Supposed Confessions...of a second-rate sensitive mind not in unity with itself.There has been only one important alteration made in this poem, when it was reprinted among theJuveniliain 1871, and that was the suppression of the verses beginning “A grief not uninformed and dull” to “Indued with immortality” inclusive, and the substitution of “rosy” for “waxen”. Capitals are in all cases inserted in the reprint where the Deity is referred to, “through” is altered into “thro’” all through the poem, and hyphens are inserted in the double epithets. No further alterations were made in the edition of 1830.Oh God! my God! have mercy now.I faint, I fall. Men say that thouDidst die for me, for such asme,Patient of ill, and death, and scorn,And that my sin was as a thornAmong the thorns that girt thy brow,Wounding thy soul.—That even now,In this extremest miseryOf ignorance, I should requireA sign! and if a bolt of fireWould rive the slumbrous summernoonWhile I do pray to thee alone,Think my belief would stronger grow!Is not my human pride brought low?The boastings of my spirit still?The joy I had in my freewillAll cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown?And what is left to me, but thou,And faith in thee? Men pass me by;Christians with happy countenances—And children all seem full of thee!And women smile with saint-like glancesLike thine own mother’s when she bow’dAbove thee, on that happy mornWhen angels spake to men aloud,And thou and peace to earth were born.Goodwill to me as well as all—I one of them: my brothers they:Brothers in Christ—a world of peaceAnd confidence, day after day;And trust and hope till things should cease,And then one Heaven receive us all.How sweet to have a common faith!To hold a common scorn of death!And at a burial to hearThe creaking cords which wound and eatInto my human heart, whene’erEarth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!A grief not uninformed, and dullHearted with hope, of hope as fullAs is the blood with life, or nightAnd a dark cloud with rich moonlight.To stand beside a grave, and seeThe red small atoms wherewith weAre built, and smile in calm, and say—“These little moles and graves shall beClothed on with immortalityMore glorious than the noon of day—All that is pass’d into the flowersAnd into beasts and other men,And all the Norland whirlwind showersFrom open vaults, and all the seaO’er washes with sharp salts, againShall fleet together all, and beIndued with immortality.”Thrice happy state again to beThe trustful infant on the knee!Who lets his waxen fingers playAbout his mother’s neck, and knowsNothing beyond his mother’s eyes.They comfort him by night and day;They light his little life alway;He hath no thought of coming woes;He hath no care of life or death,Scarce outward signs of joy arise,Because the Spirit of happinessAnd perfect rest so inward is;And loveth so his innocent heart,Her temple and her place of birth,Where she would ever wish to dwell,Life of the fountain there, beneathIts salient springs, and far apart,Hating to wander out on earth,Or breathe into the hollow air,Whose dullness would make visibleHer subtil, warm, and golden breath,Which mixing with the infant’s blood,Fullfills him with beatitude.Oh! sure it is a special careOf God, to fortify from doubt,To arm in proof, and guard aboutWith triple-mailed trust, and clearDelight, the infant’s dawning year.Would that my gloomed fancy wereAs thine, my mother, when with browsPropped on thy knees, my hands upheldIn thine, I listen’d to thy vows,For me outpour’d in holiest prayer—For me unworthy!—and beheldThy mild deep eyes upraised, that knewThe beauty and repose of faith,And the clear spirit shining through.Oh! wherefore do we grow awryFrom roots which strike so deep? why darePaths in the desert? Could not IBow myself down, where thou hast knelt,To th’ earth—until the ice would meltHere, and I feel as thou hast felt?What Devil had the heart to scatheFlowers thou hadst rear’d—to brush the dewFrom thine own lily, when thy graveWas deep, my mother, in the clay?Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had ISo little love for thee? But whyPrevail’d not thy pure prayers? Why prayTo one who heeds not, who can saveBut will not? Great in faith, and strongAgainst the grief of circumstanceWert thou, and yet unheard. What ifThou pleadest still, and seest me driveThro’ utter dark a fullsailed skiff,Unpiloted i’ the echoing danceOf reboant whirlwinds, stooping lowUnto the death, not sunk! I knowAt matins and at evensong,That thou, if thou were yet alive,In deep and daily prayers wouldst striveTo reconcile me with thy God.Albeit, my hope is gray, and coldAt heart, thou wouldest murmur still—“Bring this lamb back into thy fold,My Lord, if so it be thy will”.Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod,And chastisement of human pride;That pride, the sin of devils, stoodBetwixt me and the light of God!That hitherto I had defiedAnd had rejected God—that graceWould drop from his o’erbrimming love,As manna on my wilderness,If I would pray—that God would moveAnd strike the hard hard rock, and thence,Sweet in their utmost bitterness,Would issue tears of penitenceWhich would keep green hope’s life. Alas!I think that pride hath now no placeNor sojourn in me. I am void,Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.Why not believe then? Why not yetAnchor thy frailty there, where manHath moor’d and rested? Ask the seaAt midnight, when the crisp slope wavesAfter a tempest, rib and fretThe broadimbasèd beach, why heSlumbers not like a mountain tarn?Wherefore his ridges are not curlsAnd ripples of an inland mere?Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor canDraw down into his vexed poolsAll that blue heaven which hues and pavesThe other? I am too forlorn,Too shaken: my own weakness foolsMy judgment, and my spirit whirls,Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.“Yet” said I, in my morn of youth,The unsunned freshness of my strength,When I went forth in quest of truth,“It is man’s privilege to doubt,If so be that from doubt at length,Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,An image with profulgent brows,And perfect limbs, as from the stormOf running fires and fluid rangeOf lawless airs, at last stood outThis excellence and solid formOf constant beauty. For the OxFeeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fillsThe horned valleys all about,And hollows of the fringed hillsIn summerheats, with placid lowsUnfearing, till his own blood flowsAbout his hoof. And in the flocksThe lamb rejoiceth in the year,And raceth freely with his fere,And answers to his mother’s callsFrom the flower’d furrow. In a time,Of which he wots not, run short painsThrough his warm heart; and then, from whenceHe knows not, on his light there fallsA shadow; and his native slope,Where he was wont to leap and climb,Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,And something in the darkness drawsHis forehead earthward, and he dies.Shall man live thus, in joy and hopeAs a young lamb, who cannot dream,Living, but that he shall live on?Shall we not look into the lawsOf life and death, and things that seem,And things that be, and analyseOur double nature, and compareAll creeds till we have found the one,If one there be?” Ay me! I fearAll may not doubt, but everywhereSome must clasp Idols. Yet, my God,Whom call I Idol? Let thy doveShadow me over, and my sinsBe unremembered, and thy loveEnlighten me. Oh teach me yetSomewhat before the heavy clodWeighs on me, and the busy fretOf that sharpheaded worm beginsIn the gross blackness underneath.O weary life! O weary death!O spirit and heart made desolate!O damnèd vacillating state!
of a second-rate sensitive mind not in unity with itself.
There has been only one important alteration made in this poem, when it was reprinted among theJuveniliain 1871, and that was the suppression of the verses beginning “A grief not uninformed and dull” to “Indued with immortality” inclusive, and the substitution of “rosy” for “waxen”. Capitals are in all cases inserted in the reprint where the Deity is referred to, “through” is altered into “thro’” all through the poem, and hyphens are inserted in the double epithets. No further alterations were made in the edition of 1830.
Oh God! my God! have mercy now.I faint, I fall. Men say that thouDidst die for me, for such asme,Patient of ill, and death, and scorn,And that my sin was as a thornAmong the thorns that girt thy brow,Wounding thy soul.—That even now,In this extremest miseryOf ignorance, I should requireA sign! and if a bolt of fireWould rive the slumbrous summernoonWhile I do pray to thee alone,Think my belief would stronger grow!Is not my human pride brought low?The boastings of my spirit still?The joy I had in my freewillAll cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown?And what is left to me, but thou,And faith in thee? Men pass me by;Christians with happy countenances—And children all seem full of thee!And women smile with saint-like glancesLike thine own mother’s when she bow’dAbove thee, on that happy mornWhen angels spake to men aloud,And thou and peace to earth were born.Goodwill to me as well as all—I one of them: my brothers they:Brothers in Christ—a world of peaceAnd confidence, day after day;And trust and hope till things should cease,And then one Heaven receive us all.How sweet to have a common faith!To hold a common scorn of death!And at a burial to hearThe creaking cords which wound and eatInto my human heart, whene’erEarth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!A grief not uninformed, and dullHearted with hope, of hope as fullAs is the blood with life, or nightAnd a dark cloud with rich moonlight.To stand beside a grave, and seeThe red small atoms wherewith weAre built, and smile in calm, and say—“These little moles and graves shall beClothed on with immortalityMore glorious than the noon of day—All that is pass’d into the flowersAnd into beasts and other men,And all the Norland whirlwind showersFrom open vaults, and all the seaO’er washes with sharp salts, againShall fleet together all, and beIndued with immortality.”Thrice happy state again to beThe trustful infant on the knee!Who lets his waxen fingers playAbout his mother’s neck, and knowsNothing beyond his mother’s eyes.They comfort him by night and day;They light his little life alway;He hath no thought of coming woes;He hath no care of life or death,Scarce outward signs of joy arise,Because the Spirit of happinessAnd perfect rest so inward is;And loveth so his innocent heart,Her temple and her place of birth,Where she would ever wish to dwell,Life of the fountain there, beneathIts salient springs, and far apart,Hating to wander out on earth,Or breathe into the hollow air,Whose dullness would make visibleHer subtil, warm, and golden breath,Which mixing with the infant’s blood,Fullfills him with beatitude.Oh! sure it is a special careOf God, to fortify from doubt,To arm in proof, and guard aboutWith triple-mailed trust, and clearDelight, the infant’s dawning year.Would that my gloomed fancy wereAs thine, my mother, when with browsPropped on thy knees, my hands upheldIn thine, I listen’d to thy vows,For me outpour’d in holiest prayer—For me unworthy!—and beheldThy mild deep eyes upraised, that knewThe beauty and repose of faith,And the clear spirit shining through.Oh! wherefore do we grow awryFrom roots which strike so deep? why darePaths in the desert? Could not IBow myself down, where thou hast knelt,To th’ earth—until the ice would meltHere, and I feel as thou hast felt?What Devil had the heart to scatheFlowers thou hadst rear’d—to brush the dewFrom thine own lily, when thy graveWas deep, my mother, in the clay?Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had ISo little love for thee? But whyPrevail’d not thy pure prayers? Why prayTo one who heeds not, who can saveBut will not? Great in faith, and strongAgainst the grief of circumstanceWert thou, and yet unheard. What ifThou pleadest still, and seest me driveThro’ utter dark a fullsailed skiff,Unpiloted i’ the echoing danceOf reboant whirlwinds, stooping lowUnto the death, not sunk! I knowAt matins and at evensong,That thou, if thou were yet alive,In deep and daily prayers wouldst striveTo reconcile me with thy God.Albeit, my hope is gray, and coldAt heart, thou wouldest murmur still—“Bring this lamb back into thy fold,My Lord, if so it be thy will”.Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod,And chastisement of human pride;That pride, the sin of devils, stoodBetwixt me and the light of God!That hitherto I had defiedAnd had rejected God—that graceWould drop from his o’erbrimming love,As manna on my wilderness,If I would pray—that God would moveAnd strike the hard hard rock, and thence,Sweet in their utmost bitterness,Would issue tears of penitenceWhich would keep green hope’s life. Alas!I think that pride hath now no placeNor sojourn in me. I am void,Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.Why not believe then? Why not yetAnchor thy frailty there, where manHath moor’d and rested? Ask the seaAt midnight, when the crisp slope wavesAfter a tempest, rib and fretThe broadimbasèd beach, why heSlumbers not like a mountain tarn?Wherefore his ridges are not curlsAnd ripples of an inland mere?Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor canDraw down into his vexed poolsAll that blue heaven which hues and pavesThe other? I am too forlorn,Too shaken: my own weakness foolsMy judgment, and my spirit whirls,Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.“Yet” said I, in my morn of youth,The unsunned freshness of my strength,When I went forth in quest of truth,“It is man’s privilege to doubt,If so be that from doubt at length,Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,An image with profulgent brows,And perfect limbs, as from the stormOf running fires and fluid rangeOf lawless airs, at last stood outThis excellence and solid formOf constant beauty. For the OxFeeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fillsThe horned valleys all about,And hollows of the fringed hillsIn summerheats, with placid lowsUnfearing, till his own blood flowsAbout his hoof. And in the flocksThe lamb rejoiceth in the year,And raceth freely with his fere,And answers to his mother’s callsFrom the flower’d furrow. In a time,Of which he wots not, run short painsThrough his warm heart; and then, from whenceHe knows not, on his light there fallsA shadow; and his native slope,Where he was wont to leap and climb,Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,And something in the darkness drawsHis forehead earthward, and he dies.Shall man live thus, in joy and hopeAs a young lamb, who cannot dream,Living, but that he shall live on?Shall we not look into the lawsOf life and death, and things that seem,And things that be, and analyseOur double nature, and compareAll creeds till we have found the one,If one there be?” Ay me! I fearAll may not doubt, but everywhereSome must clasp Idols. Yet, my God,Whom call I Idol? Let thy doveShadow me over, and my sinsBe unremembered, and thy loveEnlighten me. Oh teach me yetSomewhat before the heavy clodWeighs on me, and the busy fretOf that sharpheaded worm beginsIn the gross blackness underneath.O weary life! O weary death!O spirit and heart made desolate!O damnèd vacillating state!