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| VI. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
 | Sabbation (1838) |  |
1
THE WIDOW.
A cottage stands in yonder woody dell—
'Twould from this knoll be plainly visible
In winter, when the leafy trees are bare,
Or when in spring the foliage still is rare.
Its place is now marked only by the smoke
Which slowly mounts behind that spreading oak;
And in that woodland cottage dwells alone
A widow old, and neighbour she has none;
Were she with ear of finest power endued,
Few sounds could reach her in her solitude,
Far from the public road, in that deep glen,
Far from the haunts and trodden paths of men.
But age, which has her mind's intelligence
Left unimpaired, has dulled the outward sense,
Till scarce, with effort of far louder speech
Than common, could your words unto her reach.
'Twould from this knoll be plainly visible
In winter, when the leafy trees are bare,
Or when in spring the foliage still is rare.
Its place is now marked only by the smoke
Which slowly mounts behind that spreading oak;
And in that woodland cottage dwells alone
A widow old, and neighbour she has none;
Were she with ear of finest power endued,
Few sounds could reach her in her solitude,
Far from the public road, in that deep glen,
Far from the haunts and trodden paths of men.
But age, which has her mind's intelligence
Left unimpaired, has dulled the outward sense,
112
Than common, could your words unto her reach.
One day, impressed by that deep silence round,
That calm inviolate by a single sound,
I said,—what perfect stillness must be hers!
For neither were the world's loud sounds and stirs
Around her—nor if such there were, could they,
For her at least, that stillness chase away;
And earnest hope I thereunto exprest,
That such the inward quiet of her breast;
And then she told me, her infirmity,
To which I deemed this gain might owing be,
Gave her not that exemption which I thought,
But that quite opposite effects it wrought;
For still she strove in vain to separate
The noises which her own brain might create,
In which was aye a tumult and a rout,
From sounds which might come to her from without;
And how quite helplessly exposed she lay
To all strange tricks her fancy cared to play;
How, often when she knew herself alone,
Since other inmate in the house was none,
Listening, she heard what seemed to her the tread
Of many persons moving overhead;
Or, in the night, a trampling and a sound
Of hurried feet, the outer door around.
And sometimes, in her noonday solitude,
Voices came to her from the neighbouring wood,—
Voices which seemed to call her by her name,
And she would answer them, but no one came;
And still, if other noise was none, a roar
As of great waters plunging evermore
Was in her ears.—This much that time she said,
But added cheerful words, and such as bred
A pleasant faith within me, that no less
Hers was that heritage of quietness
Whereof I spake, the spirit's inner peace,
From all disturbances a blest release,
Which the world cannot give, nor make to cease.
That calm inviolate by a single sound,
I said,—what perfect stillness must be hers!
For neither were the world's loud sounds and stirs
Around her—nor if such there were, could they,
For her at least, that stillness chase away;
And earnest hope I thereunto exprest,
That such the inward quiet of her breast;
And then she told me, her infirmity,
To which I deemed this gain might owing be,
Gave her not that exemption which I thought,
But that quite opposite effects it wrought;
For still she strove in vain to separate
The noises which her own brain might create,
In which was aye a tumult and a rout,
From sounds which might come to her from without;
And how quite helplessly exposed she lay
To all strange tricks her fancy cared to play;
113
Since other inmate in the house was none,
Listening, she heard what seemed to her the tread
Of many persons moving overhead;
Or, in the night, a trampling and a sound
Of hurried feet, the outer door around.
And sometimes, in her noonday solitude,
Voices came to her from the neighbouring wood,—
Voices which seemed to call her by her name,
And she would answer them, but no one came;
And still, if other noise was none, a roar
As of great waters plunging evermore
Was in her ears.—This much that time she said,
But added cheerful words, and such as bred
A pleasant faith within me, that no less
Hers was that heritage of quietness
Whereof I spake, the spirit's inner peace,
From all disturbances a blest release,
Which the world cannot give, nor make to cease.
120
[One time I was allowed to steer]
I
One time I was allowed to steerThrough realms of azure light;—
Henceforth, I said, I need not fear
A lower meaner flight:
But here shall evermore abide,
In light and splendour glorified.
II
My heart one time the rivers fed,Large dews upon it lay;
A freshness it has won, I said,
Which shall not pass away,
But what it is, it shall remain,
Its freshness to the end retain.
121
III
But when I lay upon the shore,Like some poor wounded thing,
I deemed I should not ever more
Refit my shattered wing—
Nailed to the ground and fastened there:
This was the thought of my despair.
IV
And when my very heart seemed dried,And parched as summer dust,
Such still I deemed it must abide;
No hope had I, no trust
That any power again could bless
With fountains that waste wilderness.
V
But if both hope and fear were vain,And came alike to nought,
Two lessons we from this may gain,
If aught can teach us aught—
One lesson rather—to divide
Between our fearfulness and pride.
125
THE MANNA.
And canst thou, Lord, a table dress,
A table in the wilderness?
How should our souls be satisfied
In this world's desert waste and wide?
Shall we not join the multitude,
And say there is not any good,
Nothing to feed the soul of man—
But that with which his life began,
His little stock of love and joy,
All things diminish and destroy,
Till wasted quite, nor any more
Renewed—an unreplenished store?
How shouldst thou, Lord, a table dress,
A table in the wilderness?
A table in the wilderness?
How should our souls be satisfied
In this world's desert waste and wide?
Shall we not join the multitude,
And say there is not any good,
Nothing to feed the soul of man—
But that with which his life began,
His little stock of love and joy,
All things diminish and destroy,
126
Renewed—an unreplenished store?
How shouldst thou, Lord, a table dress,
A table in the wilderness?
'Twas Israel's cry—nor theirs alone,
For what were all the evils shown
In them, their unbelief and pride,
Distrust of him so often tried,
And ne'er found wanting, what indeed,
But writ in large that all may read,
Each one his own in whole or part,
The tale of every human heart?
Around their camp the manna lay,
For each to gather every day,
In copious showers of pearly dew,
Sweet as the sweetest thing each knew,
And did not fail, but richly last
Until the desert's bounds were past,
And Canaan's borders, and the bright
Inheritance was all in sight.
So we in this world's desert fed
By him who is our heavenly bread,
We too may pass from strength to strength,
From joy to joy, until at length
Before his presence we appear,
Not fainting on our journey here.
For what were all the evils shown
In them, their unbelief and pride,
Distrust of him so often tried,
And ne'er found wanting, what indeed,
But writ in large that all may read,
Each one his own in whole or part,
The tale of every human heart?
Around their camp the manna lay,
For each to gather every day,
In copious showers of pearly dew,
Sweet as the sweetest thing each knew,
And did not fail, but richly last
Until the desert's bounds were past,
127
Inheritance was all in sight.
So we in this world's desert fed
By him who is our heavenly bread,
We too may pass from strength to strength,
From joy to joy, until at length
Before his presence we appear,
Not fainting on our journey here.
142
THE PRAISE OF MEN.
Cum laudaris, teipsum contemne.
Augustine.
Augustine.
When men exalt thee with their flatteries,
Be thou provoked thine own self to despise,
And for an help to this, the meanest thing
Which thou hast ever done to memory bring.
Think too that now thou dost in peril fall
Of doing a yet meaner thing than all,
If being what thou art in thine own sight,
Thou canst this praise appropriate as thy right.
143
KNOWLEDGE.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
Wordsworth.
Wordsworth.
True knowledge is the waking up of powers
To conscious life, which were already ours.
To conscious life, which were already ours.
What now is mine in leaf and flower and fruit,
Was mine before in blossom, bud, and root.
Was mine before in blossom, bud, and root.
The writing that had faded quite, again
By chymic art comes out distinct and plain.
By chymic art comes out distinct and plain.
Springs that were stopped, when that is cleared away
Which choked them, bubble forth in open day.
Which choked them, bubble forth in open day.
144
The stars look forth at eve, which yet have been
All day in heaven, although till now unseen.
All day in heaven, although till now unseen.
The dawn lights up the landscape; the great Sun
Shows, but not makes, the world he looks upon.
Shows, but not makes, the world he looks upon.
I found a rich pearl flung upon my coast,
Which yet no other than myself had lost.
Which yet no other than myself had lost.
I entered a large hall—no foreign dome,
But even mine own long-lost abandoned home.
But even mine own long-lost abandoned home.
In what at first appeared a stranger's face,
An ancient friend I daily learn to trace.
An ancient friend I daily learn to trace.
I am at rest—my centre I have found,
The circle's edge I had been wandering round.
The circle's edge I had been wandering round.
158
VI.
[Once if I felt no heart nor strength to pray]
Once if I felt no heart nor strength to pray,If of a sudden vanished quite I found
The goods wherein I dreamed I did abound,
And this blank mood continued many a day,
I was quite swallowed up in dim dismay:
My heart, I said, by deadly frost is bound,
And never will warm days again come round:
But now more hopefully I learn to say—
Either some sin is lurking in my breast,
Troubling the host , which being once confest,
He will his presence and his light restore,
Or thus one needful lesson he is fain
To teach—that in ourselves we are always poor,
Which learned, he soon will make me rich again.
164
VIII.
[If thou hast found much comfort in thy prayer]
If thou hast found much comfort in thy prayer,Sweet foretastes of anticipated heaven,
If this was so, or if these were not given,
It is not well to weigh with too much care;
For many times these sweets imparted are,
Like sugared dainties, onward so to win
Young scholars who in Christ's lore first begin,
That to his school they may again repair.
But of this thing be careful—here give heed,
Since this and not thy pleasure is the end
Of all thy prayer, this question often ask—
Does it more holy self-denial breed,
And leaves it thee more fearful to offend,
With loins succinct, readier for every task?
166
IX.
[As circle beyond circle evermore]
As circle beyond circle evermoreIn the still water spreads and spreads, until
The whole expanse of lucid pool they fill,
And the last ripple touch the further shore—
Dilating so, nor finding pause before
It has extended o'er the largest space
Which love can hold within its wide embrace,
Prayer issues from the bosom's central core.
First for himself the High Priest his offering makes,
This done, for others, for those nearest found,
The circle of the sacred home, and then
For the whole Church of God, and lastly takes—
His ample intercession takes all men
Within the limits of its mighty round.
167
XIII.
[Why have we yet no great deliverance wrought]
Why have we yet no great deliverance wrought,Why have we not truth's banner yet unfurled,
High floating in the face of all the world,
Why do we live and yet accomplish nought?
These are the stirrings of unquiet thought,
What time the years pass from us of our youth,
And we unto the altar of high truth
As yet no worthy offering have brought.
But now we bid these restless longings cease,
If Heaven has aught for us to do or say,
Our time will come; and we may well hold peace,
When He, till thrice ten years had past away,
In stillness and in quietness upgrew,
Whose word once spoken should make all things new.
171
XV.
[He might have built a palace at a word]
He might have built a palace at a word,Who sometimes had not where to lay his head:
Time was, and he who nourished crowds with bread,
Would not one meal unto himself afford:
Twelve legions girded with angelic sword
Were at his beck, the scorned and buffeted:
He healed another's scratch, his own side bled,
Side, feet, and hands, with cruel piercings gored.
Oh wonderful the wonders left undone!
And scarce less wonderful than those he wrought;
Oh self-restraint, passing all human thought,
To have all power, and be as having none;
Oh self-denying Love, which felt alone
For needs of others, never for its own.
173
XVI. JESUS WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM.
Oh city, of all cities crown and joy,He who so yearned love's banner to uprear,
And gather round it all thy children dear,
Could yet the armies of his wrath employ,
Sending the Roman his sharp sword to cloy
With slaughter of thy children, till the ear
Tingles at history's worst tale of fear:
He who wept over thee could yet destroy.
And he has tears for sinners—natural tears,
And tears of blood; yet who will now dare say,
By thy dread doom remaining still untaught,
That since such love lives in his heart alway,
He therefore, moved by weak relenting fears,
Will see his righteous threatenings come to nought?
174
XVII.
[When God is to be served, the cost we weigh]
When God is to be served, the cost we weighIn anxious balance, grudging the expense:
The world may use profuse magnificence;
A thousand lamps from gilded roof may sway,
Where its poor votaries turn the night to day,
And who will blame? but if two tapers shine
Apart before some solitary shrine,
“Why was this waste?” indignantly men say.
Oh hearts unlike to his who would not bring
To God, releasing him from dismal fears,
What cost him nothing for an offering!
Unlike to hers, commended while she shed
Of that true nard which grows in spiky ears,
A rich libation on her Saviour's head!
175
XVIII.
[Where is the man who, if his heart were whole]
Where is the man who, if his heart were whole,Would yield a treasure which he still might guard,
Enough contented, if he afterward
Might live upon the robber's alms and dole?
Or who were of so servile base a soul,
Because fair terms were offered of the foe,
To render up the fort without a blow,
Whence he might check the invader and control?
And nations that at danger's front so quail,
Even this their miserable hope shall fail;
One lesson History bids them lay to heart,
One truth in hours of peril to recall—
They struggle vainly to preserve a part,
Who have not courage to contend for all.
| Sabbation (1838) | |