EASTER-DAY

IHow very hard it is to beA Christian! Hard for you and me,—Not the mere task of making realThat duty up to its ideal,Effecting thus, complete and whole,A purpose of the human soul—For that is always hard to do;But hard, I mean, for me and youTo realize it, more or less,With even the moderate successWhich commonly repays our strifeTo carry out the aims of life."This aim is greater," you will say,"And so more arduous every way."—But the importance of their fruitsStill proves to man, in all pursuits,Proportional encouragement."Then, what if it be God's intentThat labor to this one resultShould seem unduly difficult?"Ah, that 's a question in the dark—And the sole thing that I remarkUpon the difficulty, this:We do not see it where it is,At the beginning of the race:As we proceed, it shifts its place,And where we looked for crowns to fall,We find the tug 's to come,—that 's all.IIAt first you say, "The whole, or chiefOf difficulties, is belief.Could I believe once thoroughly,The rest were simple. What? Am IAn idiot, do you think,—a beast?Prove to me, only that the leastCommand of God is God's indeed,And what injunction shall I needTo pay obedience? Death so nigh,When time must end, eternityBegin,—and cannot I compute,Weigh loss and gain together, suitMy actions to the balance drawn,And give my body to be sawnAsunder, hacked in pieces, tiedTo horses, stoned, burned, crucified,Like any martyr of the list?How gladly!—if I make acquist,Through the brief minute's fierce annoy,Of God's eternity of joy."III—And certainly you name the pointWhereon all turns: for could you jointThis flexile finite life once tightInto the fixed and infinite,You, safe inside, would spurn what 's out,With carelessness enough, no doubt—Would spurn mere life: but when time bringsTo their next stage your reasonings,Your eyes, late wide, begin to winkNor see the path so well, I think.IVYou say, "Faith may be, one agrees,A touchstone for God's purposes,Even as ourselves conceive of them.Could he acquit us or condemnFor holding what no hand can loose,Rejecting when we can't but choose?As well award the victor's wreathTo whosoever should take breathDuly each minute while he lived—Grant heaven, because a man contrivedTo see its sunlight every dayHe walked forth on the public way.You must mix some uncertaintyWith faith, if you would have faith be.Why, what but faith, do we abhorAnd idolize each other for—Faith in our evil or our good,Which is or is not understoodAright by those we love or thoseWe hate, thence called our friends or foes?Your mistress saw your spirit's grace,When, turning from the ugly face,I found belief in it too hard;And she and I have our reward.—Yet here a doubt peeps: well for usWeak beings, to go using thusA touchstone for our little ends,Trying with faith the foes and friends;—But God, bethink you! I would fainConceive of the Creator's reignAs based upon exacter lawsThan creatures build by with applause.In all God's acts—(as Plato criesHe doth)—he should geometrize.Whence, I desiderate" ...VI see!You would grow as a natural tree,Stand as a rock, soar up like fire.The world 's so perfect and entire,Quite above faith, so right and fit!Go there, walk up and down in it!No. The creation travails, groans—Contrive your music from its moans,Without or let or hindrance, friend!That 's an old story, and its endAs old—you come back (be sincere)With every question you put here(Here where there once was, and is still,We think, a living oracle,Whose answers you stand carping at)This time flung back unanswered flat,—Beside, perhaps, as many moreAs those that drove you out before,Now added, where was little need.Questions impossible, indeed,To us who sat still, all and eachPersuaded that our earth had speech,Of God's, writ down, no matter ifIn cursive type or hieroglyph,—Which one fact freed us from the yokeOf guessing why He never spoke.You come back in no better plightThan when you left us,—am I right?VISo, the old process, I conclude,Goes on, the reasoning 's pursuedFurther. You own, "'T is well averred,A scientific faith 's absurd,—Frustrates the very end 't was meantTo serve. So, I would rest contentWith a mere probability,But, probable; the chance must lieClear on one side,—lie all in rough,So long as there be just enoughTo pin my faith to, though it hapOnly at points: from gap to gapOne hangs up a huge curtain so,Grandly, nor seeks to have it goFoldless and flat along the wall.What care I if some intervalOf life less plainly may dependOn God? I 'd hang there to the end;And thus I should not find it hardTo be a Christian and debarredFrom trailing on the earth, till furledAway by death.—Renounce the world!Were that a mighty hardship? PlanA pleasant life, and straight some manBeside you, with, if he thought fit,Abundant means to compass it,Shall turn deliberate asideTo try and live as, if you triedYou clearly might, yet most despise.One friend of mine wears out his eyes,Slighting the stupid joys of sense,In patient hope that, ten years hence,'Somewhat completer,' he may say,'My list ofcoleoptera!'While just the other who most laughsAt him, above all epitaphsAspires to have his tomb describeHimself as sole among the tribeOf snuffbox-fanciers, who possessedA Grignon with the Regent's crest.So that, subduing, as you want,Whatever stands predominantAmong my earthly appetitesFor tastes and smells and sounds and sights,I shall be doing that alone,To gain a palm-branch and a throne,Which fifty people undertakeTo do, and gladly, for the sakeOf giving a Semitic guess,Or playing pawns at blindfold chess."VIIGood: and the next thing is,—look roundFor evidence enough! 'T is found,No doubt: as is your sort of mind,So is your sort of search: you 'll findWhat you desire, and that 's to beA Christian. What says history?How comforting a point it wereTo find some mummy-scrap declareThere lived a Moses! Better still,Prove Jonah's whale translatableInto some quicksand of the seas,Isle, cavern, rock, or what you please,That faith might flap her wings and crowFrom such an eminence! Or, no—The human heart 's best; you preferMaking that prove the ministerTo truth; you probe its wants and needs,And hopes and fears, then try what creedsMeet these most aptly,—resoluteThat faith plucks such substantial fruitWherever these two correspond,She little needs to look beyondAnd puzzle out who Orpheus was,Or Dionysius Zagrias.You 'll find sufficient, as I say,To satisfy you either way;You wanted to believe; your painsAre crowned—you do: and what remains?"Renounce the world!"—Ah, were it doneBy merely cutting one by oneYour limbs off, with your wise head last,How easy were it!—how soon past,If once in the believing mood!"Such is man's usual gratitude,Such thanks to God do we return,For not exacting that we spurnA single gift of life, foregoOne real gain,—only taste them soWith gravity and temperance,That those mild virtues may enhanceSuch pleasures, rather than abstract—Last spice of which, will be the factOf love discerned in every gift;While, when the scene of life shall shift,And the gay heart be taught to ache,As sorrows and privations takeThe place of joy,—the thing that seemsMere misery, under human schemes,Becomes, regarded by the lightOf love, as very near or quiteAs good a gift as joy before.So plain is it that, all the moreA dispensation 's merciful,More pettishly we try and cullBriers, thistles, from our private plot,To mar God's ground where thorns are not!"VIIIDo you say this, or I?—Oh, you!Then, what, my friend?—(thus I pursueOur parley)—you indeed opineThat the Eternal and DivineDid, eighteen centuries ago,In very truth ... Enough! you knowThe all-stupendous tale,—that Birth,That Life, that Death! And all, the earthShuddered at,—all, the heavens grew blackRather than see; all, nature's rackAnd throe at dissolution's brinkAttested,—-all took place, you think,Only to give our joys a zest,And prove our sorrows for the best?We differ, then! Were I, still paleAnd heartstruck at the dreadful tale,Waiting to hear God's voice declareWhat horror followed for my share,As implicated in the deed,Apart from other sins,—concedeThat if He blacked out in a blotMy brief life's pleasantness, 't were notSo very disproportionate!Or there might be another fate—I certainly could understand(If fancies were the thing in hand)How God might save, at that day's price,The impure in their impurities,Give license formal and completeTo choose the fair and pick the sweet.But there be certain words, broad, plain,Uttered again and yet again,Hard to mistake or overgloss—Announcing this world's gain for loss,And bidding us reject the same:The whole world lieth (they proclaim)In wickedness,—come out of it!Turn a deaf ear, if you think fit,But I who thrill through every nerveAt thought of what deaf ears deserve—How do you counsel in the case?IX"I 'd take, by all means, in your place,The safe side, since it so appears:Deny myself, a few brief years,The natural pleasure, leave the fruitOr cut the plant up by the root.Remember what a martyr saidOn the rude tablet overhead!'I was born sickly, poor and mean,A slave: no misery could screenThe holders of the pearl of priceFrom Cæsar's envy; therefore twiceI fought with beasts, and three times sawMy children suffer by his law;At last my own release was earned:I was some time in being burned,But at the close a Hand came throughThe fire above my head, and drewMy soul to Christ, whom now I see.Sergius, a brother, writes for meThis testimony on the wall—For me, I have forgot it all.'You say right; this were not so hard!And since one nowise is debarredFrom this, why not escape some sinsBy such a method?"XThen beginsTo the old point revulsion new—(For 't is just this I bring you to)—If after all we should mistake,And so renounce life for the sakeOf death and nothing else? You hearEach friend we jeered at, send the jeerBack to ourselves with good effect—"There were my beetles to collect!My box—a trifle, I confess,But here I hold it, ne'ertheless!"Poor idiots, (let us pluck up heartAnd answer) we, the better partHave chosen, though 't were only hope,—Nor envy moles like you that gropeAmid your veritable muck,More than the grasshoppers would truck,For yours, their passionate life away,That spends itself in leaps all dayTo reach the sun, you want the eyesTo see, as they the wings to riseAnd match the noble hearts of them!Thus the contemner we contemn,—And, when doubt strikes us, thus we wardIts stroke off, caught upon our guard,—Not struck enough to overturnOur faith, but shake it—make us learnWhat I began with, and, I wis,End, having proved,—how hard it isTo be a Christian!XI"Proved, or not,Howe'er you wis, small thanks, I wot,You get of mine, for taking painsTo make it hard to me. Who gainsBy that, I wonder? Here I liveIn trusting ease; and here you driveAt causing me to lose what mostYourself would mourn for had you lost!"XIIBut, do you see, my friend, that thusYou leave Saint Paul for Æschylus?—Who made his Titan's arch-deviceThe giving menblind hopesto spiceThe meal of life with, else devouredIn bitter haste, while lo, death louredBefore them at the platter's edge!If faith should be, as I allege,Quite other than a condimentTo heighten flavors with, or meant(Like that brave curry of his Grace)To take at need the victuals' place?If, having dined, you would digestBesides, and turning to your restShould find instead ...XIIINow, you shall seeAnd judge if a mere fopperyPricks on my speaking! I resolveTo utter—yes, it shall devolveOn you to hear as solemn, strangeAnd dread a thing as in the rangeOf facts,—or fancies, if God will—E'er happened to our kind! I stillStand in the cloud and, while it wrapsMy face, ought not to speak perhaps;Seeing that if I carry throughMy purpose, if my words in youFind a live actual listener,My story, reason must averFalse after all—the happy chance!While, if each human countenanceI meet in London day by day,Be what I fear,—my warnings frayNo one, and no one they convert,And no one helps me to assertHow hard it is to really beA Christian, and in vacancyI pour this story!XIVI commenceBy trying to inform you, whenceIt comes that every Easter-nightAs now, I sit up, watch, till light,Upon those chimney-stacks and roofs,Give, through my window-pane, gray proofsThat Easter-Day is breaking slow.On such a night, three years ago,It chanced that I had cause to crossThe common, where the chapel was,Our friend spoke of, the other day—You 've not forgotten, I dare say.I fell to musing of the timeSo close, the blessed matin-primeAll hearts leap up at, in some guise—One could not well do otherwise.Insensibly my thoughts were bentToward the main point; I overwentMuch the same ground of reasoningAs you and I just now. One thingRemained, however—one that taskedMy soul to answer; and I asked,Fairly and frankly, what might beThat History, that Faith, to me—Me there—not me in some domainBuilt up and peopled by my brain,Weighing its merits as one weighsMere theories for blame or praise,—The kingcraft of the Lucumons,Or Fourier's scheme, its pros and cons,—But my faith there, or none at all."How were my case, now, did I fallDead here, this minute—should I lieFaithful or faithless?" Note that IInclined thus ever!—little proneFor instance, when I lay aloneIn childhood, to go calm to sleepAnd leave a closet where might keepHis watch perdue some murdererWaiting till twelve o'clock to stir,As good authentic legends tell:"He might: but how improbable!How little likely to deserveThe pains and trial to the nerveOf thrusting head into the dark!"—Urged my old nurse, and bade me markBeside, that, should the dreadful scoutReally lie hid there, and leap outAt first turn of the rusty key,Mine were small gain that she could see,Killed not in bed but on the floor,And losing one night's sleep the more.I tell you, I would always burstThe door ope, know my fate at first.This time, indeed, the closet pennedNo such assassin: but a friendRather, peeped out to guard me, fitFor counsel, Common Sense, to wit,Who said a good deal that might pass,—Heartening, impartial too, it was,Judge else: "For, soberly now,—whoShould be a Christian if not you?"(Hear how he smoothed me down.) "One takesA whole life, sees what course it makesMainly, and not by fits and starts—In spite of stoppage which impartsFresh value to the general speed.A life, with none, would fly indeed:Your progressing is slower—right!We deal with progress and not flight.Through baffling senses passionate,Fancies as restless,—with a freightOf knowledge cumbersome enoughTo sink your ship when waves grow rough,Though meant for ballast in the hold,—I find, 'mid dangers manifold,The good bark answers to the helmWhere faith sits, easier to o'erwhelmThan some stout peasant's heavenly guide,Whose hard head could not, if it tried,Conceive a doubt, nor understandHow senses hornier than his handShould 'tice the Christian off his guard.More happy! But shall we awardLess honor to the hull which, doggedBy storms, a mere wreck, waterlogged,Masts by the board, her bulwarks goneAnd stanchions going, yet bears on,—Than to mere lifeboats, built to save,And triumph o'er the breaking wave?Make perfect your good ship as these,And what were her performances!"I added—"Would the ship reach home!I wish indeed 'God's kingdom come'—The day when I shall see appearHis bidding, as my duty, clearFrom doubt! And it shall dawn, that day,Some future season; Easter mayProve, not impossibly, the time—Yes, that were striking—fates would chimeSo aptly! Easter-morn, to bringThe Judgment!—deeper in the springThan now, however, when there 's snowCapping the hills; for earth must showAll signs of meaning to pursueHer tasks as she was wont to do—The skylark, taken by surpriseAs we ourselves, shall recognizeSudden the end. For suddenlyIt comes; the dreadfulness must beIn that; all warrants the belief—'At night it cometh like a thief.'I fancy why the trumpet blows;—Plainly, to wake one. From reposeWe shall start up, at last awakeFrom life, that insane dream we takeFor waking now, because it seems.And as, when now we wake from dreams,We laugh, while we recall them, 'Fool,To let the chance slip, linger coolWhen such adventure offered! JustA bridge to cross, a dwarf to thrustAside, a wicked mage to stab—And, lo ye, I had kissed Queen Mab!'So shall we marvel why we grudgedOur labor here, and idly judgedOf heaven, we might have gained, but lose!Lose? Talk of loss, and I refuseTo plead at all! You speak no worseNor better than my ancient nurseWhen she would tell me in my youthI well deserved that shapes uncouthFrighted and teased me in my sleep:Why could I not in memory keepHer precept for the evil's cure?'Pinch your own arm, boy, and be sureYou 'll wake forthwith!'"XVAnd as I saidThis nonsense, throwing back my headWith light complacent laugh, I foundSuddenly all the midnight roundOne fire. The dome of heaven had stoodAs made up of a multitudeOf handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rackOf ripples infinite and black,From sky to sky. Sudden there went,Like horror and astonishment,A fierce vindictive scribble of redQuick flame across, as if one said(The angry scribe of Judgment) "There—Burn it!" And straight I was awareThat the whole ribwork round, minuteCloud touching cloud beyond compute,Was tinted, each with its own spotOf burning at the core, till clotJammed against clot, and spilt its fireOver all heaven, which 'gan suspireAs fanned to measure equable,—Just so great conflagrations killNight overhead, and rise and sink,Reflected. Now the fire would shrinkAnd wither off the blasted faceOf heaven, and I distinct might traceThe sharp black ridgy outlines leftUnburned like network—then, each cleftThe fire had been sucked back into,Regorged, and out it surging flewFuriously, and night writhed inflamed,Till, tolerating to be tamedNo longer, certain rays world-wideShot downwardly. On every sideCaught past escape, the earth was lit;As if a dragon's nostril splitAnd all his famished ire o'erflowed;Then, as he winced at his lord's goad,Back he inhaled: whereat I foundThe clouds into vast pillars bound,Based on the corners of the earth,Propping the skies at top: a dearthOf fire i' the violet intervals,Leaving exposed the utmost wallsOf time, about to tumble inAnd end the world.XVII felt beginThe Judgment-Day: to retrocedeWas too late now. "In very deed,"(I uttered to myself) "that Day!"The intuition burned awayAll darkness from my spirit too:There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew,Choosing the world. The choice was made;And naked and disguiseless stayed,And unevadable, the fact.My brain held all the same compactIts senses, nor my heart declinedIts office; rather, both combinedTo help me in this juncture. ILost not a second,—agonyGave boldness: since my life had endAnd my choice with it—best defend,Applaud both! I resolved to say,"So was I framed by thee, such wayI put to use thy senses here!It was so beautiful, so near,Thy world,—what could I then but chooseMy part there? Nor did I refuseTo look above the transient boonOf time; but it was hard so soonAs in a short life, to give upSuch beauty: I could put the cup,Undrained of half its fulness, by;But, to renounce it utterly,—That was too hard! Nor did the cryWhich bade renounce it, touch my brainAuthentically deep and plainEnough to make my lips let go.But thou, who knowest all, dost knowWhether I was not, life's brief while,Endeavoring to reconcileThose lips (too tardily, alas!)To letting the dear remnant pass,One day,—some drops of earthly goodUntasted! Is it for this mood,That thou, whose earth delights so well,Hast made its complement a hell?"XVIIA final belch of fire like blood,Overbroke all heaven in one floodOf doom. Then fire was sky, and skyFire, and both, one brief ecstasy,Then ashes. But I heard no noise(Whatever was) because a voiceBeside me spoke thus, "Life is done,Time ends, Eternity 's begun,And thou art judged forevermore."XVIIII looked up; all seemed as before;Of that cloud-Tophet overheadNo trace was left: I saw insteadThe common round me, and the skyAbove, stretched drear and emptilyOf life. 'T was the last watch of night,Except what brings the morning quite;When the armed angel, conscience-clear,His task nigh done, leans o'er his spearAnd gazes on the earth he guards,Safe one night more through all its wards,Till God relieve him at his post."A dream—a waking dream at most!"(I spoke out quick, that I might shakeThe horrid nightmare off, and wake.)"The world gone, yet the world is here?Are not all things as they appear?Is Judgment past for me alone?—And where had place the great white throne?The rising of the quick and dead?Where stood they, small and great? Who readThe sentence from the opened book?"So, by degrees, the blood forsookMy heart, and let it beat afresh;I knew I should break through the meshOf horror, and breathe presently:When, lo, again, the voice by me!XIXI saw ... O brother, 'mid far sandsThe palm-tree-cinctured city stands,Bright-white beneath, as heaven, bright-blue,Leans o'er it, while the years pursueTheir course, unable to abateIts paradisal laugh at fate!One morn,—the Arab staggers blindO'er a new tract of death, calcinedTo ashes, silence, nothingness,—And strives, with dizzy wits, to guessWhence fell the blow. What if, 'twixt skiesAnd prostrate earth, he should surpriseThe imaged vapor, head to foot,Surveying, motionless and mute,Its work, ere, in a whirlwind raptIt vanish up again?—So haptMy chance.Hestood there. Like the smokePillared o'er Sodom, when day broke,—I saw him. One magnific pallMantled in massive fold and fallHis head, and coiled in snaky swathesAbout his feet: night's black, that bathesAll else, broke, grizzled with despair,Against the soul of blackness there.A gesture told the mood within—That wrapped right hand which based the chin,That intense meditation fixedOn his procedure,—pity mixedWith the fulfilment of decree.Motionless, thus, he spoke to me,Who fell before his feet, a mass,No man now.XX"All is come to pass.Such shows are over for each soulThey had respect to. In the rollOf Judgment which convinced mankindOf sin, stood many, bold and blind,Terror must burn the truth into:Their fate for them!—thou hadst to doWith absolute omnipotence,Able its judgments to dispenseTo the whole race, as every oneWere its sole object. Judgment done,God is, thou art,—the rest is hurledTo nothingness for thee. This world,This finite life, thou hast preferred,In disbelief of God's plain word,To heaven and to infinity.Here the probation was for thee,To show thy soul the earthly mixedWith heavenly, it must choose betwixt.The earthly joys lay palpable,—A taint, in each, distinct as well;The heavenly flitted, faint and rare,Above them, but as truly wereTaintless, so, in their nature, best.Thy choice was earth: thou didst attest'T was fitter spirit should subserveThe flesh, than flesh refine to nerveBeneath the spirit's play. AdvanceNo claim to their inheritanceWho chose the spirit's fugitiveBrief gleams, and yearned, 'This were to liveIndeed, if rays, completely pureFrom flesh that dulls them, could endure,—Not shoot in meteor-light athwartOur earth, to show how cold and swartIt lies beneath their fire, but standAs stars do, destined to expand,Prove veritable worlds, our home!'Thou saidst,—'Let spirit star the domeOf sky, that flesh may miss no peak,No nook of earth,—I shall not seekIts service further!' Thou art shutOut of the heaven of spirit; glutThy sense upon the world: 't is thineForever—take it!"XXI"How? Is mine,The world?" (I cried, while my soul brokeOut in a transport.) "Hast thou spokePlainly in that? Earth's exquisiteTreasures of wonder and delightFor me?"XXIIThe austere voice returned,—"So soon made happy? Hadst thou learnedWhat God accounteth happiness,Thou wouldst not find it hard to guessWhat hell may be his punishmentFor those who doubt if God inventBetter than they. Let such men restContent with what they judged the best.Let the unjust usurp at will:The filthy shall be filthy still:Miser, there waits the gold for thee!Hater, indulge thine enmity!And thou, whose heaven self-ordainedWas, to enjoy earth unrestrained,Do it! Take all the ancient show!The woods shall wave, the rivers flow,And men apparently pursueTheir works, as they were wont to do,While living in probation yet.I promise not thou shalt forgetThe past, now gone to its account;But leave thee with the old amountOf faculties, nor less nor more,Unvisited, as heretofore,By God's free spirit, that makes an end.So, once more, take thy world! ExpendEternity upon its showsFlung thee as freely as one roseOut of a summer's opulence,Over the Eden-barrier whenceThou art excluded. Knock in vain!"XXIIII sat up. All was still again.I breathed free: to my heart, back fledThe warmth. "But, all the world!"—I said.I stooped and picked a leaf of fern,And recollected I might learnFrom books, how many myriad sortsOf fern exist, to trust reports,Each as distinct and beautifulAs this, the very first I cull.Think, from the first leaf to the last!Conceive, then, earth's resources! VastExhaustless beauty, endless changeOf wonder! And this foot shall rangeAlps, Andes,—and this eye devourThe bee-bird and the aloe-flower?XXIVThen the voice: "Welcome so to rateThe arras-folds that variegateThe earth, God's antechamber, well!The wise, who waited there, could tellBy these, what royalties in storeLay one step past the entrance-door.For whom, was reckoned, not too much,This life's munificence? For suchAs thou,—a race, whereof scarce oneWas able, in a million,To feel that any marvel layIn objects round his feet all day;Scarce one, in many millions more,Willing, if able, to exploreThe secreter, minuter charm!—Brave souls, a fern-leaf could disarmOf power to cope with God's intent,—Or scared if the south firmamentWith north-fire did its wings refledge!All partial beauty was a pledgeOf beauty in its plenitude:But since the pledge sufficed thy mood,Retain it! plenitude be theirsWho looked above!"XXVThough sharp despairsShot through me, I held up, bore on."What matter though my trust were goneFrom natural things? Henceforth my partBe less with nature than with art!For art supplants, gives mainly worthTo nature; 'tis man stamps the earth—And I will seek his impress, seekThe statuary of the Greek,Italy's painting—there my choiceShall fix!"XXVI"Obtain it!" said the voice,"The one form with its single act,Which sculptors labored to abstract,The one face, painters tried to draw,With its one look, from throngs they saw.And that perfection in their soul,These only hinted at? The whole,They were but parts of? What each laidHis claim to glory on?—afraidHis fellow-men should give him rankBy mere tentatives which he shrankSmitten at heart from, all the more,That gazers pressed in to adore!'Shall I be judged by only these?'If such his soul's capacities,Even while he trod the earth,—think, now.What pomp in Buonarroti's brow,With its new palace-brain where dwellsSuperb the soul, unvexed by cellsThat crumbled with the transient clay!What visions will his right hand's swayStill turn to forms, as still they burstUpon him? How will he quench thirst,Titanically infantine,Laid at the breast of the Divine?Does it confound thee,—this first pageEmblazoning man's heritage?—Can this alone absorb thy sight,As pages were not infinite,—Like the omnipotence which tasksItself to furnish all that asksThe soul it means to satiate?What was the world, the starry stateOf the broad skies,—what, all displaysOf power and beauty intermixed,Which now thy soul is chained betwixt,—What else than needful furnitureFor life's first stage? God's work, be sure.No more spreads wasted, than falls scant!He filled, did not exceed, man's wantOf beauty in this life. But throughLife pierce,—and what has earth to do,Its utmost beauty's appanage,With the requirement of next stage?Did God pronounce earth 'very good'?Needs must it he, while understoodFor man's preparatory state;Naught here to heighten nor abate;Transfer the same completeness here,To serve a new state's use,—and drearDeficiency gapes every side!The good, tried once, were bad, retried.See the enwrapping rocky niche,Sufficient for the sleep in whichThe lizard breathes for ages safe:Split the mould—and as light would chafeThe creature's new world-widened sense,Dazzled to death at evidenceOf all the sounds and sights that brokeInnumerous at the chisel's stroke,—So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuffWas, neither more nor less, enoughTo house man's soul, man's need fulfil.Man reckoned it immeasurable?So thinks the lizard of his vault!Could God be taken in default,Short of contrivances, by you,—Or reached, ere ready to pursueHis progress through eternity?That chambered rock, the lizard's world,Your easy mallet's blow has hurledTo nothingness forever; so,Has God abolished at a blowThis world, wherein his saints were pent,—Who, though found grateful and content,With the provision there, as thou,Yet knew he would not disallowTheir spirit's hunger, felt as well,—Unsated,—not unsatable,As paradise gives proof. DerideTheir choice now, thou who sit'st outside!"XXVIII cried in anguish: "Mind, the mind,So miserably cast behind,To gain what had been wisely lost!Oh, let me strive to make the mostOf the poor stinted soul, I nippedOf budding wings, else now equippedFor voyage from summer isle to isle!And though she needs must reconcileAmbition to the life on ground,Still, I can profit by late foundBut precious knowledge. Mind is best—I will seize mind, forego the rest,And try how far my tethered strengthMay crawl in this poor breadth and length.Let me, since I can fly no more,At least spin dervish-like about(Till giddy rapture almost doubtI fly) through circling sciences,Philosophies and histories!Should the whirl slacken there, then verse,Fining to music, shall asperseFresh and fresh fire-dew, till I strainIntoxicate, half-break my chain!Not joyless, though more favored feetStand calm, where I want wings to beatThe floor. At least earth's bond is broke!"XXVIIIThen (sickening even while I spoke):"Let me alone! No answer, pray,To this! I know what thou wilt say!All still is earth's,—to know, as muchAs feel its truths, which if we touchWith sense, or apprehend in soul,What matter? I have reached the goal—'Whereto does knowledge serve!' will burnMy eyes, too sure, at every turn!I cannot look back now, nor stakeBliss on the race, for running's sake.The goal's a ruin like the rest!""And so much worse thy latter quest,"(Added the voice,) "that even on earth—Whenever, in man's soul, had birthThose intuitions, grasps of guess,Which pull the more into the less,Making the finite comprehendInfinity,—the bard would spendSuch praise alone, upon his craft,As, when wind-lyres obey the waft,Goes to the craftsman who arrangedThe seven strings, changed them and rechanged—Knowing it was the South that harped.He felt his song; in singing, warped;Distinguished his and God's part: whenceA world of spirit as of senseWas plain to him, yet not too plain,Which he could traverse, not remainA guest in:—else were permanentHeaven on the earth its gleams were meantTo sting with hunger for full light,—Made visible in verse, despiteThe veiling weakness,—truth by meansOf fable, showing while it screens,—Since highest truth, man e'er supplied,Was ever fable on outside.Such gleams made bright the earth an age;Now the whole sun's his heritage!Take up thy world, it is allowed,Thou who hast entered in the cloud!"XXIXThen I—"Behold, my spirit bleeds,Catches no more at broken reeds,—But lilies flower those reeds above:I let the world go, and take love!Love survives in me, albeit thoseI love be henceforth masks and shows,Not living men and women: stillI mind how love repaired all ill,Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amendsWith parents, brothers, children, friends!Some semblance of a woman yetWith eyes to help me to forget,Shall look on me; and I will matchDeparted love with love, attachOld memories to new dreams, nor scornThe poorest of the grains of cornI save from shipwreck on this isle,Trusting its barrenness may smileWith happy foodful green one day,More precious for the pains. I pray,—Leave to love, only!"XXXAt the word,The form, I looked to have been stirredWith pity and approval, roseO'er me, as when the headsman throwsAxe over shoulder to make end—I fell prone, letting him expendHis wrath, while thus the inflicting voiceSmote me. "Is this thy final choice?Love is the best? 'Tis somewhat late!And all thou dost enumerateOf power and beauty in the world,The mightiness of love was curledInextricably round about.Love lay within it and without,To clasp thee,—but in vain! Thy soulStill shrunk from him who made the whole,Still set deliberate asideHis love!—Now take love! Well betideThy tardy conscience! Haste to takeThe show of love for the name's sake,Remembering every moment who,Beside creating thee untoThese ends, and these for thee, was saidTo undergo death in thy steadIn flesh like thine: so ran the tale.What doubt in thee could countervailBelief in it? Upon the ground'That in the story had been foundToo much love! How could God love so?'He who in all his works belowAdapted to the needs of man,Made love the basis of the plan,—Did love, as was demonstrated:While man, who was so fit insteadTo hate, as every day gave proof,—Manthought man, for his kind's behoof,Both, could and did invent that schemeOf perfect love: 'twould well beseemCain's nature thou wast wont to praise,Not tally with God's usual ways!"XXXIAnd I cowered deprecatingly—"Thou Love of God! Or let me die,Or grant what shall seem heaven almost!Let me not know that all is lost,Though lost it be—leave me not tiedTo this despair, this corpse-like bride!Let that old life seem mine—no more—With limitation as before,With darkness, hunger, toil, distress:Be all the earth a wilderness!Only let me go on, go on,Still hoping ever and anonTo reach one eve the Better Land!"XXXIIThen did the form expand, expand—I knew him through the dread disguiseAs the whole God within his eyesEmbraced me.XXXIIIWhen I lived again,The day was breaking,—the gray plainI rose from, silvered thick with dew.Was this a vision? False or true?Since then, three varied years are spent,And commonly my mind is bentTo think it was a dream—be sureA mere dream and distemperature—The last day's watching: then the night,—The shock of that strange Northern LightSet my head swimming, bred in meA dream. And so I live, you see,Go through the world, try, prove, reject,Prefer, still struggling to effectMy warfare; happy that I canBe crossed and thwarted as a man,Not left in God's contempt apart,With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart,Tame in earth's paddock as her prize.Thank God, she still each method triesTo catch me, who may yet escape,She knows,—the fiend in angel's shape!Thank God, no paradise stands barredTo entry, and I find it hardTo be a Christian, as I said!Still every now and then my headRaised glad, sinks mournful—all grows drearSpite of the sunshine, while I fearAnd think, "How dreadful to be grudgedNo ease henceforth, as one that's judged,Condemned to earth forever, shutFrom heaven!"But Easter-Day breaks! ButChrist rises! Mercy every wayIs infinite,—and who can say?

How very hard it is to beA Christian! Hard for you and me,—Not the mere task of making realThat duty up to its ideal,Effecting thus, complete and whole,A purpose of the human soul—For that is always hard to do;But hard, I mean, for me and youTo realize it, more or less,With even the moderate successWhich commonly repays our strifeTo carry out the aims of life."This aim is greater," you will say,"And so more arduous every way."—But the importance of their fruitsStill proves to man, in all pursuits,Proportional encouragement."Then, what if it be God's intentThat labor to this one resultShould seem unduly difficult?"Ah, that 's a question in the dark—And the sole thing that I remarkUpon the difficulty, this:We do not see it where it is,At the beginning of the race:As we proceed, it shifts its place,And where we looked for crowns to fall,We find the tug 's to come,—that 's all.

How very hard it is to be

A Christian! Hard for you and me,

—Not the mere task of making real

That duty up to its ideal,

Effecting thus, complete and whole,

A purpose of the human soul—

For that is always hard to do;

But hard, I mean, for me and you

To realize it, more or less,

With even the moderate success

Which commonly repays our strife

To carry out the aims of life.

"This aim is greater," you will say,

"And so more arduous every way."

—But the importance of their fruits

Still proves to man, in all pursuits,

Proportional encouragement.

"Then, what if it be God's intent

That labor to this one result

Should seem unduly difficult?"

Ah, that 's a question in the dark—

And the sole thing that I remark

Upon the difficulty, this:

We do not see it where it is,

At the beginning of the race:

As we proceed, it shifts its place,

And where we looked for crowns to fall,

We find the tug 's to come,—that 's all.

At first you say, "The whole, or chiefOf difficulties, is belief.Could I believe once thoroughly,The rest were simple. What? Am IAn idiot, do you think,—a beast?Prove to me, only that the leastCommand of God is God's indeed,And what injunction shall I needTo pay obedience? Death so nigh,When time must end, eternityBegin,—and cannot I compute,Weigh loss and gain together, suitMy actions to the balance drawn,And give my body to be sawnAsunder, hacked in pieces, tiedTo horses, stoned, burned, crucified,Like any martyr of the list?How gladly!—if I make acquist,Through the brief minute's fierce annoy,Of God's eternity of joy."

At first you say, "The whole, or chief

Of difficulties, is belief.

Could I believe once thoroughly,

The rest were simple. What? Am I

An idiot, do you think,—a beast?

Prove to me, only that the least

Command of God is God's indeed,

And what injunction shall I need

To pay obedience? Death so nigh,

When time must end, eternity

Begin,—and cannot I compute,

Weigh loss and gain together, suit

My actions to the balance drawn,

And give my body to be sawn

Asunder, hacked in pieces, tied

To horses, stoned, burned, crucified,

Like any martyr of the list?

How gladly!—if I make acquist,

Through the brief minute's fierce annoy,

Of God's eternity of joy."

III

—And certainly you name the pointWhereon all turns: for could you jointThis flexile finite life once tightInto the fixed and infinite,You, safe inside, would spurn what 's out,With carelessness enough, no doubt—Would spurn mere life: but when time bringsTo their next stage your reasonings,Your eyes, late wide, begin to winkNor see the path so well, I think.

—And certainly you name the point

Whereon all turns: for could you joint

This flexile finite life once tight

Into the fixed and infinite,

You, safe inside, would spurn what 's out,

With carelessness enough, no doubt—

Would spurn mere life: but when time brings

To their next stage your reasonings,

Your eyes, late wide, begin to wink

Nor see the path so well, I think.

You say, "Faith may be, one agrees,A touchstone for God's purposes,Even as ourselves conceive of them.Could he acquit us or condemnFor holding what no hand can loose,Rejecting when we can't but choose?As well award the victor's wreathTo whosoever should take breathDuly each minute while he lived—Grant heaven, because a man contrivedTo see its sunlight every dayHe walked forth on the public way.You must mix some uncertaintyWith faith, if you would have faith be.Why, what but faith, do we abhorAnd idolize each other for—Faith in our evil or our good,Which is or is not understoodAright by those we love or thoseWe hate, thence called our friends or foes?Your mistress saw your spirit's grace,When, turning from the ugly face,I found belief in it too hard;And she and I have our reward.—Yet here a doubt peeps: well for usWeak beings, to go using thusA touchstone for our little ends,Trying with faith the foes and friends;—But God, bethink you! I would fainConceive of the Creator's reignAs based upon exacter lawsThan creatures build by with applause.In all God's acts—(as Plato criesHe doth)—he should geometrize.Whence, I desiderate" ...

You say, "Faith may be, one agrees,

A touchstone for God's purposes,

Even as ourselves conceive of them.

Could he acquit us or condemn

For holding what no hand can loose,

Rejecting when we can't but choose?

As well award the victor's wreath

To whosoever should take breath

Duly each minute while he lived—

Grant heaven, because a man contrived

To see its sunlight every day

He walked forth on the public way.

You must mix some uncertainty

With faith, if you would have faith be.

Why, what but faith, do we abhor

And idolize each other for—

Faith in our evil or our good,

Which is or is not understood

Aright by those we love or those

We hate, thence called our friends or foes?

Your mistress saw your spirit's grace,

When, turning from the ugly face,

I found belief in it too hard;

And she and I have our reward.

—Yet here a doubt peeps: well for us

Weak beings, to go using thus

A touchstone for our little ends,

Trying with faith the foes and friends;

—But God, bethink you! I would fain

Conceive of the Creator's reign

As based upon exacter laws

Than creatures build by with applause.

In all God's acts—(as Plato cries

He doth)—he should geometrize.

Whence, I desiderate" ...

I see!You would grow as a natural tree,Stand as a rock, soar up like fire.The world 's so perfect and entire,Quite above faith, so right and fit!Go there, walk up and down in it!No. The creation travails, groans—Contrive your music from its moans,Without or let or hindrance, friend!That 's an old story, and its endAs old—you come back (be sincere)With every question you put here(Here where there once was, and is still,We think, a living oracle,Whose answers you stand carping at)This time flung back unanswered flat,—Beside, perhaps, as many moreAs those that drove you out before,Now added, where was little need.Questions impossible, indeed,To us who sat still, all and eachPersuaded that our earth had speech,Of God's, writ down, no matter ifIn cursive type or hieroglyph,—Which one fact freed us from the yokeOf guessing why He never spoke.You come back in no better plightThan when you left us,—am I right?

I see!

You would grow as a natural tree,

Stand as a rock, soar up like fire.

The world 's so perfect and entire,

Quite above faith, so right and fit!

Go there, walk up and down in it!

No. The creation travails, groans—

Contrive your music from its moans,

Without or let or hindrance, friend!

That 's an old story, and its end

As old—you come back (be sincere)

With every question you put here

(Here where there once was, and is still,

We think, a living oracle,

Whose answers you stand carping at)

This time flung back unanswered flat,—

Beside, perhaps, as many more

As those that drove you out before,

Now added, where was little need.

Questions impossible, indeed,

To us who sat still, all and each

Persuaded that our earth had speech,

Of God's, writ down, no matter if

In cursive type or hieroglyph,—

Which one fact freed us from the yoke

Of guessing why He never spoke.

You come back in no better plight

Than when you left us,—am I right?

So, the old process, I conclude,Goes on, the reasoning 's pursuedFurther. You own, "'T is well averred,A scientific faith 's absurd,—Frustrates the very end 't was meantTo serve. So, I would rest contentWith a mere probability,But, probable; the chance must lieClear on one side,—lie all in rough,So long as there be just enoughTo pin my faith to, though it hapOnly at points: from gap to gapOne hangs up a huge curtain so,Grandly, nor seeks to have it goFoldless and flat along the wall.What care I if some intervalOf life less plainly may dependOn God? I 'd hang there to the end;And thus I should not find it hardTo be a Christian and debarredFrom trailing on the earth, till furledAway by death.—Renounce the world!Were that a mighty hardship? PlanA pleasant life, and straight some manBeside you, with, if he thought fit,Abundant means to compass it,Shall turn deliberate asideTo try and live as, if you triedYou clearly might, yet most despise.One friend of mine wears out his eyes,Slighting the stupid joys of sense,In patient hope that, ten years hence,'Somewhat completer,' he may say,'My list ofcoleoptera!'While just the other who most laughsAt him, above all epitaphsAspires to have his tomb describeHimself as sole among the tribeOf snuffbox-fanciers, who possessedA Grignon with the Regent's crest.So that, subduing, as you want,Whatever stands predominantAmong my earthly appetitesFor tastes and smells and sounds and sights,I shall be doing that alone,To gain a palm-branch and a throne,Which fifty people undertakeTo do, and gladly, for the sakeOf giving a Semitic guess,Or playing pawns at blindfold chess."

So, the old process, I conclude,

Goes on, the reasoning 's pursued

Further. You own, "'T is well averred,

A scientific faith 's absurd,

—Frustrates the very end 't was meant

To serve. So, I would rest content

With a mere probability,

But, probable; the chance must lie

Clear on one side,—lie all in rough,

So long as there be just enough

To pin my faith to, though it hap

Only at points: from gap to gap

One hangs up a huge curtain so,

Grandly, nor seeks to have it go

Foldless and flat along the wall.

What care I if some interval

Of life less plainly may depend

On God? I 'd hang there to the end;

And thus I should not find it hard

To be a Christian and debarred

From trailing on the earth, till furled

Away by death.—Renounce the world!

Were that a mighty hardship? Plan

A pleasant life, and straight some man

Beside you, with, if he thought fit,

Abundant means to compass it,

Shall turn deliberate aside

To try and live as, if you tried

You clearly might, yet most despise.

One friend of mine wears out his eyes,

Slighting the stupid joys of sense,

In patient hope that, ten years hence,

'Somewhat completer,' he may say,

'My list ofcoleoptera!'

While just the other who most laughs

At him, above all epitaphs

Aspires to have his tomb describe

Himself as sole among the tribe

Of snuffbox-fanciers, who possessed

A Grignon with the Regent's crest.

So that, subduing, as you want,

Whatever stands predominant

Among my earthly appetites

For tastes and smells and sounds and sights,

I shall be doing that alone,

To gain a palm-branch and a throne,

Which fifty people undertake

To do, and gladly, for the sake

Of giving a Semitic guess,

Or playing pawns at blindfold chess."

VII

Good: and the next thing is,—look roundFor evidence enough! 'T is found,No doubt: as is your sort of mind,So is your sort of search: you 'll findWhat you desire, and that 's to beA Christian. What says history?How comforting a point it wereTo find some mummy-scrap declareThere lived a Moses! Better still,Prove Jonah's whale translatableInto some quicksand of the seas,Isle, cavern, rock, or what you please,That faith might flap her wings and crowFrom such an eminence! Or, no—The human heart 's best; you preferMaking that prove the ministerTo truth; you probe its wants and needs,And hopes and fears, then try what creedsMeet these most aptly,—resoluteThat faith plucks such substantial fruitWherever these two correspond,She little needs to look beyondAnd puzzle out who Orpheus was,Or Dionysius Zagrias.You 'll find sufficient, as I say,To satisfy you either way;You wanted to believe; your painsAre crowned—you do: and what remains?"Renounce the world!"—Ah, were it doneBy merely cutting one by oneYour limbs off, with your wise head last,How easy were it!—how soon past,If once in the believing mood!"Such is man's usual gratitude,Such thanks to God do we return,For not exacting that we spurnA single gift of life, foregoOne real gain,—only taste them soWith gravity and temperance,That those mild virtues may enhanceSuch pleasures, rather than abstract—Last spice of which, will be the factOf love discerned in every gift;While, when the scene of life shall shift,And the gay heart be taught to ache,As sorrows and privations takeThe place of joy,—the thing that seemsMere misery, under human schemes,Becomes, regarded by the lightOf love, as very near or quiteAs good a gift as joy before.So plain is it that, all the moreA dispensation 's merciful,More pettishly we try and cullBriers, thistles, from our private plot,To mar God's ground where thorns are not!"

Good: and the next thing is,—look round

For evidence enough! 'T is found,

No doubt: as is your sort of mind,

So is your sort of search: you 'll find

What you desire, and that 's to be

A Christian. What says history?

How comforting a point it were

To find some mummy-scrap declare

There lived a Moses! Better still,

Prove Jonah's whale translatable

Into some quicksand of the seas,

Isle, cavern, rock, or what you please,

That faith might flap her wings and crow

From such an eminence! Or, no—

The human heart 's best; you prefer

Making that prove the minister

To truth; you probe its wants and needs,

And hopes and fears, then try what creeds

Meet these most aptly,—resolute

That faith plucks such substantial fruit

Wherever these two correspond,

She little needs to look beyond

And puzzle out who Orpheus was,

Or Dionysius Zagrias.

You 'll find sufficient, as I say,

To satisfy you either way;

You wanted to believe; your pains

Are crowned—you do: and what remains?

"Renounce the world!"—Ah, were it done

By merely cutting one by one

Your limbs off, with your wise head last,

How easy were it!—how soon past,

If once in the believing mood!

"Such is man's usual gratitude,

Such thanks to God do we return,

For not exacting that we spurn

A single gift of life, forego

One real gain,—only taste them so

With gravity and temperance,

That those mild virtues may enhance

Such pleasures, rather than abstract—

Last spice of which, will be the fact

Of love discerned in every gift;

While, when the scene of life shall shift,

And the gay heart be taught to ache,

As sorrows and privations take

The place of joy,—the thing that seems

Mere misery, under human schemes,

Becomes, regarded by the light

Of love, as very near or quite

As good a gift as joy before.

So plain is it that, all the more

A dispensation 's merciful,

More pettishly we try and cull

Briers, thistles, from our private plot,

To mar God's ground where thorns are not!"

VIII

Do you say this, or I?—Oh, you!Then, what, my friend?—(thus I pursueOur parley)—you indeed opineThat the Eternal and DivineDid, eighteen centuries ago,In very truth ... Enough! you knowThe all-stupendous tale,—that Birth,That Life, that Death! And all, the earthShuddered at,—all, the heavens grew blackRather than see; all, nature's rackAnd throe at dissolution's brinkAttested,—-all took place, you think,Only to give our joys a zest,And prove our sorrows for the best?We differ, then! Were I, still paleAnd heartstruck at the dreadful tale,Waiting to hear God's voice declareWhat horror followed for my share,As implicated in the deed,Apart from other sins,—concedeThat if He blacked out in a blotMy brief life's pleasantness, 't were notSo very disproportionate!Or there might be another fate—I certainly could understand(If fancies were the thing in hand)How God might save, at that day's price,The impure in their impurities,Give license formal and completeTo choose the fair and pick the sweet.But there be certain words, broad, plain,Uttered again and yet again,Hard to mistake or overgloss—Announcing this world's gain for loss,And bidding us reject the same:The whole world lieth (they proclaim)In wickedness,—come out of it!Turn a deaf ear, if you think fit,But I who thrill through every nerveAt thought of what deaf ears deserve—How do you counsel in the case?

Do you say this, or I?—Oh, you!

Then, what, my friend?—(thus I pursue

Our parley)—you indeed opine

That the Eternal and Divine

Did, eighteen centuries ago,

In very truth ... Enough! you know

The all-stupendous tale,—that Birth,

That Life, that Death! And all, the earth

Shuddered at,—all, the heavens grew black

Rather than see; all, nature's rack

And throe at dissolution's brink

Attested,—-all took place, you think,

Only to give our joys a zest,

And prove our sorrows for the best?

We differ, then! Were I, still pale

And heartstruck at the dreadful tale,

Waiting to hear God's voice declare

What horror followed for my share,

As implicated in the deed,

Apart from other sins,—concede

That if He blacked out in a blot

My brief life's pleasantness, 't were not

So very disproportionate!

Or there might be another fate—

I certainly could understand

(If fancies were the thing in hand)

How God might save, at that day's price,

The impure in their impurities,

Give license formal and complete

To choose the fair and pick the sweet.

But there be certain words, broad, plain,

Uttered again and yet again,

Hard to mistake or overgloss—

Announcing this world's gain for loss,

And bidding us reject the same:

The whole world lieth (they proclaim)

In wickedness,—come out of it!

Turn a deaf ear, if you think fit,

But I who thrill through every nerve

At thought of what deaf ears deserve—

How do you counsel in the case?

"I 'd take, by all means, in your place,The safe side, since it so appears:Deny myself, a few brief years,The natural pleasure, leave the fruitOr cut the plant up by the root.Remember what a martyr saidOn the rude tablet overhead!'I was born sickly, poor and mean,A slave: no misery could screenThe holders of the pearl of priceFrom Cæsar's envy; therefore twiceI fought with beasts, and three times sawMy children suffer by his law;At last my own release was earned:I was some time in being burned,But at the close a Hand came throughThe fire above my head, and drewMy soul to Christ, whom now I see.Sergius, a brother, writes for meThis testimony on the wall—For me, I have forgot it all.'You say right; this were not so hard!And since one nowise is debarredFrom this, why not escape some sinsBy such a method?"

"I 'd take, by all means, in your place,

The safe side, since it so appears:

Deny myself, a few brief years,

The natural pleasure, leave the fruit

Or cut the plant up by the root.

Remember what a martyr said

On the rude tablet overhead!

'I was born sickly, poor and mean,

A slave: no misery could screen

The holders of the pearl of price

From Cæsar's envy; therefore twice

I fought with beasts, and three times saw

My children suffer by his law;

At last my own release was earned:

I was some time in being burned,

But at the close a Hand came through

The fire above my head, and drew

My soul to Christ, whom now I see.

Sergius, a brother, writes for me

This testimony on the wall—

For me, I have forgot it all.'

You say right; this were not so hard!

And since one nowise is debarred

From this, why not escape some sins

By such a method?"

Then beginsTo the old point revulsion new—(For 't is just this I bring you to)—If after all we should mistake,And so renounce life for the sakeOf death and nothing else? You hearEach friend we jeered at, send the jeerBack to ourselves with good effect—"There were my beetles to collect!My box—a trifle, I confess,But here I hold it, ne'ertheless!"Poor idiots, (let us pluck up heartAnd answer) we, the better partHave chosen, though 't were only hope,—Nor envy moles like you that gropeAmid your veritable muck,More than the grasshoppers would truck,For yours, their passionate life away,That spends itself in leaps all dayTo reach the sun, you want the eyesTo see, as they the wings to riseAnd match the noble hearts of them!Thus the contemner we contemn,—And, when doubt strikes us, thus we wardIts stroke off, caught upon our guard,—Not struck enough to overturnOur faith, but shake it—make us learnWhat I began with, and, I wis,End, having proved,—how hard it isTo be a Christian!

Then begins

To the old point revulsion new—

(For 't is just this I bring you to)—

If after all we should mistake,

And so renounce life for the sake

Of death and nothing else? You hear

Each friend we jeered at, send the jeer

Back to ourselves with good effect—

"There were my beetles to collect!

My box—a trifle, I confess,

But here I hold it, ne'ertheless!"

Poor idiots, (let us pluck up heart

And answer) we, the better part

Have chosen, though 't were only hope,—

Nor envy moles like you that grope

Amid your veritable muck,

More than the grasshoppers would truck,

For yours, their passionate life away,

That spends itself in leaps all day

To reach the sun, you want the eyes

To see, as they the wings to rise

And match the noble hearts of them!

Thus the contemner we contemn,—

And, when doubt strikes us, thus we ward

Its stroke off, caught upon our guard,

—Not struck enough to overturn

Our faith, but shake it—make us learn

What I began with, and, I wis,

End, having proved,—how hard it is

To be a Christian!

"Proved, or not,Howe'er you wis, small thanks, I wot,You get of mine, for taking painsTo make it hard to me. Who gainsBy that, I wonder? Here I liveIn trusting ease; and here you driveAt causing me to lose what mostYourself would mourn for had you lost!"

"Proved, or not,

Howe'er you wis, small thanks, I wot,

You get of mine, for taking pains

To make it hard to me. Who gains

By that, I wonder? Here I live

In trusting ease; and here you drive

At causing me to lose what most

Yourself would mourn for had you lost!"

XII

But, do you see, my friend, that thusYou leave Saint Paul for Æschylus?—Who made his Titan's arch-deviceThe giving menblind hopesto spiceThe meal of life with, else devouredIn bitter haste, while lo, death louredBefore them at the platter's edge!If faith should be, as I allege,Quite other than a condimentTo heighten flavors with, or meant(Like that brave curry of his Grace)To take at need the victuals' place?If, having dined, you would digestBesides, and turning to your restShould find instead ...

But, do you see, my friend, that thus

You leave Saint Paul for Æschylus?

—Who made his Titan's arch-device

The giving menblind hopesto spice

The meal of life with, else devoured

In bitter haste, while lo, death loured

Before them at the platter's edge!

If faith should be, as I allege,

Quite other than a condiment

To heighten flavors with, or meant

(Like that brave curry of his Grace)

To take at need the victuals' place?

If, having dined, you would digest

Besides, and turning to your rest

Should find instead ...

XIII

Now, you shall seeAnd judge if a mere fopperyPricks on my speaking! I resolveTo utter—yes, it shall devolveOn you to hear as solemn, strangeAnd dread a thing as in the rangeOf facts,—or fancies, if God will—E'er happened to our kind! I stillStand in the cloud and, while it wrapsMy face, ought not to speak perhaps;Seeing that if I carry throughMy purpose, if my words in youFind a live actual listener,My story, reason must averFalse after all—the happy chance!While, if each human countenanceI meet in London day by day,Be what I fear,—my warnings frayNo one, and no one they convert,And no one helps me to assertHow hard it is to really beA Christian, and in vacancyI pour this story!

Now, you shall see

And judge if a mere foppery

Pricks on my speaking! I resolve

To utter—yes, it shall devolve

On you to hear as solemn, strange

And dread a thing as in the range

Of facts,—or fancies, if God will—

E'er happened to our kind! I still

Stand in the cloud and, while it wraps

My face, ought not to speak perhaps;

Seeing that if I carry through

My purpose, if my words in you

Find a live actual listener,

My story, reason must aver

False after all—the happy chance!

While, if each human countenance

I meet in London day by day,

Be what I fear,—my warnings fray

No one, and no one they convert,

And no one helps me to assert

How hard it is to really be

A Christian, and in vacancy

I pour this story!

XIV

I commenceBy trying to inform you, whenceIt comes that every Easter-nightAs now, I sit up, watch, till light,Upon those chimney-stacks and roofs,Give, through my window-pane, gray proofsThat Easter-Day is breaking slow.On such a night, three years ago,It chanced that I had cause to crossThe common, where the chapel was,Our friend spoke of, the other day—You 've not forgotten, I dare say.I fell to musing of the timeSo close, the blessed matin-primeAll hearts leap up at, in some guise—One could not well do otherwise.Insensibly my thoughts were bentToward the main point; I overwentMuch the same ground of reasoningAs you and I just now. One thingRemained, however—one that taskedMy soul to answer; and I asked,Fairly and frankly, what might beThat History, that Faith, to me—Me there—not me in some domainBuilt up and peopled by my brain,Weighing its merits as one weighsMere theories for blame or praise,—The kingcraft of the Lucumons,Or Fourier's scheme, its pros and cons,—But my faith there, or none at all."How were my case, now, did I fallDead here, this minute—should I lieFaithful or faithless?" Note that IInclined thus ever!—little proneFor instance, when I lay aloneIn childhood, to go calm to sleepAnd leave a closet where might keepHis watch perdue some murdererWaiting till twelve o'clock to stir,As good authentic legends tell:"He might: but how improbable!How little likely to deserveThe pains and trial to the nerveOf thrusting head into the dark!"—Urged my old nurse, and bade me markBeside, that, should the dreadful scoutReally lie hid there, and leap outAt first turn of the rusty key,Mine were small gain that she could see,Killed not in bed but on the floor,And losing one night's sleep the more.I tell you, I would always burstThe door ope, know my fate at first.This time, indeed, the closet pennedNo such assassin: but a friendRather, peeped out to guard me, fitFor counsel, Common Sense, to wit,Who said a good deal that might pass,—Heartening, impartial too, it was,Judge else: "For, soberly now,—whoShould be a Christian if not you?"(Hear how he smoothed me down.) "One takesA whole life, sees what course it makesMainly, and not by fits and starts—In spite of stoppage which impartsFresh value to the general speed.A life, with none, would fly indeed:Your progressing is slower—right!We deal with progress and not flight.Through baffling senses passionate,Fancies as restless,—with a freightOf knowledge cumbersome enoughTo sink your ship when waves grow rough,Though meant for ballast in the hold,—I find, 'mid dangers manifold,The good bark answers to the helmWhere faith sits, easier to o'erwhelmThan some stout peasant's heavenly guide,Whose hard head could not, if it tried,Conceive a doubt, nor understandHow senses hornier than his handShould 'tice the Christian off his guard.More happy! But shall we awardLess honor to the hull which, doggedBy storms, a mere wreck, waterlogged,Masts by the board, her bulwarks goneAnd stanchions going, yet bears on,—Than to mere lifeboats, built to save,And triumph o'er the breaking wave?Make perfect your good ship as these,And what were her performances!"I added—"Would the ship reach home!I wish indeed 'God's kingdom come'—The day when I shall see appearHis bidding, as my duty, clearFrom doubt! And it shall dawn, that day,Some future season; Easter mayProve, not impossibly, the time—Yes, that were striking—fates would chimeSo aptly! Easter-morn, to bringThe Judgment!—deeper in the springThan now, however, when there 's snowCapping the hills; for earth must showAll signs of meaning to pursueHer tasks as she was wont to do—The skylark, taken by surpriseAs we ourselves, shall recognizeSudden the end. For suddenlyIt comes; the dreadfulness must beIn that; all warrants the belief—'At night it cometh like a thief.'I fancy why the trumpet blows;—Plainly, to wake one. From reposeWe shall start up, at last awakeFrom life, that insane dream we takeFor waking now, because it seems.And as, when now we wake from dreams,We laugh, while we recall them, 'Fool,To let the chance slip, linger coolWhen such adventure offered! JustA bridge to cross, a dwarf to thrustAside, a wicked mage to stab—And, lo ye, I had kissed Queen Mab!'So shall we marvel why we grudgedOur labor here, and idly judgedOf heaven, we might have gained, but lose!Lose? Talk of loss, and I refuseTo plead at all! You speak no worseNor better than my ancient nurseWhen she would tell me in my youthI well deserved that shapes uncouthFrighted and teased me in my sleep:Why could I not in memory keepHer precept for the evil's cure?'Pinch your own arm, boy, and be sureYou 'll wake forthwith!'"

I commence

By trying to inform you, whence

It comes that every Easter-night

As now, I sit up, watch, till light,

Upon those chimney-stacks and roofs,

Give, through my window-pane, gray proofs

That Easter-Day is breaking slow.

On such a night, three years ago,

It chanced that I had cause to cross

The common, where the chapel was,

Our friend spoke of, the other day—

You 've not forgotten, I dare say.

I fell to musing of the time

So close, the blessed matin-prime

All hearts leap up at, in some guise—

One could not well do otherwise.

Insensibly my thoughts were bent

Toward the main point; I overwent

Much the same ground of reasoning

As you and I just now. One thing

Remained, however—one that tasked

My soul to answer; and I asked,

Fairly and frankly, what might be

That History, that Faith, to me

—Me there—not me in some domain

Built up and peopled by my brain,

Weighing its merits as one weighs

Mere theories for blame or praise,

—The kingcraft of the Lucumons,

Or Fourier's scheme, its pros and cons,—

But my faith there, or none at all.

"How were my case, now, did I fall

Dead here, this minute—should I lie

Faithful or faithless?" Note that I

Inclined thus ever!—little prone

For instance, when I lay alone

In childhood, to go calm to sleep

And leave a closet where might keep

His watch perdue some murderer

Waiting till twelve o'clock to stir,

As good authentic legends tell:

"He might: but how improbable!

How little likely to deserve

The pains and trial to the nerve

Of thrusting head into the dark!"—

Urged my old nurse, and bade me mark

Beside, that, should the dreadful scout

Really lie hid there, and leap out

At first turn of the rusty key,

Mine were small gain that she could see,

Killed not in bed but on the floor,

And losing one night's sleep the more.

I tell you, I would always burst

The door ope, know my fate at first.

This time, indeed, the closet penned

No such assassin: but a friend

Rather, peeped out to guard me, fit

For counsel, Common Sense, to wit,

Who said a good deal that might pass,—

Heartening, impartial too, it was,

Judge else: "For, soberly now,—who

Should be a Christian if not you?"

(Hear how he smoothed me down.) "One takes

A whole life, sees what course it makes

Mainly, and not by fits and starts—

In spite of stoppage which imparts

Fresh value to the general speed.

A life, with none, would fly indeed:

Your progressing is slower—right!

We deal with progress and not flight.

Through baffling senses passionate,

Fancies as restless,—with a freight

Of knowledge cumbersome enough

To sink your ship when waves grow rough,

Though meant for ballast in the hold,—

I find, 'mid dangers manifold,

The good bark answers to the helm

Where faith sits, easier to o'erwhelm

Than some stout peasant's heavenly guide,

Whose hard head could not, if it tried,

Conceive a doubt, nor understand

How senses hornier than his hand

Should 'tice the Christian off his guard.

More happy! But shall we award

Less honor to the hull which, dogged

By storms, a mere wreck, waterlogged,

Masts by the board, her bulwarks gone

And stanchions going, yet bears on,—

Than to mere lifeboats, built to save,

And triumph o'er the breaking wave?

Make perfect your good ship as these,

And what were her performances!"

I added—"Would the ship reach home!

I wish indeed 'God's kingdom come'—

The day when I shall see appear

His bidding, as my duty, clear

From doubt! And it shall dawn, that day,

Some future season; Easter may

Prove, not impossibly, the time—

Yes, that were striking—fates would chime

So aptly! Easter-morn, to bring

The Judgment!—deeper in the spring

Than now, however, when there 's snow

Capping the hills; for earth must show

All signs of meaning to pursue

Her tasks as she was wont to do

—The skylark, taken by surprise

As we ourselves, shall recognize

Sudden the end. For suddenly

It comes; the dreadfulness must be

In that; all warrants the belief—

'At night it cometh like a thief.'

I fancy why the trumpet blows;

—Plainly, to wake one. From repose

We shall start up, at last awake

From life, that insane dream we take

For waking now, because it seems.

And as, when now we wake from dreams,

We laugh, while we recall them, 'Fool,

To let the chance slip, linger cool

When such adventure offered! Just

A bridge to cross, a dwarf to thrust

Aside, a wicked mage to stab—

And, lo ye, I had kissed Queen Mab!'

So shall we marvel why we grudged

Our labor here, and idly judged

Of heaven, we might have gained, but lose!

Lose? Talk of loss, and I refuse

To plead at all! You speak no worse

Nor better than my ancient nurse

When she would tell me in my youth

I well deserved that shapes uncouth

Frighted and teased me in my sleep:

Why could I not in memory keep

Her precept for the evil's cure?

'Pinch your own arm, boy, and be sure

You 'll wake forthwith!'"

And as I saidThis nonsense, throwing back my headWith light complacent laugh, I foundSuddenly all the midnight roundOne fire. The dome of heaven had stoodAs made up of a multitudeOf handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rackOf ripples infinite and black,From sky to sky. Sudden there went,Like horror and astonishment,A fierce vindictive scribble of redQuick flame across, as if one said(The angry scribe of Judgment) "There—Burn it!" And straight I was awareThat the whole ribwork round, minuteCloud touching cloud beyond compute,Was tinted, each with its own spotOf burning at the core, till clotJammed against clot, and spilt its fireOver all heaven, which 'gan suspireAs fanned to measure equable,—Just so great conflagrations killNight overhead, and rise and sink,Reflected. Now the fire would shrinkAnd wither off the blasted faceOf heaven, and I distinct might traceThe sharp black ridgy outlines leftUnburned like network—then, each cleftThe fire had been sucked back into,Regorged, and out it surging flewFuriously, and night writhed inflamed,Till, tolerating to be tamedNo longer, certain rays world-wideShot downwardly. On every sideCaught past escape, the earth was lit;As if a dragon's nostril splitAnd all his famished ire o'erflowed;Then, as he winced at his lord's goad,Back he inhaled: whereat I foundThe clouds into vast pillars bound,Based on the corners of the earth,Propping the skies at top: a dearthOf fire i' the violet intervals,Leaving exposed the utmost wallsOf time, about to tumble inAnd end the world.

And as I said

This nonsense, throwing back my head

With light complacent laugh, I found

Suddenly all the midnight round

One fire. The dome of heaven had stood

As made up of a multitude

Of handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rack

Of ripples infinite and black,

From sky to sky. Sudden there went,

Like horror and astonishment,

A fierce vindictive scribble of red

Quick flame across, as if one said

(The angry scribe of Judgment) "There—

Burn it!" And straight I was aware

That the whole ribwork round, minute

Cloud touching cloud beyond compute,

Was tinted, each with its own spot

Of burning at the core, till clot

Jammed against clot, and spilt its fire

Over all heaven, which 'gan suspire

As fanned to measure equable,—

Just so great conflagrations kill

Night overhead, and rise and sink,

Reflected. Now the fire would shrink

And wither off the blasted face

Of heaven, and I distinct might trace

The sharp black ridgy outlines left

Unburned like network—then, each cleft

The fire had been sucked back into,

Regorged, and out it surging flew

Furiously, and night writhed inflamed,

Till, tolerating to be tamed

No longer, certain rays world-wide

Shot downwardly. On every side

Caught past escape, the earth was lit;

As if a dragon's nostril split

And all his famished ire o'erflowed;

Then, as he winced at his lord's goad,

Back he inhaled: whereat I found

The clouds into vast pillars bound,

Based on the corners of the earth,

Propping the skies at top: a dearth

Of fire i' the violet intervals,

Leaving exposed the utmost walls

Of time, about to tumble in

And end the world.

XVI

I felt beginThe Judgment-Day: to retrocedeWas too late now. "In very deed,"(I uttered to myself) "that Day!"The intuition burned awayAll darkness from my spirit too:There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew,Choosing the world. The choice was made;And naked and disguiseless stayed,And unevadable, the fact.My brain held all the same compactIts senses, nor my heart declinedIts office; rather, both combinedTo help me in this juncture. ILost not a second,—agonyGave boldness: since my life had endAnd my choice with it—best defend,Applaud both! I resolved to say,"So was I framed by thee, such wayI put to use thy senses here!It was so beautiful, so near,Thy world,—what could I then but chooseMy part there? Nor did I refuseTo look above the transient boonOf time; but it was hard so soonAs in a short life, to give upSuch beauty: I could put the cup,Undrained of half its fulness, by;But, to renounce it utterly,—That was too hard! Nor did the cryWhich bade renounce it, touch my brainAuthentically deep and plainEnough to make my lips let go.But thou, who knowest all, dost knowWhether I was not, life's brief while,Endeavoring to reconcileThose lips (too tardily, alas!)To letting the dear remnant pass,One day,—some drops of earthly goodUntasted! Is it for this mood,That thou, whose earth delights so well,Hast made its complement a hell?"

I felt begin

The Judgment-Day: to retrocede

Was too late now. "In very deed,"

(I uttered to myself) "that Day!"

The intuition burned away

All darkness from my spirit too:

There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew,

Choosing the world. The choice was made;

And naked and disguiseless stayed,

And unevadable, the fact.

My brain held all the same compact

Its senses, nor my heart declined

Its office; rather, both combined

To help me in this juncture. I

Lost not a second,—agony

Gave boldness: since my life had end

And my choice with it—best defend,

Applaud both! I resolved to say,

"So was I framed by thee, such way

I put to use thy senses here!

It was so beautiful, so near,

Thy world,—what could I then but choose

My part there? Nor did I refuse

To look above the transient boon

Of time; but it was hard so soon

As in a short life, to give up

Such beauty: I could put the cup,

Undrained of half its fulness, by;

But, to renounce it utterly,

—That was too hard! Nor did the cry

Which bade renounce it, touch my brain

Authentically deep and plain

Enough to make my lips let go.

But thou, who knowest all, dost know

Whether I was not, life's brief while,

Endeavoring to reconcile

Those lips (too tardily, alas!)

To letting the dear remnant pass,

One day,—some drops of earthly good

Untasted! Is it for this mood,

That thou, whose earth delights so well,

Hast made its complement a hell?"

XVII

A final belch of fire like blood,Overbroke all heaven in one floodOf doom. Then fire was sky, and skyFire, and both, one brief ecstasy,Then ashes. But I heard no noise(Whatever was) because a voiceBeside me spoke thus, "Life is done,Time ends, Eternity 's begun,And thou art judged forevermore."

A final belch of fire like blood,

Overbroke all heaven in one flood

Of doom. Then fire was sky, and sky

Fire, and both, one brief ecstasy,

Then ashes. But I heard no noise

(Whatever was) because a voice

Beside me spoke thus, "Life is done,

Time ends, Eternity 's begun,

And thou art judged forevermore."

XVIII

I looked up; all seemed as before;Of that cloud-Tophet overheadNo trace was left: I saw insteadThe common round me, and the skyAbove, stretched drear and emptilyOf life. 'T was the last watch of night,Except what brings the morning quite;When the armed angel, conscience-clear,His task nigh done, leans o'er his spearAnd gazes on the earth he guards,Safe one night more through all its wards,Till God relieve him at his post."A dream—a waking dream at most!"(I spoke out quick, that I might shakeThe horrid nightmare off, and wake.)"The world gone, yet the world is here?Are not all things as they appear?Is Judgment past for me alone?—And where had place the great white throne?The rising of the quick and dead?Where stood they, small and great? Who readThe sentence from the opened book?"So, by degrees, the blood forsookMy heart, and let it beat afresh;I knew I should break through the meshOf horror, and breathe presently:When, lo, again, the voice by me!

I looked up; all seemed as before;

Of that cloud-Tophet overhead

No trace was left: I saw instead

The common round me, and the sky

Above, stretched drear and emptily

Of life. 'T was the last watch of night,

Except what brings the morning quite;

When the armed angel, conscience-clear,

His task nigh done, leans o'er his spear

And gazes on the earth he guards,

Safe one night more through all its wards,

Till God relieve him at his post.

"A dream—a waking dream at most!"

(I spoke out quick, that I might shake

The horrid nightmare off, and wake.)

"The world gone, yet the world is here?

Are not all things as they appear?

Is Judgment past for me alone?

—And where had place the great white throne?

The rising of the quick and dead?

Where stood they, small and great? Who read

The sentence from the opened book?"

So, by degrees, the blood forsook

My heart, and let it beat afresh;

I knew I should break through the mesh

Of horror, and breathe presently:

When, lo, again, the voice by me!

XIX

I saw ... O brother, 'mid far sandsThe palm-tree-cinctured city stands,Bright-white beneath, as heaven, bright-blue,Leans o'er it, while the years pursueTheir course, unable to abateIts paradisal laugh at fate!One morn,—the Arab staggers blindO'er a new tract of death, calcinedTo ashes, silence, nothingness,—And strives, with dizzy wits, to guessWhence fell the blow. What if, 'twixt skiesAnd prostrate earth, he should surpriseThe imaged vapor, head to foot,Surveying, motionless and mute,Its work, ere, in a whirlwind raptIt vanish up again?—So haptMy chance.Hestood there. Like the smokePillared o'er Sodom, when day broke,—I saw him. One magnific pallMantled in massive fold and fallHis head, and coiled in snaky swathesAbout his feet: night's black, that bathesAll else, broke, grizzled with despair,Against the soul of blackness there.A gesture told the mood within—That wrapped right hand which based the chin,That intense meditation fixedOn his procedure,—pity mixedWith the fulfilment of decree.Motionless, thus, he spoke to me,Who fell before his feet, a mass,No man now.

I saw ... O brother, 'mid far sands

The palm-tree-cinctured city stands,

Bright-white beneath, as heaven, bright-blue,

Leans o'er it, while the years pursue

Their course, unable to abate

Its paradisal laugh at fate!

One morn,—the Arab staggers blind

O'er a new tract of death, calcined

To ashes, silence, nothingness,—

And strives, with dizzy wits, to guess

Whence fell the blow. What if, 'twixt skies

And prostrate earth, he should surprise

The imaged vapor, head to foot,

Surveying, motionless and mute,

Its work, ere, in a whirlwind rapt

It vanish up again?—So hapt

My chance.Hestood there. Like the smoke

Pillared o'er Sodom, when day broke,—

I saw him. One magnific pall

Mantled in massive fold and fall

His head, and coiled in snaky swathes

About his feet: night's black, that bathes

All else, broke, grizzled with despair,

Against the soul of blackness there.

A gesture told the mood within—

That wrapped right hand which based the chin,

That intense meditation fixed

On his procedure,—pity mixed

With the fulfilment of decree.

Motionless, thus, he spoke to me,

Who fell before his feet, a mass,

No man now.

"All is come to pass.Such shows are over for each soulThey had respect to. In the rollOf Judgment which convinced mankindOf sin, stood many, bold and blind,Terror must burn the truth into:Their fate for them!—thou hadst to doWith absolute omnipotence,Able its judgments to dispenseTo the whole race, as every oneWere its sole object. Judgment done,God is, thou art,—the rest is hurledTo nothingness for thee. This world,This finite life, thou hast preferred,In disbelief of God's plain word,To heaven and to infinity.Here the probation was for thee,To show thy soul the earthly mixedWith heavenly, it must choose betwixt.The earthly joys lay palpable,—A taint, in each, distinct as well;The heavenly flitted, faint and rare,Above them, but as truly wereTaintless, so, in their nature, best.Thy choice was earth: thou didst attest'T was fitter spirit should subserveThe flesh, than flesh refine to nerveBeneath the spirit's play. AdvanceNo claim to their inheritanceWho chose the spirit's fugitiveBrief gleams, and yearned, 'This were to liveIndeed, if rays, completely pureFrom flesh that dulls them, could endure,—Not shoot in meteor-light athwartOur earth, to show how cold and swartIt lies beneath their fire, but standAs stars do, destined to expand,Prove veritable worlds, our home!'Thou saidst,—'Let spirit star the domeOf sky, that flesh may miss no peak,No nook of earth,—I shall not seekIts service further!' Thou art shutOut of the heaven of spirit; glutThy sense upon the world: 't is thineForever—take it!"

"All is come to pass.

Such shows are over for each soul

They had respect to. In the roll

Of Judgment which convinced mankind

Of sin, stood many, bold and blind,

Terror must burn the truth into:

Their fate for them!—thou hadst to do

With absolute omnipotence,

Able its judgments to dispense

To the whole race, as every one

Were its sole object. Judgment done,

God is, thou art,—the rest is hurled

To nothingness for thee. This world,

This finite life, thou hast preferred,

In disbelief of God's plain word,

To heaven and to infinity.

Here the probation was for thee,

To show thy soul the earthly mixed

With heavenly, it must choose betwixt.

The earthly joys lay palpable,—

A taint, in each, distinct as well;

The heavenly flitted, faint and rare,

Above them, but as truly were

Taintless, so, in their nature, best.

Thy choice was earth: thou didst attest

'T was fitter spirit should subserve

The flesh, than flesh refine to nerve

Beneath the spirit's play. Advance

No claim to their inheritance

Who chose the spirit's fugitive

Brief gleams, and yearned, 'This were to live

Indeed, if rays, completely pure

From flesh that dulls them, could endure,—

Not shoot in meteor-light athwart

Our earth, to show how cold and swart

It lies beneath their fire, but stand

As stars do, destined to expand,

Prove veritable worlds, our home!'

Thou saidst,—'Let spirit star the dome

Of sky, that flesh may miss no peak,

No nook of earth,—I shall not seek

Its service further!' Thou art shut

Out of the heaven of spirit; glut

Thy sense upon the world: 't is thine

Forever—take it!"

XXI

"How? Is mine,The world?" (I cried, while my soul brokeOut in a transport.) "Hast thou spokePlainly in that? Earth's exquisiteTreasures of wonder and delightFor me?"

"How? Is mine,

The world?" (I cried, while my soul broke

Out in a transport.) "Hast thou spoke

Plainly in that? Earth's exquisite

Treasures of wonder and delight

For me?"

XXII

The austere voice returned,—"So soon made happy? Hadst thou learnedWhat God accounteth happiness,Thou wouldst not find it hard to guessWhat hell may be his punishmentFor those who doubt if God inventBetter than they. Let such men restContent with what they judged the best.Let the unjust usurp at will:The filthy shall be filthy still:Miser, there waits the gold for thee!Hater, indulge thine enmity!And thou, whose heaven self-ordainedWas, to enjoy earth unrestrained,Do it! Take all the ancient show!The woods shall wave, the rivers flow,And men apparently pursueTheir works, as they were wont to do,While living in probation yet.I promise not thou shalt forgetThe past, now gone to its account;But leave thee with the old amountOf faculties, nor less nor more,Unvisited, as heretofore,By God's free spirit, that makes an end.So, once more, take thy world! ExpendEternity upon its showsFlung thee as freely as one roseOut of a summer's opulence,Over the Eden-barrier whenceThou art excluded. Knock in vain!"

The austere voice returned,—

"So soon made happy? Hadst thou learned

What God accounteth happiness,

Thou wouldst not find it hard to guess

What hell may be his punishment

For those who doubt if God invent

Better than they. Let such men rest

Content with what they judged the best.

Let the unjust usurp at will:

The filthy shall be filthy still:

Miser, there waits the gold for thee!

Hater, indulge thine enmity!

And thou, whose heaven self-ordained

Was, to enjoy earth unrestrained,

Do it! Take all the ancient show!

The woods shall wave, the rivers flow,

And men apparently pursue

Their works, as they were wont to do,

While living in probation yet.

I promise not thou shalt forget

The past, now gone to its account;

But leave thee with the old amount

Of faculties, nor less nor more,

Unvisited, as heretofore,

By God's free spirit, that makes an end.

So, once more, take thy world! Expend

Eternity upon its shows

Flung thee as freely as one rose

Out of a summer's opulence,

Over the Eden-barrier whence

Thou art excluded. Knock in vain!"

XXIII

I sat up. All was still again.I breathed free: to my heart, back fledThe warmth. "But, all the world!"—I said.I stooped and picked a leaf of fern,And recollected I might learnFrom books, how many myriad sortsOf fern exist, to trust reports,Each as distinct and beautifulAs this, the very first I cull.Think, from the first leaf to the last!Conceive, then, earth's resources! VastExhaustless beauty, endless changeOf wonder! And this foot shall rangeAlps, Andes,—and this eye devourThe bee-bird and the aloe-flower?

I sat up. All was still again.

I breathed free: to my heart, back fled

The warmth. "But, all the world!"—I said.

I stooped and picked a leaf of fern,

And recollected I might learn

From books, how many myriad sorts

Of fern exist, to trust reports,

Each as distinct and beautiful

As this, the very first I cull.

Think, from the first leaf to the last!

Conceive, then, earth's resources! Vast

Exhaustless beauty, endless change

Of wonder! And this foot shall range

Alps, Andes,—and this eye devour

The bee-bird and the aloe-flower?

XXIV

Then the voice: "Welcome so to rateThe arras-folds that variegateThe earth, God's antechamber, well!The wise, who waited there, could tellBy these, what royalties in storeLay one step past the entrance-door.For whom, was reckoned, not too much,This life's munificence? For suchAs thou,—a race, whereof scarce oneWas able, in a million,To feel that any marvel layIn objects round his feet all day;Scarce one, in many millions more,Willing, if able, to exploreThe secreter, minuter charm!—Brave souls, a fern-leaf could disarmOf power to cope with God's intent,—Or scared if the south firmamentWith north-fire did its wings refledge!All partial beauty was a pledgeOf beauty in its plenitude:But since the pledge sufficed thy mood,Retain it! plenitude be theirsWho looked above!"

Then the voice: "Welcome so to rate

The arras-folds that variegate

The earth, God's antechamber, well!

The wise, who waited there, could tell

By these, what royalties in store

Lay one step past the entrance-door.

For whom, was reckoned, not too much,

This life's munificence? For such

As thou,—a race, whereof scarce one

Was able, in a million,

To feel that any marvel lay

In objects round his feet all day;

Scarce one, in many millions more,

Willing, if able, to explore

The secreter, minuter charm!

—Brave souls, a fern-leaf could disarm

Of power to cope with God's intent,—

Or scared if the south firmament

With north-fire did its wings refledge!

All partial beauty was a pledge

Of beauty in its plenitude:

But since the pledge sufficed thy mood,

Retain it! plenitude be theirs

Who looked above!"

XXV

Though sharp despairsShot through me, I held up, bore on."What matter though my trust were goneFrom natural things? Henceforth my partBe less with nature than with art!For art supplants, gives mainly worthTo nature; 'tis man stamps the earth—And I will seek his impress, seekThe statuary of the Greek,Italy's painting—there my choiceShall fix!"

Though sharp despairs

Shot through me, I held up, bore on.

"What matter though my trust were gone

From natural things? Henceforth my part

Be less with nature than with art!

For art supplants, gives mainly worth

To nature; 'tis man stamps the earth—

And I will seek his impress, seek

The statuary of the Greek,

Italy's painting—there my choice

Shall fix!"

XXVI

"Obtain it!" said the voice,"The one form with its single act,Which sculptors labored to abstract,The one face, painters tried to draw,With its one look, from throngs they saw.And that perfection in their soul,These only hinted at? The whole,They were but parts of? What each laidHis claim to glory on?—afraidHis fellow-men should give him rankBy mere tentatives which he shrankSmitten at heart from, all the more,That gazers pressed in to adore!'Shall I be judged by only these?'If such his soul's capacities,Even while he trod the earth,—think, now.What pomp in Buonarroti's brow,With its new palace-brain where dwellsSuperb the soul, unvexed by cellsThat crumbled with the transient clay!What visions will his right hand's swayStill turn to forms, as still they burstUpon him? How will he quench thirst,Titanically infantine,Laid at the breast of the Divine?Does it confound thee,—this first pageEmblazoning man's heritage?—Can this alone absorb thy sight,As pages were not infinite,—Like the omnipotence which tasksItself to furnish all that asksThe soul it means to satiate?What was the world, the starry stateOf the broad skies,—what, all displaysOf power and beauty intermixed,Which now thy soul is chained betwixt,—What else than needful furnitureFor life's first stage? God's work, be sure.No more spreads wasted, than falls scant!He filled, did not exceed, man's wantOf beauty in this life. But throughLife pierce,—and what has earth to do,Its utmost beauty's appanage,With the requirement of next stage?Did God pronounce earth 'very good'?Needs must it he, while understoodFor man's preparatory state;Naught here to heighten nor abate;Transfer the same completeness here,To serve a new state's use,—and drearDeficiency gapes every side!The good, tried once, were bad, retried.See the enwrapping rocky niche,Sufficient for the sleep in whichThe lizard breathes for ages safe:Split the mould—and as light would chafeThe creature's new world-widened sense,Dazzled to death at evidenceOf all the sounds and sights that brokeInnumerous at the chisel's stroke,—So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuffWas, neither more nor less, enoughTo house man's soul, man's need fulfil.Man reckoned it immeasurable?So thinks the lizard of his vault!Could God be taken in default,Short of contrivances, by you,—Or reached, ere ready to pursueHis progress through eternity?That chambered rock, the lizard's world,Your easy mallet's blow has hurledTo nothingness forever; so,Has God abolished at a blowThis world, wherein his saints were pent,—Who, though found grateful and content,With the provision there, as thou,Yet knew he would not disallowTheir spirit's hunger, felt as well,—Unsated,—not unsatable,As paradise gives proof. DerideTheir choice now, thou who sit'st outside!"

"Obtain it!" said the voice,

"The one form with its single act,

Which sculptors labored to abstract,

The one face, painters tried to draw,

With its one look, from throngs they saw.

And that perfection in their soul,

These only hinted at? The whole,

They were but parts of? What each laid

His claim to glory on?—afraid

His fellow-men should give him rank

By mere tentatives which he shrank

Smitten at heart from, all the more,

That gazers pressed in to adore!

'Shall I be judged by only these?'

If such his soul's capacities,

Even while he trod the earth,—think, now.

What pomp in Buonarroti's brow,

With its new palace-brain where dwells

Superb the soul, unvexed by cells

That crumbled with the transient clay!

What visions will his right hand's sway

Still turn to forms, as still they burst

Upon him? How will he quench thirst,

Titanically infantine,

Laid at the breast of the Divine?

Does it confound thee,—this first page

Emblazoning man's heritage?—

Can this alone absorb thy sight,

As pages were not infinite,—

Like the omnipotence which tasks

Itself to furnish all that asks

The soul it means to satiate?

What was the world, the starry state

Of the broad skies,—what, all displays

Of power and beauty intermixed,

Which now thy soul is chained betwixt,—

What else than needful furniture

For life's first stage? God's work, be sure.

No more spreads wasted, than falls scant!

He filled, did not exceed, man's want

Of beauty in this life. But through

Life pierce,—and what has earth to do,

Its utmost beauty's appanage,

With the requirement of next stage?

Did God pronounce earth 'very good'?

Needs must it he, while understood

For man's preparatory state;

Naught here to heighten nor abate;

Transfer the same completeness here,

To serve a new state's use,—and drear

Deficiency gapes every side!

The good, tried once, were bad, retried.

See the enwrapping rocky niche,

Sufficient for the sleep in which

The lizard breathes for ages safe:

Split the mould—and as light would chafe

The creature's new world-widened sense,

Dazzled to death at evidence

Of all the sounds and sights that broke

Innumerous at the chisel's stroke,—

So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuff

Was, neither more nor less, enough

To house man's soul, man's need fulfil.

Man reckoned it immeasurable?

So thinks the lizard of his vault!

Could God be taken in default,

Short of contrivances, by you,—

Or reached, ere ready to pursue

His progress through eternity?

That chambered rock, the lizard's world,

Your easy mallet's blow has hurled

To nothingness forever; so,

Has God abolished at a blow

This world, wherein his saints were pent,—

Who, though found grateful and content,

With the provision there, as thou,

Yet knew he would not disallow

Their spirit's hunger, felt as well,—

Unsated,—not unsatable,

As paradise gives proof. Deride

Their choice now, thou who sit'st outside!"

XXVII

I cried in anguish: "Mind, the mind,So miserably cast behind,To gain what had been wisely lost!Oh, let me strive to make the mostOf the poor stinted soul, I nippedOf budding wings, else now equippedFor voyage from summer isle to isle!And though she needs must reconcileAmbition to the life on ground,Still, I can profit by late foundBut precious knowledge. Mind is best—I will seize mind, forego the rest,And try how far my tethered strengthMay crawl in this poor breadth and length.Let me, since I can fly no more,At least spin dervish-like about(Till giddy rapture almost doubtI fly) through circling sciences,Philosophies and histories!Should the whirl slacken there, then verse,Fining to music, shall asperseFresh and fresh fire-dew, till I strainIntoxicate, half-break my chain!Not joyless, though more favored feetStand calm, where I want wings to beatThe floor. At least earth's bond is broke!"

I cried in anguish: "Mind, the mind,

So miserably cast behind,

To gain what had been wisely lost!

Oh, let me strive to make the most

Of the poor stinted soul, I nipped

Of budding wings, else now equipped

For voyage from summer isle to isle!

And though she needs must reconcile

Ambition to the life on ground,

Still, I can profit by late found

But precious knowledge. Mind is best—

I will seize mind, forego the rest,

And try how far my tethered strength

May crawl in this poor breadth and length.

Let me, since I can fly no more,

At least spin dervish-like about

(Till giddy rapture almost doubt

I fly) through circling sciences,

Philosophies and histories!

Should the whirl slacken there, then verse,

Fining to music, shall asperse

Fresh and fresh fire-dew, till I strain

Intoxicate, half-break my chain!

Not joyless, though more favored feet

Stand calm, where I want wings to beat

The floor. At least earth's bond is broke!"

XXVIII

Then (sickening even while I spoke):"Let me alone! No answer, pray,To this! I know what thou wilt say!All still is earth's,—to know, as muchAs feel its truths, which if we touchWith sense, or apprehend in soul,What matter? I have reached the goal—'Whereto does knowledge serve!' will burnMy eyes, too sure, at every turn!I cannot look back now, nor stakeBliss on the race, for running's sake.The goal's a ruin like the rest!""And so much worse thy latter quest,"(Added the voice,) "that even on earth—Whenever, in man's soul, had birthThose intuitions, grasps of guess,Which pull the more into the less,Making the finite comprehendInfinity,—the bard would spendSuch praise alone, upon his craft,As, when wind-lyres obey the waft,Goes to the craftsman who arrangedThe seven strings, changed them and rechanged—Knowing it was the South that harped.He felt his song; in singing, warped;Distinguished his and God's part: whenceA world of spirit as of senseWas plain to him, yet not too plain,Which he could traverse, not remainA guest in:—else were permanentHeaven on the earth its gleams were meantTo sting with hunger for full light,—Made visible in verse, despiteThe veiling weakness,—truth by meansOf fable, showing while it screens,—Since highest truth, man e'er supplied,Was ever fable on outside.Such gleams made bright the earth an age;Now the whole sun's his heritage!Take up thy world, it is allowed,Thou who hast entered in the cloud!"

Then (sickening even while I spoke):

"Let me alone! No answer, pray,

To this! I know what thou wilt say!

All still is earth's,—to know, as much

As feel its truths, which if we touch

With sense, or apprehend in soul,

What matter? I have reached the goal—

'Whereto does knowledge serve!' will burn

My eyes, too sure, at every turn!

I cannot look back now, nor stake

Bliss on the race, for running's sake.

The goal's a ruin like the rest!"

"And so much worse thy latter quest,"

(Added the voice,) "that even on earth—

Whenever, in man's soul, had birth

Those intuitions, grasps of guess,

Which pull the more into the less,

Making the finite comprehend

Infinity,—the bard would spend

Such praise alone, upon his craft,

As, when wind-lyres obey the waft,

Goes to the craftsman who arranged

The seven strings, changed them and rechanged—

Knowing it was the South that harped.

He felt his song; in singing, warped;

Distinguished his and God's part: whence

A world of spirit as of sense

Was plain to him, yet not too plain,

Which he could traverse, not remain

A guest in:—else were permanent

Heaven on the earth its gleams were meant

To sting with hunger for full light,—

Made visible in verse, despite

The veiling weakness,—truth by means

Of fable, showing while it screens,—

Since highest truth, man e'er supplied,

Was ever fable on outside.

Such gleams made bright the earth an age;

Now the whole sun's his heritage!

Take up thy world, it is allowed,

Thou who hast entered in the cloud!"

XXIX

Then I—"Behold, my spirit bleeds,Catches no more at broken reeds,—But lilies flower those reeds above:I let the world go, and take love!Love survives in me, albeit thoseI love be henceforth masks and shows,Not living men and women: stillI mind how love repaired all ill,Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amendsWith parents, brothers, children, friends!Some semblance of a woman yetWith eyes to help me to forget,Shall look on me; and I will matchDeparted love with love, attachOld memories to new dreams, nor scornThe poorest of the grains of cornI save from shipwreck on this isle,Trusting its barrenness may smileWith happy foodful green one day,More precious for the pains. I pray,—Leave to love, only!"

Then I—"Behold, my spirit bleeds,

Catches no more at broken reeds,—

But lilies flower those reeds above:

I let the world go, and take love!

Love survives in me, albeit those

I love be henceforth masks and shows,

Not living men and women: still

I mind how love repaired all ill,

Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amends

With parents, brothers, children, friends!

Some semblance of a woman yet

With eyes to help me to forget,

Shall look on me; and I will match

Departed love with love, attach

Old memories to new dreams, nor scorn

The poorest of the grains of corn

I save from shipwreck on this isle,

Trusting its barrenness may smile

With happy foodful green one day,

More precious for the pains. I pray,—

Leave to love, only!"

XXX

At the word,The form, I looked to have been stirredWith pity and approval, roseO'er me, as when the headsman throwsAxe over shoulder to make end—I fell prone, letting him expendHis wrath, while thus the inflicting voiceSmote me. "Is this thy final choice?Love is the best? 'Tis somewhat late!And all thou dost enumerateOf power and beauty in the world,The mightiness of love was curledInextricably round about.Love lay within it and without,To clasp thee,—but in vain! Thy soulStill shrunk from him who made the whole,Still set deliberate asideHis love!—Now take love! Well betideThy tardy conscience! Haste to takeThe show of love for the name's sake,Remembering every moment who,Beside creating thee untoThese ends, and these for thee, was saidTo undergo death in thy steadIn flesh like thine: so ran the tale.What doubt in thee could countervailBelief in it? Upon the ground'That in the story had been foundToo much love! How could God love so?'He who in all his works belowAdapted to the needs of man,Made love the basis of the plan,—Did love, as was demonstrated:While man, who was so fit insteadTo hate, as every day gave proof,—Manthought man, for his kind's behoof,Both, could and did invent that schemeOf perfect love: 'twould well beseemCain's nature thou wast wont to praise,Not tally with God's usual ways!"

At the word,

The form, I looked to have been stirred

With pity and approval, rose

O'er me, as when the headsman throws

Axe over shoulder to make end—

I fell prone, letting him expend

His wrath, while thus the inflicting voice

Smote me. "Is this thy final choice?

Love is the best? 'Tis somewhat late!

And all thou dost enumerate

Of power and beauty in the world,

The mightiness of love was curled

Inextricably round about.

Love lay within it and without,

To clasp thee,—but in vain! Thy soul

Still shrunk from him who made the whole,

Still set deliberate aside

His love!—Now take love! Well betide

Thy tardy conscience! Haste to take

The show of love for the name's sake,

Remembering every moment who,

Beside creating thee unto

These ends, and these for thee, was said

To undergo death in thy stead

In flesh like thine: so ran the tale.

What doubt in thee could countervail

Belief in it? Upon the ground

'That in the story had been found

Too much love! How could God love so?'

He who in all his works below

Adapted to the needs of man,

Made love the basis of the plan,—

Did love, as was demonstrated:

While man, who was so fit instead

To hate, as every day gave proof,—Man

thought man, for his kind's behoof,

Both, could and did invent that scheme

Of perfect love: 'twould well beseem

Cain's nature thou wast wont to praise,

Not tally with God's usual ways!"

XXXI

And I cowered deprecatingly—"Thou Love of God! Or let me die,Or grant what shall seem heaven almost!Let me not know that all is lost,Though lost it be—leave me not tiedTo this despair, this corpse-like bride!Let that old life seem mine—no more—With limitation as before,With darkness, hunger, toil, distress:Be all the earth a wilderness!Only let me go on, go on,Still hoping ever and anonTo reach one eve the Better Land!"

And I cowered deprecatingly—

"Thou Love of God! Or let me die,

Or grant what shall seem heaven almost!

Let me not know that all is lost,

Though lost it be—leave me not tied

To this despair, this corpse-like bride!

Let that old life seem mine—no more—

With limitation as before,

With darkness, hunger, toil, distress:

Be all the earth a wilderness!

Only let me go on, go on,

Still hoping ever and anon

To reach one eve the Better Land!"

XXXII

Then did the form expand, expand—I knew him through the dread disguiseAs the whole God within his eyesEmbraced me.

Then did the form expand, expand—

I knew him through the dread disguise

As the whole God within his eyes

Embraced me.

XXXIII

When I lived again,The day was breaking,—the gray plainI rose from, silvered thick with dew.Was this a vision? False or true?Since then, three varied years are spent,And commonly my mind is bentTo think it was a dream—be sureA mere dream and distemperature—The last day's watching: then the night,—The shock of that strange Northern LightSet my head swimming, bred in meA dream. And so I live, you see,Go through the world, try, prove, reject,Prefer, still struggling to effectMy warfare; happy that I canBe crossed and thwarted as a man,Not left in God's contempt apart,With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart,Tame in earth's paddock as her prize.Thank God, she still each method triesTo catch me, who may yet escape,She knows,—the fiend in angel's shape!Thank God, no paradise stands barredTo entry, and I find it hardTo be a Christian, as I said!Still every now and then my headRaised glad, sinks mournful—all grows drearSpite of the sunshine, while I fearAnd think, "How dreadful to be grudgedNo ease henceforth, as one that's judged,Condemned to earth forever, shutFrom heaven!"But Easter-Day breaks! ButChrist rises! Mercy every wayIs infinite,—and who can say?

When I lived again,

The day was breaking,—the gray plain

I rose from, silvered thick with dew.

Was this a vision? False or true?

Since then, three varied years are spent,

And commonly my mind is bent

To think it was a dream—be sure

A mere dream and distemperature—

The last day's watching: then the night,—

The shock of that strange Northern Light

Set my head swimming, bred in me

A dream. And so I live, you see,

Go through the world, try, prove, reject,

Prefer, still struggling to effect

My warfare; happy that I can

Be crossed and thwarted as a man,

Not left in God's contempt apart,

With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart,

Tame in earth's paddock as her prize.

Thank God, she still each method tries

To catch me, who may yet escape,

She knows,—the fiend in angel's shape!

Thank God, no paradise stands barred

To entry, and I find it hard

To be a Christian, as I said!

Still every now and then my head

Raised glad, sinks mournful—all grows drear

Spite of the sunshine, while I fear

And think, "How dreadful to be grudged

No ease henceforth, as one that's judged,

Condemned to earth forever, shut

From heaven!"

But Easter-Day breaks! But

Christ rises! Mercy every way

Is infinite,—and who can say?

London and Florence, 184– 185–

In making his final distribution of poems Browning gave the above title and dates to the thirteen poems which follow, but the title was originally given by him to two volumes published in 1855. The other poems are dispersed among the several groups already named, with the exception ofIn a Balcony, which appeared by itself.

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