OF "THE HOUND OF HEAVEN"

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rancis Thompson, born in Preston in 1859, spent the greater part of his mature life in London where he died in 1907. He was educated at Ushaw College near Durham, and afterwards went to Owens College, Manchester, to qualify as a doctor.

But his gift as prescriber and healer lay elsewhere than in the consulting-room. He walked to London in search of a living, finding, indeed, a prolonged near approach to death in its streets; until at length his literary powers were discovered by himself and by others, and he began, in his later twenties, an outpouring of verse which endured for a half-decade of years—his "Poems," his "Sister Songs," and his "New Poems."

"The Hound of Heaven" "marked the return of the nineteenth century to Thomas à Kempis." The great poetry of it transcended, in itself and in its influence, all conventions; so that it won the love of a Catholic Mystic like Coventry Patmore; was included by Dean Beeching in his "Lyra Sacra" among its older high compeers; and gave new heart to quite another manner of man, Edward Burne-Jones.

W. M.

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways, Of my own mindI fled Him, down the labyrinthine waysOf my own mind

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fled Him, down the nights and down the days;I fled Him, down the arches of the years;I fled Him, down the labyrinthine waysOf my own mind; and in the mist of tearsI hid from Him, and under running laughter.Up vistaed hopes, I sped;And shot, precipitated,Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.But with unhurrying chase,And unperturbèd pace,Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,They beat—and a Voice beatMore instant than the Feet—"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

I pleaded, out law-wise,By many a hearted casement, curtained red,Trellised with intertwining charities(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,Yet was I sore adreadLest, having Him, I must have naught beside);But, if one little casement parted wide,The gust of His approach would clash it to.Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.Across the margent of the world I fled,And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;Fretted to dulcet jarsAnd silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.I said to dawn: Be sudden; to eve: Be soon—With thy young skyey blossoms heap me overFrom this tremendous Lover!Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!I tempted all His servitors, but to findMy own betrayal in their constancy,In faith to Him their fickleness to me,Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,The long savannahs of the blue;Or whether, Thunder-driven,They clanged His chariot 'thwart a heavenPlashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:—Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.Still with unhurrying chase,And unperturbèd pace,Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,Came on the following Feet,And a Voice above their beat—"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

Thunder-driven, They clanged His chariot 'thwart a heaven, Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feetThunder-driven,They clanged His chariot 'thwart a heavenPlashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet

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sought no more that after which I strayedIn face of man or maid;But still within the little children's eyesSeems something, something that replies,Theyat least are for me, surely for me!I turned me to them very wistfully;But just as their young eyes grew sudden fairWith dawning answers there,Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.

In her wind-walled palaceIn her wind-walled palace

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ome then, ye other children,Nature's—shareWith me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship;Let me greet you lip to lip,Let me twine with you caresses,WantoningWith our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,BanquetingWith her in her wind-walled palace,Underneath her azured daïs,Quaffing, as your taintless way is,From a chaliceLucent-weeping out of the dayspring."So it was done;Iin their delicate fellowship was one—Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.Iknew all the swift importingsOn the wilful face of skies;I knew how the clouds arise,Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;All that's born or diesRose and drooped with; made them shapersOf mine own moods, or wailful or divine—With them joyed and was bereaven.I was heavy with the even,When she lit her glimmering tapersRound the day's dead sanctities.I laughed in the morning's eyes.I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,Heaven and I wept together,And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;Against the red throb of its sunset-heartI laid my own to beat,And share commingling heat;But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.For ah! we know not what each other says,These things and I; in soundIspeak—Theirsound is but their stir, they speak by silences.Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake by drouth;Let her, if she would owe me,Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show meThe breasts o' her tenderness:Never did any milk of hers once blessMy thirsting mouth.Nigh and nigh draws the chase,With unperturbèd pace,Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,And past those noisèd FeetA Voice comes yet more fleet—"Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

I shook the pillaring hours, And pulled my life upon meI shook the pillaring hoursAnd pulled my life upon me

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aked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,And smitten me to my knee;I am defenceless utterly.I slept, methinks, and woke,And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.In the rash lustihead of my young powers,I shook the pillaring hoursAnd pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years—My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.Yea, faileth now even dreamThe dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twistI swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,Are yielding; cords of all too weak accountFor earth, with heavy griefs so overplussed.Ah! is Thy love indeedA weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?Ah! must—Designer infinite!—Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;And now my heart is as a broken fount,Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down everFrom the dank thoughts that shiverUpon the sighful branches of my mind.Such is; what is to be?The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;Yet ever and anon a trumpet soundsFrom the hid battlements of Eternity:Those shaken mists a space unsettle, thenRound the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again;But not ere Him who summonethI first have seen, enwoundAnd now my heart is as a broken fount,Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down everFrom the dank thoughts that shiverWith glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.Whether man's heart or life it be which yieldsThee harvest, must Thy harvest fieldsBe dunged with rotten death?

And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever, From the dank thoughts that shiverAnd now my heart is as a broken fount,Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down everFrom the dank thoughts that shiver

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ow of that long pursuitComes on at hand the bruit;That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:"And is thy earth so marred,Shattered in shard on shard?Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!Strange, piteous, futile thing,Wherefore should any set thee love apart?Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),"And human love needs human meriting:How hast thou merited—Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?Alack, thou knowest notHow little worthy of any love thou art!Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,Save Me, save only Me?All which I took from thee I did but take,Not for thy harms,But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.All which thy child's mistakeFancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:Rise, clasp My hand, and come."Halts by me that footfall:Is my gloom, after all,Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,I am He Whom thou seekest!Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."

That Voice is round me like a bursting seaThat Voice is round me like a bursting sea

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