grudges us the pay
And honour of our calling; fain would rise
Upon our downfall.’ So they spake: and I,
In my thick darkness thought and spake as they.
“But soon within the circle of my home
That Teacher came. I was not there that day:
But Martha to our home invited Him,
As women love to welcome honoured guests,
The Rabbis and the Scribes who wend their way
From school to school; and there with active zeal
She spread the board with dainties; bade our slaves
Be quick and active, kill the fatted calf,
And gather figs and grapes, and pour the wine
Of Eshcol, spiced with balm of Lebanon.
But Miriam, younger, gentler, sat and gazed
At that strange presence, and her heart was drawn
To listen to His speech; and he spake on,
Discoursing of the Kingdom, and the Love
Embracing all, and Faith that wins the crown,
And leaving all for God. And she sat there,
Still listening, while her sister laboured on,
Vexed, wroth, and weary; and at last, with words
Of murmur, spake her grievance: ‘Care'st thou not,
O Sir! that I through all the noon-tide heat
Am slaving for Thy sake; while she sits there,
Calm and at ease, beneath the sheltering vine,
And dreams and listens?’ But the Lord replied:
‘Ah! Martha, Martha! vexed with many things,
Troubled and worn art thou. But one alone
Is needful; and that one good part is hers
Who hears from me the words of endless life.’
That Teacher came. I was not there that day:
But Martha to our home invited Him,
As women love to welcome honoured guests,
The Rabbis and the Scribes who wend their way
From school to school; and there with active zeal
16
Be quick and active, kill the fatted calf,
And gather figs and grapes, and pour the wine
Of Eshcol, spiced with balm of Lebanon.
But Miriam, younger, gentler, sat and gazed
At that strange presence, and her heart was drawn
To listen to His speech; and he spake on,
Discoursing of the Kingdom, and the Love
Embracing all, and Faith that wins the crown,
And leaving all for God. And she sat there,
Still listening, while her sister laboured on,
Vexed, wroth, and weary; and at last, with words
Of murmur, spake her grievance: ‘Care'st thou not,
O Sir! that I through all the noon-tide heat
Am slaving for Thy sake; while she sits there,
Calm and at ease, beneath the sheltering vine,
And dreams and listens?’ But the Lord replied:
‘Ah! Martha, Martha! vexed with many things,
Troubled and worn art thou. But one alone
Is needful; and that one good part is hers
Who hears from me the words of endless life.’
“I heard the tale, returning to my home:
But still it changed me not. Some haunting doubts
Rose up unbidden; but I crushed them down,
Half mocking at myself and half at Him,
As vexed by mystic dreams which stronger souls
Pass by unheeding.
But still it changed me not. Some haunting doubts
Rose up unbidden; but I crushed them down,
Half mocking at myself and half at Him,
As vexed by mystic dreams which stronger souls
Pass by unheeding.
17
“So it chanced, one day,
We stood and listened with the meaning smile
And whispered taunt, as men who watch the words
Of some wild zealot, when he speaks again,
Still harping on the thoughts that eat his soul,
The threadbare topics of his thrice-told tale.
When, lo! He told a tale we had not heard:
And as He told it, with His eye full fixed
On me, He spake my name. I turned, and gazed
In wonder, for it was not thus His wont
With names to deck His stories. Stranger still,
He told of one unnamed, whose life, like mine,
Was rich in all the joys that wealth can give,
Fine linen, purple, sumptuous feasts and wine:
And he, when life was over, passed at once
Into the outer darkness and the flames
That burn in Hades; while for him who bore
My name there oped the gates of Paradise,
And angels bore him to his blissful home.
But note the wonder of that mystic tale:
The Lazarus who lay on Abraham's breast,
The Lazarus whom angels bore on high,
On earth lay crouching at the rich man's gate,
A beggar full of sores. I felt the sting
Of that concealed rebuke. ‘Is this,’ I asked,
‘The crown of true obedience? Must I die,
I, Eleazar, honoured, blameless, rich,
And pass to torments? If I seek to gain
The fair, green fields of Eden, must I live
As Eleazar, homeless, friendless, poor,
The dogs my only comforters?’ And then,
What meant that strange conclusion: ‘If the law
Avail not, nor the prophets, who will hear,
Though one returning from the dead should speak?
Had we not listened to the law of God,
Who read it day and night? What need had we
Of new persuasion? If the thing might be,
That rising from the dead, what more could come
Than what we knew already? Every bound
Of Heaven and Hell our scribes had mapped and planned,
As men mark out the region of their home,
Assigning that to these, their friends, themselves,
And this to heathens, or Samaria's sons,
Or hated rivals.’
We stood and listened with the meaning smile
And whispered taunt, as men who watch the words
Of some wild zealot, when he speaks again,
Still harping on the thoughts that eat his soul,
The threadbare topics of his thrice-told tale.
When, lo! He told a tale we had not heard:
And as He told it, with His eye full fixed
On me, He spake my name. I turned, and gazed
In wonder, for it was not thus His wont
With names to deck His stories. Stranger still,
He told of one unnamed, whose life, like mine,
Was rich in all the joys that wealth can give,
Fine linen, purple, sumptuous feasts and wine:
And he, when life was over, passed at once
Into the outer darkness and the flames
That burn in Hades; while for him who bore
My name there oped the gates of Paradise,
And angels bore him to his blissful home.
But note the wonder of that mystic tale:
The Lazarus who lay on Abraham's breast,
The Lazarus whom angels bore on high,
On earth lay crouching at the rich man's gate,
A beggar full of sores. I felt the sting
Of that concealed rebuke. ‘Is this,’ I asked,
‘The crown of true obedience? Must I die,
I, Eleazar, honoured, blameless, rich,
And pass to torments? If I seek to gain
18
As Eleazar, homeless, friendless, poor,
The dogs my only comforters?’ And then,
What meant that strange conclusion: ‘If the law
Avail not, nor the prophets, who will hear,
Though one returning from the dead should speak?
Had we not listened to the law of God,
Who read it day and night? What need had we
Of new persuasion? If the thing might be,
That rising from the dead, what more could come
Than what we knew already? Every bound
Of Heaven and Hell our scribes had mapped and planned,
As men mark out the region of their home,
Assigning that to these, their friends, themselves,
And this to heathens, or Samaria's sons,
Or hated rivals.’
“So I reasoned still,
And turned away in anger. But the dream
Pursued me; night and day it filled my soul;
The speechless terrors banished all my rest;
I panted after peace. And so I came
Once more to hear, not now with curling lip,
And brow uplifted, but with eager step,
Low bending down, (I, Lazarus, the rich,
The ruler, bowing at His feet who came
From Nazareth, the carpenter!) I sought
With words of studied honour, on my knees,
To gain the peace I needed. ‘What good thing,
O thou good teacher, wilt Thou bid me do,
That I may call the Life Eternal mine?’
I asked in earnest, but it pleased Him not,
That ready homage. ‘Why speakest thou of good?
Why comes that word so lightly from thy lips,
When none is good but God? If true thy search
For Life Eternal, keep His holy Laws,
The few great words which in thine earliest years
Thy mother taught thee.’ Then, as one who gives
A child his lesson, one by one He spake
The precepts which our Jewish boys repeat,
As of the Second Table. I, amazed,
Looked still for something more. Had I for this
Come, fighting down my pride, to climb the heights
Of truth and wisdom, willing to accept
New rules of fasting, or new forms of prayer,
Or with the Nazarite's vow to cleanse my way?
And now the Teacher sent me back to school,
To take my place there on its lowest form,
With boys of ten? So, not without a touch
Of anger and reproof, I answer made,
‘All these are common and familiar things,
And I have kept them from my earliest youth.
What lack I yet to make my life complete?’
Then, with a smile half-sad, as one who sees
In some high-minded, noble boy the germs
Of future evil, so He looked on me
With wistful pity. And he kissed my brow,
As Rabbis do with scholars whom they love,
And with a subtle tone of something more
Than met the ear, went on. ‘Ah! this is well;
But yet thou lackest one thing. Sell thy goods,
Give to the poor, and, taking up thy cross,
Follow thou me, and thou. be sure, shalt have
Treasure in Heaven.’
And turned away in anger. But the dream
Pursued me; night and day it filled my soul;
The speechless terrors banished all my rest;
I panted after peace. And so I came
Once more to hear, not now with curling lip,
And brow uplifted, but with eager step,
Low bending down, (I, Lazarus, the rich,
The ruler, bowing at His feet who came
From Nazareth, the carpenter!) I sought
With words of studied honour, on my knees,
19
O thou good teacher, wilt Thou bid me do,
That I may call the Life Eternal mine?’
I asked in earnest, but it pleased Him not,
That ready homage. ‘Why speakest thou of good?
Why comes that word so lightly from thy lips,
When none is good but God? If true thy search
For Life Eternal, keep His holy Laws,
The few great words which in thine earliest years
Thy mother taught thee.’ Then, as one who gives
A child his lesson, one by one He spake
The precepts which our Jewish boys repeat,
As of the Second Table. I, amazed,
Looked still for something more. Had I for this
Come, fighting down my pride, to climb the heights
Of truth and wisdom, willing to accept
New rules of fasting, or new forms of prayer,
Or with the Nazarite's vow to cleanse my way?
And now the Teacher sent me back to school,
To take my place there on its lowest form,
With boys of ten? So, not without a touch
Of anger and reproof, I answer made,
‘All these are common and familiar things,
And I have kept them from my earliest youth.
What lack I yet to make my life complete?’
Then, with a smile half-sad, as one who sees
In some high-minded, noble boy the germs
Of future evil, so He looked on me
20
As Rabbis do with scholars whom they love,
And with a subtle tone of something more
Than met the ear, went on. ‘Ah! this is well;
But yet thou lackest one thing. Sell thy goods,
Give to the poor, and, taking up thy cross,
Follow thou me, and thou. be sure, shalt have
Treasure in Heaven.’
“I heard, dismayed and sad,
The words that came like lightning o'er my soul,
And blasted all my hopes. To give up all,
The silver, and the garments, and the lands,
And be as those who by the Temple-gates
Sit asking alms;—would nothing less suffice,
No copious tithes of corn, and wine, and oil,
Extending to the cummin and the mint;
No bounteous offerings to the Corban chest,
So large that men should spread with trumpet voice
My praises through the land? I never dreamt
Of such a work as this; and yet beyond
That depth His words disclosed a lower deep.
Not poverty alone, but shame and woe;
To bear my cross, as I have sometimes seen
The sad procession pass our city's gates,
Each rebel-robber bearing on his back
The beam on which to hang. Is this the King,
The Son of David, the expected Christ,
Who comes to give us freedom? Am I called
To follow Him in that?
The words that came like lightning o'er my soul,
And blasted all my hopes. To give up all,
The silver, and the garments, and the lands,
And be as those who by the Temple-gates
Sit asking alms;—would nothing less suffice,
No copious tithes of corn, and wine, and oil,
Extending to the cummin and the mint;
No bounteous offerings to the Corban chest,
So large that men should spread with trumpet voice
My praises through the land? I never dreamt
Of such a work as this; and yet beyond
That depth His words disclosed a lower deep.
Not poverty alone, but shame and woe;
To bear my cross, as I have sometimes seen
The sad procession pass our city's gates,
Each rebel-robber bearing on his back
The beam on which to hang. Is this the King,
The Son of David, the expected Christ,
21
To follow Him in that?
“I turned aside
With brow o'erclouded, and with downcast eyes
That told of inward conflict, half-impelled
To yield to Him whose words had thrilled my soul,
Half-shrinking from the sacrifice He claimed.
Slowly I turned, and as I went my way,
I heard that clear, calm voice in saddest tones,
‘How hardly shall the rich man find out God,
And enter into Heaven!’ And then a sound
Of murmured questions, and, at last, once more,
The same low sweetness, as of one who prays,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God;’
And then I heard no more.
With brow o'erclouded, and with downcast eyes
That told of inward conflict, half-impelled
To yield to Him whose words had thrilled my soul,
Half-shrinking from the sacrifice He claimed.
Slowly I turned, and as I went my way,
I heard that clear, calm voice in saddest tones,
‘How hardly shall the rich man find out God,
And enter into Heaven!’ And then a sound
Of murmured questions, and, at last, once more,
The same low sweetness, as of one who prays,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God;’
And then I heard no more.
“Ere many days
A fever laid me low: through all my veins
Rushed the hot blood that filled with spectral forms
The darkness round me. What availed it then
To count the coin, the garments, and the bonds?
Those golden wine-cups would not quench my thirst;
Those gems showed hideous on my purpled skin;
The spikenard ointment served no more for feasts,
Breathing its odorous breath: they kept it back
For that last use when o'er the senseless dead,
All stiff and cold, they pour the rich perfume.
So sharp the fever that it smote me down,
Left me no power to think, or will, or pray,
One painful stupor till its course was run;
And round me came the mourners, wailing loud,
(The best were hired in all Jerusalem,
As suited to my rank) and raised their cries,
‘Ah me! my brother, who will comfort now
Thy sisters and thy friends? Ah me! Ah me!
The God of Abraham takes thee to thy place
In Abraham's bosom,’ and with claspèd hands,
Beating their breasts, they went on, hour by hour,
‘Alas! Ah me! Who now will be our joy?
Our eyes' desire is taken at a stroke.’
And then the Rabbis gathered, some who came
Because they loved me, some in pride of state,
To show that they too knew me, and they spake
Of all my many virtues: ‘What a life
Cut off before its time! In ten years' space
He might have been, of all our Sanhedrim,
Held most in honour!’—Then, with 'bated breath,
‘But after all, what is, perchance, is best.
He had his weakness, half-inclined to own
That half-mad Nazarene. Those sisters there
Have made no secret of it. Rumour tells
They had Him to their house. Well, let us hope
This warning blow may bring them back to us.’
So spake they, but they knew not all the while
I heard them in Gehenna. In mine ears
Their praise was hateful, and that ‘half-inclined’
Came floating to me as the knell of doom,
The witness of my guilt. But ‘half-inclined!’
Oh! had that ‘half’ been whole I had not been
In that thick darkness, wailing bitterly.
How long I lay I knew not, for the lost
Count not their time by days, and months, and years,
But one long, dreary, everlasting Now
Is ever with them. Every thought of sin
Becomes a drear abyss of boundless woe,
And every act, a moment's sudden heat,
Expands into an æon. All my life
Lay spread before me as an open scroll;
The earliest lust, the boyish greed of praise,
The false dissemblance, and the speech unkind,
These came upon me from the abysmal depths
Where Memory's fountains pour their seething floods,
And whelmed me in their torrent. Ah! my son,
If 'twere for this Jochanan sent thee here,
Heed thou my words. The man who once has looked
Behind the veil which severs death from life,
He would not venture, all the world to win,
One single thought against the Eternal Law.
We know not now the power of every soul
To be its own tormentor. Here on earth
We cheat ourselves with comfort. Easy days,
And pleasant feasts, and praise of many friends,
These dull our thoughts. Amid the din of arms,
Or strife of sects, or words of hot debate,
Or painter's art, or skill of poet's speech,
Or sweetest music, we forget our guilt,
And drug our spirits to a death-like sleep:
With loud-toned prayers, and anthems full and clear,
We drown the inward voice: the scribe, self-blind,
Examining his conscience, shuts out God.
But there no shadows come between the soul
And that consuming holiness of God:
There, face to face, we stand before the Light
That lighteth all men, and its glorious rays,
The joy and bliss of all who love the Truth,
Become, for those who hate, the Eternal Fire:
And Memory dwells not there on former years,
As now, with pleasant thoughts of pleasant sins,
But preying on the spirit evermore,
Lives on and on, the worm that dieth not.
A fever laid me low: through all my veins
Rushed the hot blood that filled with spectral forms
The darkness round me. What availed it then
To count the coin, the garments, and the bonds?
Those golden wine-cups would not quench my thirst;
Those gems showed hideous on my purpled skin;
The spikenard ointment served no more for feasts,
Breathing its odorous breath: they kept it back
For that last use when o'er the senseless dead,
All stiff and cold, they pour the rich perfume.
So sharp the fever that it smote me down,
Left me no power to think, or will, or pray,
22
And round me came the mourners, wailing loud,
(The best were hired in all Jerusalem,
As suited to my rank) and raised their cries,
‘Ah me! my brother, who will comfort now
Thy sisters and thy friends? Ah me! Ah me!
The God of Abraham takes thee to thy place
In Abraham's bosom,’ and with claspèd hands,
Beating their breasts, they went on, hour by hour,
‘Alas! Ah me! Who now will be our joy?
Our eyes' desire is taken at a stroke.’
And then the Rabbis gathered, some who came
Because they loved me, some in pride of state,
To show that they too knew me, and they spake
Of all my many virtues: ‘What a life
Cut off before its time! In ten years' space
He might have been, of all our Sanhedrim,
Held most in honour!’—Then, with 'bated breath,
‘But after all, what is, perchance, is best.
He had his weakness, half-inclined to own
That half-mad Nazarene. Those sisters there
Have made no secret of it. Rumour tells
They had Him to their house. Well, let us hope
This warning blow may bring them back to us.’
So spake they, but they knew not all the while
I heard them in Gehenna. In mine ears
Their praise was hateful, and that ‘half-inclined’
Came floating to me as the knell of doom,
23
Oh! had that ‘half’ been whole I had not been
In that thick darkness, wailing bitterly.
How long I lay I knew not, for the lost
Count not their time by days, and months, and years,
But one long, dreary, everlasting Now
Is ever with them. Every thought of sin
Becomes a drear abyss of boundless woe,
And every act, a moment's sudden heat,
Expands into an æon. All my life
Lay spread before me as an open scroll;
The earliest lust, the boyish greed of praise,
The false dissemblance, and the speech unkind,
These came upon me from the abysmal depths
Where Memory's fountains pour their seething floods,
And whelmed me in their torrent. Ah! my son,
If 'twere for this Jochanan sent thee here,
Heed thou my words. The man who once has looked
Behind the veil which severs death from life,
He would not venture, all the world to win,
One single thought against the Eternal Law.
We know not now the power of every soul
To be its own tormentor. Here on earth
We cheat ourselves with comfort. Easy days,
And pleasant feasts, and praise of many friends,
24
Or strife of sects, or words of hot debate,
Or painter's art, or skill of poet's speech,
Or sweetest music, we forget our guilt,
And drug our spirits to a death-like sleep:
With loud-toned prayers, and anthems full and clear,
We drown the inward voice: the scribe, self-blind,
Examining his conscience, shuts out God.
But there no shadows come between the soul
And that consuming holiness of God:
There, face to face, we stand before the Light
That lighteth all men, and its glorious rays,
The joy and bliss of all who love the Truth,
Become, for those who hate, the Eternal Fire:
And Memory dwells not there on former years,
As now, with pleasant thoughts of pleasant sins,
But preying on the spirit evermore,
Lives on and on, the worm that dieth not.
“So was I, hopeless in my utter woe,
When, breaking through the silence of the grave,
Through all the darkness of that drear abyss,
The same clear voice cried, ‘Lazarus, come forth;
And once again I woke, as from a dream,
Looked out once more upon the world of life,
And swathed in grave-clothes, head and hands and feet,
Stood there all wondering, looking out on Him
Whose word had called me. Still His cheeks were wet
With tears of love, of tenderness, of grief;
The sounds of prayer still trembled on the lips;
The eyes were bright, as when the angels look
With joy from Heaven on one repentant soul.
And then I saw it all, the love, the power,
The wisdom, that had guided all the past.
In that strange story which had roused my fears
No Lazarus came to tell the secret things
That lie behind the veil, but now on earth
There stood a Lazarus who had looked on death,
And lived to bear his witness.
When, breaking through the silence of the grave,
Through all the darkness of that drear abyss,
The same clear voice cried, ‘Lazarus, come forth;
And once again I woke, as from a dream,
Looked out once more upon the world of life,
And swathed in grave-clothes, head and hands and feet,
Stood there all wondering, looking out on Him
25
With tears of love, of tenderness, of grief;
The sounds of prayer still trembled on the lips;
The eyes were bright, as when the angels look
With joy from Heaven on one repentant soul.
And then I saw it all, the love, the power,
The wisdom, that had guided all the past.
In that strange story which had roused my fears
No Lazarus came to tell the secret things
That lie behind the veil, but now on earth
There stood a Lazarus who had looked on death,
And lived to bear his witness.
“Need I tell,
My son, the further story of my life?
The change was wrought. I stayed no longer now;
But bore at once the Cross. They sought my life;
I lived each day as still expecting death;
And gave up all I had, and fed the poor
In one great feast, to which the Master came,
With all His followers. Martha showed her love,
Still active, eager, but by love made free
From all her many cares, and Miriam now,
Her joy and gladness rushing into act,
Brought forth her precious ointment, costly store,
That might have paid a labourer all his wage
Throughout the circling year, and poured it out
Upon the Lord's dear feet. I spake not then;
Upon my lips the seal of silence lay,
And still the fear of death was on my soul.
‘Is Hades conquered?’ I had asked when first
I looked on light anew, ‘or must I die
The common death of all men?’ Could I smile,
Hearing I stood, death's terrors still in sight,
As men may smile who have not crossed the stream?
Not so, but thought and vigil, prayer and fast,
These filled the hours, and evermore I sought
To know how He who saved me lived His life,
Not with the crowd, or teaching in the streets,
Or breaking bread with friends, but when alone
He with His Father communed secretly.
And one clear moonlight night I followed Him
To that calm garden of Gethsemane,
Where oft He made resort. All now was gone,
My land, my gold, my robes; I kept back nought
But the few weeds I wore, and still I stored,
As precious relic of a priceless boon,
The winding-sheet of linen, white and clean,
In which they wrapt me. At the midnight hour,
Casting that sheet around me, I stole on,
From Bethany and over Olivet,
And neared the garden. As the moonlight shone,
I saw the three, the foremost of the Twelve,
Weary and spent with toil, stretched out in sleep,
As men too tired to watch, too weak to pray.
But He was there, the pale face paler seen,
As on it fell the moonbeams, and the sweat
Dropt down from brow and face in agony;
And as I nearer drew, I heard the cry
(Strange echo of the words once heard before),
‘With Thee, O Father, all is possible.’
And then, as yielding up His will to God's,
He left it all to that Almighty Love
To give or to refuse.
My son, the further story of my life?
The change was wrought. I stayed no longer now;
But bore at once the Cross. They sought my life;
I lived each day as still expecting death;
And gave up all I had, and fed the poor
In one great feast, to which the Master came,
With all His followers. Martha showed her love,
Still active, eager, but by love made free
From all her many cares, and Miriam now,
Her joy and gladness rushing into act,
Brought forth her precious ointment, costly store,
That might have paid a labourer all his wage
Throughout the circling year, and poured it out
Upon the Lord's dear feet. I spake not then;
26
And still the fear of death was on my soul.
‘Is Hades conquered?’ I had asked when first
I looked on light anew, ‘or must I die
The common death of all men?’ Could I smile,
Hearing I stood, death's terrors still in sight,
As men may smile who have not crossed the stream?
Not so, but thought and vigil, prayer and fast,
These filled the hours, and evermore I sought
To know how He who saved me lived His life,
Not with the crowd, or teaching in the streets,
Or breaking bread with friends, but when alone
He with His Father communed secretly.
And one clear moonlight night I followed Him
To that calm garden of Gethsemane,
Where oft He made resort. All now was gone,
My land, my gold, my robes; I kept back nought
But the few weeds I wore, and still I stored,
As precious relic of a priceless boon,
The winding-sheet of linen, white and clean,
In which they wrapt me. At the midnight hour,
Casting that sheet around me, I stole on,
From Bethany and over Olivet,
And neared the garden. As the moonlight shone,
I saw the three, the foremost of the Twelve,
Weary and spent with toil, stretched out in sleep,
As men too tired to watch, too weak to pray.
But He was there, the pale face paler seen,
27
Dropt down from brow and face in agony;
And as I nearer drew, I heard the cry
(Strange echo of the words once heard before),
‘With Thee, O Father, all is possible.’
And then, as yielding up His will to God's,
He left it all to that Almighty Love
To give or to refuse.
“What more I saw
I need not tell. Thou know'st it in the tale
Which every Church receives, the shame, the scourge,
The cross, the death, the burial, and the morn
Of that bright Rising. Yet there dwells with me
One moment in my life I may not pass.
As I stood listening, from the Kedron vale
The crowd streamed forth, with torches, clubs, and swords,
And thronging through the garden seized on Him,
And led Him captive. The eight, and then the three,
Alarmed, confused, forsook their Lord and fled.
I followed breathless, but the moonlight's gleam,
Falling on that white robe, betrayed my form;
And, seeing in me one they sought to slay,
They seized me also, caught the linen sheet,
And when I left it in their hands and fled,
And plunged into the darkness, there I knelt
(The cold moon falling on the olive boughs
To which I fled for shelter) naked, poor,
Hunted, alone. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘there is hope;
The world has left me homeless as my Lord;
No single rag of all his former state
Now cleaves to Eleazar.’
I need not tell. Thou know'st it in the tale
Which every Church receives, the shame, the scourge,
The cross, the death, the burial, and the morn
Of that bright Rising. Yet there dwells with me
One moment in my life I may not pass.
As I stood listening, from the Kedron vale
The crowd streamed forth, with torches, clubs, and swords,
And thronging through the garden seized on Him,
And led Him captive. The eight, and then the three,
Alarmed, confused, forsook their Lord and fled.
I followed breathless, but the moonlight's gleam,
Falling on that white robe, betrayed my form;
And, seeing in me one they sought to slay,
They seized me also, caught the linen sheet,
And when I left it in their hands and fled,
And plunged into the darkness, there I knelt
(The cold moon falling on the olive boughs
28
Hunted, alone. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘there is hope;
The world has left me homeless as my Lord;
No single rag of all his former state
Now cleaves to Eleazar.’
“Since that hour
Full fifty years have passed; yet still I live
As one who asks for this day's bread alone.
I toil, and am content. Through all the change
Of life I bear my cross, and follow Him:
On distant shores, amid an alien race,
My brethren's foes, I linger out my days.
My sisters did their work, and fell asleep,
And I am left alone; yet not alone,
For Christ, my Lord, is with me. Thou, my son,
Hast seen me how I live; and I have told
The tale Jochanan bade thee ask to hear.
And now the stars are shining, and mine eyes
With age and thought are weary: and lest I,
Like those three sleepers in Gethsemane,
Should fail to watch one hour, I bid thee go.
Watch thou and pray; and if to-morrow's sun
Rise on thy soul with healing on its wings,
Or if there dwells aught yet upon thy soul
Wherein thou seekest counsel, come once more
And open out thine heart; and I will speak,
As Christ has taught me through these circling years,
The secrets of His truth. His peace be thine!”
Full fifty years have passed; yet still I live
As one who asks for this day's bread alone.
I toil, and am content. Through all the change
Of life I bear my cross, and follow Him:
On distant shores, amid an alien race,
My brethren's foes, I linger out my days.
My sisters did their work, and fell asleep,
And I am left alone; yet not alone,
For Christ, my Lord, is with me. Thou, my son,
Hast seen me how I live; and I have told
The tale Jochanan bade thee ask to hear.
And now the stars are shining, and mine eyes
With age and thought are weary: and lest I,
Like those three sleepers in Gethsemane,
Should fail to watch one hour, I bid thee go.
Watch thou and pray; and if to-morrow's sun
Rise on thy soul with healing on its wings,
Or if there dwells aught yet upon thy soul
Wherein thou seekest counsel, come once more
And open out thine heart; and I will speak,
As Christ has taught me through these circling years,
The secrets of His truth. His peace be thine!”
29
So parted they, the old man and the youth:
One turning to his skull, his cross, his book;
One wandering through the strange bewildering town.
And over all the moon poured golden light,
And fair Massilia's waters slumbered calm;
And fairer yet and calmer were the thoughts
That dawned, faint-gleaming, on the wanderer's soul;
But as the moonlight, flecked and dimmed with clouds,
Shone on the waters rippled by the breeze,
So o'er his spirit passed opposing moods,
Now bright with hope, now half perplexed with fear,
Now clear in faith, now clouded o'er in doubt.
One turning to his skull, his cross, his book;
One wandering through the strange bewildering town.
And over all the moon poured golden light,
And fair Massilia's waters slumbered calm;
And fairer yet and calmer were the thoughts
That dawned, faint-gleaming, on the wanderer's soul;
But as the moonlight, flecked and dimmed with clouds,
Shone on the waters rippled by the breeze,
So o'er his spirit passed opposing moods,
Now bright with hope, now half perplexed with fear,
Now clear in faith, now clouded o'er in doubt.
April, 1864.
30
II.
The morning came, and then they met once more,The grey-haired saint, whose second path of life
Was near its end, and he, in youth's full strength,
The wanderer seeking truth, and light, and help.
They both had told their story, and their hearts
Were opened, and as face doth answer face,
So talked they freely, mirroring the thoughts,
Each of the other. And the younger spake,
“Thy words, my father, dwell within my soul,
Like fire that burns and cleanses. For myself
The path is clear, the way that leads to God,
Through tears, and dread, and darkness: evermore
To bear within my heart His perfect Law,
His Word that cleaves the secret depths of life;
To conquer self, renounce the glittering world,
My life being hid with Christ. And, if alone
I stood, or strove, as those who run their race,
To win my prize, regardless of the rest,
31
Massilia's streets, far other thoughts than these
Came thronging on me. From this holy shade
Wherein thou liv'st I passed to Babel's glare,
Mad songs of riot, words of shameless lust,
Foul misery plunging into fouler mire,
Hard-toiling men, their day of labour done,
Sleeping brute-sleep, to whom no vision comes
Of life full-orbed, or God's o'erstretching Love;
And, as I looked and thought, the question grew
Distinct and clear, and would not be denied,
Which never till thy word had changed my life
I dreamt of asking. These poor, wandering sheep,
What have they done that they should pass away
To those dark shadows of the drear abyss?
They do the world's rough work, they delve and toil,
None caring for their souls, and pass away
Without one ray of light that falls on us,
Without one hope that looks beyond the grave.
These harlot-girls who flaunt along the streets
With pencilled brows, and filmy, saffron vests,
And warbled song, and winning, wanton dance;
These boys with gleaming eyes and golden hair,
Their waving locks all wet with odorous nard,
Who, knowing not the baseness, stain their youth;
These Gauls and Thracians, torn from distant shores,
Herding, like brutes, by hundreds in their dens,
32
That throng the marts, the ships, the camps of men,
What future lies before them? Must I think
That one great torrent sweeps them on to Hell,
That they who never heard the name of God,
Nor knew His righteous will, shall first awake
To that clear knowledge in the hopeless fires?
I look around, and here and there I see
One lonely soul who struggles after truth:
But, far and wide, the thousands live and die,
Unknowing of the greatness of their lives;
And when I travel o'er the tracts of space,
Or look behind me on the expanse of time,
The same drear vision meets me. And I ask,
‘Can this be all that Christ has come to win?
Is this the bruising of the serpent's head?
Is this the triumph of the victor's car?
Sees He in this the travail of His soul,
And with it rests content?’ I spake but now
Of men and women who have lived their lives;
But what of all the myriad souls that pass
Their few short hours on earth, and then are gone?
That child of harlot-mother, born in sin
And left to perish;—has God's gift of life
For those few pain-fraught moments brought on it
The woe that runs through all the endless years?
Or if you tell me that His Love is wide,
33
Cleansed by the healing waters, then I ask,
Can all the future age of woe or weal
Turn on that chance which they nor know nor care
To ask for, or refuse? Or if, once more,
You tell me of a Love diviner still,
Embracing all, baptized or infidel,
To whom death comes as infant's gentle sleep,
Then subtle questioning brings the doubt again;
‘If they are safe within the arms of God,
Through all the eternal ages, sure to fail,
If childhood's life pass on to conscious will,
Why should not then a mother's tenderest love,
Stifling her nature's instinct, crush the life
That from her draws its nurture, prizing more
That endless bliss than all the smiles and tears,
The waxen touches and the clinging grasp,
Which joy a mother's heart? If this be true,
Our hearts should leap for joy and give God thanks,
When harlots slay the issue of their shame,
When nations, sunk in darkness, cast their babes
A prey to dogs and vultures, when the plague
Sweeps o'er the earth and lays its thousands low,
Or earth's deep fires burst forth from inward depths,
And pour their boiling torrents, as of late,
On fair Pompeii down Vesevus' slope,
Enshrouding in that tomb of burning dust
The mothers and their children.’ Woe is me!
34
The thoughts that haunt me. In thine eyes, perchance,
They seem too bold. They trespass on the ground
Where men must walk in darkness. But to thee
I open all my heart, for thou hast seen
What others have not. Thou canst meet my doubts,
And tell me of Gehenna; thou must know
The armies of the lost, and of the saved;
And therefore blame me not, if I, in words
All rough and hasty, bring those doubts to thee.”
He ceased; and then the old man looked on him,
Not with uplifted hands, and brow that told
Of holy horror, but with wistful thought,
Admiring, pitying, loving. And he spake:
“Fear not, my son, to tell me all thy soul;
Thy doubt outspoken may perchance pass on
To purer faith. The fault that saps the life
Is doubt half-crushed, half-veiled; the lip-assent
Which finds no echo in the heart of hearts;
The secret lie, which, conscious of its guilt,
Atones for falsehood by intenser zeal.
These questionings of thine, I know them all,
Know too they come but as the signs of life:
Our Rabbis heed them not: they read and pray,
Debating in their synagogues and schools,
Detecting this man's faults, and grudging that
The honour he has earned. They little care
What happens to the crowd. They look with scorn
Upon that crowd, ‘the people of the earth’;
Filling high places at the feasts of men,
They count on higher at the feast of God,
And that suffices. But from thee, my son,
Far be that poor content: speak out thy thought
As Abraham spake it, when he asked of God,
‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’
As Job, when, smarting in his sore distress,
He claimed acquittal. I condemn thee not:
And yet, my son, I cannot grant thy prayer;
I cannot solve the problems of thy soul.
In those few days I passed beyond the veil
I learnt to know myself, to fear and love
The Lord my Maker; but that lore sufficed;
I could not rise to yon supernal height
Whence all the wonder of the world is seen,
And all the ages in their ordered plan.
That secret dawns not on the new-born life;
The mystery of God remains uncleared;
Into these things the angels seek to look,
Yet see not far. Let others dream their dreams,
Map out the world of Hades, mark the lines,
As though they knew the country, I, for one,
Must own I know it not, and if I speak
As one whose eyes are opened, know, the Light
Shines on me from within. No fearful forms
Of spectral horrors float before mine eyes,
But Christ, my Lord, has led me on to truth;
His Spirit quickens all my power to see.
And yet, my son, it may be that thou ask'st
Not wisely of this matter. I have known,
Ere now, that craving. Many eyes have looked
Across the abyss, and many lips have asked,
With varying accents, ‘Are the saved ones few?’
Some seek that knowledge in their pride of heart,
As finding greater glory in the thought
Of crowds beneath them, failing where they win;
And some in selfish fear lest place should fail
For them in heaven; and some, my son, like thee,
In wistful love and pity. But to none
Is the full answer given: and, evermore,
The veil, uplifted for a moment's space,
Falls once again, and hides the rest from view.
So was it once when Christ our Master taught,
And one came eager, asking as thou ask'st,
And answer found: ‘Strive thou to enter in,
For strait the gate and narrow is the way
That lead to life.’ So was it once again,
When Cephas, asking of Jochanan's fate,
Received his answer, ‘What is that to thee?’
He bids us walk by faith and not by sight;
He bids us trust His all-embracing love,
His Father's righteous purpose.
Not with uplifted hands, and brow that told
Of holy horror, but with wistful thought,
Admiring, pitying, loving. And he spake:
“Fear not, my son, to tell me all thy soul;
Thy doubt outspoken may perchance pass on
To purer faith. The fault that saps the life
Is doubt half-crushed, half-veiled; the lip-assent
Which finds no echo in the heart of hearts;
The secret lie, which, conscious of its guilt,
Atones for falsehood by intenser zeal.
These questionings of thine, I know them all,
Know too they come but as the signs of life:
Our Rabbis heed them not: they read and pray,
35
Detecting this man's faults, and grudging that
The honour he has earned. They little care
What happens to the crowd. They look with scorn
Upon that crowd, ‘the people of the earth’;
Filling high places at the feasts of men,
They count on higher at the feast of God,
And that suffices. But from thee, my son,
Far be that poor content: speak out thy thought
As Abraham spake it, when he asked of God,
‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’
As Job, when, smarting in his sore distress,
He claimed acquittal. I condemn thee not:
And yet, my son, I cannot grant thy prayer;
I cannot solve the problems of thy soul.
In those few days I passed beyond the veil
I learnt to know myself, to fear and love
The Lord my Maker; but that lore sufficed;
I could not rise to yon supernal height
Whence all the wonder of the world is seen,
And all the ages in their ordered plan.
That secret dawns not on the new-born life;
The mystery of God remains uncleared;
Into these things the angels seek to look,
Yet see not far. Let others dream their dreams,
Map out the world of Hades, mark the lines,
As though they knew the country, I, for one,
Must own I know it not, and if I speak
36
Shines on me from within. No fearful forms
Of spectral horrors float before mine eyes,
But Christ, my Lord, has led me on to truth;
His Spirit quickens all my power to see.
And yet, my son, it may be that thou ask'st
Not wisely of this matter. I have known,
Ere now, that craving. Many eyes have looked
Across the abyss, and many lips have asked,
With varying accents, ‘Are the saved ones few?’
Some seek that knowledge in their pride of heart,
As finding greater glory in the thought
Of crowds beneath them, failing where they win;
And some in selfish fear lest place should fail
For them in heaven; and some, my son, like thee,
In wistful love and pity. But to none
Is the full answer given: and, evermore,
The veil, uplifted for a moment's space,
Falls once again, and hides the rest from view.
So was it once when Christ our Master taught,
And one came eager, asking as thou ask'st,
And answer found: ‘Strive thou to enter in,
For strait the gate and narrow is the way
That lead to life.’ So was it once again,
When Cephas, asking of Jochanan's fate,
Received his answer, ‘What is that to thee?’
He bids us walk by faith and not by sight;
37
His Father's righteous purpose.
“Yet He taught
Enough to put to shame our narrowing hearts,
And quicken wider hopes. From out the Book,
Where Scribes and Rabbis find abounding proof
That they alone may call the Lord their God,
He read the tokens of a love that streams
On Jew and Gentile, over bad and good,
As shines the sun in heaven. And thence He told
Of outcasts who had sought the light of God,
Of heathens, whom Jehovah owned as His;
The Syrian leper, cleansed in Jordan's flood,
Sarepta's widow, with her cruse of oil,
The men of Nimrod's city, crouching low
In dust and ashes at the prophet's word,
The queen who, coming from the furthest south,
Communed with David's son of all the thoughts,
Deep, wide, and wondrous, that had stirred her heart:
And thus, through all His life He gave us proof,
While working still by self-imposèd law
Within a narrower limit, that His heart
Went forth to all. He shrank not from the touch
Of harlot's hands, or flood of harlot's tears;
He turned not back when that adulterous wife
At Jacob's well spoke with him,—went and dwelt
For two whole days within Samaria's gates;
And when that outcast of a cursed race
Knelt to Him in her woe, and found at first
Reluctance, silence, sternness, yet the change
Came soon; His eye had read her secret soul,
And all she asked He gave. The soldier rough,
Trained in Rome's legions to a life of war,
Was owned by Him as having nobler faith
Than we of Israel. Yea, the words went forth:
‘From east and west, from north and south, shall come
Thousands, and tens of thousands, sitting down
With Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, at the feast
Of God's great kingdom.’ Bolder, stranger still,
He drew two pictures of that last great day:
On one side stood the greatest of our Scribes,
Honoured and trusted, rigorous in their fasts,
Punctual in prayers, paying tithes of all;
And, on the other, those whose names we loathe,
The dwellers of the Cities of the Vale,
The men of Tyre and Sidon, sunk, as they,
In pride, and lust, and baseness. ‘And for these,’
So ran the words, ‘shall be the lighter doom,
The fewer stripes, the easier pain and loss;
For those, the outer darkness, and the wail
Of sharpest woe.’ And then, my son, He told
What oft has given me comfort when dark thoughts
Like those thou speak'st of, haunt and vex my soul,
Words which lift up one corner of the veil,
And show hope's brighter vision; ‘lighter doom’;
So spake He; ‘for had they too seen my works,
And heard my words, in sackcloth and in dust
Long since they had repented.’ Wondrous words!
Which none might speak but He, the Judge of all,
Who reads the inner depths of each man's heart,
And calls the things that are not into life,
Counting as though they were. He sees the gleams
Of better thoughts across the murkiest gloom,
The seeds of good amid the howling wastes,
And perfects them at last; and, in the depths
Of His divine forbearance, suffereth long,
And passeth by transgression. Those who wait
To meet the bridegroom, they must trim their lamps,
And seek the oil from heaven; and those who own
Him Master, and from Him their gifts receive,
Must bring their talents—ten, or five, or one—
With usury to their Lord. But that vast throng,
The multitude of peoples, nations, tongues,
Shall stand before His throne, and every act
Of human kindness He will own as His,
And crown as service rendered unto Him.
Oh! doubt not, then, my son, but fight thy way
In clearer faith against bewildering fears:
Believe that He who in His pitying love
Embraced the children, not of saintly sires,
Or wise, or mighty, but the low-born babes
Of peasant mothers, whom the cleansing flood
Of baptism never reached, and laid His hands,
Mighty to bless, upon their infant heads;
Doubt not that He looks on, embracing still
All new-born souls that taste the breath of life.
That child of harlot-mother, in His sight
Who judges all, is precious as the babe
Which slumbers peaceful in the enfolding arms
Of saintliest matron. Nor do years alone
Determine childhood. Those who live and die,
Children in knowledge, ignorant, and blind,
Children in spirit, simple, kind, and true,
Children in temper, wayward, changeful, weak,
These too He pities, these He seeks to bless;
Their angels stand as highest near the throne.
So evermore His sentence overturns
Our feebler judgment. Outcasts, whom thou spurn'st,
Shall stand before their God arrayed in white,
And sing for joy, the last become the first;
And Rabbis, saints, and teachers, if they hope
For pardon and for peace, must take their place
Low down with shame, the first become the last.
So in the end the eternal Love will shine;
So at the last the mists and clouds will clear:
Till then from out the cloud there comes the voice
Which speaks in trumpet-tones through every land:
‘O house of Israel! O thou church of God!
O parties, sects, disputers! own ye not
Your ways unequal, Mine all just and true?’”
Enough to put to shame our narrowing hearts,
And quicken wider hopes. From out the Book,
Where Scribes and Rabbis find abounding proof
That they alone may call the Lord their God,
He read the tokens of a love that streams
On Jew and Gentile, over bad and good,
As shines the sun in heaven. And thence He told
Of outcasts who had sought the light of God,
Of heathens, whom Jehovah owned as His;
The Syrian leper, cleansed in Jordan's flood,
Sarepta's widow, with her cruse of oil,
The men of Nimrod's city, crouching low
In dust and ashes at the prophet's word,
The queen who, coming from the furthest south,
Communed with David's son of all the thoughts,
Deep, wide, and wondrous, that had stirred her heart:
And thus, through all His life He gave us proof,
While working still by self-imposèd law
Within a narrower limit, that His heart
Went forth to all. He shrank not from the touch
Of harlot's hands, or flood of harlot's tears;
He turned not back when that adulterous wife
At Jacob's well spoke with him,—went and dwelt
For two whole days within Samaria's gates;
38
Knelt to Him in her woe, and found at first
Reluctance, silence, sternness, yet the change
Came soon; His eye had read her secret soul,
And all she asked He gave. The soldier rough,
Trained in Rome's legions to a life of war,
Was owned by Him as having nobler faith
Than we of Israel. Yea, the words went forth:
‘From east and west, from north and south, shall come
Thousands, and tens of thousands, sitting down
With Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, at the feast
Of God's great kingdom.’ Bolder, stranger still,
He drew two pictures of that last great day:
On one side stood the greatest of our Scribes,
Honoured and trusted, rigorous in their fasts,
Punctual in prayers, paying tithes of all;
And, on the other, those whose names we loathe,
The dwellers of the Cities of the Vale,
The men of Tyre and Sidon, sunk, as they,
In pride, and lust, and baseness. ‘And for these,’
So ran the words, ‘shall be the lighter doom,
The fewer stripes, the easier pain and loss;
For those, the outer darkness, and the wail
Of sharpest woe.’ And then, my son, He told
What oft has given me comfort when dark thoughts
Like those thou speak'st of, haunt and vex my soul,
Words which lift up one corner of the veil,
39
So spake He; ‘for had they too seen my works,
And heard my words, in sackcloth and in dust
Long since they had repented.’ Wondrous words!
Which none might speak but He, the Judge of all,
Who reads the inner depths of each man's heart,
And calls the things that are not into life,
Counting as though they were. He sees the gleams
Of better thoughts across the murkiest gloom,
The seeds of good amid the howling wastes,
And perfects them at last; and, in the depths
Of His divine forbearance, suffereth long,
And passeth by transgression. Those who wait
To meet the bridegroom, they must trim their lamps,
And seek the oil from heaven; and those who own
Him Master, and from Him their gifts receive,
Must bring their talents—ten, or five, or one—
With usury to their Lord. But that vast throng,
The multitude of peoples, nations, tongues,
Shall stand before His throne, and every act
Of human kindness He will own as His,
And crown as service rendered unto Him.
Oh! doubt not, then, my son, but fight thy way
In clearer faith against bewildering fears:
Believe that He who in His pitying love
Embraced the children, not of saintly sires,
Or wise, or mighty, but the low-born babes
Of peasant mothers, whom the cleansing flood
40
Mighty to bless, upon their infant heads;
Doubt not that He looks on, embracing still
All new-born souls that taste the breath of life.
That child of harlot-mother, in His sight
Who judges all, is precious as the babe
Which slumbers peaceful in the enfolding arms
Of saintliest matron. Nor do years alone
Determine childhood. Those who live and die,
Children in knowledge, ignorant, and blind,
Children in spirit, simple, kind, and true,
Children in temper, wayward, changeful, weak,
These too He pities, these He seeks to bless;
Their angels stand as highest near the throne.
So evermore His sentence overturns
Our feebler judgment. Outcasts, whom thou spurn'st,
Shall stand before their God arrayed in white,
And sing for joy, the last become the first;
And Rabbis, saints, and teachers, if they hope
For pardon and for peace, must take their place
Low down with shame, the first become the last.
So in the end the eternal Love will shine;
So at the last the mists and clouds will clear:
Till then from out the cloud there comes the voice
Which speaks in trumpet-tones through every land:
‘O house of Israel! O thou church of God!
O parties, sects, disputers! own ye not
Your ways unequal, Mine all just and true?’”
41
Yet once again, half-shamed to speak again,
Pausing as one who, having asked for help,
And gained it, fears, though wanting more, to ask,
The seeker uttered all his deep desire.
Pausing as one who, having asked for help,
And gained it, fears, though wanting more, to ask,
The seeker uttered all his deep desire.
“Thy words give comfort, Father: I can look
With less despair on those poor heathen souls
That throng around me. I can now believe,
As my dear master taught me, that the death
Of Christ our Lord availed for all the world
To purchase peace and pardon. I can feel
One common bond of brotherhood with all:
They too are ransomed, and the Light that shines
On us illumines them. And yet there floats
(Bear with me, Father, if I speak it out)
A vague, dim doubt around me. Deem not, then,
My thoughts too bold or subtle; but there comes
This question, and I cannot find reply:—
‘If this be so, if all alike shall stand
On equal ground before the great white throne,
If heathen outcasts gain eternal life,
By law unwritten, or by deeds of love,
What needs this message of the Cross of Christ?
Why leave we not the heathen as they are,
Sure that they too will reach the goal at last?
Why go our teachers forth from land to land,
Braving all terrors of the shore, or deep,
To call those wandering, shipwrecked souls to God;
When, as it seems, they spend their strength in vain,
And add no jot to all their chance of bliss?’
And yet once more: the souls that stand condemned,
Or by the Word revealed, or Law unwrit,
Yet graven in their hearts, what fate is theirs?
Are they for ever doomed to penal fires?
Does God delight to torture? Can it be
His love abates when sudden stroke of death
Cuts off the soul whom that forbearing Love
Was leading to repentance? Here on earth
The will is plastic: stained with many a crime
It yet can struggle upward, and renew
Its vigour like the eagle's. Dare we say
That freedom ends with death? Has God's decree
For ever fixed the casual mood of soul
Of that last moment? Does His will condemn
To endless sin? Or welcomes He, at last,
When sin no longer reigns, the wandering soul
That wakes through death to life? Oh, glorious thought,
That wraps the future with a golden dawn,
Where old familiar words and new-born hopes
Seem melting into one! ‘The Son of God,
Destroys the works of Sin, the power of Death;’
‘Great was the trespass, greater still the love.’
‘A time shall come when all shall pass away,
All foes o'ercome, and guilt and darkness gone,
And God be all in all, the eternal Love
Prevailing, conquering, binding men to God.
Ah me! my Father; now I dream my dream
Of one broad, mighty, everlasting peace,
The concord of a universe at rest;
And now once more the mists and shadows come
Between my soul and God, and fear shuts out
That full assurèd hope, and sterner words
Come back unbidden, shattering all my joy.
Broad were the lines He traced, the Lord of Love,
The sheep and goats, the lost ones and the saved;
And evermore, when speaking of the doom
Of that great day, He spake of endless woe,
The quenchless fire, the worm that cannot die,
The punishment which with the life must be
Co-equal, co-eternal. And yet,—and yet;
(Oh! pardon thou these wandering thoughts of mine)
New words recur of hope. One only sin,
So spake He, neither in the world that is,
Nor in the world that comes, can ever gain
Forgiveness. Only of the traitor's soul
Were the words spoken, ‘It were good for him
That he had ne'er been born.’ I ask myself,
Might not that doom, if former fears were true,
Be written on the universe of God,
On all the countless myriads that have passed
In darkness to the grave? If thou canst solve
These riddles, O my Father! if thy soul
Has gone beyond the doubts that come and go,
Unfold the secret. One has told, I know,
Of torments lasting their appointed time,
Of fires that, burning, cleanse the sin-stained soul,
Of cycles strange through which our spirits pass,
Tasting new forms of life, or man or brute,
Tested and tried till they too rise to God,
And in the fields Elysian find their rest,
Or lose their separate being, to the All
Returning once again. But these, perchance,
Are but a poet's fancies. Thou canst guide
My tottering feet through these bewildering mists
In which I wander, wavering and perplexed,
Staggering like drunken man in fevered dreams.”
With less despair on those poor heathen souls
That throng around me. I can now believe,
As my dear master taught me, that the death
Of Christ our Lord availed for all the world
To purchase peace and pardon. I can feel
One common bond of brotherhood with all:
They too are ransomed, and the Light that shines
On us illumines them. And yet there floats
(Bear with me, Father, if I speak it out)
A vague, dim doubt around me. Deem not, then,
My thoughts too bold or subtle; but there comes
This question, and I cannot find reply:—
‘If this be so, if all alike shall stand
On equal ground before the great white throne,
If heathen outcasts gain eternal life,
By law unwritten, or by deeds of love,
What needs this message of the Cross of Christ?
Why leave we not the heathen as they are,
Sure that they too will reach the goal at last?
Why go our teachers forth from land to land,
Braving all terrors of the shore, or deep,
To call those wandering, shipwrecked souls to God;
When, as it seems, they spend their strength in vain,
42
And yet once more: the souls that stand condemned,
Or by the Word revealed, or Law unwrit,
Yet graven in their hearts, what fate is theirs?
Are they for ever doomed to penal fires?
Does God delight to torture? Can it be
His love abates when sudden stroke of death
Cuts off the soul whom that forbearing Love
Was leading to repentance? Here on earth
The will is plastic: stained with many a crime
It yet can struggle upward, and renew
Its vigour like the eagle's. Dare we say
That freedom ends with death? Has God's decree
For ever fixed the casual mood of soul
Of that last moment? Does His will condemn
To endless sin? Or welcomes He, at last,
When sin no longer reigns, the wandering soul
That wakes through death to life? Oh, glorious thought,
That wraps the future with a golden dawn,
Where old familiar words and new-born hopes
Seem melting into one! ‘The Son of God,
Destroys the works of Sin, the power of Death;’
‘Great was the trespass, greater still the love.’
‘A time shall come when all shall pass away,
All foes o'ercome, and guilt and darkness gone,
And God be all in all, the eternal Love
43
Ah me! my Father; now I dream my dream
Of one broad, mighty, everlasting peace,
The concord of a universe at rest;
And now once more the mists and shadows come
Between my soul and God, and fear shuts out
That full assurèd hope, and sterner words
Come back unbidden, shattering all my joy.
Broad were the lines He traced, the Lord of Love,
The sheep and goats, the lost ones and the saved;
And evermore, when speaking of the doom
Of that great day, He spake of endless woe,
The quenchless fire, the worm that cannot die,
The punishment which with the life must be
Co-equal, co-eternal. And yet,—and yet;
(Oh! pardon thou these wandering thoughts of mine)
New words recur of hope. One only sin,
So spake He, neither in the world that is,
Nor in the world that comes, can ever gain
Forgiveness. Only of the traitor's soul
Were the words spoken, ‘It were good for him
That he had ne'er been born.’ I ask myself,
Might not that doom, if former fears were true,
Be written on the universe of God,
On all the countless myriads that have passed
In darkness to the grave? If thou canst solve
These riddles, O my Father! if thy soul
44
Unfold the secret. One has told, I know,
Of torments lasting their appointed time,
Of fires that, burning, cleanse the sin-stained soul,
Of cycles strange through which our spirits pass,
Tasting new forms of life, or man or brute,
Tested and tried till they too rise to God,
And in the fields Elysian find their rest,
Or lose their separate being, to the All
Returning once again. But these, perchance,
Are but a poet's fancies. Thou canst guide
My tottering feet through these bewildering mists
In which I wander, wavering and perplexed,
Staggering like drunken man in fevered dreams.”
Then Eleazar spake. “Ah me! my son,
Thy questions come as fast and wild as winds
Of autumn; and they vex thee, as the blasts
Vex the deep waters of a mountain lake.
Here once again I bid thee walk by faith:
Nor I, nor thou, can see the mystery clear.
But wonder not, if thoughts should lead thee on,
Each starting from divinest, wisest words,
To issues which agree not. Evermore
We see the sides of truth, and cannot grasp,
So low we stand, the greatness of the whole.
Thus God elects, yet man is free to choose;
And God, foreseeing evil, lets it be,
Yet evil is not His; and Christ our Lord,
One with the Father in His boundless might,
Is one with us in all that makes us weak;
And God hath shown His Love in sending Christ,
Yet Christ by death hath reconciled to God
The creatures else condemned; and God is One,
Yet evermore we praise the threefold Name,
The Father, and the Spirit, and the Son.
So fares it with all mysteries of God;
Men cannot bring them to the rule and line
Of earthly wisdom, or with subtle art
Build up their systems. Broad, o'erarching all,
They float above us, and with hopes or fears
We watch their changing aspects. And we need
Both hopes and fears: we may not cast aside
One truth that Christ has spoken, may not say
To all the heedless souls that turn from God,
‘Go on, and sin; the end is still the same,
The journey only longer;’—dare not close
The door of hope which Christ Himself throws wide,
Nor lose from sight the many stripes, and few,
The lighter, heavier woes. Our feebler thoughts
Dwell on the outward symbols of the doom,
The worm, the fire, the darkness, and the scourge
But thou, my son, hast learnt the doom itself.
These are but signs and figures of the true,
Shadows of things that are. The enduring pain
Is memory of evil seen at last
As evil, hateful, loathsome. Pleasant sins,
Which here the doer of the wrong recalls
With faint vibrations of the former sense,
There evermore are present to the soul
In all their foulness, and we feel the wrath
Eternal then unveiled. And hence the woe
Is endless: there we cannot drug our souls,
Or blot from sight the ever hateful past,
The feignèd semblance, or the open shame.
We cannot change that past; through all the years
Its woe is with us, shading all the life
In gloom of twilight, or in thickest night
Deepening the blackness. To the souls that sinned
In ignorance of God, His grace may come
In mercy wide and free, revealing Light
To those in darkness, blotting out the guilt
Of sins of wild confusion, leaving still,
Through endless æons, all the inward pain
Which waits on conscious sin. To cancel that
Were to undo the eternal work of God,
And leave them still in blindness. And to dream,
As some have dreamt, of agony of sense,
The burning flame, and thick-ribbed ice in turn,
As having power to purify and cleanse,
As greater terrors than the accusing thoughts,
The voice that speaks in thunder, and the wrath
Eternal of the All-knowing and All-good,
This is to take the shadow for the truth,
And live in outward symbols. Golden throne,
Bright gates of pearl, and walls of amethyst,
The pure clear river, and the mystic tree,—
These are but tokens of the inward bliss,
The vision of our God, to pure hearts given
As life, and peace, and joy. And so the woe,
Which makes the doom of evil, is to see
That face averted. God, whose Name is Love,
Condemns the unloving: so we see in Him
That Light eternal, that consuming Fire;
And still the question meets us as of old,
‘What child of man can face that ceaseless flame,
And dwell with burnings everlastingly?’
And evermore, as once from Prophet's lips,
The strange, bold answer reaches unto us,
‘He who the truth hath spoken, right hath done,
Who, fearing God, has conquered self and sin,
He need not fear the fire.’ It burns and burns,
Consuming what is worthless, cleansing still
The pure, bright gold, the treasure of our God.
Thy questions come as fast and wild as winds
Of autumn; and they vex thee, as the blasts
Vex the deep waters of a mountain lake.
Here once again I bid thee walk by faith:
Nor I, nor thou, can see the mystery clear.
But wonder not, if thoughts should lead thee on,
Each starting from divinest, wisest words,
To issues which agree not. Evermore
We see the sides of truth, and cannot grasp,
So low we stand, the greatness of the whole.
Thus God elects, yet man is free to choose;
And God, foreseeing evil, lets it be,
45
One with the Father in His boundless might,
Is one with us in all that makes us weak;
And God hath shown His Love in sending Christ,
Yet Christ by death hath reconciled to God
The creatures else condemned; and God is One,
Yet evermore we praise the threefold Name,
The Father, and the Spirit, and the Son.
So fares it with all mysteries of God;
Men cannot bring them to the rule and line
Of earthly wisdom, or with subtle art
Build up their systems. Broad, o'erarching all,
They float above us, and with hopes or fears
We watch their changing aspects. And we need
Both hopes and fears: we may not cast aside
One truth that Christ has spoken, may not say
To all the heedless souls that turn from God,
‘Go on, and sin; the end is still the same,
The journey only longer;’—dare not close
The door of hope which Christ Himself throws wide,
Nor lose from sight the many stripes, and few,
The lighter, heavier woes. Our feebler thoughts
Dwell on the outward symbols of the doom,
The worm, the fire, the darkness, and the scourge
But thou, my son, hast learnt the doom itself.
These are but signs and figures of the true,
Shadows of things that are. The enduring pain
46
As evil, hateful, loathsome. Pleasant sins,
Which here the doer of the wrong recalls
With faint vibrations of the former sense,
There evermore are present to the soul
In all their foulness, and we feel the wrath
Eternal then unveiled. And hence the woe
Is endless: there we cannot drug our souls,
Or blot from sight the ever hateful past,
The feignèd semblance, or the open shame.
We cannot change that past; through all the years
Its woe is with us, shading all the life
In gloom of twilight, or in thickest night
Deepening the blackness. To the souls that sinned
In ignorance of God, His grace may come
In mercy wide and free, revealing Light
To those in darkness, blotting out the guilt
Of sins of wild confusion, leaving still,
Through endless æons, all the inward pain
Which waits on conscious sin. To cancel that
Were to undo the eternal work of God,
And leave them still in blindness. And to dream,
As some have dreamt, of agony of sense,
The burning flame, and thick-ribbed ice in turn,
As having power to purify and cleanse,
As greater terrors than the accusing thoughts,
The voice that speaks in thunder, and the wrath
Eternal of the All-knowing and All-good,
47
And live in outward symbols. Golden throne,
Bright gates of pearl, and walls of amethyst,
The pure clear river, and the mystic tree,—
These are but tokens of the inward bliss,
The vision of our God, to pure hearts given
As life, and peace, and joy. And so the woe,
Which makes the doom of evil, is to see
That face averted. God, whose Name is Love,
Condemns the unloving: so we see in Him
That Light eternal, that consuming Fire;
And still the question meets us as of old,
‘What child of man can face that ceaseless flame,
And dwell with burnings everlastingly?’
And evermore, as once from Prophet's lips,
The strange, bold answer reaches unto us,
‘He who the truth hath spoken, right hath done,
Who, fearing God, has conquered self and sin,
He need not fear the fire.’ It burns and burns,
Consuming what is worthless, cleansing still
The pure, bright gold, the treasure of our God.
“And if these thoughts still leave a darkened space
Through which no light can pierce, if awful words
Speak of persistent evil, wills that, fixed
In hate, defiance, scorn, reject the Light,
Increasing through the endless age their woe,
As adding still fresh deeds of deeper guilt,—
Who then am I to question and to judge?
I bow before the judgment, and am dumb;
I cannot tell how evil first began,
Or why through all the mystery of the world
It runs its course, and all creation groans
In bondage, panting, struggling to be free.
I cannot tell if it shall cease to be,
Or when or how, the final victory won,
The conquering Christ shall yield his throne to God;
Or if the conquest shall destroy the works
Of sin and death, or leave them as they are,
His curse upon them. All I know is this,
That God is holy, and that righteous wrath
Must fall for ever on the soul that sins;
That God is Love, and willeth not the death,
Or here, or there, of any soul of man.
And if I see not how, in secret depths,
(The light and darkness melting into one)
The discords of the world are harmonised,
The truths that clash brought once again to peace,
I find my stay in old, familiar words,
The key-note of my life, and all its thoughts,
True of that life through all its wondrous course,
True of the world through all its circling years,
True of the endless ages as they pass,—
Words that rebuke the doubter, bow our pride,
Refresh the mourner, strengthen all our prayers,
The words for thee, my son, when vexing thoughts
Distract thy soul, and fill thy heart with fears;
Make answer thou, with firm unwavering faith,
Against those doubts, as Christ made answer once,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God.’
Through which no light can pierce, if awful words
Speak of persistent evil, wills that, fixed
In hate, defiance, scorn, reject the Light,
Increasing through the endless age their woe,
As adding still fresh deeds of deeper guilt,—
Who then am I to question and to judge?
48
I cannot tell how evil first began,
Or why through all the mystery of the world
It runs its course, and all creation groans
In bondage, panting, struggling to be free.
I cannot tell if it shall cease to be,
Or when or how, the final victory won,
The conquering Christ shall yield his throne to God;
Or if the conquest shall destroy the works
Of sin and death, or leave them as they are,
His curse upon them. All I know is this,
That God is holy, and that righteous wrath
Must fall for ever on the soul that sins;
That God is Love, and willeth not the death,
Or here, or there, of any soul of man.
And if I see not how, in secret depths,
(The light and darkness melting into one)
The discords of the world are harmonised,
The truths that clash brought once again to peace,
I find my stay in old, familiar words,
The key-note of my life, and all its thoughts,
True of that life through all its wondrous course,
True of the world through all its circling years,
True of the endless ages as they pass,—
Words that rebuke the doubter, bow our pride,
Refresh the mourner, strengthen all our prayers,
The words for thee, my son, when vexing thoughts
49
Make answer thou, with firm unwavering faith,
Against those doubts, as Christ made answer once,
‘Impossible with man, but not with God.’
“For thee, at least, the path is clearly traced:
Do thou thy Master's bidding. If He came,
Enduring all the torture and the death,
To speak to all men of His Father's love,
Thou, too, if thou hast learnt to think His thoughts,
Must speak to them of Him. Thou may'st not leave
Those souls to wander in their hopeless night,
Nor make the mercy of thy God a cloak
For coward sloth, nor, rapt in visions high,
Forget the present. If thou see'st the wrong,
Rebuke it; if the many sin and die,
In pity to their souls, hold not thy peace,
But warn them of the Everlasting Fire,
And win them with the Everlasting Love.
And oh! my son, beware lest pride of heart,
Or yearning pity, or thy zeal for God,
Lead thee to change His order. Not in vain,
Taught He at first, by fear of endless woe,
In parable and drama shadowing forth
The doom of evil. Men must learn to hate
The accursèd self that keeps their souls from God;
Must learn to feel the burden of their guilt,
As measured by the woe which God assigns
In that dark prison which the Eternal Love
Hath ordered in its wisdom and its might:
And some may find the lesson hard to learn,
And, knowing not thy thoughts, may miss their way,
If thou should'st leave the simple, open path
Which Christ hath trodden. Teach as He hath taught,
Not halving truths, in haste of jealous strife,
Nor twisting words awry with subtle art,
Not speaking where the voice of Christ was dumb,
Nor silent where He spake. Judge thou thyself,
And leave the greater task to greater power;
Commit thy friends, thy brothers, yea, thy foes,
The myriads, past, and present, and to come,
To Him who sitteth on the Eternal Throne,
The Son of Man, and yet the Lord of All,
The Judge, the Priest, the Saviour, and the Friend.
Thou canst not gauge His drear abyss of wrath,
Thou canst not fathom all His boundless love,
Thou canst not track His footsteps on the deep;
And still if doubt, or grief, or hope, or fear
Perplex thee for the future or the past,
Cling to His cross for shelter, own thy guilt,
Thy shame, thy blindness, and with veilèd face,
Low in the dust, be silent and adore.”
Do thou thy Master's bidding. If He came,
Enduring all the torture and the death,
To speak to all men of His Father's love,
Thou, too, if thou hast learnt to think His thoughts,
Must speak to them of Him. Thou may'st not leave
Those souls to wander in their hopeless night,
Nor make the mercy of thy God a cloak
For coward sloth, nor, rapt in visions high,
Forget the present. If thou see'st the wrong,
Rebuke it; if the many sin and die,
In pity to their souls, hold not thy peace,
But warn them of the Everlasting Fire,
And win them with the Everlasting Love.
And oh! my son, beware lest pride of heart,
Or yearning pity, or thy zeal for God,
Lead thee to change His order. Not in vain,
Taught He at first, by fear of endless woe,
In parable and drama shadowing forth
The doom of evil. Men must learn to hate
The accursèd self that keeps their souls from God;
Must learn to feel the burden of their guilt,
As measured by the woe which God assigns
50
Hath ordered in its wisdom and its might:
And some may find the lesson hard to learn,
And, knowing not thy thoughts, may miss their way,
If thou should'st leave the simple, open path
Which Christ hath trodden. Teach as He hath taught,
Not halving truths, in haste of jealous strife,
Nor twisting words awry with subtle art,
Not speaking where the voice of Christ was dumb,
Nor silent where He spake. Judge thou thyself,
And leave the greater task to greater power;
Commit thy friends, thy brothers, yea, thy foes,
The myriads, past, and present, and to come,
To Him who sitteth on the Eternal Throne,
The Son of Man, and yet the Lord of All,
The Judge, the Priest, the Saviour, and the Friend.
Thou canst not gauge His drear abyss of wrath,
Thou canst not fathom all His boundless love,
Thou canst not track His footsteps on the deep;
And still if doubt, or grief, or hope, or fear
Perplex thee for the future or the past,
Cling to His cross for shelter, own thy guilt,
Thy shame, thy blindness, and with veilèd face,
Low in the dust, be silent and adore.”
May, 1864.
| Lazarus And other Poems | |