"Little one, who straight hast comeDown the heavenly stair,Tell us all about your home,And the father there."
"He is such a one as I,Like as like can be.Do his will, and, by and by,Home and him you'll see."
Loving looks the large-eyed cow,Loving stares the long-eared assAt Heaven's glory in the grass!Child, with added human birthCome to bring the child of earthGlad repentance, tearful mirth,And a seat beside the hearthAt the Father's knee—Make us peaceful as thy cow;Make us patient as thine ass;Make us quiet as thou art now;Make us strong as thou wilt be.Make us always know and seeWe are his as well as thou.
There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows and the nests they make with the clay they cake with the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the shallows or out of the hollows will hold together in any weather and the swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and are built very narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing and each so narrow like the head of an arrow is a wonderful barrow to carry the mud he makes for his children's sakes from the wet water flowing and the dry dust blowing to build his nest for her he loves best and the wind cakes it the sun bakes it into a nest for the rest of her he loves best and all their merry children each little fellow with a beak as yellow as the buttercups growing beside the flowing of the singing river always and ever growing and blowing as fast as the sheep awake or asleep crop them and crop and cannot stop their yellowness blowing nor yet the growing of the obstinate daisies the little white praises they grow and they blow they spread out their crown and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done they fold up their crown and sleep every one till over the plain he is shining amain and they're at it again praising and praising such low songs raising that no one can hear them but the sun so near them and the sheep that bite them but do not fright them are the quietest sheep awake or asleep with the merriest bleat and the little lambs are the merriest lambs forgetting to eat for the frolic in their feet and the lambs and their dams are the whitest sheep with the woolliest wool for the swallow to pull when he makes his nest for her he loves best and they shine like snow in the grasses that grow by the singing river that sings for ever and the sheep and the lambs are merry for ever because the river sings and they drink it and the lambs and their dams would any one think it are bright and white because of their diet which gladdens them quiet for what they bite is buttercups yellow and daisies white and grass as green as the river can make it with wind as mellow to kiss it and shake it as never was known but here in the hollows beside the river where all the swallows are the merriest fellows and the nests they make with the clay they cake in the sunshine bake till they are like bone and as dry in the wind as a marble stone dried in the wind the sweetest wind that blows by the river flowing for ever and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows on the hollows and over the shallows where dip the swallows and comes and goes and the sweet life blows into the river that sings as it flows and the sweet life blows into the sheep awake or asleep with the woolliest wool and the trailingest tails and never fails gentle and cool to wave the wool and to toss the grass as the lambs and the sheep over it pass and tug and bite with their teeth so white and then with the sweep of their trailing tails smooth it again and it grows amain and amain it grows and the wind that blows tosses the swallows over the hollows and over the shallows and blows the sweet life and the joy so rife into the swallows that skim the shallows and have the yellowest children and the wind that blows is the life of the river that flows for ever and washes the grasses still as it passes and feeds the daisies the little white praises and buttercups sunny with butter and honey that whiten the sheep awake or asleep that nibble and bite and grow whiter than white and merry and quiet on such good diet watered by the river and tossed for ever by the wind that tosses the wool and the grasses and the swallow that crosses with all the swallows over the shallows dipping their wings to gather the water and bake the cake for the wind to make as hard as a bone and as dry as a stone and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows from behind and ripples the river that flows for ever and still as it passes waves the grasses and cools the daisies the white sun praises that feed the sheep awake or asleep and give them their wool for the swallows to pull a little away to mix with the clay that cakes to a nest for those they love best and all the yellow children soon to go trying their wings at the flying over the hollows and over the shallows with all the swallows that do not know whence the wind doth blow that comes from behind a blowing wind.
Poems by Three Friends.
First, most, to thee, my son, I give this bookIn which a friend's and brother's verses blendWith mine; for not son only—brother, friend,Art thou, through sonship which no veil can brookBetween the eyes that in each other look,Or any shadow 'twixt the hearts that tendStill nearer, with divine approach, to endIn love eternal that cannot be shookWhen all the shakable shall cease to be.With growing hope I greet the coming dayWhen from thy journey done I welcome theeWho sharest in the names of all the three,And take thee to the two, and humbly say,Let this man be the fourth with us, I pray.
CASA CORAGGIO:May, 1883.
Suggested by a drawing of Thomas Moran, the American painter.
This must be the very night!The moon knows it!—and the trees!They stand straight upright,Each a sentinel drawn up,As if they dared not knowWhich way the wind might blow!The very pool, with dead gray eye,Dully expectant, feels it nigh,And begins to curdle and freeze!And the dark night,With its fringe of light,Holds the secret in its cup!
II. What can it be, to makeThe poplars cease to shiver and shake,And up in the dismal airStand straight and stiff as the human hairWhen the human soul is dizzy with dread—All but those two that strainAside in a frenzy of speechless pain,Though never a wind sends out a breathTo tunnel the foggy rheum of death?What can it be has power to scareThe full-grown moon to the idiot stareOf a blasted eye in the midnight air?Something has gone wrong;A scream will come tearing out ere long!
III. Still as death,Although I listen with bated breath!Yet something is coming, I know—is coming!With an inward soundless hummingSomewhere in me, or if in the airI cannot tell, but it is there!Marching on to an unheard drummingSomething is coming—coming—Growing and coming!And the moon is aware,Aghast in the airAt the thing that is only comingWith an inward soundless hummingAnd an unheard spectral drumming!
IV. Nothing to see and nothing to hear!Only across the inner skyThe wing of a shadowy thought flits by,Vague and featureless, faceless, drear—Only a thinness to catch the eye:Is it a dim foreboding unborn,Or a buried memory, wasted and wornAs the fading frost of a wintry sigh?Anon I shall have it!—anon!—it draws nigh!A night when—a something it was took placeThat drove the blood from that scared moon-face!Hark! was that the cry of a goat,Or the gurgle of water in a throat?Hush! there is nothing to see or hear,Only a silent something is near;No knock, no footsteps three or four,Only a presence outside the door!See! the moon is remembering!—what?The wail of a mother-left, lie-alone brat?Or a raven sharpening its beak to peck?Or a cold blue knife and a warm white neck?Or only a heart that burst and ceasedFor a man that went away released?I know not—know not, but something is comingSomehow back with an inward humming!
V. Ha! look there! look at that house,Forsaken of all things, beetle and mouse!Mark how it looks! It must have a soul!It looks, it looks, though it cannot stir!See the ribs of it, how they stare!Its blind eyes yet have a seeing air!Itknowsit has a soul!Haggard it hangs o'er the slimy pool,And gapes wide open as corpses gape:It is the very murderer!The ghost has modelled himself to the shapeOf this drear house all sodden with woeWhere the deed was done, long, long ago,And filled with himself his new body full—To haunt for ever his ghastly crime,And see it come and go—Brooding around it like motionless time,With a mouth that gapes, and eyes that yawnBlear and blintering and full of the moon,Like one aghast at a hellish dawn!—The deed! the deed! it is coming soon!
VI. For, ever and always, when round the tuneGrinds on the barrel of organ-Time,The deed is done. And it comes anon:True to the roll of the clock-faced moon,True to the ring of the spheric chime,True to the cosmic rhythm and rime,Every point, as it first fell out,Will come and go in the fearsome bout.See! palsied with horror from garret to core,The house cannot shut its gaping door;Its burst eye stares as if trying to see,And it leans as if settling heavily,Settling heavy with sickness dull:Italso is hearing the soundless hummingOf the wheel that is turning—the thing that is coming!On the naked rafters of its brain,Gaunt and wintred, see the trainOf gossiping, scandal-mongering crowsThat watch, all silent, with necks a-strain,Wickedly knowing, with heads awryAnd the sharpened gleam of a cunning eye—Watch, through the cracks of the ruined skull,How the evil business goes!—Beyond the eyes of the cherubim,Beyond the ears of the seraphim,Outside, forsaken, in the dimPhantom-haunted chaos grimHe stands, with the deed going on in him!
VII. O winds, winds, that lurk and peepUnder the edge of the moony fringe!O winds, winds, up and sweep,Up and blow and billow the air,Billow the air with blow and swinge,Rend me this ghastly house of groans!Rend and scatter the skeleton's bonesOver the deserts and mountains bare!Blast and hurl and shiver asideNailed sticks and mortared stones!Clear the phantom, with torrent and tide,Out of the moon and out of my brain,That the light may fall shadowless in again!
VIII. But, alas, then the ghostO'er mountain and coastWould go roaming, roaming! and never was swineThat, grubbing and talking with snork and whineOn Gadarene mountains, had taken him inBut would rush to the lake to unhouse the sin!For any charnelThis ghost is too carnal;There is no volcano, burnt out and cold,Whose very ashes are gray and old,But would cast him forth in reviving flameTo blister the sky with a smudge of shame!
IX. Is there no help? none anywhereUnder the earth or above the air?—Come, sad woman, whose tender throatHas a red-lipped mouth that can sing no note!Child, whose midwife, the third grim Fate,Shears in hand, thy coming did wait!Father, with blood-bedabbled hair!Mother, all withered with love's despair!Come, broken heart, whatever thou be,Hasten to help this misery!Thou wast only murdered, or left forlorn:He is a horror, a hate, a scorn!Come, if out of the holiest blueThat the sapphire throne shines through;For pity come, though thy fair feet standNext to the elder-band;Fling thy harp on the hyaline,Hurry thee down the spheres divine;Come, and drive those ravens away;Cover his eyes from the pitiless moon,Shadow his brain from her stinging spray;Droop around him, a tent of love,An odour of grace, a fanning dove;Walk through the house with the healing tuneOf gentle footsteps; banish the shapeRemorse calls up thyself to ape;Comfort him, dear, with pardon sweet;Cool his heart from its burning heatWith the water of life that laves the feetOf the throne of God, and the holy street!
X. O God, he is but a living blot,Yet he lives by thee—for if thou wast not,They would vanish together, self-forgot,He and his crime:—one breathing blownFrom thy spirit on his would all atone,Scatter the horror, and bring reliefIn an amber dawn of holy grief!God, give him sorrow; arise from within,His primal being, deeper than sin!
XI. Why do I tremble, a creature at bay?'Tis but a dream—I drive it away.Back comes my breath, and my heart againPumps the red blood to my fainting brainReleased from the nightmare's nine-fold train:God is in heaven—yes, everywhere,And Love, the all-shining, will kill Despair!—To the wall's blank eyeless spaceI turn the picture's face.
XII. But why is the moon so bare, up there?And why is she so white?And why does the moon so stare, up there—Strangely stare, out of the night?Why stand up the poplarsThat still way?And why do those two of themStart astray?And out of the black why hangs the gray?Why does it hang down so, I say,Over that house, like a fringed pallWhere the dead goes by in a funeral?—Soul of mine,Thou the reason canst divine:Intotheethe moon doth stareWith pallid, terror-smitten air!Thou, and the Horror lonely-stark,Outcast of eternal dark,Are in nature same and one,Andthystory is not done!So let the picture face thee from the wall,And let its white moon stare!
In the winter, flowers are springing;In the winter, woods are green,Where our banished birds are singing,Where our summer sun is seen!Our cold midnights are coevalWith an evening and a mornWhere the forest-gods hold revel,And the spring is newly born!
While the earth is full of fighting,While men rise and curse their day,While the foolish strong are smiting,And the foolish weak betray—The true hearts beyond are growing,The brave spirits work alone,Where Love's summer-wind is blowingIn a truth-irradiate zone!
While we cannot shape our livingTo the beauty of our skies,While man wants and earth is giving—Nature calls and man denies—How the old worlds round Him gatherWhere their Maker is their sun!How the children know the FatherWhere the will of God is done!
Daily woven with our story,Sounding far above our strife,Is a time-enclosing glory,Is a space-absorbing life.We can dream no dream Elysian,There is no good thing might be,But some angel has the vision,But some human soul shall see!
Is thy strait horizon dreary?Is thy foolish fancy chill?Change the feet that have grown wearyFor the wings that never will.Burst the flesh, and live the spirit;Haunt the beautiful and far;Thou hast all things to inherit,And a soul for every star.
I think I might be weary of this dayThat comes inevitably every year,The same when I was young and strong and gay,The same when I am old and growing sere—I should grow weary of it every yearBut that thou comest to me every day.
I shall grow weary if thou every dayBut come to me, Lord of eternal life;I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray,For ever out of labour into strife;Take everlasting house with me, my life,And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day.
Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day,But ever he the Father, thou the Son;I am his child, but being born alway—How long, O Lord, how long till it be done?Be thou from endless years to years the Son—And I thy brother, new-born every day.
Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!
Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low—Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flamesWhen joyous in death's harvest-home we go.
When, in the mid-sea of the night,I waken at thy call, O Lord,The first that troop my bark aboardAre darksome imps that hate the light,Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight—Of wraths and cares a pirate horde—Though on the mid-sea of the nightIt was thy call that waked me, Lord.
Then I must to my arms and fight—Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,The words of him who is thy word—Nor cease till they are put to flight;Then in the mid-sea of the nightI turn and listen for thee, Lord.
There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,Across the mid-sea of the night!I lift my voice and cry with might:If thou keep silent, soon a hordeOf imps again will swarm aboard,And I shall be in sorry plightIf no voice come from thee, my Lord,Across the mid-sea of the night.
There comes no voice; I hear no word!But in my soul dawns something bright:—There is no sea, no foe to fight!Thy heart and mine beat one accord:I need no voice from thee, O Lord,Across the mid-sea of the night.
Heart, thou must learn to do without—That is the riches of the poor,Their liberty is to endure;Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about,And carol loud and carol stout;Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer;Thou too must learn to do without,Must earn the riches of the poor!
Why should'st thou only wear no clout?Thou only walk in love-robes pure?Why should thy step alone be sure?Thou only free of fortune's flout?Nay, nay! but learn to go without,And so be humbly, richly poor.
Lighter and sweeterLet your song be;And for sorrow—oh cheat herWith melody!
Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altarBut cannot get the wood to burn;It hardly flares ere it begins to falterAnd to the dark return.
Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel;In vain my breath would flame provoke;Yet see—at every poor attempt's renewalTo thee ascends the smoke!
'Tis all I have—smoke, failure, foiled endeavour,Coldness and doubt and palsied lack:Such as I have I send thee!—perfect Giver,Send thou thy lightning back.
Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mindWhen I my homely dish with care designed;'Twas certain humble souls I would have fedWho do not turn from wholesome milk and bread:You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way,O'erturned the food, and trod it in the clay;Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt,Cried, "Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!"
She loves thee, loves thee not!That, that is all, my heart.Why should she take a partIn every selfish blot,In every greedy spotThat now doth ache and smartBecause she loves thee not—Not, not at all, poor heart!
Thou art no such dove-cotOf virtues—no such chartOf highways, though the dartOf love be through thee shot!Why should she not love notThee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?
Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand,A mirror polished by thy hand;Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me—I cannot help it: here I stand, there he!To one of them I cannot say,Go, and on yonder water play;Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion—I do not make the words of this my limping passion!If I should say, Now I will think a thought,Lo, I must wait, unknowingWhat thought in me is growing,Until the thing to birth be brought!Nor know I then what next will comeFrom out the gulf of silence dumb:I am the door the thing will findTo pass into the general mind!I cannot sayI think—I only stand upon the thought-well's brink:From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up—lift it in my cup.Thou only thinkest—I am thought;Me and my thought thou thinkest. NoughtAm I but as a fountain spoutFrom which thy water welleth out.Thou art the only one, the all in all.—Yet when my soul on thee doth callAnd thou dost answer out of everywhere,I in thy allness have my perfect share.
Some men there are who cannot spareA single tear until they feelThe last cold pressure, and the heelIs stamped upon the outmost layer.
And, waking, some will sigh to thinkThe clouds have borrowed winter's wing,Sad winter, when the grasses springNo more about the fountain's brink.
And some would call me coward fool:I lay a claim to better blood,But yet a heap of idle mudHath power to make me sorrowful.
0 Earth, Earth, Earth,I am dying for love of thee,For thou hast given me birth,And thy hands have tended me.
I would fall asleep on thy breastWhen its swelling folds are bare,When the thrush dreams of its nestAnd the life of its joy in the air;
When thy life is a vanished ghost,And the glory hath left thy waves,When thine eye is blind with frost,And the fog sits on the graves;
When the blasts are shivering about,And the rain thy branches beats,When the damps of death are out,And the mourners are in the streets.
Oh my sleep should be deepIn the arms of thy swiftening motion,And my dirge the mystic sweepOf the winds that nurse the ocean.
And my eye would slowly opeWith the voice that awakens thee,And runs like a glance of hopeUp through the quickening tree;
When the roots of the lonely firAre dipt in thy veining heat,And thy countless atoms stirWith the gather of mossy feet;
When the sun's great censer swingsIn the hands that always be,And the mists from thy watery ringsGo up like dust from the sea;
When the midnight airs are assemblingWith a gush in thy whispering halls,And the leafy air is tremblingLike a stream before it falls.
Thy shadowy hand hath found meOn the drifts of the Godhead's will,And thy dust hath risen around meWith a life that guards me still.
O Earth! I have caught from thineThe pulse of a mystic chase;O Earth! I have drunk like wineThe life of thy swiftening race.
Wilt miss me, mother sweet,A life in thy milky veins?Wilt miss the sound of my feetIn the tramp that shakes thy plains
When the jaws of darkness rend,And the vapours fold away,And the sounds of life ascendLike dust in the blinding day?
I would know thy silver strainIn the shouts of the starry crowdWhen the souls of thy changing menRise up like an incense cloud.
I would know thy brightening lobesAnd the lap of thy watery barsThough space were choked with globesAnd the night were blind with stars!
From the folds of my unknown place,When my soul is glad and free,I will slide by my God's sweet graceAnd hang like a cloud on thee.
When the pale moon sits at nightBy the brink of her shining well,Laving the rings of her widening lightOn the slopes of the weltering swell,
I will fall like a wind from the westOn the locks of thy prancing streams,And sow the fields of thy restWith handfuls of sweet young dreams.
When the sound of thy children's cryHath stricken thy gladness dumb,I will kindle thine upward eyeWith a laugh from the years that come.
Far above where the loud wind raves,On a wing as still as snowI will watch the grind of the curly wavesAs they bite the coasts below;
When the shining ranks of the frostDraw down on the glistening woldIn the mail of a fairy host,And the earth is mossed with cold,
Till the plates that shine aboutClose up with a filmy din,Till the air is frozen out,And the stars are frozen in.
I will often stoop to rangeOn the fields where my youth was spent,And my feet shall smite the cliffs of changeWith the rush of a steep descent;
And my glowing soul shall burnWith a love that knows no pall,And my eye of worship turnUpon him that fashioned all—
When the sounding waves of strifeHave died on the Godhead's sea,And thy life is a purer lifeThat nurses a life in me.
Make not of thy heart a casket,Opening seldom, quick to close;But of bread a wide-mouthed basket,Or a cup that overflows.
From the German of Dessler.
O Lord, how happy is the timeWhen in thy love I rest!When from my weariness I climbEven to thy tender breast!The night of sorrow endeth there—Thou art brighter than the sun;And in thy pardon and thy careThe heaven of heaven is won.
Let the world call herself my foe,Or let the world allure—I care not for the world; I goTo this dear friend and sure.And when life's fiercest storms are sentUpon life's wildest sea,My little bark is confidentBecause it holds by thee.
When the law threatens endless deathUpon the dreadful hill,Straightway from her consuming breathMy soul goeth higher still—Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain,And maketh him her home,Whence she will not go out again,And where death cannot come.
I do not fear the wildernessWhere thou hast been before;Nay rather will I daily pressAfter thee, near thee, more!Thou art my food; on thee I lean,Thou makest my heart sing;And to thy heavenly pastures greenAll thy dear flock dost bring.
And if the gate that opens thereBe dark to other men,It is not dark to those who shareThe heart of Jesus then:That is not losing much of lifeWhich is not losing thee,Who art as present in the strifeAs in the victory.
Therefore how happy is the timeWhen in thy love I rest!When from my weariness I climbEven to thy tender breast!The night of sorrow endeth there—Thou art brighter than the sun!And in thy pardon and thy careThe heaven of heaven is won!
O Lord, if on the wind, at cool of day,I heard one whispered word of mighty grace;If through the darkness, as in bed I lay,But once had come a hand upon my face;
If but one sign that might not be mistookHad ever been, since first thy face I sought,I should not now be doubting o'er a book,But serving thee with burning heart and thought.
So dreams that heart. But to my heart I say,Turning my face to front the dark and wind:Such signs had only barred anew his wayInto thee, longing heart, thee, wildered mind.
They asked the very Way, where lies the way?The very Son, where is the Father's face?How he could show himself, if not in clay,Who was the lord of spirit, form, and space!
My being, Lord, will nevermore be wholeUntil thou come behind mine ears and eyes,Enter and fill the temple of my soulWith perfect contact—such a sweet surprise,
Such presence as, before it met the view,The prophet-fancy could not once foresee,Though every corner of the temple knewBy very emptiness its need of thee.
When I keepallthy words, no favoured some,Heedless of worldly winds or judgment's tide,Then, Jesus, thou wilt with thy father come—Oh, ended prayers!—and in my soul abide.
Ah, long delay! ah, cunning, creeping sin!I shall but fail, and cease at length to try:O Jesus, though thou wilt not yet come in,Knock at my window as thou passest by!
What dost thou here, O soul,Beyond thy own control,Under the strange wild sky?0 stars, reach down your hands,And clasp me in your silver bands,I tremble with this mystery!—Flung hither by a chanceOf restless circumstance,Thou art but here, and wast not sent;Yet once more mayest thou drawBy thy own mystic lawTo the centre of thy wonderment.
Why wilt thou stop and start?Draw nearer, oh my heart,And I will question thee most wistfully;Gather thy last clear resolutionTo look upon thy dissolution.
The great God's life throbs far and free,And thou art but a sparkKnown only in thy dark,Or a foam-fleck upon the awful ocean,Thyself thy slender dignity,Thy own thy vexing mystery,In the vast change that is not change but motion.
'Tis not so hard as it would seem;Thy life is but a dream—And yet thou hast some thoughts about the past;Let go, let go thy memories,They are not things but wandering cries—Wave them each one a long farewell at last:I hear thee say—"Take them, O tide,And I will turn aside,Gazing with heedlessness, nay, even with laughter!Bind me, ye winds and storms,Among the things that once had forms,And carry me clean out of sight thereafter!"
Thou hast lived long enoughTo know thy own weak stuff,Laughing thy fondest joys to utter scorn;Give up the idle strife—It is but mockery of life;The fates had need of thee and thou wast born!They are, in sooth, but thou shalt die.O wandering spark! O homeless cry!O empty will, still lacking self-intent!Look up among the autumn trees:The ripened fruits fall through the breeze,And they will shake thee even like theseInto the lap of an Accomplishment!
Thou hadst a faith, and voices said:—"Doubt notthattruth, but bend thy headUnto the God who drew thee from the night:"Thou liftedst up thy eyes—and, lo!A host of voices answered—"No;A thousand things as good have seen the light!"Look how the swarms ariseFrom every clod before thy eyes!Are thine the only hopes that fade and fallWhen to the centre of its actionOne purpose draws each separate fraction,And nothing but effects are left at all?Aha, thy faith! what is thy faith?The sleep that waits on coming death—A blind delirious swoon that follows pain."True to thy nature!"—well! right well!But what that nature is thou canst not tell—It has a thousand voices in thy brain.Danced all the leaflets to and fro?—Thy feet have trod them long ago!Sprung the glad music up the blue?—The hawk hath cut the song in two.All the mountains crumble,All the forests fall,All thy brethren stumble,And rise no more at all!In the dim woods there is a soundWhen the winds begin to moan;It is not of joy or yet of mirth,But the mournful cry of our mother Earth,As she calleth back her own.Through the rosy air to-nightThe living creatures playUp and down through the rich faint light—None so happy as they!But the blast is here, and noises fallLike the sound of steps in a ruined hall,An icy touch is upon them all,And they sicken and fade away.
The child awoke with an eye of gladness,With a light on his head and a matchless grace,And laughed at the passing shades of sadnessThat chased the smiles on his mother's face;And life with its lightsome load of youthSwam like a boat on a shining lake—Freighted with hopes enough, in sooth,But he lived to trample on joy and truth,And change his crown for a murder-stake!
Oh, a ruddy light went through the room,Till the dark ran out to his mother Night!And that little chamber showed through the gloomLike a Noah's ark with its nest of light!Right glad was the maiden there, I wis,With the youth that held her hand in his!Oh, sweet were the words that went and cameThrough the light and shade of the leaping flameThat glowed on the cheerful faces!So human the speech, so sunny and kind,That the darkness danced on the wall behind,And even the wail of the winter windSang sweet through the window-cases!
But a mournful wail crept round and round,And a voice cried:—"Come!" with a dreary sound,And the circle wider grew;The light flame sank, and sorrow fellOn the faces of those that loved so well;Darker and wilder grew the tone;Fainter and fainter the faces shone;The wild night clasped them, and they were gone—And thou art passing too!
Lo, the morning slowly springsLike a meek white babe from the womb of night!One golden planet sits and stingsThe shifting gloom with his point of light!Lo, the sun on its throne of flame!—Wouldst thou climb and win a crown?Oh, many a heart that pants for the sameFalls to the earth ere he goes down!Thy heart is a flower with an open cup—Sit and watch, if it pleaseth thee,Till the melting twilight fill it upWith a crystal of tender sympathy;So, gently will it trembleThe silent midnight through,And flocks of stars assembleBy turns in its depths of dew;—But look! oh, look again!After the driving wind and rain!When the day is up and the sun is strong,And the voices of men are loud and long,When the flower hath slunk to its rest again,And love is lost in the strife of men!
Let the morning break with thoughts of love,And the evening fall with dreams of bliss—So vainly panteth the prisoned doveFor the depths of her sweet wilderness;So stoops the eagle in his prideFrom his rocky nest ere the bow is bent;So sleeps the deer on the mountain-sideEre the howling pack hath caught the scent!
The fire climbs high till its work is done;The stalk falls down when the flower is gone;And the stars of heaven when their course is runMelt silently away!There was a footfall on the snow,A line of light on the ocean-flow,And a billow's dash on the rocks belowThat stand by the wintry bay:—The snow was gone on the coming night;Another wave arose in his might,Uplifted his foaming breast of white,And died like the rest for aye!
Oh, the stars were bright! and thyself in theeYearned for an immortality!And the thoughts that drew from thy busy brainClasped the worlds like an endless chain—When a moon arose, and her moving chimeSmote on thy soul, like a word in time,Or a breathless wish, or a thought in rime,And the truth that looked so gloomy and highLeapt to thy arms with a joyful cry!But what wert thou when a soulless CauseOpened the book of its barren laws,And thy spirit that was so glad and freeWas caught in the gin of necessity,And a howl arose from the strife of thingsVexing each other with scorpion stings?What wert thou but an orphan childThrust from the door when the night was wild?Or a sailor on the toiling mainLooking blindly up through the wind and rainAs the hull of the vessel fell in twain!
Seals are on the book of fate,Hands may not unbind it;Eyes may search for truth till late,But will never find it—!Rising on the brow of nightLike a portent of dismay,As the worlds in wild affrightTrack it on its direful way;Resting like a rainbow barWhere the curve and level meet,As the children chase it farO'er the sands with blistered feet;Sadly through the mist of agesGazing on this life of fear,Doubtful shining on its pages,Only seen to disappear!Sit thee by the sounding shore—Winds and waves of human breath!—Learn a lesson from their roar,Swelling, bursting evermore:Live thy life and die thy death!Die not like the writhing worm,Rise and win thy highest stake;Better perish in the stormThan sit rotting on the lake!Triumph in thy present youth,Pulse of fire and heart of glee;Leap at once into the truth,If there is a truth for thee.
Shapeless thoughts and dull opinions,Slow distinctions and degrees,—Vex not thou thy weary pinionsWith such leaden weights as these—Through this mystic jurisdictionReaching out a hand by chance,Resting on a dull convictionWhetted but by ignorance;Living ever to beholdMournful eyes that watch and weep;Spirit suns that flashed in goldFailing from the vasty deep;Starry lights that glowed like TruthGazing with unnumbered eyes,Melting from the skies of youth,Swallowed up of mysteries;Cords of love that sweetly bound thee;Faded writing on thy brow;Presences that came around thee;Hands of faith that fail thee now!
Groping hands will ever find theeIn the night with loads of chains!Lift thy fetters and unbind thee,Cast thee on the midnight plains:Shapes of vision all-providing—Famished cheeks and hungry cries!Sound of crystal waters sliding—Thirsty lips and bloodshot eyes!Empty forms that send no gleamingThrough the mystery of this strife!—Oh, in such a life of seeming,Death were worth an endless life!
Hark the trumpet of the oceanWhere glad lands were wont to be!Many voices of commotionBreak in tumult over thee!Lo, they climb the frowning ages,Marching o'er their level lands!Far behind the strife that ragesSilence sits with clasped hands;Undivided Purpose, freeingHis own steps from hindrances,Sending out great floods of being,Bathes thy steps in silentness.Sit thee down in mirth and laughter—One there is that waits for thee;If there is a true hereafterHe will lend thee eyes to see.
Like a snowflake gently fallingOn a quiet fountain,Or a weary echo callingFrom a distant mountain,Drop thy hands in peace,—Fail—falter—cease.
Loosener of springs, he died by thee!Softness, not hardness, sent him home;He loved thee—and thou mad'st him freeOf all the place thou comest from!
Are the leaves falling round aboutThe churchyard on the hill?Is the glow of autumn going out?Is that the winter chill?And yet through winter's noise, no doubtThe graves are very still!
Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare?On sodden leaves do you tread?Is nothing left of all those fair?Is the whole summer fled?Well, so from this unwholesome airHave gone away these dead!
The seasons pierce me; like a leafI feel the autumn blow,And tremble between nature's griefAnd the silent death below.O Summer, thou art very brief!Where do these exiles go?
Gilesgate, Durham.
Few in joy's sweet riotAble are to listen:Thou, to make me quiet,Quenchest the sweet riot,Tak'st away my diet,Puttest me in prison—Quenchest joy's sweet riotThat the heart may listen.
Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt findA little faith on earth, if I am here!Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind.How sad I wait until thy face appear!
Hast thou not ploughed my thorny ground full sore,And from it gathered many stones and sherds?Plough, plough and harrow till it needs no more—Then sow thy mustard-seed, and send thy birds.
I love thee, Lord; and if I yield to fears,Nor trust with triumph that pale doubt defies,Remember, Lord, 'tis nigh two thousand years,And I have never seen thee with mine eyes!
And when I lift them from the wondrous tale,See, all about me hath so strange a show!Is that thy river running down the vale?Is that thy wind that through the pines doth blow?
Could'st thou right verily appear again,The same who walked the paths of Palestine,And here in England teach thy trusting menIn church and field and house, with word and sign?
Here are but lilies, sparrows, and the rest!My hands on some dear proof would light and stay!But my heart sees John leaning on thy breast,And sends them forth to do what thou dost say.
0 Lord, my God, how longShall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy?How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hearThe murmur of Truth's crystal waters slideFrom the deep caverns of their endless being,But my lips taste not, and the grosser airChoke each pure inspiration of thy will?
I am a denseness 'twixt me and the light;1 cannot round myself; my purest thought,Ere it is thought, hath caught the taint of earth,And mocked me with hard thoughts beyond my will.
I would be a windWhose smallest atom is a viewless wing,All busy with the pulsing life that throbsTo do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thingThat has relation to a changeless truth,Could I but be instinct with thee—each thoughtThe lightning of a pure intelligence,And every act as the loud thunder-clapOf currents warring for a vacuum.
Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe;Purge me with sorrow; I will bend my headAnd let the nations of thy waves pass over,Bathing me in thy consecrated strength;And let thy many-voiced and silver windsPass through my frame with their clear influence,O save me; I am blind; lo, thwarting shapesWall up the void before, and thrusting outLean arms of unshaped expectation, beckonDown to the night of all unholy thoughts.
Oh, when at midnight one of thy strong angelsStems back the waves of earthly influenceThat shape unsteady continents around me,And they draw off with the devouring gushOf exile billows that have found a home,Leaving me islanded on unseen points,Hanging 'twixt thee and chaos—I have seenUnholy shapes lop off my shining thoughts,And they have lent me leathern wings of fear,Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust;And Godhead, with its crown of many stars,Its pinnacles of flaming holiness,And voice of leaves in the green summer-time,Has seemed the shadowed image of a self!Then my soul blackened; and I rose to findAnd grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deepsOf desolation.
O Lord, my soul is a forgotten wellClad round with its own rank luxuriance;A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for,Sinking the lustre of its arrowy fingerThrough the long grass its own strange virtueHath blinded up its crystal eye withal:Make me a broad strong river coming downWith shouts from its high hills, whose rocky heartsThrob forth the joy of their stabilityIn watery pulses from their inmost deeps;And I shall be a vein upon thy world,Circling perpetual from the parent deep.
Most mighty One,Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good;Help me to wall each sacred treasure roundWith the firm battlements of special action.Alas, my holy happy thoughts of theeMake not perpetual nest within my soul,But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoopThe trailing glories of their sunward speedFor one glad moment, filling my blasted boughsWith the sunshine of their wings. Make me a forestOf gladdest life wherein perpetual springLifts up her leafy tresses in the wind.Lo, now I seeThy trembling starlight sit among my pines,And thy young moon slide down my arching boughsWith a soft sound of restless eloquence!And I can feel a joy as when thy hostsOf trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands,Roar upward through the blue and flashing dayRound my still depths of uncleft solitude.
Hear me, O Lord,When the black night draws down upon my soul,And voices of temptation darken downThe misty wind, slamming thy starry doorsWith bitter jests:—"Thou fool!" they seem to say,"Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; allThy nature hath been stung right through and through;Thy sin hath blasted thee and made thee old;Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it dead,And with the fulsome garniture of lifeBuilt out the loathsome corpse; thou art a childOf night and death, even lower than a worm;Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self,And with what resolution thou hast leftFall on the damned spikes of doom!"
Oh, take me like a child,If thou hast made me for thyself, my God,And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear,So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sinWith the terrors of thine eye: it fears me notAs once it might have feared thine own good image,But lays bold siege at my heart's doors.
Oh, I have seen a thing of beauty standIn the young moonlight of its upward thoughts,And the old earth came round it with its giftsOf gladness, whispering leaves, and odorous plants,Until its large and spiritual eyeBurned with intensest love: my God, I couldHave watched it evermore with Argus-eyes,Lest when the noontide of the summer's sunLet down the tented sunlight on the plain,His flaming beams should scorch my darling flower;And through the fruitless nights of leaden gloom,Of plashing rains, and knotted winds of cold,Yea, when thy lightnings ran across the sky,And the loud stumbling blasts fell from the hillsUpon the mounds of death, I could have watchedGuarding such beauty like another life!But, O my God, it changed!—Yet methinks I know not if it was not I!Its beauty turned to ghastly loathsomeness!Then a hand spurned me backwards from the clouds,And with the gather of a mighty whirlwind,Drew in the glittering gifts of life.
How long, O Lord, how long?I am a man lost in a rocky place!Lo, all thy echoes smite me with confusionOf varied speech,—the cry of vanished LifeRolled upon nations' sighs—of hearts upliftedAgainst despair—the stifled sounds of WoeSitting perpetual by its grey cold well—Or wasted Toil climbing its endless hillsWith quickening gasps—or the thin winds of JoyThat beat about the voices of the crowd!
Lord, hast thou sentThy moons to mock us with perpetual hope?Lighted within our breasts the love of loveTo make us ripen for despair, my God?
Oh, dost thou hold each individual soulStrung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose?Or does thine inextinguishable willStand on the steeps of night with lifted handFilling the yawning wells of monstrous spaceWith mixing thought—drinking up single lifeAs in a cup? and from the rending foldsOf glimmering purpose, do all thy navied starsSlide through the gloom with mystic melody,Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul,Hung like a dewdrop in thy grassy ways,Drawn up again into the rack of changeEven through the lustre which created it?—O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me throughWith scorching wrath, because my spirit standsBewildered in thy circling mysteries!
Oh lift the burdened gloom that chokes my soulWith dews of darkness; smite the lean winds of deathThat run with howls around the ruined temples,Blowing the souls of men about like leaves.
Lo, the broad life-lands widen overhead,Star-galaxies arise like drifting snow,And happy life goes whitening down the streamOf boundless action, whilst my fettered soulSits, as a captive in a noisome dungeonWatches the pulses of his withered heartLave out the sparkling minutes of his lifeOn the idle flags!
Come in the glory of thine excellence,Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light,And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheelsBurn through the cracks of night! So slowly, Lord,To lift myself to thee with hands of toil,Climbing the slippery cliffs of unheard prayer!Lift up a hand among my idle days—One beckoning finger: I will cast asideThe clogs of earthly circumstance and runUp the broad highways where the countless worldsSit ripening in the summer of thy love.Send a clear meaning sparkling through the years;Burst all the prison-doors, and make men's heartsGush up like fountains with thy melody;Brighten the hollow eyes; fill with life's fruitsThe hands that grope and scramble down the wastes;And let the ghastly troops of withered onesCome shining o'er the mountains of thy love.
Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening downUpon my head like snowflakes, shutting outThe happy upper fields with chilly vapour.Shall I content my soul with a weak senseOf safety? or feed my ravenous hunger withSore purged hopes, that are not hopes but fearsClad in white raiment?
The creeds lie in the hollow of men's heartsLike festering pools glassing their own corruption;The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval,And answer not when thy bright starry feetMove on the watery floors: oh, shake men's soulsTogether like the gathering of all oceansRent from their hidden chambers, till the wavesLift up their million voices of high joyAlong the echoing cliffs! come thus, O Lord,With nightly gifts of stars, and lay a handOf mighty peace upon the quivering flood.
O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee?I am a child lost in a mighty forest;The air is thick with voices, and strange handsReach through the dusk, and pluck me by the skirts.There is a voice which sounds like words from home,But, as I stumble on to reach it, seemsTo leap from rock to rock: oh, if it isWilling obliquity of sense, descend,Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand,And lead me homeward through the shadows.Let me not by my wilful acts of prideBlock up the windows of thy truth, and growA wasted, withered thing, that stumbles onDown to the grave with folded hands of slothAnd leaden confidence.
Still am I hauntingThy door with my prayers;Still they are pantingUp thy steep stairs!Wouldst thou not ratherCome down to my heart,And there, O my Father,Be what thou art?
My thoughts are like fire-flies, pulsing in moonlight;My heart like a silver cup, filled with red wine;My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon lightWill flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.
0 Lord, at Joseph's humble benchThy hands did handle saw and plane;Thy hammer nails did drive and clench,Avoiding knot and humouring grain.
That thou didst seem, thou wast indeed,In sport thy tools thou didst not use;Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need,The labourer's hire, too nice, refuse.
Lord, might I be but as a saw,A plane, a chisel, in thy hand!—No, Lord! I take it back in awe,Such prayer for me is far too grand.
I pray, O Master, let me lie,As on thy bench the favoured wood;Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply,And work me into something good.
No, no; ambition, holy-high,Urges for more than both to pray:Come in, O gracious Force, I cry—O workman, share my shed of clay.
Then I, at bench, or desk, or oar,With knife or needle, voice or pen,As thou in Nazareth of yore,Shall do the Father's will again.
Thus fashioning a workman rare,O Master, this shall be thy fee:Home to thy father thou shall bearAnother child made like to thee.
I stood in an ancient gardenWith high red walls around;Over them grey and green lichensIn shadowy arabesque wound.
The topmost climbing blossomsOn fields kine-haunted looked out;But within were shelter and shadow,With daintiest odours about.
There were alleys and lurking arbours,Deep glooms into which to dive.The lawns were as soft as fleeces,Of daisies I counted but five.
The sun-dial was so agedIt had gathered a thoughtful grace;'Twas the round-about of the shadowThat so had furrowed its face.
The flowers were all of the oldestThat ever in garden sprung;Red, and blood-red, and dark purpleThe rose-lamps flaming hung.
Along the borders fringedWith broad thick edges of boxStood foxgloves and gorgeous poppiesAnd great-eyed hollyhocks.
There were junipers trimmed into castles,And ash-trees bowed into tents;For the garden, though ancient and pensive,Still wore quaint ornaments.
It was all so stately fantasticIts old wind hardly would stir;Young Spring, when she merrily entered,Scarce felt it a place for her.
I stood in the summer morningUnder a cavernous yew;The sun was gently climbing,And the scents rose after the dew.
I saw the wise old mansion,Like a cow in the noon-day heat,Stand in a lake of shadowsThat rippled about its feet.
Its windows were oriel and latticed,Lowly and wide and fair;And its chimneys like clustered pillarsStood up in the thin blue air.
White doves, like the thoughts of a lady,Haunted it all about;With a train of green and blue cometsThe peacock went marching stout.
The birds in the trees were singingA song as old as the world,Of love and green leaves and sunshine,And winter folded and furled.
They sang that never was sadnessBut it melted and passed away;They sang that never was darknessBut in came the conquering day.
And I knew that a maiden somewhere,In a low oak-panelled room,In a nimbus of shining garments,An aureole of white-browed bloom,
Looked out on the garden dreamy,And knew not it was old;Looked past the gray and the sombre,Saw but the green and the gold,
I stood in the gathering twilight,In a gently blowing wind;Then the house looked half uneasy,Like one that was left behind.
The roses had lost their redness,And cold the grass had grown;At roost were the pigeons and peacock,The sun-dial seemed a head-stone.
The world by the gathering twilightIn a gauzy dusk was clad;Something went into my spiritAnd made me a little sad.
Grew and gathered the twilight,It filled my heart and brain;The sadness grew more than sadness,It turned to a gentle pain.
Browned and brooded the twilight,Pervaded, absorbed the calm,Till it seemed for some human sorrowsThere could not be any balm.
Then I knew that, up a staircaseWhich untrod will yet creak and shake,Deep in a distant chamberA ghost was coming awake—
In the growing darkness growing,Growing till her eyes appearLike spots of a deeper twilight,But more transparent clear:
Thin as hot air up-trembling,Thin as sun-molten crape,An ethereal shadow of somethingIs taking a certain shape;
A shape whose hands hang listless,Let hang its disordered hair;A shape whose bosom is heavingBut draws not in the air.
And I know, what time the moonlightOn her nest of shadows will sit,Out on the dim lawn glidingThat shadowy shadow will flit.
The moon is dreaming upwardFrom a sea of cloud and gleam;She looks as if she had seen meNever but in a dream.
Down the stair I know she is coming,Bare-footed, lifting her train;It creaks not—she hears it creakingWhere once there was a brain.
Out at yon side-door she's coming,With a timid glance right and left;Her look is hopeless yet eager,The look of a heart bereft.
Across the lawn she is flitting,Her thin gown feels the wind;Are her white feet bending the grasses?Her hair is lifted behind!
Shall I stay to look on her nearer?Would she start and vanish away?Oh, no, she will never see me,Stand I near as I may!
It is not this wind she is feeling,Not this cool grass below;'Tis the wind and the grass of an eveningA hundred years ago.
She sees no roses darkling,No stately hollyhocks dim;She is only thinking and dreamingThe garden, the night, and him,
The unlit windows behind her,The timeless dial-stone,The trees, and the moon, and the shadowsA hundred years agone!
'Tis a night for a ghostly loverTo haunt the best-loved spot:Is he come in his dreams to this garden?I gaze, but I see him not.
I will not look on her nearer,My heart would be torn in twain;From my eyes the garden would vanishIn the falling of their rain.
I will not look on a sorrowThat darkens into despair,On the surge of a heart that cannotYet cannot cease to bear.
My soul to hers would be calling:She would hear no word it said!If I cried aloud in the stillnessShe would never turn her head!
She is dreaming the sky above her,She is dreaming the earth below:—This night she lost her loverA hundred years ago.
Everything goes to its rest;The hills are asleep in the noon;And life is as still in its nestAs the moon when she looks on a moonIn the depth of a calm river's breastAs it steals through a midnight in June.
The streams have forgotten the seaIn the dream of their musical sound;The sunlight is thick on the tree,And the shadows lie warm on the ground,—So still, you may watch them and seeEvery breath that awakens around.
The churchyard lies still in the heat,With its handful of mouldering bone,As still as the long stalk of wheatIn the shadow that sits by the stone,As still as the grass at my feetWhen I walk in the meadows alone.
The waves are asleep on the main,And the ships are asleep on the wave;And the thoughts are as still in my brainAs the echo that sleeps in the cave;All rest from their labour and pain—Then why should not I in my grave?