Part 12

Look on this picture of joy, and remember that portrait of sorrow: Behold the beauty of holiness, behold the deformity of sin! How long, ye sons of men, will ye scorn the words of wisdom? How long will ye hunt for happiness in the caverns that breed despair? Will ye comfort yourselves in misery, by denying the existence of delight, And from experience in woe, will ye reason that none are happy? Joy is not in your path, for it loveth not that bleak broad road, But its flowers are hung upon the hedges that line a narrower way; And there the faint travellers of earth may wander and gather for themselves, To soothe their wounded hearts with balm from the amaranths of heaven.

ΘΕΩ ΔΟΞΑ

SECOND SERIES.

INTRODUCTORY.

Come again, and greet me as a friend, fellow-pilgrim upon life's highway, Leave awhile the hot and dusty road, to loiter in the greenwood of Reflection. Come unto my cool dim grotto, that is watered by the rivulet of truth, And over whose time-stained rock climb the fairy flowers of content; Here, upon this mossy bank of leisure fling thy load of cares, Taste my simple store, and rest one soothing hour.

Behold, I would count thee for a brother, and commune with thy charitable soul; Though wrapt within the mantle of a prophet, I stand mine own weak scholar. Heed no disciple for a teacher, if knowledge be not found upon his tongue; For vanity and folly were the lessons these lips untaught could give: The precious staple of my merchandise cometh from a better country, The harvest of my reaping sprang of foreign seed: And this poor pensioner of Mercy--should he boast of merit? The grafted stock,--should that be proud of apples not its own? Into the bubbling brook I dip my hermit shell; Man receiveth as a cup, but Wisdom is the river.

Moreover, for this fillagree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude, Alas, the world is old,--and all things old within it: I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways; Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch. Truth, in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme; No truth is new to-day: and the mantle was another's.

Still, there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery, Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant mind; The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of nature, Fresh feelings unrepressed, welling from the heart spontaneous, Facts, and comparisons, and meditative atoms, gathered on the heap of combination, Mingle in the fashion of my speech with gossamer dreams of Reverie. I need not beat the underwood for game; my pheasants flock upon the lawn, And gamboling hares disport fearless in my dewy field; I roam no heath-empurpled hills, wearily watching for a covey, But thoughts fly swift to my decoy, eager to be caught; I sit no quiet angler, lingering patiently for sport, But spread my nets for a draught, and take the glittering shoal; I chase no solitary stag, tracking it with breathless toil, But hunt with Aurung-zebe, and spear surrounded thousands.

What then,--count ye this a boast?--sweet charity, think it other, For the dog-fish and poisonous ray are captured in the mullet-haul: The crane and the kite are of my thoughts, alike with the partridge and the quail, And unclean meats as of the clean hang upon my Seric shambles. --How saith he? shall a man deceive, dressing up his jackal as a lion? Or colour in staid hues of fact the changing vest of falsehood?-- Brother, unwittingly he may; doubtless, unwillingly he doth: For men are full of fault, and how should he be righteous? Carefully my garden hath been weeded, yet shall it be foul with thistle; My grapery is diligently thinned, and yet many berries will be sour: From my nets have I flung the bad away, to my small skill and caution; Yet may some slimy snake have counted for an eel. The rudder of Man's best hope cannot always steer himself from error; The arrow of Man's straightest aim flieth short of truth. Thus, the confession of sincerity visit not as if it were presumption: Nor own me for a leader, where thy reason is not guide.

OF CHEERFULNESS.

Take courage, prisoner of time, for there be many comforts, Cease thy labour in the pit, and bask awhile with truants in the sun; Be cheerful, man of care, for great is the multitude of chances, Burst thy fetters of anxiety, and walk among the citizens of ease: Wherefore dost thou doubt? if present good is round thee, It may be well to look for change, but to trust in a continuance is better; Whilst, at the crisis of adversity, to hope for some amends were wisdom, And cheerfully to bear thy cross in patient strength is duty. I speak of common troubles, and the petty plagues of life, The phantom-spies of Unbelief, that lurk about his outposts: Sharp suspicion, dull distrust, and sullen stern moroseness Are captains in that locust swarm to lead the cloudy host. Thou hast need of fortitude and faith, for the adversaries come on thickly, And he that fled hath added wings to his pursuing foes; Fight them, and the cravens flee; thy boldness is their panic; Fear them, and thy treacherous heart hath lent the ranks a legion: Among their shouts of victory resoundeth the wail of Heraclitus, While Democrite, confident and cheerful, hath plucked up the standard of their camp.

Not few nor light are the burdens of life; then load it not with heaviness of spirit; Sicknesses, and penury, and travail,--there be real ills enow: We are wandering benighted, with a waning moon; plunge not rashly into jungles, Where cold and poisonous damps will quench the torch of hope: The tide is strong against us; good oarsmen, pull or perish,-- If your arms be slack for fear, ye shall not stem the torrent. A wise traveller goeth on cheerily, through fair weather or foul; He knoweth that his journey must be sped, so he carrieth his sunshine with him. Calamities come not as a curse,--nor prosperity for other than a trial; Struggle,--thou art better for the strife, and the very energy shall hearten thee. Good is taught in a Spartan school,--hard lessons and a rough discipline; But evil cometh idly of itself, in the luxury of Capuan holidays: And Wisdom will go bravely forth to meet the chastening scourge, Enduring with a thankful heart that punishment of Love.

There be three chief rivers of despondency: sin, sorrow, fear; Sin is the deepest, sorrow hath its shallows, and fear is a noisy rapid: But even to the darkest holes in guilt's profoundest river Hope can pierce with quickening ray, and all those depths are lightened. So long as there is mercy in a God, hope is the privilege of creatures, And so soon as there is penitence in creatures, that hope is exalted into duty. Verily, consider this for courage; that the fearful and the unbelieving Are classed with idolaters and liars, because they trusted not in God: For it is none other than selfish sin, a hard and proud ingratitude, Where seeming repentance is herald of despair, instead of hope's forerunner.

Moreover, in thy day of grief,--for friends, or fame, or fortune, Well I wot the heart shall ache, and mind be numbed in torpor; Let nature weep; leave her alone; the freshet of her sorrow must run off; And sooner will the lake be clear, relieved of turbid floodings. Yet see that her license hath a limit; with the novelty her agony is over; Hasten in that earliest calm, to tie her in the leash with Reason. For regrets are an enervating folly, and the season for energy is come, Yea rather, that the future may repair with diligence the ruins of the past.

Again, for empty fears, the harassings of possible calamity, Pray, and thou shalt prosper; trust in God, and tread them down. Yield to the phantasy,--thou sinnest; resist it, He will aid thee: Out of Him there is no help, nor any sober courage. Feeble is the comfort of the faithless, a man without a God; Who dare counsel such an one to fling away his fears? Fear is the heritage of him, a portion wise and merciful, To drive the trembler into safety, if haply he may turn and flee: Nevertheless, let him reckon an he will, that all be counteth casual May as well be for him as against him; dice have many sides: And, even as in ailments of the body, diseases follow closely upon dreads, So, with infirmities of mind, is fear the pallid harbinger of failure. It were wise to walk undaunted even in an accidental chaos, For the brave man is at peace, and free to get the mastery of circumstance. The stoutest armour of defence is that which is worn within the bosom, And the weapon that no enemy can parry, is a bold and cheerful spirit: Catapults in old war worked like Titans, crushing foes with rocks; So doth a strong-springed heart throw back every load on its assailants.

I went heavily for cares, and fell into the trance of sorrow; And behold, a vision in my trance, and my ministering angel brought it. There stood a mountain huge and steep, the awful Rock of Ages; The sun upon its summit, and storms midway, and deep ravines at foot. And, as I looked, a dense black cloud, suddenly dropping from the thunder, Filled, like a cataract with yeasty foam, a narrow smiling valley: Close and hard that vaporous mass seemed to press the ground, And lamentable sounds came up, as of some that were smothering beneath. Then, as I walked upon the mountain, clear in summer's noon, For charity I called aloud, Ho! climb up hither to the sunshine. And even like a stream of light my voice had pierced the mist; I saw below two families of men, and knew their names of old: Courage, struggling through the darkness, stout of heart and gladsome, Ran up the shining ladder which the voice of Hope had made; And tripping lightly by his side, a sweet-eyed helpmate with him, I looked upon her face to welcome pleasant Cheerfulness; And a babe was cradled in her bosom, a laughing little prattler, The child of Cheerfulness and Courage,--could his name be other than Success? So, from his happy wife, when they both stood beside me on the mountain, The fond father took that babe, and set him on his shoulder in the sunshine.

Again I peered into the valley, for I heard a gasping moan, A desolate weak cry, as muffled in the vapours. So down that crystal shaft into the poisonous mine I sped for charity to seek and save,--and those I sought fled from me. At length, I spied, far distant, a trembling withered dwarf Who crouched beneath the cloak of a tall and spectral mourner: Then I knew Cowardice and Gloom, and followed them on in darkness, Guided by their rustling robes and moans and muffled cries, Until in a suffocating pit the wretched pair had perished,-- And lo, their whitening bones were shaping out an epitaph of Failure.

So I saw that despondency was death, and flung my burdens from me, And, lightened by that effort, I was raised above the world; Yea, in the strangeness of my vision, I seemed to soar on wings, And the names they called my wings were Cheerfulness and Wisdom.

OF YESTERDAY.

Speak, poor almsman of to-day, whom none can assure of a to-morrow, Tell out, with honest heart, the price thou settest upon yesterday. Is it then a writing in the dust, traced by the finger of idleness, Which Industry, clean housewife, can wipe away for ever? Is it as a furrow on the sand, fashioned by the toying waves, Quickly to be trampled then again by the feet of the returning tide? Is it as the pale blue smoke, rising from a peasant's hovel, That melted into limpid air, before it topped the larches? Is it but a vision, unstable and unreal, which wise men soon forget? Is it as the stranger of a night,--gone, we heed not whither? Alas! thou foolish heart, whose thoughts are but as these, Alas! deluded soul, that hopeth thus of Yesterday.

For, behold,--those temples of Ellora, the Brahmin's rock-built shrine, Behold--yon granite cliff, which the North Sea buffeteth in vain,-- That stout old forest fir,--these waking verities of life, This guest abiding ever, not strange, nor a servant, but a son,-- Such, O man, are vanity and dreams, transient as a rainbow on the cloud, Weighed against that solid fact, thine ill-remembered Yesterday.

Come, let me show thee an ensample, where Nature shall instruct us; Luxuriantly the arguments for truth spring native in her gardens. Seek we yonder woodman of the plain; he is measuring his axe to the elm, And anon the sturdy strokes ring upon the wintry air: Eagerly the village school-boys cluster on the tightened rope, Shouting, and bending to the pull, or lifted from the ground elastic; The huge tree boweth like Sisera, boweth to its foes with faintness,-- Its sinews crack,--deep groans declare the reeling anguish of Goliath, The wedge is driven home,--and the saw is at its heart,--and lo, with solemn slowness, The shuddering monarch riseth from his throne,--toppled with a crash,--and is fallen!

Now shall the mangled stump teach proud man a lesson: Now, can we from that elm-tree's sap distil the wine of Truth. Heed ye those hundred rings, concentric from the core, Eddying in various waves to the red bark's shore-like rim? These be the gatherings of yesterdays, present all to-day, This is the tree's judgment, self-history that cannot be gainsaid: Seven years agone there was a drought,--and the seventh ring is narrowed; The fifth from hence was half a deluge,--the fifth is cellular and broad. Thus, Man, thou art a result, the growth of many yesterdays, That stamp thy secret soul with marks of weal or woe: Thou art an almanack of self, the living record of thy deeds; Spirit hath its scars as well as body, sore and aching in their season: Here is a knot,--it was a crime; there is a canker,--selfishness; Lo, here, the heart-wood rotten; lo, there, perchance, the sap-wood sound. Nature teacheth not in vain; thy works are in thee, of thee; Some present evil bent hath grown of older errors: And what if thou be walking now uprightly? Salve not thy wounds with poison, As if a petty goodness of to-day hath blotted out the sin of yesterday: It is well, thou hast life and light; and the Hewer showeth mercy, Dressing the root, pruning the branch, and looking for thy tardy fruits; But, even here as thou standest, cheerful belike and careless, The stains of ancient evil are upon thee, the record of thy wrong is in thee: For, a curse of many yesterdays is thine, many yesterdays of sin, That, haply heeded little now, shall blast thy many morrows.

Shall then a man reck nothing, but hurl mad defiance at his Judge, Knowing that less than an Omnipotent cannot make the has been, not been? He ought,--so Satan spake; he must,--so Atheism urgeth; He may,--it was the libertine's thought; he doth,--the bad world said it. But thou of humbler heart, thou student wiser for simplicity, While Nature warneth thee betimes, heed the loving counsel of Religion. True, this change is good, and penitence most precious; But trust not thou thy change, nor rest upon repentance: For all we are corrupted at the core, smooth as surface seemeth; What health can bloom in a beautiful skin, when rottenness hath fed upon the bones? And guilt is parcel of us all; not thou, sweet nursling of affection, Art spotless, though so passing fair,--nor thou, mild patriarch of virtue.

Behold then the better Tree of Life, free unto us all for grafting, Cut thee from the hollow root of self, to be budded on a richer Vine. Be desperate, O man, as of evil, so of good; tear that tunic from thee; The past can never be retrieved, be the present what it may. Vain is the penance and the scourge, vain the fast and vigil: The fencer's cautious skill to-day, can this erase his scars? It is Man's to famish as a faquir, it is Man's to die a devotee, Light is the torture and the toil, balanced with the wages of Eternity: But, it is God's to yearn in love, on the humblest, the poorest, and the worst, For He giveth freely, as a king, asking only thanks for mercy. Look upon this noble-hearted Substitute; seeing thy woes, He pitied thee, Bowed beneath the mountain of thy sin, and perished,--but for Godhead; There stood the Atlas in his power, and Prometheus in his love is there, Emptying on wretched men the blessings earned from Heaven: Put them not away, hide them in thy heart, poor and penitent receiver, Be gratitude thy counseller to good, and wholesome fear unto obedience; Remember, the pruning-knife is keen, cutting cankers even from the vine; Remember, twelve were chosen, and one among them liveth--in perdition.

Yea,--for standing unatoned, the soul is a bison on the prairie, Hunted by those trooping wolves, the many sinful yesterdays: And it speedeth a terrified Deucalion, flinging back the pebble in his flight, The pebble that must add one more to those pursuing ghosts. O man, there is a storm behind should drive thy bark to haven; The foe, the foe is on thy track, patient, certain, and avenging; Day by day, solemnly, and silently, followeth the fearful past,-- His step is lame, but sure; for he catcheth the present in eternity: And how to escape that foe, the present-past in future? How to avert that fate, living consequence of causes unexistent?-- Boldly we must overleap his birth, and date above his memories, Grafted on the living Tree, that WAS before a yesterday: No refuge of a younger birth than one that saw creation Can hide the child of time from still condemning Yesterday. There, is the Sanctuary-city, mocking at the wrath of thine Avenger, Close at hand, with the wicket on the latch; haste for thy life, poor hunted one! The gladiator, Guilt, fighteth as of old, armed with net and dagger; Snaring in the mesh of yesterdays, stabbing with the poignard of to-day: Fly, thy sword is broken at the hilt; fly, thy shield is shivered; Leap the barriers, and baffle him: the arena of the past is his. The bounds of Guilt are the cycles of Time: thou must be safe within Eternity; The arms of God alone shall rescue thee from Yesterday.

OF TO-DAY.

Now, is the constant syllable ticking from the clock of time, Now, is the watchword of the wise, Now, is on the banner of the prudent. Cherish thy to-day and prize it well, or ever it be gulphed into the past, Husband it, for who can promise, if it shall have a morrow? Behold, thou art,--it is enough; that present care be thine; Leave thou the past to thy Redeemer, entrust the future to thy Friend; But for To-day, child of man, tend thou charily the minutes, The harvest of thy yesterday, the seed-corn of thy morrow.

Last night died its day; and the deeds thereof were judged: Thou didst lay thee down as in a shroud, in darkness and death-like slumber: But at the trumpet of this morn, waking the world to resurrection, Thou didst arise, like others, to live a new day's life: Fear, lest folly give thee cause to mourn its passing presence, Fear, that to-morrow's sigh be not, would God it had not dawned!

For, To-day the lists are set, and thou must bear thee bravely, Tilting for honour, duty, life, or death without reproach: To-day, is the trial of thy fortitude, O dauntless Mandan chief; To-day, is thy watch, O sentinel; To-day, thy reprieve, O captive: What more? To-day is the golden chance wherewith to snatch fruition,-- Be glad, grateful, temperate: there are asps among the figs. For the potter's clay is in thy hands,--to mould it or to mar it at thy will, Or idly to leave it in the sun, an uncouth lump to harden.

O bright presence of To-day, let me wrestle with thee, gracious angel, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me; bless me, then, To-day: O sweet garden of To-day, let me gather of thee, precious Eden; I have stolen bitter knowledge, give me fruits of life To-day: O true temple of To-day, let me worship in thee, glorious Zion; I find none other place nor time, than where I am To-day: O living rescue of To-day, let me run into thee, ark of refuge: I see none other hope nor chance, but standeth in To-day: O rich banquet of To-day, let me feast upon thee, saving manna; I have none other food nor store, but daily bread To-day!

Behold, thou art pilot of the ship, and owner of that freighted galleon, Competent, with all thy weakness, to steer into safety or be lost: Compass and chart are in thy hand: roadstead and rocks thou knowest; Thou art warned of reefs and shallows; thou beholdest the harbour and its lights. What? shall thy wantonness or sloth drive the gallant vessel on the breakers? What? shall the helmsman's hand wear upon the black lee shore? Vain is that excuse; thou canst escape: thy mind is responsible for wrong: Vain that murmur; thou mayst live: thy soul is debtor for the right. To-day, in the voyage of thy life down the dark tide of time, Stand boldly to thy tiller, guide thee by the pole-star, and be safe; To-day, passing near the sunken rocks, the quicksands and whirlpools of probation, Leave awhile the rudder to swing round, give the wind its heading, and be wrecked.

The crisis of man's destiny is Now, a still recurring danger; Who can tell the trials and temptations coming with the coming hour? Thou standest a target-like Sebastian, and the arrows whistle near thee; Who knoweth when he may be hit? for great is the company of archers. Each breath is burdened with a bidding, and every minute hath its mission; For spirits, good and bad, cluster on the thickly-peopled air: Sin may blast thee, grace may bless thee, good or ill this hour: Chance, and change, and doubt, and fear, are parasites of all. A man's life is a tower, with a staircase of many steps, That, as he toileth upward, crumble successively behind him: No going back; the past is an abyss; no stopping, for the present perisheth; But ever hasting on, precarious on the foothold of To-day; Our cares are all To-day; our joys are all To-day; And in one little word, our life, what is it, but--To-day?

OF TO-MORROW.

There is a floating island, forward on the stream of time, Buoyant with fermenting air, and borne along the rapids; And on that island is a siren, singing sweetly as she goeth, Her eyes are bright with invitation, and allurement lurketh in her cheeks; Many lovers, vainly pursuing, follow her beckoning finger, Many lovers seek her still, even to the cataract of death. To-morrow is that island, a vain and foolish heritage, And, laughing with seductive lips, Delusion hideth there: Often the precious present is wasted in visions of the future, And coy To-morrow cometh not with prophecies fulfilled.

There is a fairy skiff, plying on the sea of life, And charitably toiling still to save the shipwrecked crews; Within, kindly patient, sitteth a gentle mariner, Piloting, through surf and strait, the fragile barks of men: How cheering is her voice, how skilfully she guideth, How nobly leading onward yet, defying even death! To-morrow is that skiff, a wise and welcome rescue, And, full of gladdening words and looks, that mariner is Hope: Often, the painful present is comforted by flattering the future, And kind To-morrow beareth half the burdens of To-day.