A Hidden Life and Other Poems
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III
There is a calmer than all calms, A quiet more deep than death:A folding in the Father's palms, A breathing in his breath;A rest made deeper by alarms And stormy sounds combined:The child within its mother's arms Sleeps sounder for the wind.There needs no curtained bed to hide The world with all its wars,Nor grassy cover to divide From sun and moon and starsA window open to the skies, A sense of changeless life,With oft returning still surprise Repels the sounds of strife.IV
As one bestrides a wild scared horse Beneath a stormy moon,And still his heart, with quiet force, Beats on its own calm tune;So if my heart with trouble now Be throbbing in my breast,Thou art my deeper heart, and Thou, O God, dost ever rest.When mighty sea-winds madly blow, And tear the scattered waves;As still as summer woods, below Lie darkling ocean caves:The wind of words may toss my heart, But what is that to me!'Tis but a surface storm—Thou art My deep, still, resting sea.TO A.J. SCOTT
WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM
I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,Enduring long; till a faint dawn revealedA temple's front, cloud-curtained on the plain.Closed were the lofty doors that led within;But by a wicket one might entrance gain.O light, and awe, and silence! Entering in,The blackness and chaotic rain were lostIn hopeful spaces. Then I heard a thinSweet sound of voices low, together tossed,As if they sought a harmony to findWhich they knew once; but none of all that hostCould call the far-fled music back to mind.Loud voices, distance-low, wandered alongThe pillared paths, and up the arches twinedWith sister-arches, rising, throng on throng,Up to the roof's dim distance. If sometimesSelf-gathered voices made a burst of song,Straightway I heard again but as the chimesOf many bells through Sabbath morning sent,Each its own tale to tell of heavenly climes.Yet such the hope, one might be well contentHere to be low, and lowly keep a door;For like Truth's herald, solemnly that went,I heard thy voice, and humbly loved it more,Walking the word-sea to this ear of mine,Than any voice of power I heard before.Yet as the harp may, tremulous, combineLow ghostlike sounds with organ's loudest tone,Let not my music fear to come to thine:Thy heart, with organ-tempests of its own,Will hear Aeolian sighs from thin chords blown.LIGHT
First-born of the creating Voice!Minister of God's spirit, who wast sentTo wait upon Him first, what time He wentMoving about 'mid the tumultuous noiseOf each unpiloted elementUpon the face of the void formless deep!Thou who didst come unbodied and alone,Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep,Or ever the moon shone,Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven!Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirtFalleth on all things from the lofty heaven!Thou Comforter, be with me as thou wertWhen first I longed for words, to beA radiant garment for my thought, like thee.We lay us down in sorrow,Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night;In vexing dreams we 'strive until the morrow;Grief lifts our eyelids up—and lo, the light!The sunlight on the wall! And visions riseOf shining leaves that make sweet melodies;Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests;Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down;Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts;Of clouds that show thy glory as their own.O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by,Light, gladness, motion, are Reality!Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springsFar up to catch thy glory on his wings;And thou dost bless him first that highest soars.The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowersWorship thee all day long, and through the skiesFollow thy journey with their earnest eyes.River of life, thou pourest on the woods;And on thy waves float forth the wakening buds;The trees lean towards thee, and, in loving pain,Keep turning still to see thee yet again.And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low:Where'er thou art, on every side,All things are glorified;And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throwBeautiful shadows, made out of the Dark,That else were shapeless. Loving thou dost markThe sadness on men's faces, and dost seekTo make all things around of hope and gladness speak.And men have worshipped thee.The Persian, on his mountain-top,Kneeling doth wait until thy sun go up,God-like in his serenity.All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near;And the wide earth waits till his face appear—Longs patient. And the herald glory leapsAlong the ridges of the outlying clouds,Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps;And a quiet multitudinous laughter crowdsThe universal face, as, silently,Up cometh he, the never-closing eye.Symbol of Deity! men could not beFarthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee.Thou plaything of the child,When from the water's surface thou dost fallIn mazy dance, ethereal motion wild,Like his own thoughts, upon the chamber wall;Or through the dust darting in long thin streams!How I have played with thee, and longed to climbOn sloping ladders of thy moted beams!And how I loved thee falling from the moon!And most about the mellow harvest-time,When night had softly settled down,And thou from her didst flow, a sea of love.And then the stars, ah me! that flashed aboveAnd the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide!While here and there mysterious earthly shiningCame forth of windows from the hill and glen;Each ray of thine so wondrously entwiningWith household love and rest of weary men.And still I am a child, thank God! To seeThee streaming from a bit of broken glass,That else on the brown earth lay undescried,Is a high joy, a glorious thing to me,A spark that lights the light of joy within,A thought of Hope to Prophecy akin,That from my spirit fruitless will not pass.Thou art the joy of Age:The sun is dear even when long shadows fall.Forth to the sunlight the old man doth crawl,Enlivened like the bird in his poor cage.Close by the door, no further, in his chairThe old man sits; and sitteth thereHis soul within him, like a child that liesHalf dreaming, with his half-shut eyes,At close of a long afternoon in summer;High ruins round him, ancient ruins, whereThe raven is almost the only comer;And there he broods in wondermentOn the celestial glory sentThrough the rough loopholes, on the golden bloomThat waves above the cornice on the wall,Where lately dwelt the echoes of the room;And drinking in the yellow lights that lieUpon the ivy tapestry.So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old,But sleepy 'mid the ruins that infold.What meanings various thou callest forthUpon the face of the still passive earth!Even like a lord of music bentOver his instrument;Whether, at hour of sovereign noon,Infinite cataracts sheet silent down;Or a strange yellow radiance slanting passBetwixt long shadows o'er the meadow grass,When from the lower edge of a dark cloudThe sun at eve his blessing head hath bowed;Whether the moon lift up her shining shield,High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed;Or crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away,Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray,Her still face seeming more to think than see,She makes the pale world lie in dreams of thee.Each hour of day, each hour of thoughtful night,Hath a new poem in the changing light.Of highest unity the sole emblem!In whom all colours that our eyes can seeIn rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem,Unite in living oneness, purity,And operative power! whose every partIs beauty to the eyes, and truth unto the heart!Outspread in yellow sands, blue sea and air,Green growing corn, and scarlet poppies there;—Regent of colours, thou, the undefiled!Whether in dark eyes of the laughing child,Or in the vast white cloud that floats away,Bearing upon its breast a brown moon-ray;The universal painter, who dost flingThy overflowing skill on everything!The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers,Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours;And all the gems and ores that hidden be,Are dead till they are looked upon by thee.Everywhere,Thou art shining through the air;Every atom from anotherTakes thee, gives thee to his brother;Continually,Thou art falling on the sea,Bathing the deep woods down below,Making the sea-flowers bud and blow;Silently,Thou art working ardently,Bringing from the night of noughtInto being and to thought;InfluencesEvery beam of thine dispenses,Powerful, varied, reaching far,Differing in every star.Not an iron rod can lieIn circle of thy beamy eye,But thy look doth change it soThat it cannot choose but showThou, the worker, hast been there;Yea, sometimes, on substance rare,Thou dost leave thy ghostly markIn what men do call the dark.Doer, shower, mighty teacher!Truth-in-beauty's silent preacher!Universal something sentTo shadow forth the Excellent!When the firstborn affections,Those winged seekers of the world within,That search about in all directions,Some bright thing for themselves to win,Through unmarked forest-paths, and gathering fogs,And stony plains, and treacherous bogs,Long, long, have followed faces fair,Fair faces without souls, that vanished into air;And darkness is around them and above,Desolate, with nought to love;And through the gloom on every side,Strange dismal forms are dim descried;And the air is as the breathFrom the lips of void-eyed Death;And the knees are bowed in prayerTo the Stronger than Despair;Then the ever-lifted cry,Give us light, or we shall die,Cometh to the Father's ears,And He listens, and He hears:And when men lift up their eyes,Lo, Truth slow dawning in the skies!'Tis as if the sun gleamed forthThrough the storm-clouds of the north.And when men would name this Truth,Giver of gladness and of youth,They can call it nought but Light—'Tis the morning, 'twas the night.Yea, every thought of hope outspreadOn the mountain's misty head,Is a fresh aurora, sentThrough the spirit's firmament,Telling, through the vapours dun,Of the coming, coming sun.All things most excellentAre likened unto thee, excellent thing!Yea, He who from the Father forth was sent,Came the true Light, light to our hearts to bring;The Word of God, the telling of His thought;The Light of God, the making-visible;The far-transcending glory broughtIn human form with man to dwell;The dazzling gone; the power not lessTo show, irradiate, and bless;The gathering of the primal rays divine,Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine!Death, darkness, nothingness!Life, light, and blessedness!* * * * *Dull horrid pools no motion making;No bubble on the surface breaking;Through the dead heavy air, no sound;Asleep and moveless on the marshy ground.* * * * *Rushing winds and snow-like drift,Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift;Hair-like vapours madly riven;Waters smitten into dust;Lightning through the turmoil driven,Aimless, useless, yet it must.* * * * *Gentle winds through forests calling;Big waves on the sea-shore falling;Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing;Light boats on the big waves dancing;Children in the clear pool laving;Mountain streams glad music giving;Yellow corn and green grass waving;Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living;Light on all things, even as now—God, our Father, it is Thou!Light, O Radiant! thou didst come abroad,To mediate 'twixt our ignorance and God;Forming ever without form;Showing, but thyself unseen;Pouring stillness on the storm;Making life where death had been!If thou, Light, didst cease to be,Death and Chaos soon were out,Weltering o'er the slimy sea,Riding on the whirlwind's rout;And if God did cease to be,O Beloved! where were we?Father of Lights, pure and unspeakable,On whom no changing shadow ever fell!Thy light we know not, are content to see;And shall we doubt because we know not Thee?Or, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed,Fear lest dark vapours dwell within thy breast?Nay, nay, ye shadows on our souls descending!Ye bear good witness to the light on high,Sad shades of something 'twixt us and the sky!And this word, known and unknown radiant blending,Shall make us rest, like children in the night,—Word infinite in meaning: God is Light.We walk in mystery all the shining dayOf light unfathomed that bestows our seeing,Unknown its source, unknown its ebb and flow:Thy living light's eternal fountain-playIn ceaseless rainbow pulse bestows our being—Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?O Light, if I had said all I could sayOf thy essential glory and thy might,Something within my heart unsaid yet lay,And there for lack of words unsaid must stay:For God is Light.TO A.J. SCOTT
Thus, once, long since, the daring of my youthDrew nigh thy greatness with a little thing;And thou didst take me in: thy home of truthHas domed me since, a heaven of sheltering,Uplighted by the tenderness and graceWhich round thy absolute friendship ever flingA radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy faceFrom that small part of earnest thanks, I pray,Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.I saw thee as a strong man on his way!Up the great peaks: I know thee stronger still;Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,Upheld and ordered by a regnant will;While Wisdom, seer and priest of holy Fate,Searches all truths, its prophecy to fill:Yet, O my friend, throned in thy heart so great,High Love is queen, and hath no equal mate.May, 1857.
WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER
Were I a skilful painter,My pencil, not my pen,Should try to teach thee hope and fear;And who should blame me then?Fear of the tide-like darknessThat followeth close behind,And hope to make thee journey onIn the journey of the mind.Were I a skilful painter,What should my painting be?A tiny spring-bud peeping forthFrom a withered wintry tree.The warm blue sky of summerAbove the mountain snow,Whence water in an infant stream,Is trying how to flow.The dim light of a beaconUpon a stormy sea,Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds,Yet call themselves the free.One sunbeam faintly gleamingAthwart a sullen cloud,Like dawning peace upon a browIn angry weeping bowed.Morn climbing o'er the mountain,While the vale is full of night,And a wanderer, looking for the east,Rejoicing in the sight.A taper burning dimlyAmid the dawning grey,And a maiden lifting up her head,And lo, the coming day!And thus, were I a painter,My pencil, not my pen,Should try to teach thee hope and fear;And who should blame me then?Fear of the tide-like darknessThat followeth close behind,And hope to make thee journey onIn the journey of the mind.IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN
If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily,From chapel to cell till day were done, Wearily, wearily,Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours,That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, Morning foul or fair;Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall— Words, but hardly prayer;Vainly trying the thoughts to raise,Which, in the sunshine, would burst in praise.Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, The God revealing,Turning thy face from the boundless boon, Painfully kneeling;Or in thy chamber's still solitude,Bending thy head o'er the legend rude.I, in a cool and lonely nook, Gloomily, gloomily,Poring over some musty book, Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;Or on the parchment margin unrolled,Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.Perchance in slow procession to meet, Wearily, wearily,In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street, Wearily, wearily;Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and thenHeavily sinking to earth again.Sunshine and air! warmness and spring! Merrily, merrily!Back to its cell each weary thing, Wearily, wearily!And the heart so withered, and dry, and old,Most at home in the cloister cold.Thou on thy knees at the vespers' call, Wearily, wearily;I looking up on the darkening wall, Wearily, wearily;The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,Listless and dead to thee and me!Then to the lone couch at death of day, Wearily, wearily;Rising at midnight again to pray, Wearily, wearily;And if through the dark those eyes looked in,Sending them far as a thought of sin.And then, when thy spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily;The earth-born dwelling returning to clay, Sleepily, sleepily;Over thee held the crucified Best,But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.And when my spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily;The grey head lying 'mong ashes grey, Sleepily, sleepily;No hovering angel-woman above,Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.But now, beloved, thy hand in mine, Peacefully, peacefully;My arm around thee, my lips on thine, Lovingly, lovingly,—Oh! is not a better thing to us givenThan wearily going alone to heaven?BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH
A quiet heart, submissive, meek, Father do thou bestow;Which more than granted will not seek To have, or give, or know.Each green hill then will hold its gift Forth to my joying eyes;The mountains blue will then uplift My spirit to the skies.The falling water then will sound As if for me alone;Nay, will not blessing more abound That many hear its tone?The trees their murmuring forth will send, The birds send forth their song;The waving grass its tribute lend, Sweet music to prolong.The water-lily's shining cup, The trumpet of the bee,The thousand odours floating up, The many-shaded sea;The rising sun's imprinted tread Upon the eastward waves;The gold and blue clouds over head; The weed from far sea-caves;All lovely things from south to north, All harmonies that be,Each will its soul of joy send forth To enter into me.And thus the wide earth I shall hold, A perfect gift of thine;Richer by these, a thousandfold, Than if broad lands were mine.THE HILLS
Behind my father's house there lies A little grassy brae,Whose face my childhood's busy feet Ran often up in play,Whence on the chimneys I looked down In wonderment alway.Around the house, where'er I turned, Great hills closed up the view;The town 'midst their converging roots Was clasped by rivers two;From one hill to another sprang The sky's great arch of blue.Oh! how I loved to climb their sides, And in the heather lie;The bridle on my arm did hold The pony feeding by;Beneath, the silvery streams; above, The white clouds in the sky.And now, in wandering about, Whene'er I see a hill,A childish feeling of delight Springs in my bosom still;And longings for the high unknown Follow and flow and fill.For I am always climbing hills, And ever passing on,Hoping on some high mountain peak To find my Father's throne;For hitherto I've only found His footsteps in the stone.And in my wanderings I have met A spirit child like me,Who laid a trusting hand in mine, So fearlessly and free,That so together we have gone, Climbing continually.Upfolded in a spirit bud, The child appeared in space,Not born amid the silent hills, But in a busy place;And yet in every hill we see A strange, familiar face.For they are near our common home; And so in trust we go,Climbing and climbing on and on, Whither we do not know;Not waiting for the mournful dark, But for the dawning slow.Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,— A long way we have come!Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,— For we have far to roam,Climbing and climbing, till we reach Our Heavenly Father's home.I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS
I know what beauty is, for Thou Hast set the world within my heart; Its glory from me will not part;I never loved it more than now.I know the Sabbath afternoon: The light lies sleeping on the graves; Against the sky the poplar waves;The river plays a Sabbath tune.Ah, know I not the spring's snow-bell? The summer woods at close of even? Autumn, when earth dies into heaven,And winter's storms, I know them well.I know the rapture music brings, The power that dwells in ordered tones, A living voice that loves and moans,And speaks unutterable things.Consenting beauties in a whole; The living eye, the imperial head, The gait of inward music bred,The woman form, a radiant soul.And splendours all unspoken bide Within the ken of spirit's eye; And many a glory saileth by,Borne on the Godhead's living tide.But I leave all, thou man of woe! Put off my shoes, and come to Thee; Thou art most beautiful to me;More wonderful than all I know.As child forsakes his favourite toy, His sisters' sport, his wild bird's nest; And climbing to his mother's breast,Enjoys yet more his former joy—I lose to find. On forehead wide The jewels tenfold light afford: So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,All beauty else is glorified.I WOULD I WERE A CHILD
I would I were a child,That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!And follow Thee with running feet, or rather Be led thus through the wild. How I would hold thy hand!My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting, Over this sea and land. If a dark thing came near,I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding, And so forget my fear. O soul, O soul, rejoice!Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning With gentle eyes and voice. The words like echoes flow.They are too good; mine I can call them never;Such water drinking once, I should feel ever As I had drunk but now. And yet He said it so;'Twas He who taught our child-lips to say, Father!Like the poor youth He told of, that did gather His goods to him, and go. Ah! Thou dost lead me, God;But it is dark; no stars; the way is dreary;Almost I sleep, I am so very weary Upon this rough hill-road. Almost! Nay, I do sleep.There is no darkness save in this my dreaming;Thy Fatherhood above, around, is beaming; Thy hand my hand doth keep. This torpor one sun-gleamWould break. My soul hath wandered into sleeping;Dream-shades oppress; I call to Thee with weeping, Wake me from this my dream. And as a man doth say,Lo! I do dream, yet trembleth as he dreameth;While dim and dream-like his true history seemeth, Lost in the perished day; (For heavy, heavy nightLong hours denies the day) so this dull sorrowUpon my heart, but half believes a morrow Will ever bring thy light. God, art Thou in the room?Come near my bed; oh! draw aside the curtain;A child's heart would say Father, were it certain That it did not presume. But if this dreary bondI may not break, help Thou thy helpless sleeper;Resting in Thee, my sleep will sink the deeper, All evil dreams beyond. Father! I dare at length.My childhood, thy gift, all my claim in speaking;Sinful, yet hoping, I to Thee come, seeking Thy tenderness, my strength.THE LOST SOUL
Brothers, look there!What! see ye nothing yet?Knit your eyebrows close, and stare;Send your souls forth in the gaze,As my finger-point is set,Through the thick of the foggy air.Beyond the air, you see the dark;(For the darkness hedges still our ways;)And beyond the dark, oh, lives away!Dim and far down, surely you markA huge world-heap of withered yearsDropt from the boughs of eternity?See ye not something lying there,Shapeless as a dumb despair,Yet a something that spirits can recogniseWith the vision dwelling in their eyes?It hath the form of a man!As a huge moss-rock in a valley green,When the light to freeze began,Thickening with crystals of dark between,Might look like a sleeping man.What think ye it, brothers? I know it well.I know by your eyes ye see it—tell.'Tis a poor lost soul, alack!It was alive some ages back;One that had wings and might have had eyesI think I have heard that he wrote a book;But he gathered his life up into a nook,And perished amid his own mysteries,Which choked him, because he had not faith,But was proud in the midst of sayings darkWhich God had charactered on his walls;And the light which burned up at intervals,To be spent in reading what God saith,He lazily trimmed it to a spark,And then it went out, and his soul was dark. Is there aught between thee and me, Soul, that art lying there? Is any life yet left in thee, So that thou couldst but spare A word to reveal the mystery Of the banished from light and air? Alas, O soul! thou wert once As the soul that cries to thee! Thou hadst thy place in the mystic dance From the doors of the far eternity, Issuing still with feet that glance To the music of the free! Alas! O soul, to think That thou wert made like me! With a heart for love, and a thirst to drink From the wells that feed the sea! And with hands of truth to have been a link 'Twixt mine and the parent knee; And with eyes to pierce to the further brink Of things I cannot see! Alas, alas, my brother! To thee my heart is drawn: My soul had been such another, In the dark amidst the dawn! As a child in the eyes of its mother Dead on the flowery lawn! I mourn for thee, poor friend! A spring from a cliff did drop: To drink by the wayside God would bend, And He found thee a broken cup! He threw thee aside, His way to wend Further and higher up. Alack! sad soul, alack! As if I lay in thy grave, I feel the Infinite sucking back The individual life it gave. Thy spring died to a pool, deep, black, Which the sun from its pit did lave. Thou might'st have been one of us, Cleaving the storm and fire; Aspiring through faith to the glorious, Higher and ever higher; Till the world of storms look tremulous, Far down, like a smitten lyre! A hundred years! he might Have darted through the gloom, Like that swift angel that crossed our flight Where the thunder-cloud did loom, From his upcast pinions flashing the light Of some inward word or doom.It heareth not, brothers, the terrible thing!Sounds no sense to its ear will bring.Hath God forgotten it, alas!Lost in eternity's lumber room?Will the wave of his Spirit never passOver it through the insensate gloom?It lies alone in its lifeless world,As a frozen bud on the earth lies curled;Sightless and soundless, without a cry,On the flat of its own vacuity.Up, brothers, up! for a storm is nigh;We will smite the wing up the steepest sky;Through the rushing airWe will climb the stairThat to heaven from the vaults doth leap;We will measure its heightBy the strokes of our flight,Its span by the tempest's sweep.What matter the hail or the clashing winds!We know by the tempest we do not lieDead in the pits of eternity.Brothers, let us be strong in our minds,Lest the storm should beat us back,Or the treacherous calm sink from beneath our wings,And lower us gently from our trackTo the depths of forgotten things.Up, brothers, up! 'tis the storm or we!'Tis the storm or God for the victory!