Ay, note that Potter's wheel,That metaphor! and feelWhy time spins fast; why passive lies our clay,—Thou, to whom fools propound,When the wine makes its round,"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"
Fool! All that is, at all,Lasts ever, past recall;Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:What entered into thee,Thatwas, is, and shall be:Time's wheel runs back or stops; Potter and clay endure.
He fixed thee 'mid this danceOf plastic circumstance,This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:Machinery just meantTo give thy soul its bent,Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.
What though the earlier groovesWhich ran the laughing lovesAround thy base, no longer pause and press?What though, about thy rim,Scull-things in order grimGrow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
Look not thou down, but up!To uses of a cup,The festal board, lamp's flash, and trumpet's peal,The new wine's foaming flow,The Master's lips aglow!Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?
But I need, now as then,Thee, God, who mouldest men;And since, not even while the whirl was worst,Did I—to the wheel of lifeWith shapes and colors rife,Bound dizzily—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:
So, take and use Thy work!Amend what flaws may lurk,What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!My times be inThyhand!Perfect the cup as planned!Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
* * * * *
He was of that stubborn crewOf errant saints, whom all men grantTo be the true church militant;Such as do build their faith uponThe holy text of pike and gun;Decide all controversies byInfallible artillery,And prove their doctrine orthodoxBy apostolic blows and knocks;Call fire, and sword, and desolationA godly, thorough Reformation,Which always must be carried onAnd still be doing, never done;As if religion were intendedFor nothing else but to be mended.A sect whose chief devotion liesIn odd perverse antipathies;In falling out with that or this,And finding somewhat still amiss;More peevish, cross, and splenetic,Than dog distract, or monkey sick;That with more care keep holidayThe wrong than others the right way;Compound for sins they are inclined to,By damning those they have no mind to;Still so perverse and opposite,As if they worshipped God for spite;The self-same thing they will abhorOne way, and long another for.
* * * * *
I like a church; I like a cowl;I love a prophet of the soul;And on my heart monastic aislesFall like sweet strains or pensive smiles;Yet not for all his faith can seeWould I that cowled churchman be.Why should the vest on him allure,Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thoughtHis awful Jove young Phidias brought;Never from lips of cunning fellThe thrilling Delphic oracle:Out from the heart of nature rolledThe burdens of the Bible old;The litanies of nations came,Like the volcano's tongue of flame,Up from the burning core below,—The canticles of love and woe.The hand that rounded Peters dome,And groined the aisles of Christian Rome,Wrought in a sad sincerity;Himself from God he could not free;He builded better than he knew;—The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nestOf leaves, and feathers from her breast?Or how the fish outbuilt her shell.Painting with morn each annual cell?Or how the sacred pine-tree addsTo her old leaves new myriads?Such and so grew these holy piles,Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.Earth proudly wears the Parthenon,As the best gem upon her zone;And Morning opes with haste her lids,To gaze upon the Pyramids;O'er England's abbeys bends the sky,As on its friends, with kindred eye;For, out of Thought's interior sphere,These wonders rose to upper air;And Nature gladly gave them place,Adopted them into her race,And granted them an equal dateWith Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass;Art might obey, but not surpass.The passive Master lent his handTo the vast Soul that o'er him planned;And the same power that reared the shrineBestrode the tribes that knelt within.Ever the fiery PentecostGirds with one flame the countless host,Trances the heart through chanting choirs,And through the priest the mind inspires.The word unto the prophet spokenWas writ on tables yet unbroken;The word by seers or sibyls told,In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,Still floats upon the morning wind,Still whispers to the willing mind.One accent of the Holy GhostThe heedless world hath never lost.I know what say the fathers wise,—The Book itself before me lies,—Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,And he who blent both in his line,The younger Golden Lips or mines,Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.His words are music in my ear,I see his cowled portrait dear;And yet, for all his faith could see,I would not the good bishop be.
* * * * *
"Be, rather than be called, a child of God,"Death whispered!—with assenting nod,Its head upon its mother's breast,The baby bowed, without demur—Of the kingdom of the BlestPossessor, not inheritor.
* * * * *
"Religion relates to life, and the life of religion is to dogood."—SWEDENBORG.
He left a load of anthraciteIn front of a poor woman's door.When the deep snow, frozen and white,Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor.That was his deed.He did it well."What was his creed?"I cannot tell.
Blessed "in his basket and his store,"In sitting down and rising up;When more he got, he gave the more,Withholding not the crust and cup.He took the leadIn each good task."What was his creed?"I did not ask.
His charity was like the snow,Soft, white, and silent in its fall;Not like the noisy winds that blowFrom shivering trees the leaves,—a pallFor flowers and weed,Drooping below."What was his creed?"The poor may know.
He had great faith in loaves of breadFor hungry people, young and old,Hope he inspired; kind words he saidTo those he sheltered from the cold.For we should feedAs well as pray."What was his creed?"I cannot say.
In words he did not put his trust;His faith in words he never writ;He loved to share his cup and crustWith all mankind who needed it.In time of needA friend was he."What was his creed?"He told not me.
He put his trust in heaven, and heWorked well with hand and head;And what he gave in charitySweetened his sleep and daily bread.Let us take heed,For life is brief.What was his creed—Whathis belief?
* * * * *
Down deep in the hollow, so damp and so cold,Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown,The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould,Lying loose on a ponderous stone.Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne,A toad has been sitting more years than is known;And, strange as it seems, yet he constantly deemsThe world standing still while he's dreaming his dreams,—Does this wonderful toad in his cheerful abodeIn the innermost heart of that flinty old stone,By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in the hollow, from morning till night,Dun shadows glide over the ground,Where a watercourse once, as it sparkled with light,Turned a ruined old mill-wheel around:Long years have passed by since its bed became dry,And the trees grow so close, scarce a glimpse of the skyIs seen in the hollow, so dark and so damp,Where the glow-worm at noonday is trimming his lamp,And hardly a sound from the thicket around,Where the rabbit and squirrel leap over the ground,Is heard by the toad in his spacious abodeIn the innermost heart of that ponderous stone,By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in that hollow the bees never come,The shade is too black for a flower;And jewel-winged birds with their musical hum,Never flash in the night of that bower;But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the brake,Lies amid the rank grass, half asleep, half awake;And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in, its trail,Moves wearily on like a life's tedious tale,Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode,In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone,By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.
Down deep in a hollow some wiseacres sit,Like a toad in his cell in the stone;Around them in daylight the blind owlets flit,And their creeds are with ivy o'ergrown;—Their stream may go dry, and the wheels cease to ply,And their glimpses be few of the sun and the sky,Still they hug to their breast every time-honored guest.And slumber and doze in inglorious rest;For no progress they find in the wide sphere of mind,And the world's standing still with all of their kind;Contented to dwell deep down in the well,Or move like a snail in the crust of his shell,Or live like the toad in his narrow abode,With their souls closely wedged in a thick wall of stone,By the gray weeds of prejudice rankly o'ergrown.
* * * * *
She stood before a chosen few,With modest air and eyes of blue;A gentle creature, in whose faceWere mingled tenderness and grace.
"You wish to join our fold," they said:"Do you believe in all that's readFrom ritual and written creed,Essential to our human need?"
A troubled look was in her eyes;She answered, as in vague surprise.As though the sense to her were dim,"I only strive to follow Him."
They knew her life; how, oft she stood,Sweet in her guileless maidenhood,By dying bed, in hovel lone,Whose sorrow she had made her own.
Oft had her voice in prayer been heard,Sweet as the voice of singing bird;Her hand been open in distress;Her joy to brighten and to bless.
Yet still she answered, when they soughtTo know her inmost earnest thought,With look as of the seraphim,"I only strive to follow Him."
Creeds change as ages come and go;We see by faith, but little know:Perchance the sense was not so dimTo her who "strove to follow Him."
* * * * *
I hold that Christian grace aboundsWhere charity is seen; that whenWe climb to heaven, 't is on the roundsOf love to men.
I hold all else, named piety,A selfish scheme, a vain pretence;Where centre is not—can there beCircumference?
This I moreover hold, and dareAffirm where'er my rhyme may go,—Whatever things be sweet or fair,Love makes them so.
Whether it be the lullabiesThat charm to rest the nursling bird,Or the sweet confidence of sighsAnd blushes, made without a word.
Whether the dazzling and the flushOf softly sumptuous garden bowers,Or by some cabin door, a bushOf ragged flowers.
'Tis not the wide phylactery,Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers,That make us saints: we judge the treeBy what it bears.
And when a man can live apartFrom works, on theologic trust,I know the blood about his heartIs dry as dust.
* * * * *
With echoing steps the worshippersDeparted one by one;The organ's pealing voice was stilled,The vesper hymn was done;The shadow fell from roof and arch,Dim was the incensed air,One lamp alone, with trembling ray,Told of the Presence there!
In the dark church she knelt alone;Her tears were falling fast;"Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of deathUpon my soul are cast!Have I not shunned the path of sin,And chose the better part? "—What voice came through the sacred air?—"My child, give me thy heart!"
"Have not I laid before thy shrineMy wealth, O Lord?" she cried;"Have I kept aught of gems or gold,To minister to pride?Have I not bade youth's joys retire,And vain delights depart?"—But sad and tender was the voice,—"My child, give me thy heart!"
"Have I not, Lord, gone day by dayWhere thy poor children dwell;And carried help, and gold, and food?O Lord, thou know'st it well!From many a house, from many a soul,My hand bids care depart":—More sad, more tender was the voice,—"My child, give me thy heart!"
"Have I not worn my strength awayWith fast and penance sore?Have I not watched and wept?" she cried;"Did thy dear saints do more?Have I not gained thy grace, O Lord,And won in heaven my part?"—It echoed louder in her soul,—"My child, give me thy heart!
"For I have loved thee with a loveNo mortal heart can show;A love so deep my saints in heavenIts depths can never know:When pierced and wounded on the cross,Man's sin and doom were mine,I loved thee with undying love,Immortal and divine!
"I loved thee ere the skies were spread;My soul bears all thy pains;To gain thy love my sacred heartIn earthly shrines remains:Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs,Without one gift divine;Give it, my child, thy heart to me,And it shall rest in mine!"
In awe she listened, as the shadePassed from her soul away;In low and trembling voice she cried,—"Lord, help me to obey!Break thou the chains of earth, O Lord,That bind and hold my heart;Let it be thine and thine alone,Let none with thee have part.
"Send down, O Lord, thy sacred fire!Consume and cleanse the sinThat lingers still within its depths:Let heavenly love begin.That sacred flame thy saints have known,Kindle, O Lord, in me,Thou above all the rest forever,And all the rest in thee."
The blessing fell upon her soul;Her angel by her sideKnew that the hour of peace was come;Her soul was purified;The shadows fell from roof and arch,Dim was the incensed air,—But peace went with her as she leftThe sacred Presence there!
* * * * *
O, may I join the choir invisibleOf those immortal dead who live againIn minds made better by their presence; liveIn pulses stirred to generosity,In deeds of daring rectitude, in scornOf miserable aims that end with self,In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,And with their mild persistence urge men's mindsTo vaster issues.So to live is heaven:To make undying music in the world,Breathing a beauteous order that controlsWith growing sway the growing life of man.So we inherit that sweet purityFor which we struggled, failed, and agonizedWith widening retrospect that bred despair.Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,A vicious parent shaming still its child,Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies,Die in the large and charitable air.And all our rarer, better, truer self,That sobbed religiously in yearning song,That watched to ease the burden of the world,Laboriously tracing what must be,And what may yet be better,—saw withinA worthier image for the sanctuary,And shaped it forth before the multitude,Divinely human, raising worship soTo higher reverence more mixed with love,That better self shall live till human TimeShall fold its eyelids, and the human skyBe gathered like a scroll within the tomb,Unread forever.This is life to come,Which martyred men have made more gloriousFor us, who strive to follow.May I reachThat purest heaven,—be to other soulsThe cup of strength in some great agony,Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,And in diffusion ever more intense!So shall I join the choir invisible,Whose music is the gladness of the world.
MARIAN EVANS LEWES CROSS (George Eliot).
* * * * *
O yet we trust that somehow goodWill be the final goal of ill,To pangs of nature, sins of will,Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;That not one life shall be destroyed,Or cast as rubbish to the void,When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;That not a moth with vain desireIs shrivelled in a fruitless fire,Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last—far off—at last, to all,And every winter change to spring.
So runs my dream: but what am I?An infant crying in the night:An infant crying for the light:And with no language but a cry.
* * * * *
What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower.Is the day breaking? Comes the wished-for hour?Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand,If the bright morning dawns upon the land.
"The stars are clear above me; scarcely oneHas dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun;But I yet see on the horizon's vergeSome fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge."
Look forth again, O watcher on the tower,—The people wake and languish for the hour;Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pineFor the full daylight that they know must shine.
"I see not well,—the moon is cloudy still,—There is a radiance on the distant hill;Even as I watch the glory seems to grow;But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow."
And is that all, O watcher on the tower?Look forth again; it must be near the hour;Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes,And the green woods beneath them on the slopes?
"A mist envelops them; I cannot traceTheir outline; but the day comes on apace:The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes,And all the stars grow dim; the morning breaks."
We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower:But look again, and tell us, hour by hour,All thou beholdest: many of us dieEre the day comes; oh, give them a reply!
"I see the hill-tops now, and chanticleerCrows his prophetic carol on mine ear;I see the distant woods and fields of corn,And ocean gleaming in the light of morn."
Again, again, O watcher on the tower!We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour,Patient, but longing. Tell us, shall it beA bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free?
"I hope, but cannot tell; I hear a song,Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong,As of a lark—young prophet of the noon—Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune."
What doth he say, O watcher on the tower?Is he a prophet? does the dawning hourInspire his music? Is his chant sublime,Filled with the glories of the future time?
"He prophesies,—his heart is full; his layTells of the brightness of a peaceful day;A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm,But sunny for the most, and clear and warm."
We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower,For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hourWhen error shall decay, and truth grow strong,And light shall rule supreme and conquer wrong?
"He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace,Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease;When war shall cease, and man's progressive mindSoar as unfettered as its God designed."
Well done, thou watcher on the lonely tower!Is the day breaking? Dawns the happy hour?We pine to see it; tell us yet againIf the broad daylight breaks upon the plain?
"It breaks! it comes! the misty shadows fly:A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky;The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear,The plain is yet in shade, but day is near."
* * * * *
Lord, thou hast given me a cellWherein to dwell,A little house, whose humble roofIs weather proof;Under the sparres of which I lie,Both soft and drie;Where thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keepMe while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate;Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my dooreIs worn by the poore,Who hither come and freely getGood words or meat.Like as my parlour, so my hallAnd kitchen's small;A little butterie, and thereinA little byn,Which keeps my little loafe of breadUnchipt, unflead.Some sticks of thorn or briarMake me a fire,Close by whose loving coals I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confesse too, when I dine,The pulse is thine,And all those other bits that beeThere placed by thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messeOf water-cresse,Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those and my beloved beetMore sweet.'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltlesse mirth,And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soiles my land,And gives me for my bushel sowne,Twice ten for one.Thou mak'st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day,Besides my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each yeare;The while the conduits of my kineRun creame for wine.All these and better thou dost sendMe to this end,That I should render, for my part,A thankfulle heart,Which, fired with incense, I resigneAs wholly thine;But the acceptance, that must be,MY CHRIST, by thee.
* * * * *
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave.Let me once know.I sought thee in a secret cave;And asked if Peace were there.A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No!Go, seek elsewhere."
I did; and, going, did a rainbow note:"Surely," thought I,"This is the lace of Peace's coat.I will search out the matter."But, while I looked, the clouds immediatelyDid break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spyA gallant flower,—The crown-imperial. "Sure," said I,"Peace at the root must dwell."But, when I digged, I saw a worm devourWhat showed so well.
At length I met a reverend, good old man;Whom when for PeaceI did demand, he thus began:"There was a prince of oldAt Salem dwelt, who lived with good increaseOf flock and fold.
"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not saveHis life from foes.But, after death, out of his graveThere sprang twelve stalks of wheat;Which many wondering at, got some of thoseTo plant and set.
"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperseThrough all the earth.For they that taste it do rehearse,That virtue lies therein,—A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,By flight of sin.
"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,And grows for you:Make bread of it; and that reposeAnd peace which everywhereWith so much earnestness you do pursue,Is only there."
* * * * *
Is this the peace of God, this strange sweet calm?The weary day is at its zenith still,Yet 't is as if beside some cool, clear rill,Through shadowy stillness rose an evening psalm.And all the noise of life were hushed away,And tranquil gladness reigned with gently soothing sway.
It was not so just now. I turned asideWith aching head, and heart most sorely bowed;Around me cares and griefs in crushing crowd.While inly rose the sense, in swelling tide,Of weakness, insufficiency, and sin,And fear, and gloom, and doubt in mighty flood rolled in.
That rushing flood I had no power to meet,Nor power to flee: my present, future, past,Myself, my sorrow, and my sin I castIn utter helplessness at Jesu's feet:Then bent me to the storm, if such his will.He saw the winds and waves, and whispered."Peace, be still!"
And there was calm! O Saviour, I have provedThat thou to help and save art really near:How else this quiet rest from grief and fearAnd all distress? The cross is not removed,I must go forth to bear it as before,But, leaning on thine arm, I dread its weight no more.
Is it indeed thy peace? I have not triedTo analyze my faith, dissect my trust,Or measure if belief be full and just,And therefore claim thy peace. But thou hast died,I know that this is true for me,And, knowing it, I come, and cast my all on thee.
It is not that I feel less weak, but thouWilt be my strength; it is not that I seeLess sin, but more of pardoning love with thee,And all-sufficient grace. Enough! and nowAll fluttering thought is stilled, I only rest,And feel that thou art near, and know that I am blest.
* * * * *
There are some hearts like wells, green-mossed and deepAs ever Summer saw;And cool their water is,—yea, cool and sweet;—But you must come to draw.They hoard not, yet they rest in calm content,And not unsought will give;They can be quiet with their wealth unspent,So self-contained they live.
And there are some like springs, that bubbling burstTo follow dusty ways,And run with offered cup to quench his thirstWhere the tired traveller strays;That never ask the meadows if they wantWhat is their joy to give;—Unasked, their lives to other life they grant,So self-bestowed they live!
And One is like the ocean, deep and wide,Wherein all waters fall;That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide,Feeding and bearing all;That broods the mists, that sends the clouds abroad,That takes, again to give;—Even the great and loving heart of God.Whereby all love doth live.
* * * * *
The immortal godsAccept the meanest altars, that are raisedBy pure devotion; and sometimes preferAn ounce of frankincense, honey, or milk,Before whole hecatombs, or Sabæan gems,Offered in ostentation.
* * * * *
"Waters flowed over mine head; then I said, I am cutoff."—LAMENTATIONS iii. 54.
One day I wandered where the salt sea-tideBackward had drawn its wave,And found a spring as sweet as e'er hillsideTo wild-flowers gave.Freshly it sparkled in the sun's bright look,And mid its pebbles strayed,As if it thought to join a happy brookIn some green glade.
But soon the heavy sea's resistless swellCame rolling in once more,Spreading its bitter o'er the clear sweet wellAnd pebbled shore.Like a fair star thick buried in a cloud,Or life in the grave's gloom,The well, enwrapped in a deep watery shroud,Sunk to its tomb.
As one who by the beach roams far and wide,Remnant of wreck to save,Again I wandered when the salt sea-tideWithdrew its wave;And there, unchanged, no taint in all its sweet,No anger in its tone,Still as it thought some happy brook to meet,The spring flowed on.
While waves of bitterness rolled o'er its head,Its heart had folded deepWithin itself, and quiet fancies led,As in a sleep;Till, when the ocean loosed his heavy chain,And gave it back to day,Calmly it turned to its own life againAnd gentle way.
Happy, I thought, that which can draw its lifeDeep from the nether springs,Safe 'neath the pressure, tranquil mid the strife,Of surface things.Safe—for the sources of the nether springsUp in the far hills lie;Calm—for the life its power and freshness bringsDown from the sky.
So, should temptations threaten, and should sinRoll in its whelming flood,Make strong the fountain of thy grace withinMy soul, O God!If bitter scorn, and looks, once kind, grown strange,With crushing chillness fall,From secret wells let sweetness rise, nor changeMy heart to gall!
When sore thy hand doth press, and waves of thineAfflict me like a sea,—Deep calling deep,—infuse from source divineThy peace in me!And when death's tide, as with a brimful cup,Over my soul doth pour,Let hope survive,—a well that springeth upForevermore!
Above my head the waves may come and go,Long brood the deluge dire,But life lies hidden in the depths belowTill waves retire,—Till death, that reigns with overflowing flood,At length withdraw its sway,And life rise sparkling in the sight of GodAn endless day.
* * * * *
In the bitter waves of woe,Beaten and tossed aboutBy the sullen winds that blowFrom the desolate shores of doubt,—
When the anchors that faith had castAre dragging in the gale,I am quietly holding fastTo the things that cannot fail:
I know that right is right;That it is not good to lie;That love is better than spite,And a neighbor than a spy;
I know that passion needsThe leash of a sober mind;I know that generous deedsSome sure reward will find;
That the rulers must obey;That the givers shall increase;That Duty lights the wayFor the beautiful feet of Peace;—
In the darkest night of the year,When the stars have all gone out,That courage is better than fear,That faith is truer than doubt;
And fierce though the fiends may fight,And long though the angels hide,I know that Truth and EightHave the universe on their side;
And that somewhere, beyond the stars,Is a Love that is better than fate;When the night unlocks her barsI shall see Him, and I will wait.
* * * * *
The play is done,—the curtain drops,Slow falling to the prompter's bell;A moment yet the actor stops,And looks around, to say farewell.It is an irksome word and task;And, when he's laughed and said his say,He shows, as he removes the mask,A face that's anything but gay.
One word, ere yet the evening ends,—Let's close it with a parting rhyme;And pledge a hand to all young friends,As flits the merry Christmas time;On life's wide scene you, too, have partsThat fate erelong shall bid you play;Good night!—with honest, gentle heartsA kindly greeting go alway!
Good night!—I'd say the griefs, the joys,Just hinted in this mimic page,The triumphs and defeats of boys,Are but repeated in our age;I'd say your woes were not less-keen,Your hopes more vain, than those of men,—Your pangs or pleasures of fifteenAt forty-five played o'er again.
I'd say we suffer and we striveNot less nor more as men than boys,—With grizzled beards at forty-five,As erst at twelve in corduroys;And if, in time of sacred youth,We learned at home to love and pray,Pray Heaven that early love and truthMay never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,I'd say how fate may change and shift,—The prize be sometimes with the fool,The race not always to the swift:The strong may yield, the good may fall,The great man be a vulgar clown,The knave be lifted over all,The kind cast pitilessly down.
Who knows the inscrutable design?Blessed be Be who took and gave!Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,Be weeping at her darling's grave?We bow to Heaven that willed it so,That darkly rules the fate of all,That sends the respite or the blow,That's free to give or to recall.
This crowns his feast with wine and wit,—Who brought him to that mirth and state?His betters, see, below him sit,Or hunger hopeless at the gate.Who bade the mud from Dives' wheelTo spurn the rags of Lazarus?Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.
So each shall mourn, in life's advance,Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed;Shall grieve for many a forfeit chanceAnd longing passion unfulfilled.Amen!—whatever fate be sent,Pray God the heart may kindly glow,Although the head with cares be bent,And whitened with the winter snow.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,Let young and old accept their part,And bow before the awful will,And bear it with an honest heart.Who misses, or who wins the prize,—Go, lose or conquer as you can;But if you fail, or if you rise,Be each, pray God, a gentleman.
A gentleman, or old or young!(Bear kindly with my humble lays;)The sacred chorus first was sungUpon the first of Christmas days;The shepherds heard it overhead,—The joyful angels raised it then:Glory to Heaven on high, it said,And peace on earth to gentle men!
My song, save this, is little worth;I lay the weary pen aside,And wish you health and love and mirth,As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.As fits the holy Christmas birth,Be this, good friends, our carol still,—Be peace on earth, be peace on earth,To men of gentle will.
* * * * *
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light:The year is dying in the night—Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new—,Ring happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,The faithless coldness of the times;Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land—Ring in the Christ that is to be.
* * * * *
It is not life upon thy gifts to live,But to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee;And when the sun and showers their bounties give,To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful treeWhose green head meets the eye for many a mile,Whose spreading boughs a friendly shelter rear,And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smileAs to its goodly shade our feet draw near.Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more,For 't is the Father spreads the pure repast,Who, while we eat, renews the ready store,Which at his bounteous board must ever last;And, as the more we to his children lend,The more to us doth of his bounty send.
* * * * *
Of man's first disobedience and the fruitOf that forbidden tree, whose mortal tasteBrought death into the world and all our woe,With loss of Eden, till one greater ManRestore us and regain the blissful seat,Sing, heavenly Muse, that on the secret topOf Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspireThat shepherd, who first taught the chosen seed,In the beginning how the heavens and earthRose out of Chaos; or if Sion hillDelight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flowedFast by the oracle of God; I thenceInvoke thy aid to my adventurous song.That with no middle flight intends to soarAbove the Aonian mount, while it pursuesThings unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.
And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost preferBefore all temples the upright heart and pure,Instruct me, for thou know'st; thou from the firstWast present, and with mighty wings outspreadDove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss,And mad'st it pregnant: what in me is darkIllumine, what is low raise and support;That to the height of this great argumentI may assert eternal Providence,And justify the ways of God to men.
The Sun was sunk, and after him the starOf Hesperus, whose office is to bringTwilight upon the Earth, short arbiter'Twixt day and night, and now from end to endNight's hemisphere had veiled the horizon round:When Satan, who late fled before the threatsOf Gabriel out of Eden, now improvedIn meditated fraud and malice, bentOn Man's destruction, maugre what might hapOf heavier on himself, fearless returned.By night he fled, and at midnight returnedFrom compassing the Earth;
* * * * *
The orb he roamedWith narrow search; and with inspection deepConsidered every creature, which of allMost opportune might serve his wiles; and foundThe serpent subtlest beast of all the field.Him, after long debate, irresoluteOf thoughts revolved, his final sentence choseFit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whomTo enter, and his dark suggestions hideFrom sharpest sight: for, in the wily snakeWhatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,As from his wit and native subtletyProceeding; which, in other beasts observed.Doubt might beget of diabolic powerActive within, beyond the sense of brute.
* * * * *
For now, and since first break of dawn, the fiend.Mere serpent in appearance, forth was come;And on his quest, where likeliest he might findThe only two of mankind, but in themThe whole included race, his purposed prey.In bower and field he sought where any tuftOf grove or garden-plot more pleasant lay,Their tendance, or plantation for delight;By fountain or by shady rivuletHe sought them both, but wished his hap might findEve separate; he wished, but not with hopeOf what so seldom chanced; when to his wish,Beyond his hope, Eve separate he spies,Veiled in a cloud of fragrance, where she stood,Half spied, so thick the roses blushing roundAbout her glowed.
* * * * *
"She fair, divinely fair, fit love for gods.Not terrible, though terror be in loveAnd beauty, not approached by stronger hate.Hate stronger, under show of love well feigned;The way which to her ruin now I tend."So spake the enemy of mankind, inclosedIn serpent, inmate bad! and toward EveAddressed his way: not with indented wave,Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear,Circular base of rising folds, that toweredFold above fold, a surging maze! his headCrested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes;With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect.Amidst his circling spires, that on the grassFloated redundant: pleasing was his shapeAnd lovely; never since of serpent-kindLovelier.
* * * * *
So varied he, and of his tortuous trainCurled many a wanton wreath in sight of Eve,To lure her eye; she, busied, heard the soundOf rustling leaves, but minded not, as usedTo such disport before her through the field,From every beast; more duteous at her call,Than at Circean call the herd disguised.He, bolder now, uncalled before her stood,But as in gaze admiring: oft he bowedHis turret crest, and sleek enamelled neck,Fawning; and licked the ground whereon she trod.His gentle dumb expression turned at lengthThe eye of Eve, to mark his play; he, gladOf her attention gained, with serpent-tongueOrganic, or impulse of vocal air,His fraudulent temptation thus began."Wonder not, sovran mistress, if perhapsThou canst who art sole wonder! much less armThy looks, the Heaven of mildness, with disdain,Displeased that I approach thee thus, and gazeInsatiate; I thus single; nor have fearedThy awful brow, more awful thus retired.Fairest resemblance of thy Maker fair,Thee all things living gaze on all things thineBy gift, and thy celestial beauty adoreWith ravishment beheld! there beat beheld,Where universally admired; but hereIn this inclosure wild, these beasts among,Beholders rude, and shallow to discernHalf what in thee is fair, one man except,Who sees thee? (and what is one?) who should be seenA goddess among gods, adored and servedBy angels numberless, thy daily train."So glozed the tempter, and his proem tuned:Into the heart of Eve his words made way.
* * * * *
[After some discourse, the Tempter praises the Tree of Knowledge.]
So standing, moving, or to height up grown,The tempter, all impassioned, thus began."O sacred, wise, and wisdom-giving plant,Mother of science! now I feel thy powerWithin me clear; not only to discernThings in their causes, but to trace the waysOf highest agents, deemed however wise.Queen of this universe! do not believeThose rigid threats of death: ye shall not die:How should you? by the fruit? it gives you lifeTo knowledge; by the threatener? look on me.Me, who have touched and tasted; yet both live,And life more perfect have attained than FateMeant me, by venturing higher than my lot.Shall that be shut to man, which to the beastIs open? or will God incense his ireFor such a petty trespass? and not praiseRather your dauntless virtue, whom the painOf death denounced, whatever thing death be,Deterred not from achieving what might leadTo happier life, knowledge of good and evil;Of good, how just? of evil, if what is evilBe real, why not known, since easier shunned?God therefore cannot hurt ye, and be just;Not just, not God: not feared then, nor obeyed:Your fear itself of death removes the fear.Why then was this forbid? Why, but to awe;Why, but to keep ye low and ignorant,His worshippers? He knows that in the dayYe eat thereof, your eyes, that seem so clear,Yet are but dim, shall perfectly be thenOpened and cleared, and ye shall be as gods,Knowing both good and evil, as they know.That ye shall be as gods, since I as Man,Internal Man, is but proportion meet;I, of brute, human; ye, of human, gods.So ye shall die, perhaps, by putting offHuman, to put on gods; death to be wished,Though threatened, which no worse than this can bring.And what are gods, that man may not becomeAs they, participating godlike food?The gods are first, and that advantage useOn our belief, that all from them proceeds:I question it; for this fair Earth I see,Warmed by the Sun, producing every kind;Them, nothing: if they all things, who inclosedKnowledge of good and evil in this tree,That whoso eats thereof forthwith attainsWisdom without their leave? and wherein liesThe offence, that man should thus attain to know?What can your knowledge hurt him, or this treeImpart against his will, if all be his?Or is it envy? and can envy dwellIn heavenly breasts?—These, these, and many moreCauses import your need of this fair fruit.Goddess humane, reach then, and freely taste."
He ended, and his words replete with guileInto her heart too easy entrance won:Fixed on the fruit she gazed, which to beholdMight tempt alone, and in her ears the soundYet rung of persuasive words, impregnedWith reason, to her seeming, and with truth:Meanwhile the hour of noon drew on, and wakedAn eager appetite, raised by the smellSo savory of that fruit, which with desire,Inclinable now grown to touch or taste,Solicited her longing eye; yet firstPausing awhile, thus to herself she mused."Great are thy virtues, doubtless, best of fruits,Though kept from man, and worthy to be admired,Whose taste, too long forborne, at first assayGave elocution to the mute, and taughtThe tongue not made for speech to speak thy praise:Thy praise he also who forbids thy useConceals not from us, naming thee the TreeOf Knowledge, knowledge both of good and evil;Forbids us then to taste! but his forbiddingCommends thee more, while it infers the goodBy thee communicated, and our want:For good unknown sure is not had, or hadAnd yet unknown is as not had at all.In plain then, what forbids he but to know,Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise?Such prohibitions bind not. But if deathBind us with after-bands, what profits thenOur inward freedom? In the day we eatOf this fair fruit, our doom is, we shall die.How dies the serpent? he hath eaten and lives,And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns,Irrational till then. For us aloneWas death invented? or to us deniedThis intellectual food, for beasts reserved?For beasts it seems: yet that one beast which firstHath tasted envies not, but brings with joyThe good befallen him, author unsuspect,Friendly to man, far from deceit or guile.What fear I then? rather what know to fearUnder this ignorance of good and evil,Of God or death, of law or penalty?Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine,Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,Of virtue to make wise: what hinders thenTo reach, and feed at once both body and mind?"So saying, her rash hand in evil hourForth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat:Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seatSighing through all her works gave signs of woe,That all was lost. Back to the thicket slunkThe guilty serpent, and well might, for EveIntent now wholly on her taste nought elseRegarded, such delight till then, as seemed,In fruit she never tasted, whether trueOr fancied so, through expectation highOf knowledge: nor was Godhead from her thought.Greedily she ingorged without restraint,And knew not eating death.
Thus they, in lowliest plight, repentant stoodPraying; for from the mercy-seat abovePrevenient grace descending had removedThe stony from their hearts, and made new fleshRegenerate grow instead; that sighs now breathedUnutterable; which the spirit of prayerInspired, and winged for Heaven with speedier flightThan loudest oratory: yet their portNot of mean suitors; nor important lessSeemed their petition, than when the ancient pairIn fables old, less ancient yet than these,Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restoreThe race of mankind drowned, before the shrineOf Themis stood devout. To Heaven their prayersFlew up, nor missed the way, by envious windsBlown vagabond or frustrate: in they passedDimensionless through heavenly doors; then cladWith incense, where the golden altar fumed,By their great Intercessor, came in sightBefore the Father's throne: them the glad SonPresenting, thus to intercede began."See, Father, what first-fruits on Earth are sprungFrom thy implanted grace in Man; these sighsAnd prayers, which in this golden censer, mixedWith incense, I thy priest before thee bring;Fruits of more pleasing savor, from thy seedSown with contrition in his heart, than thoseWhich, his own hand manuring, all the treesOf Paradise could have produced ere fallenFrom innocence. Now, therefore, bend thine earTo supplication; hear his sighs, though mute;Unskilful with what words to pray, let meInterpret for him; me, his advocateAnd propitiation; all his works on me,Good, or not good, ingraft; my merit thoseShall perfect, and for these my death shall pay.Accept me; and, in me, from these receiveThe smell of peace toward mankind: let him liveBefore thee reconciled, at least his daysNumbered though sad; till death his doom (which ITo mitigate thus plead, not to reverse,)To better life shall yield him: where with meAll my redeemed may dwell in joy and bliss;Made one with me, as I with thee am one."To whom the Father, without cloud, serene."All thy request for Man, accepted Son,Obtain; all thy request was my decree:But, longer in that Paradise to dwell,The law I gave to Nature him forbids:Those pure immortal elements, that knowNo gross, no unharmonious mixture foul,Eject him, tainted now; and purge him off,As a distemper, gross, to air as gross,And mortal food; as may dispose him bestFor dissolution wrought by sin, that firstDistempered all things, and of incorruptCorrupted. I, at first, with two fair giftsCreated him endowed; with happiness,And immortality: that fondly lost.This other served but to eternize woe;Till I provided death: so death becomesHis final remedy; and, after life,Tried in sharp tribulation, and refinedBy faith and faithful works, to second life,Waked in the renovation of the just,Resigns him up with Heaven and Earth renewed."
O unexpected stroke, worse than of death!Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leaveThee, native soil! these happy walks and shades,Fit haunt of gods; where I had hope to spend,Quiet, though sad, the respite of that dayThat must be mortal to us both? O flowers,That never will in other climate grow,My early visitation, and my lastAt even, which I bred up with tender handFrom the first opening bud, and gave ye names!Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rankYour tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adornedWith what to sight or smell was sweet, from theeHow shall I part, and whither wander downInto a lower world, to this obscureAnd wild? how shall we breathe in other airLess pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?
With sorrow and heart's distressWearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on;In me is no delay; with thee to go,Is to stay here; without thee here to stay,Is to go hence unwilling; thou to meArt all things under heaven, all places thou,Who for my wilful crime art banished hence.This further consolation, yet secure,I carry hence; though all by me is lost,Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed,By me the promised Seed shall all restore.
In either hand the hastening angel caughtOur lingering parents, and to the eastern gateLed them direct, and down the cliff as fastTo the subjected plain; then disappeared.They, looking back, all the eastern side beheldOf Paradise, so late their happy seat,Waved over by that naming brand; the gateWith dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon;The world was all before them, where to chooseTheir place of rest, and Providence their guide.They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,Through Eden took their solitary way.