Part 2

Not within Thy hands!--Behold, By a woman’s hand unrolled All the mystery sublime Of Thy ableness through Time! Thou, in precious Boyhood, knew For Thy Father what to do; And delayed Thyself to hear Questions and to answer clear To the Doctors’ chiming throng, Thou, admired, wert set among. Straight Thy Mission was begun, As the Jewish Rabbis spun Round Thy fetterless, sweet mind Problems no one had divined. But Thy Mother came that way, Who had sought Thee day by day, And her crystal voice reproved Thy new way with Thy beloved. In Thy wisdom-widened eyes Throbbed a radiance of surprise: But, Thy Mother having chidden, Thou in Nazareth wert hidden; And Thy Father’s Work begun Stayed full eighteen years undone, Till Thou camest on Thine hour, When Thy Mother loosed Thy power For Thy Father’s business, said, In a murmur softly spread, Rippling to a happy few, “What He says unto you do!” As the spring-time to a tree, Sudden spring she was to Thee, When her strange appeal began Thy stayed Mission unto man; Stayed but by her earlier blame, When from three days’ woe she came; Yet renewed when she gave sign “Son, they have not any wine!”

Holy trust and love! She gave For Thy sake oblation brave Of her will, her spotless name: Thou for her didst boldly tame God the Word to wait on her; God’s own Wisdom might not stir Till her lovely voice decreed. Thou wouldst have our hearts give heed, And revere her lovely voice; Wait upon her secret choice, Stay her pleasure, as didst Thou, With a marvel on Thy brow, And a silence on Thy breath. We must cherish what she saith; As she pleadeth we must hope For our deeds’ accepted scope, Humble as her Heavenly Son, Till our liberty be won.

THE GARDEN OF LAZARUS

In a garden at Bethany, O Mother, Mother, Mother! Amid the passion-flowers and olive-leaves-- His Mother-- Yet, behold, how tranquilly She is sad and grieves, Though her Son is gone away, And she knows Passover Day Will not leave her Lamb, her Child unslain! He hath spoken to deaf ears, All save hers, of mortal pain And of parting, yet she has no tears.... He is gone away With His chosen few to eat the Pasch, Leaving in the eyes, she raised to ask, Mute assurance He would come no more Back to Bethany, nor Lazarus’ door. O Mother, Mother, Mother!-- But she keeps so many things apart In their silence, pondering them by heart; Always she has pondered in her heart; And it knows her Son is Son of God.... Silently she gazes where He trod Down the valley to Jerusalem-- His Mother! Round her birds are at their parting song To the light that will not strike them long; And the flowers are very gold With the light before whose loss they fold. Keen the song, as on each wing, And on each rose and each rose-stem Full the burnishing. She hath crossed her hands around her breast, And it seems her heart is taking rest With some Mystery her spirit heeds.... Song of Songs the birds now chaunt, And the lilies vaunt How among them, white, He feeds, Who but now hath left her--fair and white As the lover of the Sunamite.

. . . .

In the city, in an upper room, As fair Paschal Bread He breaks and gives Unto men His Body while He lives-- Then seeks out a Garden for His Doom.

HOLY CROSS

Mysterious sway of mortal blood, That urges me upon Thy wood!--

O Holy Cross, but I must tell My love; how all my forces dwell Upon Thee and around Thee day and night! I love the Feet upon thy beam, As a wild lover loves his dream; My eyes can only fix upon that sight.

O Tree, my arms are strong and sore To clasp Thee, as when we adore The body of our dearest in our arms! Each pang I suffer hath for aim Thy wood--its comfort is the same-- A taint, an odour from inveterate balms.

My clasp is filled, my sight receives The compass of its power; pain grieves About each sense but as a languid hum: And, out of weariness, at length, My day rejoices in its strength, My night that innocence of strife is come.

PURGATORY

Perfection of my God!-- With hands on the same rod, With robes that interfold, One weft together rolled; With two wings of one Dove Stretched the royal heads above-- God severs from His Son, That what is not be won; Immortal, mortal grow, God entering manhood know What was not and shall be Of cogent Deity.

Perfection of my soul!-- How shall I reach my goal, Unless I leave His Face, Who is my dwelling-place, Unless in exile do His will a short while through, To the time’s sharpest rim: Unless, deprived of Him, I may achieve Him, lie His victim, sigh on sigh, Bearing consummate pain, Supremely to attain?

FORTITUDO EGENIS

Lover of Souls, Immaculate, Mary, by thy Immaculate Conception, Thy soul and body white for God’s reception, Beyond the ridg’d snows on the sky; Beyond the treasure of white beams that lie Within the golden casket of the sun; By the excelling franchise of thy state, Plead for the Holy Souls, O Holiest One!

Till they be cleansed grief hath no date! Them, through thy spotless grace, embolden To passion for their God, but once beholden, Nor ever more beheld till pain Hath made their souls’ recesses bright from stain. Plead they may swiftly see Him, nor may shun The Vision, each achieved immaculate! Pure from the first, plead for them, Holiest One!

PAX VOBISCUM

TO NOTRE DAME DE BOULOGNE

My heart is before thee, Queen, As a mariner at sea-- It vows its sighs that swell to thee, Sighs as great as against waves may be.

For thou art above the waves, On their summits thou dost float; Thy locks of gold along thy throat; Thou more gold than gold upon thy boat.

Pomp of thy body, thy Child-- On thy arm, small-crowned and sweet; Thou, large-crowned! Where billows meet, Why these crowns, like shocks of golden wheat?

The Prince of Peace He is.... As a mariner at sea, When waves are high and thronging free, High my heart entreats thy Son and thee.

PURISSIMÆ VIRGINI SACELLUM

It is new in the air from the sea and the height, New as a nest by a sea-bird fashioned.... O Carmel, thy mound the rock-site!... And roofless our chapel, the home we, impassioned, Have built for her coming, O Gift from the Sea! Elijah, our father, descend to thy mountain, Where once was thy shrine, God created by flame; Where from a land dry in well as in fountain Thou did’st keep vigil--as we--till she came, The Cloud from God’s Bosom, the Grace of His favour, The sweetness of Rain! O balm, oh, the savour Of air on the throat! O Desire from the Sea! Surrounded by roses and lilies of valleys, Sweeter than myrrh, or than balsam in chalice, Queen of the East, O Magnificent, bring The sweetness familiar as rain to man’s cry; Murmur as rain round our hearts lest we die, White Cloud of felicity, Voice to our ears! Girt with vale-lilies and roses a spring-day appears, But Thou, Queen of Carmel, art Spring.

Surely the last, we are first in our glory: Splendid out-broke in our desert the story How flame that fell down on our shrine at the call Of our father Elijah had fallen down on all. So Christ is received of us, Carmel receives Him, The stones and the dust and the sea-winds believe Him: But after God’s Fire there is hope of God’s Rain. To us art thou come, O Abundance of Rain!

Thy little, roofless sanctuary, Queen, Finds us in winds, in sunset or at night, With stars to help our candles, wild and free As Pagans by their Virgin of moonlight, Diana of the Hunters’ rocks: so we Upon the heights, and in the breeze are seen, And called the Brothers of thy lovely name, Blest Mary of Mount Carmel. Asia, cry Her splendour! Cry to her, O Eastern Kings, Encompass her! She is our very own, In mercy manifest to us alone, Our Cloud of Mercy that from seaward springs, And crouched Elijah sought for, sigh on sigh.

And for our thanks ... O Eastern Kings, your treasure In this may serve us, that a pearl may lurk, Or in your chests there may be jewel-work That, as she is a Queen, might give her pleasure. We are her monks, we have no precious things. Close round her, Kings! With frankincense and myrrh, Open a fount for her! With cloth of gold proclaim her and enthrone! Afar off we will weep--she is our own.

IN THE BEGINNING

How still these two! Christ with far eyes, John with the fond eyes closed, And close unto The breast wherefrom is peace-- No slumber that shall cease, But charmed safety of a faith as sure As a mountain’s founding to endure: And warm as sleep John’s love For the rapt Face above.

Far-rapt, Christ’s eyes, In strength, remember His own resting-place, Where, in this wise, He, the Eternal Word, Had kept deep lull unstirred, Upon the bosom of the Father laid; And, of that peace divined, Knew the Eternal mind.

Then the raised Face Breaks soft and the eyes droop and bend above The sweet head’s place, Where from closed eyelids John Setteth his love upon God, his Lord, his Thought, his Lover dear: And, in lapse of silence falling clear, One heareth only this-- On the sweet head, a kiss.

AN ANTIPHONY OF ADVENT

AD LAUDES

I

Come to a revel, happy men! Far away on the hills a wine of joy Makes golden dew in drops, that cloy The fissures of the glen, The crevices of rock; Caught in its sweetness thyme and cistus lock; The hills are white and gold In every fold; The hills are running milk and honey-rivers; Yet not a thyrsus on a mountain quivers.

II

Does not the distant city cry, As if filled with an unexpected rout, _Alleluia_, shout on shout? Nor can the city high Exult in song enough, Tuning to smoothness all her highways rough. And yet the Bromian god Hath never trod With choir the pavements, nor each grape-haired dancer Given to the mountain-streams a city’s answer.

III

Behold, O men, a vivid light! Is it the lightning-fire that blazes wide, Or torches lit on every side That turn the sky so bright? Through this great, sudden day, No levin-gendered god’s triumphant way The brands of pine confess: A loveliness Within that mighty light of larger story Is come among us with exceeding glory.

IV

Ye that would drink, come forth and drink! Within the hills are rivers white and gold; Clear mid the day a portent to behold. Stoop at the water’s brink, Seek where the light is great! Why should the revellers for revel wait? Now ye can drink as thirsty stags Where no source flags. Forth to the water-brooks, forth in the morning; Forth to the light that out of light is dawning!

V

Tiresias, with thy wreath, not thou! Gray prophet of the fount of Thebes, behold A prophet neither blind nor old, Spare and of solemn brow, Is risen to make all young: He dwells among The freshets of the stream. Come to the Waters; O Sons of Adam, haste, and Eva’s daughters! This revel, children, is a revelry Ascetic, of a joy that cannot be Unless we fast and pray and wear no wreaths, Nor brandish cones the forest-fir bequeathes, Nor make a din--but sweet antiphonies-- Nor blow through organ-reeds to sing to these, But of ourselves make song: it is a feast, That by the breath of deserts is increased; And by ablution in the river lifts Its grain to crystal--earth so full of gifts Most exquisite, breaths that are infinite Of infinite judgment, hesitations light Of infinite choiceness, life so fine, so fine, Since of our flesh we welcome the Divine; Since by our fast and reticence, our food From honey-bees in haunts of solitude, O mighty Prophet of the river-bank, We see that light that makes the sun a blank, As a white dove makes a whole region dim; See in the greatness of the great Light’s rim One we must fall down under would we win The ecstasy of revel--all our sin Borne from us by the Wine-Cup in a hand That bleeds about the vessel’s golden stand, Bleeds as the white throat of a lamb just slain. Behold! No _Evoe_ at that poured red stain, No _Evoe_--_Alleluia!_ He is dumb: But let us laud Him, Eleutherius come!

ANNUNCIATIONS

“Blessèd art Thou among women, Mary!” Through white wings, The angel brings Of a Saviour’s birth annunciation-- Tidings of great joy to one afraid.

“Blessèd art thou Simon, son of Jonah!” In his power, His smile as dower, Of His Church’s birth, annunciation Is by God Himself, no angel, made.

Blessèd art Thou, Mary; blessèd, Peter! But the grace Of God’s own face Is on Peter for annunciation, When he speaks, by flesh and blood unswayed.

STONES OF THE BROOK

Forth from a cloud, Loosed as a greyhound is loosed, To sweep down the sky, To sweep down the hill, A torrent of water unnoosed-- The rain rushes on aloud, And becometh a stream on the earth, and still Groweth and spreadeth as its stream sweeps by.

And the stones of its course Are bright with its joy as it leaps Around them in might, Beyond them in joy; For it sings round the rocky heaps, From the brightness of its force; Nor can pebbles nor boulders of granite cloy In their multitude the stream’s delight.

With a torrent’s bliss, The Martyr Stephen receives The stones for his head, The stones for his breast, And smiles from his strength that believes: “Sweet stones of the brook!”--for this Is the singing, the song of his heart expressed, As he kneels, looking up, his hands outspread.

A river of blood, the tide Of martyrdom, gathers round His soul as a stream; While the stones are drenched With tides of his blood as they bound From temple and mouth and side ... Stones of offence, dark stones from the torrent wrenched, Ye strike the trend of his joy as a dream!

RELICS

An alabaster box, A tomb of precious stone-- White, with white bars, as white As billows on a sea: With spaces where some flush Of sky-like rose is conscious and afraid Of whiteness and white bars. A lovely sepulchre of loveliest stone, This alabaster box-- Coy as a maiden’s blood in flush, White as a maiden’s breast in stretch, Alive with fear and grace; Transparent rose, Translucent white; A treasury of precious stone, A strange, long tomb.... ’Twas Maximin, who had this casket made, The holy Maximin, who travelled once With Mary Magdalen, and preached with her; Till on a wind as quiet As it had been a cloud, She was removed by Christ to dwell alone.

Alone she dwelt, her peace A thought that never fell From its full tide. Ever beside her in her cave, A vase of golden curls, A clod of blooded earth. And when she died at last, and Maximin Must bury her; Being man and holy, in his love He laid her in an alabaster box, As she had laid her soul’s deep penitence, Her soul’s deep passion, a sweet balm, within An alabaster box: So Maximin gave Magdalen to God-- Shut as a spice in precious stone, In bland and flushing box Of alabaster stone. And knowing all her secrets, Maximin, Being man and holy, laid within The priceless cave of alabaster two Most precious, cherished things-- A vase of curly hair, A vase of golden web; A clod of withered soil, A clod of blooded earth.

The curls were crushed together in gold lump, Crushed by the hand that wiped The Holy Feet, kept in a crush of gold, Just as they dabbed the sweetly smelling Feet-- The curls enwoven by the balm they dried, Knotted as rose of Sharon, when the winds Sweep it along the desert.... Curls, of power To float the charm of Eve in aureole Round her they covered, till she crushed them tight To dab the Holy Feet, and afterward Be severed from their growth, Stiff in their balm and gold; A piece of honeycomb in rings and web; Sweetness of shorn, gold, unguent-dabbled hair, A handful in a vase.

The clod, a bit of hill-turf dry; The turf that sheep might pull up as they graze; Or men might throw upon the fire At sundown when the air is loosed and cold: A clod an eagle might Ascend to build with, or a goat Kick down a valley’s side; A clod dark-red As if it mothered ruby of the mines. The hand that gathered it one hollow night Gathered it up red-wet from Golgotha. Three crosses lay about the grass-- Such arms and shafts of crosses on the grass!-- When she, who gathered, crept Among the prostrate arms; Roused a great death-bird from the ground, And, in its place, Bent down and pressed her lips where it had couched, And lifted up the ground to press her heart; And went her way, hugging the Sacred Blood As in a sponge of turf, That dried about the treasure, now grown hard, As if it mothered ruby of the mines-- A clod of blooded soil.

O Relics of the Holy Magdalen! The balmy hair her plea, God’s Blood her grace: Within a vase her gift, Within a turf-clod His-- Her relics, by her corpse; All she had cared to keep, Through hermit years of life, To bless her in her tomb Till Judgment-Day.

ON CAUCASUS

Lo, Crimean marble-quarries tower Colder even than snow-peaks in their power, To the very heart stone-white: And the Christian captives strain On the hillsides in their pain, As they toil for Trajan day and night.

Who is this who comes with stirless brow, And sweet eyes that never could allow Rebels save upon their knees? Through the hills a voice is fanned That Pope Clement hath been banned Straightly to the marble Chersonese.

Toiling with his people ’mid the rocks, On a streamless slope, the quarried blocks He compels to whiteness clear. There a bitter cry is made Of the thirst that, unallayed, Dreams of well, or freshet, or wide mere.

He hath climbed to pray.... A lamb he sees, Pawing gladly in the mountain-breeze, Very golden unto snow: Lamb of God, cross-aureoled, Lovely on His vertex bold, Set above a River’s gush and flow.

By the brazen footstroke is expressed Impetus as of God’s River blest. Dew and snow in all their shine Round that heavenly Lamb and Stream Take the lustre of their dream, In a flood and blush of flame combine.

On the heavens, from Patmos’ shore, John beheld this crystal sight before-- Not to bring a people aid; But, sweet Clement, thou hast seen, on earth God’s own Lamb, His River’s birth; How He shone and how its waters played!

IN THE SEA

(THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. CLEMENT)

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy! Save him, save!”-- “Father, receive my spirit from the wave.”

Rolls the great Sea of the Chersonese Tossed and facing him and these.... Cold in waters, high in heap As a quarry should it sweep With a landslip down on men: And it roars as in its den Roars a monster apt for blood. He must journey on this flood To the harbour of his soul; He must seek his furthest goal, With an anchor round his neck, From yon tossing vessel’s deck Cast to drown, when out at sea Full three miles that ship may be. And his fellow-exiles cry, “Let him not, Lord Jesus, die!”

On the clouds the vessel is a spot. “Lord Jesus, save him!... Is there not, O brothers, in the sea retreat-- Caught back, rolling from our feet, Not in waves, as under tide, But withdrawn on every side? Very solemn is this floor! We can see the waves no more. Let us follow them athwart Sea-deeps with no waters fraught; Let us wipe our tears away, Let us take this holy way! Large the floor and larger still: Must the whole horizon fill With a land of weed and shell, Where no billows native dwell Any more--we know not why: Any more, since we made cry?”

As the sunset clears the sky, Yet across its wondrous space There is one transcendent place Where the sun is laid to rest: So these mourners, strangely blessed-- Over sand and coral clean And unbroken shells, serene, With the peace where sea hath been, Over panting sea-stars bright, Silver-raying fishes, mad For the livesome brine they had-- Come upon a Temple-grot, Set before them in a spot Of the naked desert, left By the ocean’s woof and weft Of the tidal streams withdrawn.

There upon the sand, forlorn In its beauty, far remote, Stands a Temple-shrine, they note Of the Holy Spirit’s dream.... And they cross a little stream, Thrilling with the far-off sea; And they follow what must be, As they tread within the shrine, Builded marble for a sign Angels had been set to build On a ground the ocean filled. In a tabernacle lies, Lone and grand to seeking eyes, Not the sunk sun, but a tomb, Whitest marble, and the room Of the holy Clement dead. There he lies, how comforted! Through the mighty water brought To a peace, a harbour wrought Of the holy Angels’ care. Close his anchor! He so still And sufficed--the waves that kill Driven away by angel-hands; While his people’s exile bands Kneel around him in the sea.... Come to port, his anchor by! Thus the sun each day must die: Thus sweet Clement but one day In the sea sank down, and lay As at sunset, full of peace.

They bear him to the land: and the flood-tides increase.

“COMMUNICANTES ET MEMORIAM VENERANTES ... JOANNIS ET PAULI”

Two olive-branches--silver; two candelabra,--gold: Precious as only tried and precious things Are of their essence bold, The Roman John and Paul--young heads together-- Pray on, nor is there any question whether The image that the Emperor’s Præfect brings For worship will be worshipped, for already The service of their ritual is so steady It is as day moving to noon, and moving to night’s fold.