The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life By the author of "The Cathedral." [i.e. Isaac Williams] A new edition |
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| 21. | IMAGE THE TWENTY-FIRST. The Years of Eternity.
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 | The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life |  |
227
IMAGE THE TWENTY-FIRST. The Years of Eternity.
Dread stillness, when the gate of life shall close
For ever! and for ever! infinite
In immortality of dying woes,
The fathomless abyss of penal night!
Thought lifts her hands aghast, and with affright
Against the dreadful image shuts the door,
And back recoils from that dread word—no more.
For ever! and for ever! infinite
In immortality of dying woes,
The fathomless abyss of penal night!
Thought lifts her hands aghast, and with affright
Against the dreadful image shuts the door,
And back recoils from that dread word—no more.
O unimagin'd sad realities,
The adamantine wall, the burning chains,
Wherein the worm of anguish never dies,
Where nothing but the change of woe remains,
Beyond the furthest reach of earthly pains!
For ever! Hell grows darker at the fame,
And echoes from its lowest depths the name.
The adamantine wall, the burning chains,
Wherein the worm of anguish never dies,
Where nothing but the change of woe remains,
Beyond the furthest reach of earthly pains!
For ever! Hell grows darker at the fame,
And echoes from its lowest depths the name.
For ever! thousand upon thousand years,
And centuries on centuries to pile,
Ages on ages, yet no end appears,
No thought of termination to beguile;
Upon the horizon drear no gleam the while;
It fools our reckoning, like the trackless wind,
And sets imagination far behind.
And centuries on centuries to pile,
Ages on ages, yet no end appears,
No thought of termination to beguile;
Upon the horizon drear no gleam the while;
It fools our reckoning, like the trackless wind,
And sets imagination far behind.
228
Philosophy in nature saw that Hell,
A death that died not, seeing vice led on
To pain and ruin irreclaimable;
For what but this was the Sisyphian stone,
The wall of adamant, the triple zone,
The wheel that rested not, the unfill'd urn,
The streams where all must pass and none return?
A death that died not, seeing vice led on
To pain and ruin irreclaimable;
For what but this was the Sisyphian stone,
The wall of adamant, the triple zone,
The wheel that rested not, the unfill'd urn,
The streams where all must pass and none return?
For ever! let us gaze upon thy brow
And paint thee; what shall bring thy form to view,
And image thee—the never-ending Now?
The sky above us can afford no clue,
The sea no colour which can give thy hue,
Earth from her stores can yield no lineament,
Which can to sense thy dreadful form present.
And paint thee; what shall bring thy form to view,
And image thee—the never-ending Now?
The sky above us can afford no clue,
The sea no colour which can give thy hue,
Earth from her stores can yield no lineament,
Which can to sense thy dreadful form present.
The awe-inspiring Mountains at the thought
Upon their adamantine bases shake,
Moving away, and vanish into nought—
The brazen-vaulted Skies above us break,
And fade as smoke; and Ocean seems to wake,
And find him wings, and from his place to soar
Into the boundless void, and is no more.
Upon their adamantine bases shake,
Moving away, and vanish into nought—
The brazen-vaulted Skies above us break,
And fade as smoke; and Ocean seems to wake,
And find him wings, and from his place to soar
Into the boundless void, and is no more.
Eternity! awhile upon the beach
We sport with painted pebbles, and we send
Our eyes and thoughts to travel to the reach
Of seas and skies, unanswer'd: we ascend
From mount to mount, and at the last we end
Where we begun; to you, earth, sea, and sky,
We call in vain to read this mystery.
We sport with painted pebbles, and we send
Our eyes and thoughts to travel to the reach
Of seas and skies, unanswer'd: we ascend
From mount to mount, and at the last we end
Where we begun; to you, earth, sea, and sky,
We call in vain to read this mystery.
229
Yea, could we take the mighty ocean up,
And count it drop by drop, from strand to strand,
It all were but one drop in that vast cup:
Or, could we sit and calculate the sand,
Numb'ring each grain of dust that forms the land;
Yet that which dwells with everlasting years
Laughs at the reck'ning,—and untouch'd appears.
And count it drop by drop, from strand to strand,
It all were but one drop in that vast cup:
Or, could we sit and calculate the sand,
Numb'ring each grain of dust that forms the land;
Yet that which dwells with everlasting years
Laughs at the reck'ning,—and untouch'd appears.
The door for ever clos'd! where'er it falls,
To south or north, the tree for ever lies,
Where in an instant close enduring walls,—
Where gain'd or lost for ever is the prize,—
Where Death himself is dead or ever dies,—
Time with his scythe lies broken and o'erthrown,
Occasion with him sleeps, her hour-glass done.
To south or north, the tree for ever lies,
Where in an instant close enduring walls,—
Where gain'd or lost for ever is the prize,—
Where Death himself is dead or ever dies,—
Time with his scythe lies broken and o'erthrown,
Occasion with him sleeps, her hour-glass done.
Oh then, of hours which now so fleeting pass
The sinner shall too late the loss deplore,
Put forth his hand to grasp again Time's glass,
And draw it back at that dread word—no more,—
For stern Necessity holds fast the door:
Dread thought, and thou more dread reality,
O let us gaze on thee, nor put thee by!
The sinner shall too late the loss deplore,
Put forth his hand to grasp again Time's glass,
And draw it back at that dread word—no more,—
For stern Necessity holds fast the door:
Dread thought, and thou more dread reality,
O let us gaze on thee, nor put thee by!
For ever clos'd, the time of trial gone!
At thought of thee the sun itself grows pale,
The candles of the sky turn dim and wan,
The firm-set bounds of day and night do fail,
Earth's pillars pass like clouds before the gale
Time himself flies, with all the things of sight,
And hides from view in shoreless infinite.
At thought of thee the sun itself grows pale,
The candles of the sky turn dim and wan,
The firm-set bounds of day and night do fail,
Earth's pillars pass like clouds before the gale
Time himself flies, with all the things of sight,
And hides from view in shoreless infinite.
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Yea, at the thought all creatures seem to move,
Like rivers hurrying down unto the sea,
The mountains of the earth, and Heaven above,
Flowers, fruits, and living things, all seem to flee,
So mutable and fleeting, and to be
But passing images of what remains,
Shadows of that where truth eternal reigns.
Like rivers hurrying down unto the sea,
The mountains of the earth, and Heaven above,
Flowers, fruits, and living things, all seem to flee,
So mutable and fleeting, and to be
But passing images of what remains,
Shadows of that where truth eternal reigns.
To utter that dread word, for evermore,
The mansion of the disembodied soul
Shall unbar all its caves from shore to shore;
The far-stretch'd Heavens, from Ganges to the Pole,
Their twice ten-thousand portals shall unroll,
And all the furthest regions of the sky
Shall utter that dread word—eternity.
The mansion of the disembodied soul
Shall unbar all its caves from shore to shore;
The far-stretch'd Heavens, from Ganges to the Pole,
Their twice ten-thousand portals shall unroll,
And all the furthest regions of the sky
Shall utter that dread word—eternity.
The sun, the moon, th' immeasurable skies,
And mountains heap'd on mountains, and the sea,
Are but like stairs on which our thoughts arise
To apprehensions of infinity;
But yet they are as nothing: all we see,
Weigh'd in the scale of our ascending thought,
Are but as dust, and fade away to nought.
And mountains heap'd on mountains, and the sea,
Are but like stairs on which our thoughts arise
To apprehensions of infinity;
But yet they are as nothing: all we see,
Weigh'd in the scale of our ascending thought,
Are but as dust, and fade away to nought.
Ye blissful Companies that sit around
Within the circle of th' eternal fence,
In Heaven's immeasurable depth profound,—
Yet in no circle visible to sense,
But without centre, or circumference,—
Well may ye watch and gaze with earnest eyes
On men that walk 'tween such deep destinies!
Within the circle of th' eternal fence,
In Heaven's immeasurable depth profound,—
Yet in no circle visible to sense,
But without centre, or circumference,—
Well may ye watch and gaze with earnest eyes
On men that walk 'tween such deep destinies!
231
How do we hasten to the boundless vast,
E'en as the arrow speeding to the mark,
Which in one moment passing is and past,—
Or like the waning of a flickering spark,—
As hurries into port the full-wing'd bark,
Or as a shadow glancing past the door,
Irrevocably gone and seen no more.
E'en as the arrow speeding to the mark,
Which in one moment passing is and past,—
Or like the waning of a flickering spark,—
As hurries into port the full-wing'd bark,
Or as a shadow glancing past the door,
Irrevocably gone and seen no more.
Therefore our God doth pity us, because
Our fleetness, which we know not, He doth know,
Ere we have pass'd the gulf: life is the pause
Like fitting of the arrow to the bow
Before 'tis gone for ever: we e'en now
Shall understand what those deep words convey,
“A thousand years with Him are but a day.”
Our fleetness, which we know not, He doth know,
Ere we have pass'd the gulf: life is the pause
Like fitting of the arrow to the bow
Before 'tis gone for ever: we e'en now
Shall understand what those deep words convey,
“A thousand years with Him are but a day.”
It is the weight of dread eternity
Which we do bear about us as we go,
Which, though we see not, God and Angels see,
That makes it meet that we should bend so low,
Walk near the ground, and to His judgments bow
And this our being's awfulness we scan
In the sad bearing of the Son of Man.
Which we do bear about us as we go,
Which, though we see not, God and Angels see,
That makes it meet that we should bend so low,
Walk near the ground, and to His judgments bow
And this our being's awfulness we scan
In the sad bearing of the Son of Man.
How doth the limner and the poet's eye
Dwell on the tablet that shall ever stand,
When they would paint for immortality!
How do they glean each hue from sea and land,
And with laborious caution guide the hand!
But their eternity is but a day,
The shadow of a shade that cannot stay.
Dwell on the tablet that shall ever stand,
When they would paint for immortality!
How do they glean each hue from sea and land,
And with laborious caution guide the hand!
But their eternity is but a day,
The shadow of a shade that cannot stay.
232
Whether we will or nay, each cherish'd thought
Is passing into marble, line by line,
And as we speak our very words are wrought
Into expression on a form Divine;
Or chains of evil on the soul entwine.
O thought of ages which can ne'er be past,
How inconceivable the dreadful vast!
Is passing into marble, line by line,
And as we speak our very words are wrought
Into expression on a form Divine;
Or chains of evil on the soul entwine.
O thought of ages which can ne'er be past,
How inconceivable the dreadful vast!
How awful is that word, for evermore!
And yet th' insatiate soul's congenial home,
Which here, as it advances to deplore
The fleetingness of all things, looks to some
Assur'd stability that is to come;
Sea, Moon, and Stars, and Skies which earth surround,
All speak some home, immortal, dread, profound.
And yet th' insatiate soul's congenial home,
Which here, as it advances to deplore
The fleetingness of all things, looks to some
Assur'd stability that is to come;
Sea, Moon, and Stars, and Skies which earth surround,
All speak some home, immortal, dread, profound.
Dread word, for everlasting! Go, demand
What joy is dearest in their love's abyss,
Where happy souls drink life at God's right hand;
'Tis that no time shall take away their bliss:
And unto them who their great prize shall miss,
The bitterest drop in that most bitter cup
Is that no end their sorrows shall drink up.
What joy is dearest in their love's abyss,
Where happy souls drink life at God's right hand;
'Tis that no time shall take away their bliss:
And unto them who their great prize shall miss,
The bitterest drop in that most bitter cup
Is that no end their sorrows shall drink up.
For ever is the fountain which abounds;
And Never is the bound to which it flows;
The shoreless sea of being still surrounds.
Where shall this dread reflection find repose,—
Save in that God Who all our frailty knows?
In thought of Him this fearful thought finds rest,
It hath no place of refuge but His breast.
And Never is the bound to which it flows;
The shoreless sea of being still surrounds.
Where shall this dread reflection find repose,—
Save in that God Who all our frailty knows?
In thought of Him this fearful thought finds rest,
It hath no place of refuge but His breast.
233
Here among things that fade so fast away,
Whatever courts our love, before it goes
Still flatters with the hopes that it will stay:
Duration all things' value doth dispose,
The penal aggravation of all woes;
Takes worth from flowers, and gives it to the gem,
And is itself the spirit's diadem.
Whatever courts our love, before it goes
Still flatters with the hopes that it will stay:
Duration all things' value doth dispose,
The penal aggravation of all woes;
Takes worth from flowers, and gives it to the gem,
And is itself the spirit's diadem.
Around me as I write the shadows flee
Of number numberless,—leaves from the trees
Are falling,—and the showers are pouring free,—
And multitudinous on the outstretch'd seas
Waves lift their little heads unto the breeze,
And flowers are gone,—and seeds, around us shed,
Seek o'er the boundless lands their wintry bed.
Of number numberless,—leaves from the trees
Are falling,—and the showers are pouring free,—
And multitudinous on the outstretch'd seas
Waves lift their little heads unto the breeze,
And flowers are gone,—and seeds, around us shed,
Seek o'er the boundless lands their wintry bed.
But more than leaves that fall into their graves,—
And more than drops of rain in winter shed,—
And more than are the multitudinous waves
Which o'er the expanse of waters lift their head;—
And more than seeds which seek their wintry bed,
Those ages long when life and death appears,
The immortality of endless years.
And more than drops of rain in winter shed,—
And more than are the multitudinous waves
Which o'er the expanse of waters lift their head;—
And more than seeds which seek their wintry bed,
Those ages long when life and death appears,
The immortality of endless years.
We deem of termination to all space,
But yet that termination further goes,
Still Thought sets foot upon the furthest place,
And shoots beyond; that Thought no limit knows,
Beyond the end the infinite still flows:
Thus to all time no Thought can find the door,
But limitless extends—the Evermore.
But yet that termination further goes,
Still Thought sets foot upon the furthest place,
And shoots beyond; that Thought no limit knows,
Beyond the end the infinite still flows:
Thus to all time no Thought can find the door,
But limitless extends—the Evermore.
234
Is this the substance, the reality,
And life the dream? then let us talk no more
Of ways to flee from hallow'd poverty,
Of gathering grains in streams of golden ore,
Of evil tongues, of disputatious lore,
Of many days the poet's praise shall live,
Of the delights domestic love can give.
And life the dream? then let us talk no more
Of ways to flee from hallow'd poverty,
Of gathering grains in streams of golden ore,
Of evil tongues, of disputatious lore,
Of many days the poet's praise shall live,
Of the delights domestic love can give.
For more than thoughts on anxious souls that break,
More than the grains in fabled streams of gold,—
And more than idle words that men shall speak,—
Than joys of home,—than praise that grows not old,—
More than all these, ten thousand times twice told,
The never-ending years God shall bestow,
When spirits shall awake in bliss or woe.
More than the grains in fabled streams of gold,—
And more than idle words that men shall speak,—
Than joys of home,—than praise that grows not old,—
More than all these, ten thousand times twice told,
The never-ending years God shall bestow,
When spirits shall awake in bliss or woe.
This makes the eyes so full of pitying care,
That 'mid the dead and dying thus we flee,
'Mid mouldering shrines in ruin sad and fair;—
That when we die we do not cease to be,
But pass to shoreless and unchanging sea:
This, lost in sensual things, the soul divines,
Like a dim lamp that in a ruin shines.
That 'mid the dead and dying thus we flee,
'Mid mouldering shrines in ruin sad and fair;—
That when we die we do not cease to be,
But pass to shoreless and unchanging sea:
This, lost in sensual things, the soul divines,
Like a dim lamp that in a ruin shines.
This is the chord of mournful tenderness
In Heathen song, at every parting close
Returning, while with flowers their heads they dress,
That like those fading flowers the spirit goes,
But to some unimagin'd dread repose:
Still in the soul sounds the deep underchime
Of some immeasurable boundless time.
In Heathen song, at every parting close
Returning, while with flowers their heads they dress,
That like those fading flowers the spirit goes,
But to some unimagin'd dread repose:
Still in the soul sounds the deep underchime
Of some immeasurable boundless time.
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For otherwise why thus should man deplore
To part with his short being? why thus sigh
O'er things which fade around and are no more—
While heedless of their doom they live and die,
And yield up their sweet breaths, nor reason why,—
But that within us, while so fast we flee,
The Image dwells of God's eternity?
To part with his short being? why thus sigh
O'er things which fade around and are no more—
While heedless of their doom they live and die,
And yield up their sweet breaths, nor reason why,—
But that within us, while so fast we flee,
The Image dwells of God's eternity?
From tomb to tomb the living echo cries,
Th' unearthly calls of multitudes gone hence;
From tomb to tomb one lesson still replies,
Like the dread voice of God's omnipotence;—
Warning us from the fleeting scenes of sense
To turn to Thee, and ask Thee for Thy rod,
That we may be prepar'd to meet our God.
Th' unearthly calls of multitudes gone hence;
From tomb to tomb one lesson still replies,
Like the dread voice of God's omnipotence;—
Warning us from the fleeting scenes of sense
To turn to Thee, and ask Thee for Thy rod,
That we may be prepar'd to meet our God.
| The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life | |