Part 6

Thus, not unsolaced, he longwhile abode, Filling all dreary melancholy time, And empty spaces of the heart with God, And with this hope sublime:

XIX.

Even thus he lived, with little joy or pain, Drawn thro’ the channels by which men receive-- Most men receive the things which for the main Make them rejoice or grieve.

XX.

But for delight--on spiritual gladness fed, And obvious to temptations of like kind; One such, from out his very gladness bred, It was his lot to find.

XXI.

When first it came, he lightly put it by, But it returned again to him ere long, And ever having got some new ally, And every time more strong--

XXII.

A little worm that gnawed the life away Of a tall plant, the canker of its root, Or like as when, from some small speck, decay Spreads o’er a beauteous fruit.

XXIII.

For still the doubt came back--can God provide For the large heart of man what shall not pall, Nor thro’ eternal ages’ endless tide On tired spirits fall.

XXIV.

Here but one look tow’rd heavèn will repress The crushing weight of undelightful care; But what were there beyond, if weariness Should ever enter there?

XXV.

Yet do not sweetest things here soonest cloy? Satiety the life of joy would kill, If sweet with bitter, pleasure with annoy Were not attempered still.

XXVI.

This mood endured, till every act of love, Vigils of praise and prayer, and midnight choir, All shadows of the service done above, And which, while his desire,

XXVII.

And while his hope was heav’nward, he had loved, As helps to disengage him from the chain That fastens unto earth--all these now proved Most burdensome and vain.

XXVIII.

What must have been the issue of that mood It were a thing to fear--but that one day, Upon the limits of an ancient wood, His thoughts him led astray.

XXIX.

Darkling he went, nor once applied his ear, On a loud sea of agitations thrown, Nature’s low tones and harmonies to hear, Heard by the calm alone.

XXX.

The merry chirrup of the grasshopper, Sporting among the roots of withered grass, The dry leaf rustling to the wind’s light stir Did each unnoted pass:

XXXI.

He, walking in a trance of selfish care, Not once observed the beauty shed around, The blue above, the music in the air, The flowers upon the ground;

XXXII.

Till from the centre of that forest dim Came to him such sweet singing of a bird, As sweet in very truth, then seemed to him The sweetest ever heard.

XXXIII.

That lodestar drew him onward inward still, Deeper than where the village children stray, Deeper than where the woodman’s glittering bill Lops the large boughs away--

XXXIV.

Into a central space of glimmering shade, Where hardly might the struggling sunbeams pass, Which a faint lattice-work of light had made Upon the long lank grass.

XXXV.

He did not sit, but stood and listened there, And to him listening the time seemed not long, While that sweet bird above him filled the air With its melodious song.

XXXVI.

He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside, Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain, Save the full flowing and the ample tide Of that celestial strain.

XXXVII.

As tho’ a bird of Paradise should light A moment on a twig of this bleak earth, And singing songs of Paradise invite All hearts to holy mirth,

XXXVIII.

And then take wing to Paradise again, Leaving all listening spirits raised above The toil of earth the trouble and the pain, And melted all in love:

XXXIX.

Such spiritual might, such power was in the sound, But when it ceased sweet music to unlock, The spell that held him sense and spirit-bound Dissolved with a slight shock.

XL.

All things around were as they were before-- The trees and the blue sky, and sunshine bright, Painting the pale and leafstrewn forest-floor With patches of faint light.

XLI.

But as when music doth no longer thrill, Light shudderings yet along the chords will run, Or the heart vibrates tremulously still, After its prayer be done,

XLII.

So his heart fluttered all the way he went, Listening each moment for the vesper bell; For a long hour he deemed he must have spent In that untrodden dell.

XLIII.

And once it seemed that something new or strange Had passed upon the flowers the trees the ground, Some slight but unintelligible change On every thing around:

XLIV.

Such change, where all things undisturbed remain, As only to the eye of him appears, Who absent long, at length returns again-- The silent work of years.

XLV.

And ever grew upon him more and more Fresh marvel--for, unrecognised of all, He stood a stranger at the convent door-- New faces filled the hall.

XLVI.

Yet was it long ere he received the whole Of that strange wonder--how, while he had stood Lost in deep gladness of his inmost soul, Far hidden in that wood,

XLVII.

A generation had gone down unseen Under the thin partition which is spread-- The thin partition of thin earth--between The living and the dead.

XLVIII.

Nor did he many days to earth belong, For like a pent-up stream, released again, The years arrested by the strength of song, Came down on him amain;

XLIX.

Sudden as a dissolving thaw in spring; Gentle as when upon the first warm day, Which sunny April in its train may bring, The snow melts all away.

L.

They placed him in his former cell, and there Watched him departing; what few words he said Were of calm peace and gladness, with one care Mingled--one only dread--

LI.

Lest an eternity should not suffice To take the measure and the breadth and height Of what there is reserved in Paradise-- Its ever-new delight.

LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Gen. xxvi. 18.

[2]

Qual es la niña Que coge las flores Si no tiene amores? SPANISH BALLAD.

[3] Eusebius thus speaks of the Antichristian power:--Τον θεο μαχου ... τας πρας τον Υψιστου τοις αγγελοις παραδοθεισας των εθνων ‘οροθεσιας και συγχειν απειλουντος.

[4] Some of the old Litanies specially included these last:--’Pro navigantibus, iter agentibus, in carceribus, in vinculis, _in metallis_, in exiliis constitutis, precamur Te.

[5] See Augustine’s Confessions, B. 9, C. 10.

[6] See Garcilasso’s Conquest of Peru.

[7] “He [Archbishop Leighton] used often to say, that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn; it looks like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this world was all as an inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion in it. He added that the officious care and tenderness of friends was an entanglement to a dying man, and that the unconcerned attendance of those that could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance, and he obtained what he desired.”--_Burnet’s History of his own Time._

[8] The poems which follow, from this page to p. 153 inclusive, as also some scattered in other parts of the volume, were written many years ago. I mention this here, and indeed only mention it at all, because some of those that follow are the expression of states of mind, in which I would not now ask others to sympathise, and from which I am thankful myself to have been delivered.