Chapter 9

floor_. ROBERT.

_Robert_. One comfort is, he's far away by this. Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. Where shall I find a daysman in this strife Between my heart and holy Church's words? Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, Be subject to the written law of words; Impulses made, made strong, that we might have Within the temple's court live things to bring And slay upon his altar; that we may, By this hard penance of the heart and soul, Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong; I ought not to have let poor Julian go. And yet that light upon the floor says, yes-- Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life That he might be in peace. Still up and down The balance goes, a good in either scale; Two angels giving each to each the lie, And none to part them or decide the question. But still the _words_ come down the heaviest Upon my conscience as that scale descends; But that may be because they hurt me more, Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. Would God forbid us to do what is right, Even for his sake? But then Julian's life Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases! I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God Commanded different things in different tones. Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, Like Mary singing to her mangered child; The other like a self-restrained tempest; Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai, Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_. O for some light! Would they would kill me! then I would go up, close up, to God's own throne, And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; And he would slay this ghastly contradiction. I should not fear, for he would comfort me, Because I am perplexed, and long to know. But this perplexity may be my sin, And come of pride that will not yield to him! O for one word from God! his own, and fresh From him to me! Alas, what shall I do!

_PART II_.

Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense! It is thy Duty waiting thee without. Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt; A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence; Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence; Go forth into the tumult and the shout; Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about: Of noise alone is born the inward sense Of silence; and from action springs alone The inward knowledge of true love and faith. Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan: One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own, Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death.