Part 4

But wherefore is it that such things are;-- That want and famine, and blood and war Are everywhere, and do prevail? And wherefore is it the same monotonous tale Is ever told by the lips of men? For there is hardly so hard a heart In the breast of a man who has taken his part In the world, and has little children around his knees, But is filled with great love for them as Thou art for these, And would give his life for their good, and is filled day and night With fatherly thoughts of fear and yearning for right, And grows sick, if evil come nigh them body or soul, And yet is but a feeble thing, without strength or control. But Thou art almighty for good; yet Thy plagues, they come, Hunger and want and disease, in a terrible sum; And the poor fathers waste, and are stricken with slow decay; And the children fall sick, and are starving, day after day; And the hospital wards are choked; and the fire and the flood Vex men still, and the leaguered cities are bathed in blood.

Ay, yet not the less, O Lord, I know Thou art just and art good indeed This is it that doth perplex my thought, So that I rest not content in any creed. If I knew that Thou wert the Lord of Ill, Then were I untouched still, And, if I would, might worship at Thy shrine; Or if my mind might prove no Will Divine Inspired the dull mechanical reign of Law. But now, while Thou art surely, and art good, And wouldst Thy creatures have in happiness, Alway the sword, the plague prevail no less, Not less, not less Thy laws are based in blood. And such deep inequalities of lot Confuse our thought, as if Thy hand were not All blessings, health and wealth and honours spent On some unworthy sordid instrument; Thy highest gift of genius flung away On some vile thing of meanest clay, Who fouls the ingrate lips, touched with Thy fire, With worse than common mire: How should I fail alone, when all things groan, To let my weak voice take a pleading tone! How should I speak a comfortable word When such things are, O Lord!

This is the cry that goes up for ever To Heaven from weak and striving souls: But the calm Voice makes answer to them never; The undelaying chariot onward rolls.

But another voice: O Lord of all, I bless Thee, I bless Thee and give thanks for all. Thou hast kept me from my childhood up, Thou hast not let me fall All the fair days of my youth Thou wast beside, me and Thy truth. I bless Thee that Thou didst withhold The blight of fame, the curse of gold; Because Thou hast spared my soul as yet, Amid the wholesome toil of each swift day, The tumult and the fret Which carry worldly lives from Thee away. I thank Thee for the sorrows Thou hast sent, Being in all things content To see in every loss a greater gain, A joy in every pain; The losses I have known, since still I know Lives, hidden with Thee, are and grow. I do not know, I cannot tell, How it may be, yet death and pain are well: I know that Thou art good and mild, Though sickness take and break the helpless child; 'Twas Thou, none else, that gav'st the mother's love, And even her anguish came from Thee above. I am content to be that which Thou wilt: Tho' humble be my pathway and obscure, Yet from all stain of guilt Keep Thou me pure. Or if Thy evil still awhile must find Its seat within my mind, Be it as Thou wilt, I am not afraid.

And for the world Thy hand has made, Thy beautiful world, so wondrous fair: Thy mysteries of dawn, Thy unclouded days; Thy mountains, soaring high through Thy pure air; Thy glittering sea, sounding perpetual praise; Thy starlit skies whence worlds unnumbered gaze; Thy earth, which in Thy bounteous summer-tide Is clad in flowery robes and glorified; Thy still primeval forests, deeply stirred By Thy great winds as by an unknown word; Thy fair, light-winged creatures, blithe and free; Thy dear brutes living, dying, silently: Shall I from them no voice to praise Thee find? Thy praise is hymned by every balmy wind That wanders o'er a wilderness of flowers; By every happy brute which asks not why, But rears its brood and is content to die. From Thee has come whatever good is ours;-- The gift of love that doth exalt the race; The gift of childhood with its nameless grace; The gift of age which slow through ripe decay, Like some fair fading sunset dies away; The gift of homes happy with honest wealth, And fair lives flowering in unbroken health,-- All these are Thine, and the good gifts of brain, Which to heights greater than the earth can gain, And can our little minds project to Thee, Through Infinite Space--across Eternity. For these I praise Thy name; but above all The precious gifts Thy bounteous hand lets fall, I praise Thee for the power to love the Right, Though Wrong awhile show fairer to the sight; The power to sin, the dreadful power to choose The evil portion and the good refuse; And last, when all the power of ill is spent, The power to seek Thy face and to repent

This is the answering cry that goes for ever To Heaven from blest contented souls: But the calm Voice makes answer to them never; The undelaying chariot onward rolls.

LOOK OUT, O LOVE.

Look out, O Love, across the sea: A soft breeze fans the summer night, The low waves murmur lovingly, And lo! the fitful beacon's light.

Some day perchance, when I am gone, And muse by far-off tropic seas, You may be gazing here alone, On starlit waves and skies like these.

Or perhaps together, you and I, Alone, enwrapt, no others by, Shall watch again that fitful flame, And know that we are not the same.

Or maybe we shall come no more, But from some unreturning shore, In dreams shall see that light again, And hear that starlit sea complain.

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

Christopher! There is many a name of Time Higher than this in pride and empery; There is a name which like a diadem Sits on the imperial front, so that men still Bow down to Cæsar;--deathless names enough Of bard and sage, soldier and king, which seize Our thought, and in one moment bear us forth Across the immemorial centuries To Time's first dawns--a bright band set on high, Who watch the surging of the restless sea Whose waves are generations. Yet not one More strange and quaint and sweet than Christopher's, Who bare the Christ.

In the expiring days Of the old heathen ages lived the man Who bore it first. The elder Pagan gods Were paling now, and from the darkling groves And hollow aisles of their resounding fanes The thin shapes fled for ever. A new God Awoke the souls of men; and yet the shrines Of Aphrodité and of Phoebus still Drew their own votaries. The flower of faith, Plucked from its roots, and thrown aside to die, Is slow to wither, keeping some thin ghost And counterfeit of fairness, though the life Has fled for ever, and 'twas a dead thing To which the Pagan bowed.

In the far East He served, a soldier. Nature, which so oft Is grudging of her blessings--mating now The sluggish brain and stalwart form, and now Upon the cripple's limbs setting the crown Of godlike wisdom--gave with generous hand Beauty and force to this one, mighty limbs And giant strength, joined with the choicer gift Of thoughts which soar, and will which dares, and high Ambition which aspires and is fulfilled In riches and in honour.

Every year Of prosperous manhood left him greater grown And mightier. Evermore the siren voice Of high adventure called o'er land and sea; The magical voice, heard but by nobler souls, Which dulls all lower music. More than king This great knight-errant showed; a king of men Who still before his strong eyes day and night Saw power shining star-like on the hills, And set his face to gain it. Luxury Held him nor sensual ease who was too great For silken fetters, a strong soul and hand Bent to a higher end than theirs, and touched To higher issues; a fair beacon set Upon a lordly hill above the marsh Of common life, but all the more laid bare To the beating of the whirlwind.

Every soul Knows its particular weakness: so for him This great strong soul set in its pride of place; The charm of Power worked like a spell; high power Unchecked, untrammelled, fixed with none to rule Above it, this could bend the nobler soul Which naught might conquer. Over land and sea, Hiring his mighty arm and strength, he fared To sovereign after sovereign, always seeking A stronger than the last: until at length He found a puissant prince, so high, so great, The strong sway held him, and he lived content A sleeping soul, not knowing good or ill, Resting in act, and with it satisfied-- A careless striving soul who sought no more.

But midst the miry ways of this sad world, As now he fared unmoved, the frequent sight Of evil; the blind rage which takes and sways The warrior after battle till he quench His thirst in blood and torture; the great pain Which everywhere cries heavenward, every day With unregarded suffrage; the foul wrongs Which are done on earth for ever; the dark sins Sinned and yet unrequited; the great sum And mystery of Evil, worked on him Not to allure, not to repel, but only With that strange spell of power which knows to take The strong soul captive. Here was power enough, Mightier than mortal strength. The greatest king Whom ever he had served compared with this Showed puny as a child; this power which took The mightiest in chains, now forcing them To wrong and blood and ill, now binding them With adamant chains within the sensual sty Where they lay bound for ever. Here was force To limit Heaven itself. So this strong soul Bowed to it, taking Evil for his lord, A voluntary thrall. Yet not to him The smooth foul ways of sense, the paths of wrong, Brought pleasure of themselves; only to know The unrestrainèd passion surge, a beat Of satisfied life, the glory and the glow Of full untempered being. And so long time He served the Lord of Evil: deeds of wrong And anger, deeds of soft and sensual sin, All these he knew, a careless satisfied soul, So that for dread of him men named his name "The unrighteous;" but he cared not: power and fame Sufficed him long, and hid from him the fashion Of his own life and by what perilous ways He walked, and by what fathomless black seas, Abysmal deeps, and treacherous gulphs of Ill.

Till one day as they wandered (so the tale) Through a thick wood whence came no gleam of light To break the ghostly shadows--with amaze He saw his master the great Lord of Ill Cower down as from a blow and hide his eyes From some white ghostly figure. As he gazed The old chains fell from him, and with a glance He rose up free for ever. For his soul Met that great symbol of all sacrifice Which men have worshipped since; the soft sad eyes, The agonised limbs nailed to the Tree of Death Which is the Tree of Life; and all the past Fell from him, and the mystery of Love And Death and Evil; Might which gives itself To liberate the world and dying breaks The vanquished strength of Hell; all these transformed His very being, and straightway the strong soul, Spurning his ancient chain, stood fair and free Alone, a moment with the scars of gyves Upon his neck and limbs, and then fell down Prostrate upon the earth, the mild eyes still Bent on him pitiful. There he lay stretched Through the long night of sorrow, till at last The sun rose on his soul, and on the earth, And the pure dawn returning brought the day.

And when he rose the ancient mastery And thirst for power, springing anew in him, Once more, resistless, over land and sea Impelled him, seeking this new mightier Lord Who broke the power of Ill. So through all lands He passed, a passionate pilgrim, but found not The Prince he sought, only great princes, strong And valorous he found, who bowed them down Before the power of Evil; but for them He took no thought, who had seen their master blench Before the Lord of Light; but him indeed He saw not yet; filled with the pride of life, A satisfied soul which bowed not down to wrong, Touched with desire for good, since good was strong, But loving strength alone.

So as he fared He came upon a dark and stony land Where smiled no flower; there, in a humble cell, There dwelt an aged man; no other thing Of life was there, only wan age, which dwelt Upon the brink of death. The giant strength Was flagging now, while on the distant hills The sun was sinking and the gray of night Stole upward. Through the plain beneath the cell A broad black river raged, where was no bridge For travellers; but a dark road stole to it O'ergloomed by cypress, and no boat was there Nor ferry, evermore beyond the shade Breast-high the strong stream roared by black as death.

There sate he on the brink and saw no soul As he gazed on the stream of death. Great misery And weakness took him, and he laid him down On that cold strand. Till, when his heart beat slow And his life drooped, lo! on the further shore The sunset, lingering for a moment, fired A thousand palace windows and the spires And domes of a fair city; then the night Fell downward on them, but the unconquered soul Within the failing body leaped and knew That it had seen the city of the King.

Then swooned he for awhile, and when he knew His life again he heard a reverend voice Speak through the gloom. And all the sun had set And all the hills were hidden.

"Son, thou com'st To seek the Lord of Life. There is no way But through yon cruel river. Thou wert strong; Take rest and thought till thy strength come to thee. Arise, the dawn is near."

Then they twain went, And there that sick soul rested many days.

And when the strong man's strength was come again, His old guide led him forth to where the road Sank in that black swift stream. The hills were dark, There was no city to see, nought but thick cloud, And still that black flood roaring. Then he heard The old voice whisper, "Not of strength alone Come they who find the Master, but cast down And weak and wandering. Oftentimes with feet Wayworn and weary limbs, they come and pass The deeps and are transformed; but he who comes Of his own strength from him long time the King Hides him as erst from thee. Yet, because strength Well used is a good gift, I bid thee plunge In yon cold stream, and seek to wash from thee The stains of life. No harm shall come to thee, Nor in those chill dark waters shall thy feet Slip, nor thy life be swallowed. It is thine To bear in thy strong arms the fainting souls Of pilgrims who press onward day and night Seeking the Lord of Light. Thou, who so long Didst serve the Lord of Evil, now shalt serve A higher; and because great penances Are fitting for great wrong, here shalt thou toil Long time till haply thou shalt lose the stain Of sense and of the world, then shall thy eyes See that thou wouldst. Go suffer and be strong."

Then that strong soul, treading those stony ways, Went down into the waters. Painful souls Cried to him from the brink; sad lives, which now Had reached their toilsome close; worn wayfarers, Who after lifelong strivings and great pain And buffetings had gained the perilous stream With heaven beyond; wan age and budding youth And childhood fallen untimely. He stooped down With wonder mixed with pity, raising up The weakling limbs, and bearing in his arms The heavy burden, through the chill dark depths Of those cold swirling waters without fear Strode onward. Oftentimes the dreadful force Of that resistless current, which had whelmed A lower soul, bore on him; oftentimes The icy cold, too great for feebler hearts, Assailed him, yet his mighty stature still Strode upright through the deep to the far shore, And those poor pilgrims with reviving souls Blessed him, and left the waters and grew white And glorified, and in their eyes he knew A wonder and a rapture as they saw The palace of the King, the domes, the spires, The shining oriels sunlit into gold, The white forms on the brink to welcome them, And the clear heights, and the discovered heaven.

But never on his eyes for all his toil That bright sun broke, nor those fair palace roofs As erst upon his weakness. Day and night The selfsame cloud hung heavy on the hills, Blotting the glorious vision. Day and night He laboured unrewarded, with no gleam Of that eternal glory, which yet shone Upon those fainting souls, whom his strong arms Bore upward. Day and night he laboured still, Amid the depths of death. Ay, he would rise At midnight, when the cry of fainting souls Called to him on the brink, and so go down Without one thought of fear. Yea, though the floods Roared horribly, and deep called unto deep, Through all those hidden depths he strode unmoved, A strong, laborious, unrewarded soul.

Was it because the stain and blot of wrong Were on him still uncleansed? I cannot tell. The stain of ill eats deep, and nought can cleanse it, Nay hardly tears of blood. But to my thought Not thus the legend runs; rather I deem That what of good he loved was only strength, The pride of conscious Power--that which had led him To strong rude wrong, the same sense, working on him, Led him through weariness of wrong to use His strength for goodness. Oftentimes Remorse Comes not of hatred of the wrong, nor love Of the good, but rather from the shame which Pride Knows which has gone astray and spent itself Upon unworthy ends. So this strong soul Laboured on unfulfilled. Yet who shall trace By what hidden processes of waste and pain The great Will is fulfilled, and doth achieve The victory of Good?

So the slow years Passed, till the giant strength at times would flag A little, yet no feebleness was there, But still the strong limbs carried him unmoved Through those black depths of death. Till one still night, At midnight when the world was sunk in sleep, The summons came, "A Pilgrim!" and he saw With a new-born compassion, on the shore A childish form await him; a soft smile Was on the lips, a sweet sad glance divine Within the eyes, as in a child's eyes oft Knowledge not earthly, infinite weakness, strive For mastery. As the strong man stooped and took The weakling to his breast, through the great might Of Pity, grown to strength, he took the deep With that light load in his arms.

But as he went, The strength greater than human, the strong limbs Which bore long time unfaltering the great pain And burden of our life; the fearless heart Which never blenched before, though the winds beat And all the night was blind; these failed him now, And as by some o'erwhelming load dragged down, His flagging footsteps tottered; the cold wave Rose higher around him, the once mighty head Bowed-down, the waters rising to his lip Engulfed in the depths; the weight of all the earth Seemed on his shoulders--all the sorrow, the sin, The burden of the Race--and a great cry Came from him, "Help! I sink, I faint, I die, I perish beneath my burden! Help, O King Of Heaven, for I am spent and can no more! My strength is gone, the waters cover me, I stand not of myself. Help, Lord and King!"

Then suddenly from his spent life he felt The great load taken; through the midnight gloom There burst the glorious vision of his dream-- The palace of the King, the domes, the spires, The shining oriels sunlit into gold, The heaven of heavens discovered; then a voice, "Rise, Christopher! thou hast found thy King, and turn Back to the earth, for I have need of thee. Thou hast sustained the whole world, bearing me The Lord of Earth and Heaven. Rise, turn awhile To the old shore of Time; I am the Prince Thou seekest; I a little child, the King Of Earth and Heaven. I have marked thy toils, Labours, and sorrows; I have seen thy sins, Thy tears, and thy repentance. Rise and be My Servant always. And if thou shalt seek A sign of me, I give this sign to thee: Set thou thy staff to-night upon the verge Of these dark waters, and with early dawn Seek it, and thou shalt find it blossomed forth Into such sweet white blooms as year by year The resurrection of the springtide brings To clothe the waste of winter. This shall be The sign of what has been."

And that strong soul, Vanquished at length, obeyed, and with the dawn Where stood his staff there sprung the perfumed cup And petals of a lily: so the tale. Nay, but it was the rude strength of his soul Which blossomed into purity, and sprang Into a higher self, beneath the gaze Of a little child! Nay, but it was the might Of too great strength, which laid its robes of pride Down on the ground, and stood, naked, erect, Before its Lord, shamefast yet beautiful! Nay, but it was the old self, stripped and purged Of ingrained wrong, which from the stream of Death Stood painful on the stable earth again, And was regenerate through humility!

So for the remnant of his days he served The Lord of Goodness; a strong staff of right Yet humble. Till the Pagan Governor Bade him deny the Prince who succoured him, And he refusing, gained a martyr's crown In cruel death, and is Saint Christopher!

PICTURES--III.

The sad slow dawn of winter; frozen trees And trampled snow within a lonely wood; One shrouded form, which to the city flees; And one, a masquer, lying in his blood.

A full sun blazing with unclouded day, Till the bright waters mingle with the sky; And on the dazzling verge, uplifted high, White sails mysterious slowly pass away.

Hidden in a trackless and primæval wood, Long-buried temples of an unknown race, And one colossal idol; on its face A changeless sneer, blighting the solitude.

A fair girl half undraped, who blithely sings; Her white robe poised upon one budding breast; While at her side, invisible, unconfessed, Love folds her with the shelter of his wings.

Black clouds embattled on a lurid sky, And one keen flash, like an awakened soul, Piercing the hidden depths, till momently One seems to hear enormous thunders roll.

Two helpless girls upon a blazing wall, The keen flames leaping always high and higher; But faster, faster than the hungry fire, Brave hearts which climb to save them ere they fall.

A youthful martyr, looking to the skies From rack and stake, from torment and disgrace; And suddenly heaven opened to his eyes, A beckoning hand, a tender heavenly face.

A home on a fair English hill; away Stretch undulating plains, of gold and green, With park and lake and glade, and homestead grey; And crowning all, the blue sea dimly seen.

A lifeless, voiceless, world of age-long snow, Where the long winter creeps through endless night, And safe within a low hut's speck of light, Strong souls alert and hopeful, by the glow.

A great ship forging slowly from the shore, And on the broad deck weeping figures bent; And on the gliding pierhead, sorrow-spent, Those whom the voyagers shall see no more.

CONFESSION.

Who is there but at times has seen, While his past days before him stand, In all the chances which have been, The guidance of a hidden Hand,