 | Thought and word |  |
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HEAVEN'S GATE.
“THE LETTER KILLETH, BUT THE SPIRIT GIVETH LIFE.”
I.
Respect thine office; fear no man;Thou, Poet, art a sacristan,
(For higher creatures than poor we,
I think, are priests invisibly)
'Tis thine to tread on holy ground,
Where meaner foot is wrongly found;
'Tis thine to guard the mysteries,—
Which are not shown to mortal eyes
The purest, clearest,—from disgrace
Of idols in the sacred place.
II.
By names of Venus and of MarsThe Tuscan Exile fill'd the stars
With lover and with warrior souls:
Aloof each mighty planet rolls,
By sagest Poet unconceived.
Fancy on fancy, half-believed,
Forget how they have sprung from nought.
I often pictured in my thought
A Gate, whereof we speak and write;
And found the same at dead of night,
Neither by moon nor lantern-light.
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III.
It was, in dreaming truth, a GateVaster than kings go through in state,
And pierced a black gigantic wall
Immeasurably built. To all,
Wide, without bar or valve, it stood.
And round it throng'd a Multitude,
From every nation that has birth
Between the snowy poles of Earth.
IV.
As bursts the sunshine from a caveOf high cloud, over field and wave,
One, like a man, but more than mortal,
Radiantly issues from the Portal,—
Realm within it softly bright,
Purple shadow and golden light
On mystic mountains, happy vales,
Where circle beyond circle fails.
V.
“Come in!”—'twas music trumpet-clear,“The Gate of Heaven is open here.”
Whereat, a wind of joy and fear
Swept all that mighty Multitude
Like some great cornfield where they stood;
But only woke a whispering stress
Born from the hush of earnestness.
VI.
Then jangling tones broke up the charm,As bells a sleeping town alarm;
“Beloved Sheep, beware, beware!
“This is no true thing, but a snare;
“We see no mark or sign or token
“Whereof the oracles have spoken.
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“With heathens and with heretics!
“Apollyon seemeth Son of Light.
“But soon the Bridegroom shall invite,
“We're saved, the others flung to Hell,
“And hallelujah! all is well.
“Close eye and ear, my brethren,—say
“Phantom! Delusion! Fiend! away!”
VII.
Suddenly a little ChildRan up to where that Angel smiled,
And caught his skirt; who, stooping low,
Lifted him; and I saw them go,
And sigh'd,—and sighing, waken'd so;
Amidst, methought, a boundless flow
Of people, many voices blent,
Sea-like; I knew not what it meant.
VIII.
Saint Wilbrod, where a Pagan KingKnelt at the font, had bow'd to fling
Miraculous water on his head;
But the grave King rose up, and said,
“This was not thought of; can'st thou tell
“If my forefathers be in Hell,
“Or Heaven?” “In Hell,” the Saint's reply:
To whom the King with loftier eye,
“Enough! I will not quit my race.”
—To answer, Heaven is not a place,
Were bringing passports to disgrace.
IX.
Such doctrines Mather fear'd at Salem,And, lest his own belief should fail him,
(So godly, that he turn'd inhuman)
Hang'd twice a week some poor old woman;
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That Scripture's letter be not scouted;
Which, with all marvels big and little,
Not held and hugg'd in every tittle,
Faith were slain dead (that's now so strong),
And Truth, and Sense of Right and Wrong;
Yes, the Almighty then, no doubt,
From soul of man were blotted out.
X.
Predominancy, a great treeOf Upas kind, drips constantly
The violent poison, Persecution;
Greater the marvel, tho', if you shun
Harm from a small infesting weed
Which doth the self-same venom breed,
Verbality, whose mesh is found
In every field and garden-ground.
Spirit to spirit, we are wise
To meditate of mysteries,
To see a little, dark and dim
For mortals are not Seraphim.
XI.
A Dream should as a Dream be told,Nor do I this of mine uphold
Above the dreams of other men,
Where all is out of waking ken.
Let's to our daylight tasks and trust
The future, as we ought and must.
Go, noisy tongues, howe'er you will!
One hath His plan, who keepeth still.
What is, He sees,—we cannot see;
He knows, we know not, what shall be.
XII.
Tho' High-Priest, Medicine-man, nor Lama,Zerdusht, Mohammed, Buddha, Brahma,
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For true Religion hold a patent,
Can mathematicise the line
Connecting Human and Divine,
The line, say rather, that doth reach
From God to every soul and each,—
Tho' every parable and vision
Of scenes infernal and elysian,
By prophet-poet's genius told,
Re-echo'd thousand-million-fold,
Whether of Greek, or Jew, or Swede,
Be rich poetic truth indeed,
No legal document to read,—
Tho' man's best wisdom on the earth,
Man's learning, be as little worth
For this, as to be six feet one
Helps you to pry into the sun,—
Still, when the Soul is walking right,
Heaven is sure to come in sight,
Near or distant, faint or bright.
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