Part 19

And hive not in thy thoughts the vain and wordy notion That nothing which was born in Time can tire out the footsteps of Infinity: Reckon up a sum in numbers; where shall progression stop? The starting-post is definite and fixed, but what is the goal of numeration? So, begin upon a moment, and when shall being end? Souls emanate from God, to travel with Him equally for ever. Moreover, thou that objectest the unenterable circle of eternity, That none but He from everlasting can endure, as to a future everlasting, Consider, may it be impossible that creatures were counted in their Maker, And so, that the confines of Eternity are filled by God alone? Trust not thy soul upon a fancy: who would freight a bubble with a diamond, And launch that priceless gem on the boiling rapids of a cataract?

If then we perish not at death, but walk in spirit through the darkness, Waiting for a mansion incorruptible, whereof this body is the seed, Tell me, when shall be the period? time and its ordeals are done: The storms are passed, the night is at end, behold the Sabbath morning. Is death to be conqueror again, and claim once more the victory,-- Can the enemy's corpse awaken into life, and bruise the Champion's head? Evil, terrible ensample, that foil to the attributes of Good, Is banished to its own black world, weeded out of earth and heaven: Shall that great gulf be passed, and sin be sown again?-- We know but this, the book of truth proclaimeth gladly, Never!

There remaineth the will of our God: when He repenteth of His creature, Made by self-suggested mercy, ransomed by self-sacrificing justice,-- When Truth, that swore unto his neighbour, disappointeth him, and cleaveth to a lie,-- When the counsels of Wisdom are confounded, and Love warreth with itself,-- When the Unchangeable is changed, and the arm of Omnipotence is broken,-- Then,--thy quenchless soul shall have reached the goal of its existence.

But it seemeth to thy notions of the merciful and just, a false and fearful thing, To lay such a burden upon time, that eternity be built on its foundation: As if so casual good or ill should colour all the future, And the vanity of accident, or sternness of necessity, save or wreck a soul. Were it casual, vain, or stern, this might pass for truth: But all things are marshalled by Design, and carefully tended by Benevolence. O man, thy Judge is righteous,--noting, remembering, and weighing;-- Want, ignorance, diversities of state, are cast into the balance of advantage: The poisonous example of a parent asketh for allowance in the child; Care, diseases, toils, and frailties,--all things are considered. And again, a mysterious Omniscience knoweth the spirits that are His, While the delicate tissues of Event are woven by the fingers of Ubiquity. Should Providence be taken by surprise from the possible impinging of an accident, One fortuitous grain might dislocate the banded universe: The merest seeming trifle is ordered as the morning light; And He, that rideth on the hurricane, is pilot of the bubble on the breaker.

Once more, consider Matter, how small a thing is father to the greatest; Thou that lightly hast regarded the results of so-called accident. A blade of grass took fire in the sun,--and the prairies are burnt to the horizon: A grain of sand may blind the eye, and madden the brain to murder: A careful fly deposited its egg in the swelling bud of an acorn,-- The sapling grew,--cankrous and gnarled,--it is yonder hollow oak: A child touched a spring, and the spring closed a valve, and the labouring engine burst,-- A thousand lives were in that ship,--wrecked by an infant's finger! Shall nature preach in vain? thy casualty, guided in its orbit, Though less than a mote upon the sunbeam, saileth in a fleet of worlds; That trivial cause, watered and observed of the Husbandman day by day,-- In calm undeviating strength doth work its large effect. Thus, in the pettiness of life note thou seeds of grandeur, And watch the hour-glass of Time with the eyes of an heir of Immortality.

There still be clouds of witnesses,--if thou art not weary of my speech,-- Flocks of thoughts adding lustre to the light, and pointing on to Life. For reflect how Truth and Goodness, well and wisely put, Commend themselves to every mind with wondrous intuition: What is this? the recognition of a standard, unwritten, natural, uniform; Telling of one common source, the root of Good and True. And if thus present soul can trace descent from Deity, Being, as it standeth, individual, a separate reasonable thing, What should hinder that its hope may not trace gladly forward, And, in astounding parallel, like Enoch walk with God? Yea, the genealogy of soul, that vivifying breath of a Creator, Breath, no transient air, but essence, energy, and reason, Is looming on the past, and shadowing the future, sublimely as Melchisedek of old, Having not beginning, nor end of days, but present in the majesty of Peace!

O false scholar, credulous in vanities, and only sceptical of truth, Wherefore toil to cheat thy soul of its birthright, Immortality? Is it for thy guilt? He pardoneth: Is it for thy frailty? He will help: Though thou fearest, He is love; and Mercy shall be deeper than Despair: Even for thy full-blown pride, is it much to be receiver of a God? And lo, thy rights, He made thee; thy claims, He hath redeemed. Hath the fair aspect of affection no beauty that thou shouldst desire it? And are those sorrows nothing, to thee that passest by? For it is Fact, immutable, that God hath dwelt in Man: With gentle generous love ennobling while He bought us. What, though thou art false, ignorant, weak and daring,-- Can the sun be quenched in heaven--or only Belisarius be blind?

But, even stooping to thy folly, grant all these hopes are vain; Stultify reason, wrestle against conscience, and wither up the heart: Where is thy vast advantage?--I have all that thou hast, The buoyancy of life as strong, and term of days no shorter; My cup is full with gladness, my griefs are not more galling: And thus, we walk together, even to the gates of death: There, (if not also on my journey, blessing every step, Gladdening with light, and quickening with love, and killing all my cares,) There,--while thou art quailing, or sullenly expecting to be nothing,-- There,--is found my gain; I triumph, where thou tremblest. Grant all my solace is a lie, yet it is a fountain of delight, A spice in every pleasure, and a balm for every pain: O precious wise delusion, scattering both misery and sin,-- O vile and silly truth, depraving while it curseth!

Darkling child of knowledge, commune with Socrates and Cicero, They had no prejudice of birth, no dull parental warpings; See, those lustrous minds anticipate the dawning day,-- Whilst thou, poor mole, art burrowing back to darkness from the light. I will not urge a revelation, mercies, miracles, and martyrs, But, after twice a thousand years, go, learn thou of the pagan: It were happier and wiser even among fools, to cling to the shadow of a hope, Than, in the company of sages, to win the substance of despair; But here, the sages hope; despair is with the fools, The base bad hearts, the stolid heads, the sensual and the selfish.

And wilt thou, sorry scorner, mock the phrase, despair? Despair for those who die and live,--for me, I live and die: What have I to do with dread?--my taper must go out;-- I nurse no silly hopes, and therefore feel no fears: I am hastening to an end.--O false and feeble answer: For hope is in thee still, and fear, a racking deep anxiety. Erring brother, listen: and take thine answer from the ancients: Consider every end, that it is but the end of a beginning. All things work in circles; weariness induceth unto rest, Rest invigorateth labour, and labour causeth weariness: War produceth peace, and peace is wanton unto war: Light dieth into darkness, and night dawneth into day: The rotting jungle reeds scatter fertility around; The buffalo's dead carcase hath quickened life in millions: The end of toil is gain, the end of gain is pleasure, Pleasure tendeth unto waste, and waste commandeth toil.

So, is death an end,--but it breedeth an infinite beginning; Limits are for time, and death killed time: Eternity's beginning is for ever. Ambition, hath it any goal indeed? is not all fruition, disappointment? A step upon the ladder, and another, and another,--we start from every end? Look to the eras of mortality, babe, student, man, The husband, the father, the death-bed of a saint,--and is it then an end? That common climax, Death, shall it lead to nothing? How strong a root of causes flowering a consequence of vapour: That solid chain of facts, is it to be snapped for ever? How stout a show of figures, weakly summing to nonentity.

Or haply, Death, in the doublings of thy thought, shall seem continuous ending; A dull eternal slumber, not an end abrupt. O most futile chrysalis, wherefore dost thou sleep? Dreamless, unconscious, never to awake,--what object in such slumber? If thou art still to live, it may as well be wakefully as sleeping: How grovelling must that spirit be, to need eternal sleep! Or was indeed the toil of life so heavy and so long, That nevermore can rest refresh thine overburdened soul?-- Sleep is a recreance to body, but when was mind asleep? Even in a swoon it dreameth, though all be forgotten afterward: The muscles seek relaxing, and the irritable nerves ask peace; But life is a constant force, spirit an unquietable impetus: The eye may wear out as a telescope, and the brain work slow as a machine, But soul unwearied, and for ever, is capable of effort unimpaired.

I live, move, am conscious: what shall bar my being? Where is the rude hand, to rend this tissue of existence? Not thine, shadowy Death, what art thou but a phantom? Not thine, foul Corruption, what art thou but a fear? For death is merely absent life, as darkness absent light; Not even a suspension, for the life hath sailed away, steering gladly somewhere. And corruption, closely noted, is but a dissolving of the parts, The parts remain, and nothing lost, to build a better whole. Moreover, mind is unity, however versatile and rapid; Thou canst not entertain two coincident ideas, although they quickly follow: And Unity hath no parts, so that there is nothing to dissolve: An element is still unchanged in every searching solvent. Who then shall bid me be annulled,--He that gave me being? Amen, if God so will; I know that will is love: But love hath promised life, and therefore I shall live; So long as He is God, I shall be His Creature!

And here, shrewd reasoner, so eager to prove that thou must perish, I note a sneer upon thy lip, and ridicule is haply on thy tongue: How, said he,--creature of a God, and are not all His creatures,-- The lion, and the gnat,--yea, the mushroom, and the crystal,--have all these a soul? Thy fancies tend to prove too much, and overshoot the mark: If I die not with brutes, then brutes must live with me?-- I dare not tell thee that they will, for the word is not in my commission; But of the twain it is the likelier; continuance is the chance: Men, dying in their sins, are likened unto beasts that perish; They are dark, animal, insensate, but have they not a lurking soul? The spirit of a man goeth upward, reasonable, apprehending God; The spirit of a beast goeth downward, sensual, doting on the creature: Who told thee they die at dissolution?--boldly think it out,-- The multitude of flies, and the multitude of herbs, the world with all its beings: Is Infinity too narrow, Omnipotence too weak, and Love so anxious to destroy, Doth Wisdom change its plan, and a Maker cancel His created? God's will may compass all things, to fashion and to nullify at pleasure: Yet are there many thoughts of hope, that all which are shall live. True, there is no conscience in the brute, beyond some educated habit, They lay them down without a fear, and wake without a hope: Hunger and pain is of the animal: but when did they reckon or compare? They live, idealess, in instinct; and while they breathe they gain: The master is an idol to his dog, who cannot rise beyond him; And void of capability for God, there would seem small cause for an infinity. Therefore, caviller, my poor thoughts dare not grant they live: But is it not a great thing to assume their annihilation--and thine own? Would it be much if a speck on space, this globe with all its millions, Verily, after its pollution, were suffered to exist in purity? Or much, if guiltless creatures, that were cruelly entreated upon earth, Found some commensurate reward in lower joys hereafter? Or much, if a Creator, prodigal of life, and filled with the profundity of love, Rejoice in all creatures of His skill, and lead them to perfection in their kind? O man, there are many marvels; yet life is more a mystery than death: For death may be some stagnant life,--but life is present God!

Many are the lurking-holes of evil; who shall search them out? Who so skilled to cut away the cancer with its fibres? For wily minds with sinuous ease escape from lie to lie; And cowards driven from the trench steal back to hide again. Vain were the battle, if a warrior, having slain his foes, Shall turn and find them vital still, unharmed, yea, unashamed: For Error, dark magician, daily cast out killed, Quickeneth animate anew beneath the midnight moon: Once and again, once and again, hath reason answered wisely; But not the less with brazen front doth folly urge her questions. It were but unprofitable toil, a stand-up fight with unbelief: When was there candour in a caviller, and who can satisfy the faithless? Too long, O truant from the fold, have I tracked thy devious paths; Too long, treacherous deserter, fought thee as a noble foeman: Haply, my small art, and an arm too weakly for its weapon, Hath failed to pierce thine iron coat, and reach thy stricken soul: Haply, the fervour of my speech, and too patient sifting of thy fancies, Shall tend to make thee prize them more, as worthier and wiser: Go to: be mine the gain: we measure swords no more; Go,--and a word go with thee,--Man, thou ART Immortal!

Child of light, and student in the truth, too long have I forgotten thee: Lo, after parley with an alien, let me hold sweet converse with a brother. Glorious hopes and ineffable imaginings, crowd our holy theme, Fear hath been slaughtered on the portal, and Doubt driven back to darkness: For Christ hath died, and we in Him; by faith His All is ours; Cross and crown, and love, and life; and we shall reign in Him! Yea, there is a fitness and a beauty in ascribing immortality to mind, That its energies and lofty aspirations may have scope for indefinite expansion. To learn all things is privilege of reason, and that with a growing capability, But in this age of toil and time we scarce attain to alphabets: How hardly in the midst of our hurry, and jostled by the cares of life, Shall a man turn and stop to consider mighty secrets; With barely hours, and barely powers, to fill up daily duties, How small the glimpse of knowledge his wondering eye can catch! And knowledge is a noting of the order wherein God's attributes evolve, Therefore worthy of the creature, worthy of an angel's seeking; Yea, and human knowledge, meagre though the harvest, Hath its roots, both deep and strong; but the plants are exotic to the climate; All we seem to know demand a longer learning, History and science, and prophecy and art, are workings all of God: And there are galaxies of globes, millions of unimagined beings, Other senses, wondrous sounds, and thoughts of thrilling fire, Powers of strange might, quickening unknown elements, And attributes and energies of God which man may never guess.

Not in vain, O brother, hath soul the spurs of enterprize, Nor aimlessly panteth for adventure, waiting at the cave of mystery: Not in vain the cup of curiosity, sweet and richly spiced, Is ruby to the sight, and ambrosia to the taste, and redolent with all fragrance: Thou shalt drink, and deeply, filling the mind with marvels; Thou shalt watch no more, lingering, disappointed of thy hope; Thou shalt roam where road is none, a traveller untrammelled, Speeding at a wish, emancipate, to where the stars are suns!

Count, count your hopes, heirs of immortality and love; And hear my kindred faith, and turn again to bless me. For lo, my trust is strong to dwell in many worlds, And cull of many brethren there, sweet knowledge ever new: I yearn for realms where fancy shall be filled, and the ecstasies of freedom shall be felt, And the soul reign gloriously, risen to its royal destinies: I look to recognize again, through the beautiful mask of their perfection, The dear familiar faces I have somewhile loved on earth: I long to talk with grateful tongue of storms and perils past, And praise the mighty Pilot that hath steered us through the rapids: He shall be the focus of it all, the very heart of gladness,-- My soul is athirst for God, the God who dwelt in Man! Prophet, priest, and king, the sacrifice, the substitute, the Saviour, Rapture of the blessed in the hunted One of earth, the Pardoner in the victim; How many centuries of joy concentrate in that theme, How often a Methusalem might count his thousand years, and leave it unexhausted! And lo, the heavenly Jerusalem, with all its gates one pearl, That pearl of countless price, the door by which we entered,-- Come, tread the golden streets, and join that glorious throng, The happy ones of heaven and earth, ten thousand times ten thousand; Hark, they sing that song,--and cast their crowns before Him; Their souls alight with love,--Glory, and Praise, and Immortality!-- Veil thine eyes: no son of time may see that holy vision, And even the seraph at thy side hath covered his face with wings.

Doth he not speak parables?--each one goeth on his way, Ye that hear, and I that counsel, go on our ways forgetful. For the terrible realities whereto we tend, are hidden from our eyes, We know, but heed them not, and walk as if the temporal were all things. Vanities, buzzing on the ear, fill its drowsy chambers, Slow to dread those coming fears, the thunder and the trumpet; Motes, steaming on the sight, dim our purblind eyes, Dark to see the ponderous orb of nearing Immortality: Hemmed in by hostile foes, the trifler is busied on an epigram; The dull ox, driven to slaughter, careth but for pasture by the way. Alas, that the precious things of truth, and the everlasting hills, The mighty hopes we spake of, and the consciousness we feel,-- Alas, that all the future, and its adamantine facts, Clouded by the present with intoxicating fumes,-- Should seem even to us, the great expectant heirs, To us, the responsible and free, fearful sons of reason, Only as a lovely song, sweet sounds of solemn music, A pleasant voice, and nothing more,--doth he not speak parables?

Look to thy soul, O man, for none can be surety for his brother: Behold, for heaven--or for hell,--thou canst not escape from Immortality!

OF IDEAS.

Mind is like a volatile essence, flitting hither and thither, A solitary sentinel of the fortress body, to show himself everywhere by turns: Mind is indivisible and instant, with neither parts nor organs, That it doeth, it doth quickly, but the whole mind doth it: An active versatile agent, untiring in the principle of energy, Nor space, nor time, nor rest, nor toil, can affect the tenant of the brain; His dwelling may verily be shattered, and the furniture thereof be disarranged, But the particle of Deity in man slumbereth not, neither can be wearied: However swift to change, even as the field of a kaleidoscope, It taketh in but one idea at once, moulded for the moment to its likeness: Mind is as the quicksilver, which, poured from vessel to vessel, Instantly seizeth on a shape, and as instantly again discardeth it; For it is an apprehensive power, closing on the properties of Matter, Expanding to enwrap a world, collapsing to prison up an atom: As, by night, thine irritable eyes may have seen strange changing figures, Now a wheel, now suddenly a point, a line, a curve, a zigzag, A maze ever altering, as the dance of gnats upon a sunbeam, Swift, intricate, neither to be prophesied, nor to be remembered in succession, So, the mind of a man, single, and perpetually moving, Flickereth about from thought to thought, changed with each idea; For the passing second metamorphosed to the image of that within its ken, And throwing its immediate perceptions into each cause of contemplation. It shall regard a tree; and unconsciously, in separate review, Embrace its colour, shape, and use, whole and individual conceptions; It shall read or hear of crime, and cast itself into the commission; It shall note a generous deed, and glow for a moment as the doer; It shall imagine pride or pleasure, treading on the edges of temptation; Or heed of God and of His Christ, and grow transformed to glory.

Therefore, it is wise and well to guide the mind aright, That its aptness may be sensitive to good, and shrink with antipathy from evil: For use will mould and mark it, or nonusage dull and blunt it;-- So to talk of spirit by analogy with substance; And analogy is a truer guide, than many teachers tell of, Similitudes are scattered round, to help us, not to hurt us; Moses, in his every type, and the Greater than Moses, in His parables, Preach, in terms that all may learn, the philosophic lessons of analogy: And here, in a topic immaterial, the likeness of analogy is just; By habits, knit the nerves of mind, and train the gladiator shrewdly: For thought shall strengthen thinking, and imagery speed imagination, Until thy spiritual inmate shall have swelled to the giant of Otranto.

Nevertheless, heed well, that this Athlete, growing in thy brain, Be a wholesome Genius, not a cursed Afrite: And see thou discipline his strength, and point his aim discreetly; Feed him on humility and holy things, weaned from covetous desires; Hour by hour and day by day, ply him with ideas of excellence, Dragging forth the evil but to loathe, as a Spartan's drunken Helot: And win, by gradual allurements, the still expanding soul, To rise from a contemplated universe, even to the Hand that made it.