Poems By Richard Chenevix Trench: New ed |
 | I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| II. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
THE PANTHEIST;
|
|
|
 | Poems |  |
147
THE PANTHEIST;
THE ORIGIN OF EVIL.
See the same, p. 255, and his Ssufismus, pp. 133-145. The doctrine of evil, as not indeed evil, but only an inferior kind of good, to which the pantheist is of necessity driven, is wrought out with great skill and frequency by the Eastern Mystics—often comes out in their writings in its most offensive shapes. It is instructive to notice how completely they have anticipated this view, which continually reappears in the philosophical systems of our own day, and is in them brought forward as some mighty discovery, and a key to all the perplexities of the world.
One who in subtle questions took delight,
Came running to my lodging late one night,
And straight began:—‘Wilt thou affirm that sin
Had in man's will its root and origin,
When that will did itself from God proceed?
Whate'er then followed, He must have decreed.
If evil, then, be not against God's will,
'Tis wrongly named, it is not truly ill:
Rather the world a chess-board we should name,
And God both sides is playing of the game:
Moses and Pharaoh seem opposed, for they
Do thus God's greatness on two sides display;
They seem opposed, but at the root are one,
And each his part allotted has well done;
And that which men so blindly evil call,
And hate and fear, this evil, after all,
Is but as those discordant notes whereby
Well-skilled musicians heighten melody;—
But as the dark ground cunning painters lay,
To bring the bright hues into clearer day:
'Tis good as yet imperfect, incomplete;
Fruit that is sour, while passing on to sweet.’
Came running to my lodging late one night,
And straight began:—‘Wilt thou affirm that sin
Had in man's will its root and origin,
When that will did itself from God proceed?
Whate'er then followed, He must have decreed.
If evil, then, be not against God's will,
'Tis wrongly named, it is not truly ill:
Rather the world a chess-board we should name,
And God both sides is playing of the game:
Moses and Pharaoh seem opposed, for they
Do thus God's greatness on two sides display;
They seem opposed, but at the root are one,
And each his part allotted has well done;
And that which men so blindly evil call,
And hate and fear, this evil, after all,
Is but as those discordant notes whereby
Well-skilled musicians heighten melody;—
But as the dark ground cunning painters lay,
To bring the bright hues into clearer day:
'Tis good as yet imperfect, incomplete;
Fruit that is sour, while passing on to sweet.’
Then I, who knew the world had travelled o'er
This line of thought a thousand times before,
Would all debate have willingly put by,
Yet with this tale at last must make reply:
‘The head of Seid his comrade struck one day;
Seid meant the blow in earnest to repay;
But then the striker—“Pardon, friend, the blow—
I am inquiring, and two things would know:
See, when my hand did on your head alight,
Straight various bruises there appeared in sight.
Now, prithee, give me a reply to this,
If head or hand their ultimate cause is?
And if you really do with them agree
Who but in pain a lesser pleasure see?”
Seid then—“O fool! my agony is great,
And think'st thou I can idly speculate?”
The same I say;—let him display his skill
On the world's woe, who does not feel its ill;
Let speculate the man who feels no pain,
To whom the world is all a pageant vain,
An empty show stretched out that he may sit,
And crying “Fie” or “Bravo!” show his wit.
Me the deep feeling of its mighty woe
Robs of all wish herein my skill to show;
I only know that evil is no dream,
A thing that is, and does not merely seem:
Nor ask I now who open left the well,
Whereinto, walking carelessly, I fell;
Not how I stumbled in the pit, but how
Best to emerge, is all my question now.
This line of thought a thousand times before,
148
Yet with this tale at last must make reply:
‘The head of Seid his comrade struck one day;
Seid meant the blow in earnest to repay;
But then the striker—“Pardon, friend, the blow—
I am inquiring, and two things would know:
See, when my hand did on your head alight,
Straight various bruises there appeared in sight.
Now, prithee, give me a reply to this,
If head or hand their ultimate cause is?
And if you really do with them agree
Who but in pain a lesser pleasure see?”
Seid then—“O fool! my agony is great,
And think'st thou I can idly speculate?”
The same I say;—let him display his skill
On the world's woe, who does not feel its ill;
Let speculate the man who feels no pain,
To whom the world is all a pageant vain,
An empty show stretched out that he may sit,
And crying “Fie” or “Bravo!” show his wit.
Me the deep feeling of its mighty woe
Robs of all wish herein my skill to show;
I only know that evil is no dream,
A thing that is, and does not merely seem:
Nor ask I now who open left the well,
Whereinto, walking carelessly, I fell;
Not how I stumbled in the pit, but how
Best to emerge, is all my question now.
| Poems | |