The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sweet Peace, of brow with olive crown'd,
Thou art no name of vain pretence,
That charms the ear but mocks the sense,
But sure as God's own word art found,
Watching around the heart, on thee
Stay'd in unfailing charity.—
The heart that is the cradle meet,
Of pure affections the calm seat,
Wherein th' eternal Child is born
Whose face is the celestial Morn.
The Painter labours to impart
More than the magic of his art
Around that unimagin'd Birth,
Rifles the hidden haunts of earth,
And o'er the scene strives to infuse
An immortality of hues.
Oh, that to me there might be given
A pencil dipp'd in hues of Heaven,
In living colours to enrol
Upon the tablet of the soul,

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And so to frame that portraiture,
As might in Paradise endure.
Grain'd in affection's glowing dyes,
Such as Angelic eyes might read,
Who gaze upon, and long to tread
The depth of those great mysteries.
Till graver thoughts of Duty, won
From Heaven-rapt contemplation,
Glass'd in the bosom undefil'd
Reveal the sky-descending Child;
The immortal beaming of Whose brow
Lights Heaven above, and earth below,
With infant temples blazing bright
In golden-hairèd cloud of light;
Till full-arm'd Virtue into birth
Awakens, and on this bad earth
Goes forth, and with Occasion join'd
Gains something of th' unearthly mind,
Shot like the lightning from that Face
One ray of which is deathless grace.
Yea, as I gaze upon the scene,
And would portray it, though unseen,
I seem beneath my feet to tread
That monster of the living dead,
Till in my fancy 'tis allow'd
To walk upon the earthly cloud,
Upward to rise with love, and see
A ray of immortality.

Lo, now the deep-soul'd orison
A speaking shape and form hath won,
Nor shall the Poet's glowing art
Her sister leave to take her part,
And unattended there to wait,

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The handmaid of Divinity.
And well I love that poet wild
Who oft would paint Thee as a Child,—
A Child with more than Angel's ken
Mixing among the things of men;
With warning dread and sweet control,
And more than manhood in Thy soul:—
With this huge world of sea and land
A ball within Thine infant hand.

Thus comest Thou in this our pride,
To lay Thy glorious robe aside,
Great in Thy Godhead for our sake
This manhood's gentlest form to take,
Calling us round to plead with Thee,
Dreadful in Thy humility.

Great in Thy Godhead, yet a child,
So by Thee be my spirit fill'd,
A little Child that helpless lies,
Bound round by our infirmities.

A little Child of one day old,
Laid in a manger dark and cold;
Whom Heaven of Heavens cannot contain,
Nor years eternal bound Thy reign!
Of Thee we cannot choose but speak,
Yet speaking feel our words are weak;
One word speaks all—Immanuel,—
Whose love is Heaven, whose wrath is Hell.

A little Child from Heavenly land
Low bending down, and from the height,
Hanging precipitous in sight,
Holding mankind with mighty hand,

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Sav'd from an unseen gulf beneath,
And lifted from the grasp of death.
In that sweet vision manifest,
In all He does His infant breast
Hath shot a ray that grows not old,
But maketh our weak Virtue bold,
Saving, and teaching blinded man,
Thyself the good Samaritan.

But how shall we portray the scene,
Blending the things that might have been,
With thoughts found meet to speak th' Unseen?
For Heaven and earth there seem to meet,
And opens the eternal seat.

Though dark and silent is the room,
The painter and the poet's skill
With other inmates strive to fill,
And all the darkness to illume,—
Asham'd of poor humanity
Before the Maker of the sky.
The homely scene they fain would dress
Griev'd at the cold and nakedness;
They bring around that wondrous Birth
Whate'er of good is found on earth,
And from all hues in Fancy's store
Living illumination pour.

Yet rather to the scene be given
The silence of that hour in Heaven;
For what can speak the Infinite?
And what can paint the wondrous light,
Where brighter than ten thousand suns
The stream of burning glory runs
Around His brow, whose viewless glow
To endless worlds doth life bestow?

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But if the painter needs must speak,
And poet too would silence break,
We there would paint a Heavenly crown,
Opening above, Heaven's Lord to own,
And in dread stillness coming down.

O scene mysterious of all time,
What thought can match the dread sublime
Of that the meek reality?
When howling Winter hurried by,
And sang Thy birthnight lullaby;
And hungry beasts were prowling round,
In the dead midnight hour profound?

The horned ox is standing by,
And idly feeding without fear,
Looks coldly on, he knows not why,
Nor conscious feels his Maker nigh.
The lamb too lies there bound and dead,
Significance divinely meant,
That life of man must needs be fed,
On death of the meek innocent!
Thus Winter's sound and Midnight's womb,
With cheerless cold, and silent gloom,
Welcome Thee to this lowly room.

Little hath Earth to give at best,
But of that little gives the least,
Sullen her mien and aspect drear,
Her Heavenly Lord to welcome here.

And shall we weave a wreath o'er thee
Of heart out-pouring poesy,
Mysterious Birth? Art would express
And toils anew the scene to dress;
Conception labours to find vent,
Yet feels her vain and impotent:

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Weak is the thought, the hand, the tongue,
And yet our silence does thee wrong.
The painter and the poet vie
With kind and holy rivalry,
Rifling Imagination's lore
To deck and people that dread floor,
With live and speaking furniture,
And all things holy, bright, and pure.

That shed becomes a ruin'd hall ,
Once Israel's temple, now to see
Wreck of a wondrous masonry,
Glorious in ruin, from whose fall
There goeth forth, as in a dream,
Through distant worlds a living stream.

Another brings the princes nigh
Of Saba and of Araby,
While on the other hand appear,
With pipe and tabor drawing near,
A band of Shepherds, old and young,
Who on this night with Angels sung.

Some bring in distance Sion's hill,
Or Tabor, or that mount of ill,
Or there the true Gerizim plant
Of the life-giving Covenant.
Some make that scene the dread resort
Of beings of the Heavenly court,
Whatever may the power bring nigh
Of that tremendous clemency;
Something that may the heart express
Of overwhelming lowliness.

Some such majestic radiance pour
O'er the blest Mother, that no more

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In meek subjection hath she shone,
The Mother lost in the dread Son,
The human Maid, the Child Divine,
The Godhead and the earthly shrine;
But o'er her countenance infuse
An emanation of bright hues,
Not saintly stern and pale, with form
By watches wan; but breathing warm
With female grace and loveliness,
That charm the sense, but awe us less.

Others from Fancy's world will seek
Symbolic forms high truth to speak;
And thus our limner to the eye
Presents his pictur'd poesy,
Rake, pail, and shepherd's household gear
Blend with the storied scene that's there,—
Shapes that embody to the sense
The Preacher's holy eloquence.

Thus Joy behind with lifted hands
Wrapt in ecstatic transport stands,
While Hope and Love the painter brings,
Within his bosom breeding wings.
He seems to catch in that bright ray
A something of the Heavenly day;—
Of Love's philosophy divine,
Such as it is where Angels shine.

And Admiration on his knees
The sight in trance-like silence sees:—
Much hath he witness'd 'neath the sun,
The child of adoration,
Seen rugged scenes and waters wild,
And mountains upon mountains pil'd,
And track'd the stars that fill the sky
With whirlwind-wingèd ecstacy,

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Yet never yet seen aught to tell
Of marvel so ineffable.

Behind the Infant's radiant Head,
Like holy Simeon thither led,
Kneels heart-transporting Gratitude;
And Virtue with her light endued
Stands, girt for action, and anon
As she that sight doth feed upon,
In attitude both stern and mild,
Points to her Cross and to the Child.

Compassion too with melting eyes,
That speak his deep-stirr'd sympathies,
With folded arms hangs in amaze,
And on the Infant feeds his gaze;
While Faith, and Hope, and holy Love,
Lean from their radiant seats above.
Now wouldst thou learn with Heaven-taught eye,
To read aright this mystery,
Then wait awhile, and that fair Shade
Of virtue,—in bright arms array'd,
And crown'd with helm of burnish'd blaze,
Which o'er her brow unharming plays,—
Shall lead thee to the Teacher's throne:
The King shall there His subjects own,
Sitting upon the mountain ground,
With His disciples gather'd round,
Where from His shrine go forth the floods
Of life-giving Beatitudes.

Here in these Angel-haunted lands,
Where Bethlehem's lowly cradle stands;
Or that hill-top, through clouds that break,
Looks on the Galilean lake,
Here skies and earth do seem to meet
Around His ever-blessed feet;—

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Together in one blending ray,
Conspire in one bright holiday:
While Heaven seems opening her bright door,
And letting down her burnish'd floor.
This is the land where Israel's stair
Was seen upon the lucid air;
Where most on earth, if not alone,
The haunt of Angels hath been known.

Fairer than sight of mortal eye
That vision of the op'ning sky,
Where three bright Shapes are earthward bow'd,
And sitting on a golden cloud:
First Faith, that giveth eyes to see,
With cup of immortality;
In her right hand the Cross she bears,
To shew a charmèd life she wears.
And that irradiant form of Love,
Enfolding children from above,
With an immortal power descending,
All things in holy marriage blending,
Preparing the true spotless Bride
That with the First-born may abide.
And Hope, that holds her anchor fast,
Which she within the vail hath cast,
With a meek bird of dove-like wings
To bear the soul to better things.

Fond vision of the silent heart,
Not poet's thought nor painter's art
Hath power that promise to fulfil!
Prayer hath alone the secret skill
To plant around that living tent,
With all the limner's art hath meant,
And bring to earth the firmament:

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With cords of love to weave a crown,
And bring the golden vision down;—
The Jubilee of Heaven and earth,
To celebrate their Maker's birth.
Prayer that high vision shall create,
And make that land the Heavenly gate.

Lord, I would speak of Thee aright,
And meekly: if a poet's might
Moulds in my soul its Chains of fire,
Then would my burning thoughts aspire,
Above all earthly things, to be
The bard of Thy Nativity!

But better if my heart express
Thy Childhood in its lowliness;—
Alas, and was Thy cradle bare
Of all the welcome Earth could spare?
My heart is now a shed more rude,
And sterner is the solitude;
Darker my spirit's night, while sound
Remorseless memories, like the wind;
And restless passions, prowling round,
Therein an entrance strive to find.
Wilt Thou within so mean a shed,
So vile a manger, lay Thine head?
If so, all things the foulest there
Shall in Thy Countenance stand bare,
But should they catch Thy gleam Divine
Shall like an Eastern palace shine.

Francis Quarles, to whom may be added Herman Hugo, from whom his Emblems are taken.

The Nativity, by Overbeck.

The Mount of the Beatitudes.