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The Oxford Book 

of 

English Mystical Verse 



The 

Oxford Book 

Of English Mystical 

Verse 



Oxford University Press 

London Edinburgh Glasgow New York 

Toronto Melbourne Cape Town Bombay 

Humphrey Milford M.A. Publisher to the University 




The ' 

Oxford Book 
Of English Mystical 
Verse 

Chosen by 

D. H. S. Nicholson 

and 
A. H. E. Lee 



2 

Oxford 

At the Clarendon Press 
1917 



PRINTED IN ENGLAND 
AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY 



INTRODUCTION 

IN the early days of English mysticism the first 
transition of Dionysius' Mystical Theology was 
so readily welcomed that it is said, in a quaintly 
expressive phrase, to have 'run across England like deere'. 
Since that time the fortunes of mysticism in these 
islands have been various, but, despite all the chances 
of repute and disrepute which it has undergone, there 
has been a continual undercurrent of thought by which 
it has been not only tolerated but welcomed. There 
have been, of course, heights of enthusiasm as well as 
profound depths of apathy in regard to it, but even if 
the limitations of the greatest enthusiasm have always 
been evident, so also has been the continuing readiness 
of some portion of the religious consciousness of the 
people to respond to what has been most vital in it. 
It is, in fact, the hypothesis of mysticism that it is not 
utterly without its witness in any age, even though the 
voice of that witness be lost in the turmoil of surround 
ing things. 

And now it appears it has in fact been appearing for 
some years that the fortunes of mysticism are mending. 



vi INTRODUCTION 

It has emerged from the morass of apathy which 
characterized the eighteenth and the greater part of 
the nineteenth century ; it is reawakening to the value 
of its own peculiar treasure of thought and word : on 
all sides there are signs that it is on the verge of entering 
into a kingdom of such breadth and fertility as it has 
perhaps never known. It is as though the world were 
undergoing a spiritual revitalization, spurring it on to 
experience even through destruction and death a 
further measure of Reality and Truth. 

At such a time it is of interest to look back over the 
past and discover something of what has been already 
accomplished in the way of poetic expression of mystical 
themes and feelings. The most essential part of mys 
ticism cannot, of course, ever pass into expression, inas 
much as it consists in an experience which is in the most 
literal sense ineffable. The secret of the inmost sanctuary 
is not in danger of profanation, since none but those 
who penetrate into that sanctuary can understand it, 
and those even who penetrate find, on passing out again, 
that their lips are sealed by the sheer insufficiency of 
language as a medium for conveying the sense of their 
supreme adventure. The speech of every day has no 
terms for what they have seen and known, and least 
of all can they hope for adequate expression through 
the phrases and apparatus of logical reasoning. In 



INTRODUCTION vii 

despair of moulding the stubborn stuff of prose into a 
form that will even approximate to their need, many 
of them turn, therefore, to poetry as the medium which 
will convey least inadequately some hint of their ex 
perience. By the rhythm and the glamour of their 
verse, by its peculiar quality of suggesting infinitely 
more than it ever says directly, by its very elasticity, 
they struggle to give what hints they may of the Reality 
that is eternally underlying all things. And it is pre 
cisely through that rhythm and that glamour and the 
high enchantment of their writing that some rays gleam 
from the Light which is supernal. 

The ways in which mystical experience will trans 
late itself into such measure of expression as is possible 
must evidently vary, both in kind and degree, with the 
experience itself. In sending out this anthology we 
have no desire to venture on a definition of what actually 
constitutes mysticism and what does not, since such 
an attempt would be clearly outside our province. Our 
conception of mysticism must be found in the poetry 
we have gathered together. But it may serve as a ground 
for comprehension to say that in making our selection 
we have been governed by a desire to include only such 
poems and extracts from poems as contain intimations 
of a consciousness wider and deeper than the normal. 
This is the connecting link between them the thread, 



viii INTRODUCTION 

as it wejre, on which the individual pieces are strung. 
It is less a question of a common subject than of a com 
mon standpoint and in some sense a common atmo 
sphere, and our attempt has been to steer a middle 
course between the twin dangers of an uninspired piety 
on the one hand and mere intellectual speculation on 
the other. The claim to inclusion has in no case been 
that any particular poet is of sufficient importance to 
demand representation as such, but that a poet of no 
matter what general rank has written one or more poems 
which testify to the greater things and at the same 
time reach a certain level of expression. For similar 
reasons we have not included the work of any poet when 
there seemed no better reason for so doing than that 
he was representative of some particular period or style. 
It should be remembered, further, that this anthology 
makes no claim to be representative even of any poet 
whose work is included, since the great mass of writing 
by which he or she is commonly known may fall without 
our limits, and some little known poem or poems may 
have seemed to answer our requirements. The difficulty 
of selection has of course been greatest in the cases, 
like that of Thomas Traherne, where nearly all the poems 
are definitely mystical, and it is evident that, here and 
elsewhere, we have been compelled to choose from among 
many possible pieces. We cannot, therefore, pretend 



INTRODUCTION ix 

to have made an exhaustive collection of the mystical 
poetry of the English language or of any poet, but hope 
rather that our selections may be found to be adequately 
representative both of the one and the other. 

Beyond this question of the immediate ground for 
choice, it may be well to mention the limits we have 
set ourselves in other directions. We have felt it 
desirable to admit any poetry written in English, from 
whatever country the poet may have hailed, as well 
as any native poetry written in Great Britain and Ireland 
in some other tongue than English, and subsequently 
translated. Thus translations from any European 
language have been excluded, often with very great 
regret, but translations from the Gaelic have been 
gladly admitted. In point of time we have set ourselves 
no limits, but have rather sought to show that the torch 
of the Inner Light has been handed down from age 
to age until the present day, when, as we believe, 
the world is near to a spiritual vitalization hitherto 
unimagined. 

We offer our sincere thanks to the following authors 
for permission to include their own poems : 

Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie, Mrs. de Bary (Anna 
Bunston), Mr. Clifford Bax, the Dean of Norwich (Dr. 
H. C. Beeching), Mr. A. C. Benson, Mr. F. W. Bourdillon, 



x INTRODUCTION 

Mr. F. G. Bowles, Miss A. M. Buckton (for two poems 
from Songs of Joy), Mr. Bliss Carman, Mr. Edward 
Carpenter, Miss Amy Clarke, Mr. Aleister Crowley, 
Dr. W. J. Dawson, Mrs. Margaret Deland, Mr. E. J. 
Ellis, Mr. Darrell Figgis, Mr. H. E. Goad, Mr. Edmund 
Gosse, Father John Gray, Miss Emily Hickey, Mrs. K. 
Tynan Hinkson, Mr. E. G. A. Holmes, Mr. Paul Hookham, 
Miss G. M. Hort, Mr. Laurence Housman, Mrs. H. E. 
Hamilton King, Mr. John Masefield, Mr. Eugene Mason, 
Mrs. Stuart Moore (Miss Evelyn Underhill), Mr. Henry 
Newbolt (for his own poem from Poems New and Old, 
published by Mr. John Murray, and for Miss Mary 
Coleridge's work from Poems, published by Mr. Elkin 
Mathews), Mr. Alfred Noyes, Mr. John Oxenham, 
Mr. James Rhoades, Sir Rennell Rodd, Mr. G. W. 
Russell ('A. E.'), Mr. G. Santayana, Mr. R. A. E. 
Shepherd, Mr. Arthur Symons, Mr. Herbert Trench, 
Mr. Samuel Waddington, Mr. A. E. Waite, the Rev. 
F. W. Orde Ward, and Mr. W. L. Wilmhurst (for his 
own poems and, as editor of The Seeker, for confirming 
Mr. Goad's permission). 

We are further indebted for a similar courtesy to 
many publishers and private owners of copyrights, of 
whom the full list follows : 

The editor of the Academy for confirming the per 
mission given by Miss Hort ; Messrs. George Allen & 



INTRODUCTION xi 

Unwin for two poems from The Mockers by Miss Bar 
low, and for the text of Richard Rolle's poem from 
Dr. Horstmann's edition of his works ; Messrs. Angus 
& Robertson of Sydney for a poem from At Dawn 
and Dusk by Mr. V. J. Daley ; Messrs. Appleton & Co. 
for three of the poems by Walt Whitman ; Mr. Edward 
Arnold for confirming the permission given by Sir 
Rennell Rodd ; Messrs. G. Bell & Sons for Coventry 
Patmore ; Mr. Mackenzie Bell for A. C. Swinburne ; 
Mr. B. H. Blackwell for the work of the Rev. A. S. 
Cripps, Mr. W. R. Childe, and Mr. J. S. Muirhead ; 
Messrs. Blackwood & Sons for confirming the per 
mission given by Mr. Noyes for poems from his Col 
lected Works-, Mr. Robert Bridges for Father Gerard 
Hopkins; Mr. A. H. Bullen for Mr. Horace Holley; 
Messrs. Burns & Oates for Mgr. R. H. Benson, Mr. 
J. C. Earle, Hon. Mrs. Lindsay, Mrs. Meynell, Father J. B. 
Tabb, and Francis Thompson ; the late Lady Victoria 
Buxton for the Hon. Roden Noel; Messrs. Chatto & 
Windus for George MacDonald and for confirming 
Miss Jay's permission for Robert Buchanan's work ; Mr. 
W. H. Chesson for Mrs. Chesson ; the Clarendon Press 
for its texts of Donne, Herrick, and Vaughan ; Messrs. 
Constable & Co. for George Meredith (by permission 
of Constable & Co., Ltd., London, and Charles 
Scribner's Sons, New York), for confirming Mr. E. G. A. 



xii INTRODUCTION 

Holmes's permission and for Mr. Harold Monro ; Mrs.P.L. 
Deacon for A. W. E. O'Shaughnessy ; Messrs. J. M. 
Dent & Sons for Mr. G. K. Chesterton ; Mr. Stephen 
de Vere for Aubrey de Vere ; Messrs. P. J. & A. E. 
Dobell for Thomas Traherne (printed here from Mr. 
Bertram DobelPs modernized text) ; Mrs. Dowden for 
Edward Dowden (including the poem ' Love's Lord ' 
from A Woman? s Reliquary) ; the Very Reverend Mother 
Provincial O.S.D. for Augusta Theodosia Drane ; Messrs. 
Duffield & Co. for Mrs. Elsa Barker ; the Early English 
Text Society for the text of Quia Amore Langueo\ Mr. 
H. J. Glaisher as literary executor for Mr. G. Barlow ; 
Canon Greenwell for Miss Dora Greenwell ; Messrs. 
Heinemann for ' The Soul's Prayer ' and * In S-alutation 
to the Eternal Peace ', from The Bird of Time by Sarojini 
Nayadu, London, Heinemann, and for ' To a Buddha 
seated on a Lotus ' from The Golden Threshold by 
Sarojini Nayadu, London, Heinemann ; Mrs. Henley for 
W. E. Henley; the Houghton Mifflin Company for poems 
by Mr. H. B. Carpenter, Mr. C. P. Cranch, and Miss 
E. M. Thomas ; Miss Harriett Jay for Robert Buchanan ; 
Messrs. Kegan Paul & Co. for Archbishop Alexander, Sir 
Edwin Arnold, P. J. Bailey, and A. Gurney, as well as for 
confirming the permission given by Mrs. Hamilton King ; 
Mr. John Lane for Richard le Gallienne and for ' The 
Immortal Hour ' from Poems by Mrs. R. A. Taylor 



INTRODUCTION xiii 

and for confirming permissions given by Mr. Lascelles 
Abercrombie,Mr.A. C. Benson, and Mr. James Rhoades; 
Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co. for poems by F. W. H. 
Myers and Miss E. Gore Booth ; Messrs. Lothrop, Lee 
& Shepard Co. for D. A. Wasson ; Messrs. Mac- 
millan & Co. for T. E. Brown, Mrs. D. M. Craik 
(Miss Mulock), Christina Rossetti, Lord Tennyson, and 
Mrs. Fraser-Tytler,-and for confirming the permission 
given by Mr. G. W. Russell; Mr. Elkin Mathews for 
Miss May Probyn, Mrs. R. A. Taylor, and the Rev. A. S. 
Cripps (' The Death of St. Francis ') ; Messrs. Maunsel 
& Co. for Mr. J. H. Cousins, Miss S. L. Mitchell, 
J. M. Plunkett, and Mr. James Stephens ; Messrs. 
Methuen & Co. for Oscar Wilde; Lady Miller for 
Sir Alfred Lyall ; Mr. Arthur Morris for Sir Lewis 
Morris ; Mr. Eveleigh Nash for Michael Field ; Messrs. 
James Nisbet & Co., Ltd., for Frances Ridley Havergal ; 
the Rev. Conrad Noel for concurring in permission for the 
Hon. Roden Noel ; The Page Company for confirming 
Mr. Bliss Carman's permission; Mr. Herbert Paul for 
D. M. Dolben ; Messrs. Putnam's Sons for ' Sibylline ' 
from Madison Cawein's Intimations of the Beautiful, 
and for Mr. C. A. Walworth; Messrs. Routledge for 
P. J. Bailey and for confirming the permission given by 
Lady Miller ; Mr. Duncan C. Scott for Archibald Lamp- 
man ; Mrs. Elizabeth Sharp for William Sharp (Fiona 



xiv INTRODUCTION 

Macleod) ; Mr. Clement Shorter for Mrs. D. S. Shorter ; 
Messrs. Small, Maynard & Co. for two poems from 
The Poet, the Fool and the Faeries by Madison Cawein ; 
Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for J. A. Symonds ; the 
editor of the Spectator for confirming Mr. F. W. Bour- 
dillon's permission ; Mr. Fisher Unwin for poems from 
Mr. W. B. Yeats's Poems and The Secret Rose, and 
from the Collected Poems of Mrs. Duclaux, and for 
Mr. C. Weekes ; Mr. A. S. Walker for J. S. Blackie ; and 
Mr. J. M. Watkins for Miss C. M. Verschoyle. 

This completes the record of our indebtedness. We 
would simply add an expression of our regret that it 
has been impossible to obtain permission to include 
any of Sidney Lanier's writing, owing to copyright 
restrictions. But if we cannot reprint ' A Ballad of 
Trees and the Master ', which is the chief object of our 
regret, we can at least point to it as deserving inclusion 
in any such anthology as the present, and we can further 
draw attention to such other poems as * The Marshes 
of Glynn ' and ' A Florida Sunday '. We would gladly 
have included all these and even more, but we must 
now content ourselves with this mention of them. It 
is with equal regret that we offer a mere extract from 
George Meredith's ' Outer and Inner ', but in his case 
the rules now laid down for quotation from his poems 
make it impossible to do him justice. 



INTRODUCTION xv 

There are a very few poems the copyright-holders of 
which we have been unable to discover or to trace in 
spite of repeated efforts. To these unknown owners 
of treasure we would offer our acknowledgements and 
our apologies, as to those, if any, whose claims we have 
unknowingly overlooked. 

D. H. S. NICHOLSON. 
A. H. E. LEE. 



ANONYMOUS 

Date unknown 

Amergin 

I AM the wind which breathes upon the sea, 
I am the wave of the ocean, 

I am the murmur of the billows, 

I am the ox of the seven combats, 

I am the vulture upon the rocks, 

I am a beam of the sun, 

I am the fairest of plants, 

I am a wild boar in valour, 

I am a salmon in the water, 

I am a lake in the plain, 

I am a word of science, 

I am the point of the lance in battle, 

I am the God who creates in the head the fire. 
Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the 

mountain ? 

Who announces the ages of the moon ? 
Who teaches the place where couches the sun ? 

RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE 

12907-1349 
Love is Life 

i 

E'F es lyf J?at lastes ay, ]?ar it in Criste es feste, 
For wele ne wa it chaunge may, a Is wryten has men 
wyseste. 

pe nyght it tournes in til )?e day, \\ trauel in tyll reste ; 
If Ipou wil luf ]?us as I say, j?ou may be wyth J?e beste. 
>ar] when feste] fastened trauel] toil 



2 RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE 

ii 

Lufe es thoght, wyth grete desyre, of a fayre louyng ; 
Lufe I lyken til a fyre J?at sloken may na thyng ; 
Lufe vs clenses of oure syn, lufe vs bote sail bryng ; 
Lufe )?e keynges hert may wyn, lufe of ioy may syng. 

in 

pe settel of lufe es lyft hee, for in til heuen it ranne ; 
Me thynk in erth it es sle, pat makes men pale and wanne. 
pe bede of blysse it gase ful nee, I tel )?e as I kanne, 
pof vs thynk J?e way be dregh ; luf copuls god & manne. 

IV 

Lufe es hatter ]?en j?e cole, lufe may nane be-swyke ; 
pe flawme of lufe wha myght it thole, if it war ay I-lyke ? 
Luf vs comf ortes, & mase in qwart, & lyf tes tyl heuen-ryke ; 
Luf rauysches Cryste in tylowr hert, I wate na lustitlyke. 

v 

Lere to luf, if ]?ou wyl lyfe when )?ou sail hethen fare. 
All YI thoght til hym J?ou gyf, j?at may |?e kepe fra kare ; 
Loke J?i hert fra hym noght twyn, if )?ou in wandreth ware, 
Sa ]?ou may hym welde & wyn and luf hym euer-mare. 

VI 

Ihesu J?at me lyfe hase lent, In til J?i lufe me bryng, 
Take til ]?e al myne entent, J?at j?ow be my 3hernyng. 
Wa fra me away war went & comne war my couytyng, 
If |?at my sawle had herd & hent J?e sang of J?i louyng. 






louyng] object of love, beloved sloken] quench bote] 

remedy settel] seat lyft] lifted hee] high sle] deceit 
ful ? bede] bed ? nee] nigh J>of] Though dregh] long 
hatter] hotter be-swyke] deceive thole] bear I-lyke] 
the same mase in qwart] makes healthy heuen-ryke] 

heaven's kingdom lust] desire Lere] Learn hethen] 
hence twyn] separate in wandreth ware] shouldst be 

in trouble welde] possess lent] given jhernyng] 

desire hent] grasped, apprehended 



RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE 3 

VII 

pi lufe es ay lastand, fra J?at we may it fele : 
pare-in make me byrnand, }?at na thyng gar it kele. 
My thoght take in to ]?i hand, & stabyl it ylk a dele, 
pat I be noght heldand to luf J?is worldes wele. 

VIII 

If I lufe any erthly thyng ]?at payes to my wyll, 
& settes my ioy & my lykyng when it may com me tyll, 
I mai drede of partyng, |?at wyll be hate and yll : 
For al my welth es bot wepyng, when x pyne mi saule sal 
spyll. 

IX 

pe ioy )?at men hase sene, es lyckend tyl J?e haye, 
pat now es fayre & grene, and now wytes awaye. 
Swylk es }ns worlde, I wene, & bees till domes-daye, 
All in trauel & tene, fle bat na man it maye. 

x 

If ])ou luf in all bi thoght, and hate be fylth of syn, 
And gyf hym bi sawle ]7at it boght, bat he be dwell with-in : 
Als Crist bi sawle hase soght & ber-of walde noght blyn, 
Sa bou sal to blys be broght, & heuen won with-in. 

XI 

pe kynd of luf es bis, bar it es trayst and trew : 
To stand styll in stabylnes, & chaunge it for na new. 
pe lyfe ]?at lufe myght fynd or euer in hert it knew, 
Fra kare it tomes bat kyend, & lendes in myrth & glew. 

fra ]>at] from the time that gar it kele] may cause it 

to cool ylk a dele] every whit, completely [lit. every one part] 
heldand] inclined payes to] pleases hate] grievous 

pyne] pain spyll] destroy haye] grass ready for mowing 

wytes] passes Swylk] such ' tene] affliction J>at . . . it] 
which blyn] cease won] dwell kynd] nature, quality 

J>ar] when trayst] faithful J>e lyfe] The man, the soul 

kyend] nature, quality lendes] places glew] joy 



4 RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE 

XII 

For now lufe J7ow, I rede, Cryste, as I J?e tell : 

And with aungels take ]?i stede ]?at ioy loke J?ou noght 

sell! 

In erth }?ow hate, I rede, all |?at |;i lufe may fell : 
For luf es stalworth as J?e dede, luf es hard as hell. 

XIII 

Luf es a lyght byrthen, lufe gladdes 3ong and aide, 
Lufe es with-owten pyne, als lofers hase me talde ; 
Lufe es a gastly wynne, J?at makes men bygge & balde, 
Of lufe sal he na thyng tyne ]?at hit in hert will halde. 

XIV 

Lufe es ]?e swettest thyng |?at man in erth hase tane, 
Lufe es goddes derlyng, lufe byndes blode & bane. 
In lufe be owre lykyng, Ine wate na better wane, 
For me & my lufyng lufe makes bath be ane. 

xv 

Bot fleschly lufe sal fare as dose )?e flowre in may, 
And lastand be na mare J?an ane houre of a day, 
And sythen syghe ful sare ]?ar lust, )?ar pride, }?ar play, 
When bai er casten in kare, til pyne J?at lastes ay. 

XVI 

When |?air bodys lyse in syn, bair sawls mai qwake & drede: 
For vp sal ryse al men, and answer for bair dede ; 
If bai be fonden in syn, als now bair lyfe bai lede, 
pai sail sytt hel within, & myrknes hafe to mede. 

For now] Therefore rede] advise stede] place fell] 
abate J>e dede] death gastly] spiritual wynne] wine 

bygge] strong tyne] lose wane] dwelling sythen] 

afterwards syghe] lament myrknes] darkness 



I 

RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE 5 

XVII 

Riche men J?air handes sal wryng, & wicked werkes sal by 
In flawme of fyre bath knyght & keyng, with sorow 

schamfully. 

If J?ou wil lufe, ban may bou syng til Cryst in melody, 
pe lufe of hym ouercoms al thyng, J?arto J>ou traiste trewly. 

XVIII 

[I] sygh & sob, bath day & nyght, for ane sa fayre of hew. 
par es na thyng my hert mai light, bot lufe, bat es ay new. 
Wha sa had hym in his syght, or in his hert hym knew, 
His mournyng turned til ioy ful bryght, his sang in til glew. 

XIX 

In myrth he lyfes, nyght & day, j?at lufes J>at swete chylde : 
It es Ihesu, forsoth I say, of all mekest & mylde. 
Wreth fra hym walde al a-way, bof he wer neuer sa wylde ; 
He J?at in hert lufed hym, )?at day fra euel he wil hym 

schylde. 

xx 

Of Ihesu mast lyst me speke, bat al my bale may bete. 
Me thynk my hert may al to-breke, when I thynk on J?at 

swete. 

In lufe lacyd he hase my thoght, j?at I sal neuer forgete : 
Ful dere me thynk he hase me boght, with blodi hende 

& fete. 

XXI 

For luf my hert es bowne to brest, when I bat faire behalde. 
Lufe es fair bare it es fest, J^at neuer will be calde. 
Lufe vs reues be nyght rest, in grace it makes vs balde ; 
Of al warkes luf es be best, als haly men me talde. 

by] pay dearly for hew] form, aspect turned] 

would turn Wreth] Anger Jx>f] though bale] 

woe bete] amend lacyd] caught hende] hands 

bowne to brest] ready to burst reues] bereaves 



6 RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE 

XXII 

Na wonder gyf I syghand be & si)?en in sorow be sette : 
Ihesu was nayled apon J?e tre, & al blody for-bette ; 
To |?ynk on hym es grete pyte, how tenderly he grette 
pis hase he sufferde, man, for J?e, if ]?at ]?ou syn wyll lette. 

XXIII 

pare es na tonge in erth may tell of lufe j?e swetnesse ; 
pat stedfastly in lufe kan dwell, his ioy es endlesse. 
God schylde J?at he sulde til hell J?at lufes & langand es, 
Or euer his enmys sulde hym qwell, or make his luf be 
lesse ! 

XXIV 

Ihesu es lufe j;at lastes ay : til hym es owre langyng ; 
Ihesu ]?e nyght turnes to ]?e day, J?e dawyng in til spryng. 
Ihesu, J?ynk on vs, now & ay : for )?e we halde oure keyng ; 
Ihesu, gyf vs grace, as J?ou wel may, to luf ]?e with-owten 
endyng. 

ANONYMOUS 

? i.fjth century 

Quia Amore Langueo 

IN the vaile of restles mynd 
I sowght in mownteyn & in mede, 
trustyng a treulofe for to fynd : 
vpon an hyll than toke I hede ; 
a voise I herd (and nere I yede) 

in gret dolour complaynyng tho, 
' see, dere soule, my sydes blede 
Quia amore langueo.' 

for-bette] scourged grette] wept lette] leave 

sulde] should [go] qwell] destroy, slay dawyng] dawn 

spryng] day-spring nere] nearer yede] went 



ANONYMOUS 

Vpon thys mownt I fand a tree ; 
vndir thys tree a man sittyng ; 
from hede to fote wowndyd was he, 
hys hert blode I saw bledyng ; 
A semely man to be a kyng, 

A graciose face to loke vnto. 
I askyd hym how he had paynyng. 
he said, ' Quia amore langueo S 

I am treulove that fals was neuer ; 

my sistur, mannys soule, I loued hyr thus ; 
By-cause I wold on no wyse disseuere, 
I left my kyngdome gloriouse ; 
I purueyd hyr a place full preciouse ; 
she flytt, I folowyd, I luffed her soo 
that I suffred thes paynes piteuouse 
Quia amore langueo. 

My faire love and my spouse bryght, 

I saued hyr fro betyng, and she hath me bett ; 
I clothed hyr in grace and heuenly lyght, 
this blody surcote she hath on me sett ; 
for langyng love ; I will not lett 

swete strokys be thes, loo ; 
I haf loued euer als I hett, 

Quia amore langueo. 
I crownyd hyr with blysse and she me with thorne, 

I led hyr to chambre and she me to dye ; 
I browght hyr to worship and she me to skorne, 
I dyd hyr reuerence and she me velanye. 
To love that loueth is no maistrye, 

hyr hate made neuer my love hyr foo ; 
ask than no moo questions whye, 
but Quia amore langueo. 

hett] promised 



8 ANONYMOUS 

Loke vnto myn handys, man ! 

th.es gloues were geuen me whan I hyr sowght ; 
they be nat white, but rede and wan, 

embrodred with blode my spouse them bowght ; 
they wyll not of, I lefe them nowght, 

I wowe hyr with them where euer she goo ; 
thes handes full frendly for hyr fowght, 
Quia amore langueo. 

Maruell not, man, thof I sitt styll, 

my love hath shod me wondyr strayte ; 
she boklyd my fete as was hyr wyll 

with sharp nailes, well thow maist waite ! 
in my love was neuer dissaite, 

for all my membres I haf opynd hyr to ; 
my body I made hyr hertys baite, 
Quia amore langueo. 

In my syde I haf made hyr nest, 

loke, in me how wyde a wound is here ! 
this is hyr chambre,.here shall she rest, 
that she and I may slepe in fere, 
here may she wasshe, if any filth were ; 

here is socour for all hyr woo ; 
cum if she will, she shall haf chere, 
Quia amore langueo. 

I will abide till she be redy, 

I will to hyr send or she sey nay ; 
If she be rechelesse I will be gredi, 
If she be dawngerouse I will hyr pray. 
If she do wepe, than byd I nay ; 

myn armes ben spred to clypp hyr to ; 
crye onys, ' I cum ! ' now, soule, assaye ! 
Quia amore langueo. 

waite] take heed baite] enticement, nourishment 

in fere] together dawngerouse] difficult of approach, 

haughty 



ANONYMOUS 9 

I sitt on an hille for to se farre, 

I loke to the vayle, my spouse I see ; 
now rynneth she away ward, now cummyth she narre, 
yet fro myn eye syght she may nat be ; 
sum waite ther pray, to make hyr flee, 

I rynne tofore to chastise hyr foo ; 
recouer, my soule, agayne to me, 
Quia amore langueo. 

My swete spouse, will we goo play ? 

apples ben rype in my gardine ; 
I shall clothe the in new array, 
thy mete shall be mylk, honye, & wyne ; 
now, dere soule, latt us go dyne, 

thy sustenance is in my skrypp, loo ! 
tary not now, fayre spouse myne, 
Quia amore langueo. 

Yf thow be fowle, I shall make thee clene, 

if thow be seke, I shall the hele ; 
yf thow owght morne, I shall be-mene ; 

spouse, why will thow nowght with me dele ? 
thow fowndyst neuer love so lele ; 

what wilt thow, sowle, that I shall do ? 
I may of vnkyndnes the appele, 
Quia amore langueo. 

What shall I do now with my spouse ? 

abyde I will hyre iantilnesse ; 
wold she loke onys owt of hyr howse 
of flesshely affeccions and vnclennesse ; 
hyr bed is made, hyr bolstar is in blysse, 

hyr chambre is chosen, suche ar no moo ; 
loke owt at the wyndows of kyndnesse, 
Quia amore langueo. 

farre] farther narre] nearer 

B3 



io ANONYMOUS 

Long and love thow neuer so hygh, 

yit is my love more than thyfi may be ; 
thow gladdyst, thow wepist, I sitt the bygh, 
yit myght thow, spouse, loke onys at me ! 
spouse, shuld I alway fede the 

with childys mete ? nay, love, nat so ! 
I pray the, love, with aduersite, 
Quia amore langueo. 

My spouse is in chambre, hald }oure pease ! 

make no noyse, but lat hyr slepe ; 
my babe shall sofre noo disease, 

I may not here my dere childe wepe, 
for with my pappe I shall hyr kepe ; 
no wondyr thowgh I tend hyr to, 
thys hoole in my side had neuer ben so depe, 
but Quia amore langueo. 

Wax not wery, myn owne dere wyfe ! 

what mede is aye to lyffe in comfort ? 
for in tribulacion, I ryfi more ryfe 
ofter tymes than in disport ; 
In welth, in woo, euer I support ; 

than, dere soule, go neuer me fro ! 
thy mede is markyd, whan thow art mort, 
in blysse ; Quia amore langueo. 






II 



ROBERT SOUTHWELL 

? 1561-1595 
/ dye alive 

OLIFE ! what letts thee from a quicke decease ? 
O death ! what drawes thee from a present praye? 
My feast is done, my soule would be at ease, 
My grace is saide ; O death ! come take awaye. 

I live, but such a life as ever dyes ; 

I dye, but such a death as never endes ; 
My death to end my dying life denyes, 

And life my living death no whitt amends. 

Thus still I dye, yet still I do revive ; 

My living death by dying life is fedd ; 
Grace more then nature kepes my hart alive, 

Whose idle hopes and vayne desires are deade. 

Not where I breath, but where I love, I live ; 

Not where I love, but where I am, I die ; 
The life I wish, must future glory give, 

The deaths I feele in present daungers lye. 



Of the Blessed Sacrament of the Aulter 

r ~T^HE angells' eyes, whome veyles cannot deceive, 
1 Might best disclose that best they do descerne; 
Men must with sounde and silent faith receive 

More then they can by sence or reason lerne ; 
God's poure our proofes, His workes our witt exceede, 
The doer's might is reason of His deede. 



12 ROBERT SOUTHWELL 

A body is endew'd with ghostly rightes ; 

And Nature's worke from Nature's law is free ; 
In heavenly sunne lye hidd eternall lightes, 

Lightes cleere and neere, yet them no eye can see ; 
Dedd formes a never-dyinge life do shroude ; 
A boundlesse sea lyes in a little cloude. 

The God of hoastes in slender hoste doth dwell, 
Yea, God and man with all to ether dewe, 

That God that rules the heavens and rifled hell, 
That man whose death did us to life renewe : 

That God and man that is the angells' blisse, 

In forme of bredd and wyne our nurture is. 

Whole may His body be in smallest breadd, 

Whole in the whole, yea whole in every crumme ; 

With which be one or be tenn thowsand fedd, 
All to ech one, to all but one doth cumme ; 

And though ech one as much as all receive, 

Not one too much, nor all too little have. 

One soule in man is all in everye part ; 

One face at once in many mirrhors shynes ; 
One fearefull noyse doth make a thowsand start ; 

One .eye at once of countlesse thinges defynes ; 
If proofes of one in many, Nature frame, 
God may in straunger sort performe the same. 

God present is at once in everye place, 

Yett God in every place is ever one ; 
So may there be by giftes of ghostly grace, 

One man in many roomes, yett filling none ; 
Sith angells may effects of bodyes shewe, 
God angells' giftes on bodyes may bestowe. 



13 

HENRY CONSTABLE 

? 1562-? 1613 

To the Blessed Sacrament 

WHEN thee (O holy sacrificed Lambe) 
In severed sygnes I whyte and liquide see, 
As on thy body slayne I thynke on thee, 
Which pale by sheddyng of thy bloode became. 

And when agayne I doe behold the same 
Vayled in whyte to be receav'd of mee, 
Thou seemest in thy syndon wrapt to bee 
Lyke to a corse, whose monument I am. 

Buryed in me, vnto my sowle appeare, 

Pryson'd in earth, and bannisht from thy syght, 

Lyke our forefathers who in lymbo were, 

Cleere thou my thoughtes, as thou did'st gyve them light, 

And as thou others freed from purgyng fyre 

Quenche in my hart the flames of badd desyre. 



JOSHUA SYLVESTER 

1563-1618 

The Father 

A.PHA and Omega, God alone : 
Eloi, My God, the Holy-One ; 
Whose Power is Omnipotence : 
Whose Wisedome is Omni-science : 
Whose Beeing is All Soveraigne Blisse : 
Whose Worke Perfection's Fulnesse is ; 

Under All things, not under-cast ; 
Over All things, not over-plac't ; 



14 JOSHUA SYLVESTER 

Within All things, not there included ; 
Without All things, not thence excluded : 

Above All, over All things raigning ; 
Beneath All, All things aye sustaining : 
Without All, All conteyning sole : 
Within All, filling-full the Whole : 

Within All, no where comprehended ; 
Without All, no where more extended ; 
Under, by nothing over-topped : 
Over, by nothing under-propped : 

Unmov'd, Thou mov'st the World about ; 
Unplac't, Within it, or Without : 
Unchanged, time-lesse, Time Thou changest 
Th' unstable, Thou, still stable, rangest ; 
No outward Force, nor inward Fate, 
Can Thy drad Essence alterate : 

To-day, To-morrow, yester-day, 
With Thee are One, and instant aye ; 
Aye undivided, ended never : 
To-day, with Thee, indures for-ever. 

Thou, Father, mad'st this mighty Ball ; 
Of nothing thou created'st All, 
After, th' Idea of thy Minde, 
Conferring Forme to every kinde. 

Thou wert, Thou art, Thou wilt be ever : 
And Thine Elect, rejectest never. 






15 

JOHN DONNE 

1573-1631 
Sonnet 

BATTER my heart, three person'd God ; for, you 
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; 
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend 
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new. 
I, like an usurpt towne, to 'another due, 
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end, 
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend, 
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue. 
Yet dearely'I love you, 'and would be loved faine, 
But am betroth'd unto your enemie : 
Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe, 
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I 
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free, 
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee. 

From ' The Crosse ' 

WHO can blot out the Crosse, which th'instrument 
Of God, dew'd on mee in the Sacrament ? 
Who can deny mee power, and liberty 
To stretch mine armes, and mine owne Crosse to be ? 
Swimme, and at every stroake, thou art thy Crosse ; 
The Mast and yard make one, where seas do tosse ; 
Looke downe, thou spiest out Crosses in small things ; 
Looke up, thou seest birds rais'd on crossed wings ; 
All the Globes frame, and spheares, is nothing else 
But the Meridians crossing Parallels. 
Material Crosses then, good physicke bee, 
But yet spirituall have chief e dignity. 
These for extracted chimique medicine serve, 
And cure much better, and as well preserve ; 



16 JOHN DONNE 

Then are you your own physicke, or need none, 

When Still'd, or purg'd by tribulation. 

For when that Crosse ungrudg'd, unto you stickes, 

Then are you to your selfe, a Crucifixe. 

As perchance, Carvers do not faces make, 

But that away, which hid them there, do take ; 

Let Crosses, soe, take what hid Christ in thee, 

And be his image, or not his, but hee. 

Resurrection^ imperfect 

SLEEP sleep old Sun, thou canst not have repast 
As yet, the wound thou took'st on friday last ; 
Sleepe then, and rest ; The world may beare thy stay, 
A better Sun rose before thee to day, 
Who, not content to'enlighten all that dwell 
On the earths face, as thou, enlightned hell, 
And made the darke fires languish in that vale, 
As, at thy presence here, our fires grow pale. 
Whose body having walk'd on earth, and now 
Hasting to Heaven, would, that he might allow 
Himselfe unto all stations, and fill all, 
For these three daies become a minerall ; 
Hee was all gold when he lay downe, but rose 
All tincture, and doth not alone dispose 
Leaden and iron wills to good, but is 
Of power to make even sinfull flesh like his. 
Had one of those, whose credulous pietie 
Thought, that a Soule one might discerne and see 
Goe from a body,'at this sepulcher been, 
And, issuing from the sheet, this body seen, 
He would have justly thought this body a soule, 
If not of any man, yet of the whole. 
Desunt c&tera 






JOHN DONNE 17 

Goodfiiday, 1613. Riding Westward 

I ET mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this, 
I ^The intelligence that moves, devotion is, 
And as the other Spheares, by being growne 
Subject to forraigne motions, lose their owne, 
And being by others hurried every day, 
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey : 
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit 
For their first mover, and are whirld by it. 
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West 
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East. 
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set, 
And by that setting endlesse day beget ; 
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall, 
Sinne had eternally benighted all. 
Yet dare Palmost be glad, I do not see 
That spectacle of too much weight for mee. 
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye ; 
What a death were it then to see God dye ? 
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke, 
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke. 
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, 
And turne all spheares at once, peirc'd with those holes ? 
Could I behold that endlesse height which is 
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, 
Humbled below us ? or that blood which is 
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his, 
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne 
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne ? 
If on these things' I durst not looke, durst I 
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye, 
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus 
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us ? 



1 8 JOHN DONNE 

Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye, 
They'are present yet unto my memory, 
For that looks towards them ; and thou look'st towards 
mee, 

Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree ; 

1 turne my backe to thee, but to receive 
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave. 
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee, 
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity, 
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace, 
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face. 



A Hymne to Christ \ at the Authors last 
going into Germany 

IN what torne ship soever I embarke, 
That ship shall be my embleme of thy Arke ; 
What sea soever swallow mee, that flood 
Shall be to mee an embleme of thy blood ; 
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise 
Thy face ; yet through that maske I know those eyes, 
Which, though they turne away sometimes, 
They never will despise. 

I sacrifice this Hand unto thee, 
And all whom I lov'd there, and who lov'd mee ; 
When I have put our seas twixt them and mee, 
Put thou thy sea betwixt my sinnes and thee. 
As the trees sap doth seeke the root below 
In winter, in my winter now I goe, 
Where none but thee, th'Eternall root 
Of true Love I may know. 



JOHN DONNE 19 

Nor thou nor thy religion dost controule, 
The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule, 
But thou would'st have that love thy selfe : As thou 
Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now, 
That lov'st not, till from loving more, thou free 
My soule : Who ever gives, takes libertie : 
O, if thou car'st not whom I love 
Alas, thou lov'st not mee. 

Scale then this bill of my Divorce to All, 
On whom those fainter beames of love did fall ; 
Marry those loves, which in youth scattered bee 
On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to thee. 
Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light : 
To see God only, I goe out of sight : 
And to scape stormy dayes, I chuse 
An Everlasting night. 



PHINEAS FLETCHER 

1580-1650 

The Divine Lover 



ME Lord ? can'st thou mispend 
One word, misplace one look on me ? 
Call'st me thy Love, thy Friend ? 

Can this poor soul the object be 
Of these love-glances, those life-kindling eyes ? 
What ? I the Centre of thy arms embraces ? 
Of all thy labour I the prize ? 
Love never mocks, Truth never lies. 
Oh how I quake : Hope fear, fear hope displaces : 
I would, but cannot hope : such wondrous love amazes. 



20 PHINEAS FLETCHER 

ii 

See, I am black as night, 
See I am darkness : dark as hell. 

Lord thou more fair than light ; 
Heav'ns Sun thy Shadow ; can Sunns dwell 
With Shades ? 'twixt light, and darkness what commerce ? 
True : thou art darkness, I thy Light : my ray 
Thy mists, and hellish foggs shall pierce. 
With me, black soul, with me converse. 
I make the foul December flowry May, 
Turn thou thy night to me : Fie turn thy night to day. 

in 

See Lord, see I am dead : 
Tomb'd in my self : my self my grave. 

A drudge .: so born, so bred : 
My self even to my self a slave. 
Thou Freedome, Life : can Life, and Liberty 
Love bondage, death ? Thy Freedom I : I tyed 
To loose thy bonds : be bound to me : 
My Yoke shall ease, my bonds shall free. 
Dead soul, thy Spring of life, my dying side : 
There dye with me to live : to live in thee I dyed. 



ROBERT HERRICK 

1591-1674 
Eternitie 

OYEARES! and Age! Farewell: 
Behold I go, 
Where I do know 
Infinitie to dwell. 



ROBERT HERRICK 21 

And these mine eyes shall see 

All times, how they 

Are lost i' th' Sea 
Of vast Eternitie. 

Where never Moone shall sway 

The Starres ; but she, 

And Night, shall be 
Drown'd in one endlesse Day. 



FRANCIS QUARLES 

1592-1644 

Christ and Our Selves 

I WISH a greater knowledge, then t'attaine 
The knowledge of my selfe : A greater Gaine 
Then to augment my selfe ; A greater Treasure 
Then to enjoy my selfe : A greater Pleasure 
Then to content my selfe ; How slight, and vaine 
Is all selfe-Knowledge, Pleasure, Treasure, Gaine ; 
Vnlesse my better knowledge could retrive 
My Christ ; unles my better Gaine could thrive 
In Christ ; unles my better Wealth grow rich 
In Christ ; unles my better Pleasure pitch 
On Christ ; Or else my Knowledge will proclaime 
To my owne heart how ignorant I am : 
Or else my Gaine, so ill improv'd, will shame 
My Trade, and shew how much declin'd I am ; 
Or else my Treasure will but blurre my name 
With Bankrupt, and divulge how poore I am ; 
Or else my Pleasures, that so much inflame 
My Thoughts, will blabb how full of sores I am : 
Lord, keepe me from my Selfe ; 'Tis best for me, 
Never to owne my Selfe, if not in Thee. 



22 FRANCIS QUARLES 

My beloved is mine^ and I am his y 
He feedeth among the lilies 

EV'N like two little bank-dividing brooks, 
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, 
And having rang'd and search'd a thousand nooks, 
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, 

Where in a greater current they conjoin : 
So I my best-beloved's am ; so he is mine. 

Ev'n so we met ; and after long pursuit, 

Ev'n so we joyn'd ; we both became entire ; 

No need for either to renew a suit, 

For I was flax and he was flames of fire : 

Our firm-united souls did more than twine ; 

So I my best-beloved's am ; so he is mine. 

If all those glitt'ring Monarchs that command 

The servile quarters of this earthly ball, 
Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land, 

I would not change my fortunes for them all : 

Their wealth is but a counter to my coin : 
The world 's but theirs ; but my beloved 's mine. 
Nay, more ; If the fair Thespian Ladies all 

Should heap together their diviner treasure : 
That treasure should be deem'd a price too small 

To buy a minute's lease of half my pleasure ; 

'Tis not the sacred wealth of all the nine 
Can buy my heart from him, or his, from being mine. 

Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow 
My least desires unto the least remove ; 

He 's firmly mine by oath ; I his by vow ; 
He 's mine by faith ; and I am his by love ; 
He 's mine by water ; I am his by wine ; 

Thus I my best-beloved's am ; thus he is mine. 



FRANCIS QUARLES 23 

He is my Altar ; I, his Holy Place ; 

I am his guest ; and he, my living food ; 
I'm his by penitence ; he mine by grace ; 

I'm his by purchase ; he is mine, by blood ; 
He 's my supporting elm ; and I his vine ; 
Thus I my best beloved's am ; thus he is mine. 

He gives me wealth ; I give him all my vows : 
I give him songs ; he gives me length of dayes ; 

With wreaths of grace he crowns my conqu'ring brows, 
And I his temples with a crown of Praise, 
Which he accepts as an everlasting signe, 

That I my best-beloved's am ; that he is mine. 



GEORGE HERBERT 

1593-1632 

Raster Song 

I GOT me flowers to straw Thy way, 
I got me boughs off many a tree ; 
But Thou wast up by break of day, 
And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee. 

The sunne arising in the East, 

Though he give' light, and th' East perfume, 

If they should offer to contest 

With Thy arising, they presume. 

Can there be any day but this, 
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour ? 
We count three hundred, but we misse : 
There is but one, and that one ever. 



24 GEORGE HERBERT 



Affliction 

MY heart did heave, and there came forth ' O God ! ' 
By that I knew that Thou wast in the grief, 
To guide and govern it to my relief, 
Making a scepter of the rod : 

Hadst Thou not had Thy part, 
Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart. 

But since Thy breath gave me both life and shape, 
Thou know'st my tallies ; and when there 's assign'd 
So much breath to a sigh, what 's then behinde ? 
Or if some yeares with it escape, 

The sigh then onely is 
A gale to bring me sooner to my blisse. 

Thy life on earth was grief, and Thou art still 
Constant unto it, making it to be 
A point of honour now to grieve in me, 
And in Thy members suffer ill. 
They who lament one crosse, 
Thou dying dayly, praise Thee to Thy losse. 



Man 

MY God, I heard this day 
That none doth build a stately habitation 
But he that means to dwell therein. 
What house more stately hath there been, 
Or can be, then is Man ? to whose creation 
All things are in decay. 



GEORGE HERBERT 25 

For Man is ev'ry thing, 
And more : he is a tree, yet bears no fruit ; 
A beast, yet is, or should be, more : 
Reason and speech we onely bring ; 
Parrats may thank us, if they are not mute, 
They go upon the score. 

Man is all symmetric, 
Full of proportions, one limbe to another, 
And all to all the world besides ; 
Each part may call the farthest brother, 
For head with foot hath private amitie, 
And both with moons and tides. 

Nothing hath got so farre 
But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey ; 
His eyes dismount the highest starre ; 
He is in little all the sphere ; 
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 
Find their acquaintance there. 

For us the windes do blow, 

The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow ; 
Nothing we see but means our good, 
As our delight or as our treasure ; 
The whole is either our cupboard of food 
Or cabinet of pleasure. 

The starres have us to bed, 

Night draws the curtain, which the sunne withdraws ; 
Musick and light attend our head, 
All things unto our flesh are kinde 
In their descent and being ; to our minde 
In their ascent and cause. 



26 GEORGE HERBERT 

Each thing is full of dutie : 
Waters united are our navigation ; 
Distinguished, our habitation ; 
Below, our drink ; above, our meat ; 
Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such beautie? 
Then how are all things neat ! 

More servants wait on Man 
Than he'l take notice of : in ev'ry path 
He treads down that which doth befriend him 
When sicknesse makes him pale and wan. 
Oh mightie love ! Man is one world, and hath 
Another to attend him. 

Since then, my God, Thou hast 
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it, 
That it may dwell with Thee at last ! 
Till then afford us so much wit, 
That, as the world serves us, we may serve Thee, 
And both Thy servants be. 



s 



Dialogue 

Man 

WEETEST Saviour, if my soul 
Were but worth the having, 
Quickly should I then controll 

Any thought of waving. 
But when all my cares and pains 
Cannot give the name of gains 
To Thy wretch so full of stains, 
What delight or hope remains ? 



GEORGE HERBERT 27 

Saviour 
What, childe, is the ballance thine, 

Thine the poise and measure ? 
If I say, ' Thou shalt be Mine,' 

Finger not My treasure. 
What the gains in having thee 
Do amount to, onely He 
Who for man was sold can see ; 
That transferr'd th' accounts to Me. 

Man 
But as I can see no merit 

Leading to this favour, 
So the way to fit me for it 

Is beyond my savour. 
As the reason, then, is Thine, 
So the way is none of mine : 
I disclaim the whole designe ; 
Sinne disclaims and I resigne. 

Saviour 
That is all : if that I could 

Get without repining ; 
And My clay, My creature, would 

Follow my resigning ; 
That as I did freely part 
With my glorie and desert, 
Left all joyes to feel all smart 

Man 
Ah, no more : Thou break'st my heart. 



28 GEORGE HERBERT 

Clasping of Hands 
I ORD, Thou art mine, and I am Thine, 
Li If mine I am ; and Thine much more 
Then I or ought or can be mine. 
Yet to be Thine doth me restore, 
So that again I now am mine, 
And with advantage mine the more, 
Since this being mine brings with it Thine. 
And Thou with me dost Thee restore : 

If I without Thee would be mine, 

I neither should be mine nor Thine. 
Lord, I am Thine, and Thou art mine ; 
So mine Thou art, that something more 
I may presume Thee mine then Thine, 
For Thou didst suffer to restore 
Not Thee, but me, and to be mine : 
And with advantage mine the more, 
Since Thou in death wast none of Thine, 
Yet then as mine didst me restore : 

O, be mine still ; still make me Thine ; 

Or rather make no Thine and Mine. 

The Pulley 

WHEN God at first made man, 
Having a glasse of blessings standing by, 
* Let us,' said He, * poure on him all we can ; 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 
Contract into a span.' 

So strength first made a way ; 

Then beautie flow'd, then wisdome, honour, pleasure ; 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, 

Rest in the bottome lay. 



GEORGE HERBERT 29 

* For if I should,' said He, 

* Bestow this Jewell also on My creature, 
He would adore My gifts in stead of Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature : 
So both should losers be. 

* Yet let him keep the rest, 

But keep them with repining restlesnesse ; 
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least, 
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse 
May tosse him to My breast.' 



The El'txer 

TEACH me, my God and King, 
In all things Thee to see, 
And what I do in any thing 
To do it as for Thee. 

Not rudely, as a beast, 
To runne into an action ; 
But still to make Thee prepossest, 
And give it his perfection. 

A man that looks on glasse, 
On it may stay his eye ; 
Or if he pleaseth, through it passe, 
And then the heav'n espie. 

All may of Thee partake : 
Nothing can be so mean 
Which with his tincture, 'for Thy sake,' 
Will not grow bright and clean. 



30 GEORGE HERBERT 

A servant with this clause 
Makes drudgerie divine ; 
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws 
Makes that and th' action fine. 

This is the famous stone 
That turneth all to gold ; 
For that which God doth touch and own 
Cannot for lesse be told. 



The Collar 

I STRUCK the board, and cry'd, < No more ; 
I will abroad.' 

What, shall I ever sigh and pine ? 
My lines and life are free ; free as the rode, 
Loose as the winde, as large as store. 
Shall I be still in suit ? 
Have I no harvest but a thorn 
To let me bloud, and not restore 
What I have lost with cordiall fruit ? 
Sure there was wine 
Before my sighs did drie it ; there was corn 

Before my tears did drown it. 
Is the yeare onely lost to me ? 
Have I no bayes to crown it, 
No flowers, no garlands gay ? all blasted, 

All wasted ? 
Not so, my heart ; but there is fruit, 

And thou hast hands. 
Recover all thy sigh-blown age 
On double pleasures ; leave thy cold dispute 
Of what is fit and not ; forsake thy cage, 
Thy rope of sands, 



GEORGE HERBERT 31 

Which pettie thoughts have made ; and made to thee 
Good cable, to enforce and draw, 

And be thy law, 

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. 
Away ! take heed ; 
I will abroad. 
Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy ears ; 

He that forbears 
To suit and serve his need 

Deserves his load. 
But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wilde 

At every word, 

Me thought I heard one calling, ' Childe ' ; 
And I reply'd, < My Lord.' 



CHRISTOPHER HARVEY 

1597-1663 
The Nativity 

UNFOLD thy face, unmaske thy ray, 
Shine forth, bright Sunne, double the day. 
Let no malignant misty fume, 
Nor foggy vapour, once presume 
To interpose thy perfect sight 
This day, which makes us love thy light 
For ever better, that we could 
That blessed object once behold, 
Which is both the circumference, 
And center of all excellence : 
Or rather neither, but a treasure 
Unconfined without measure, 
Whose center and circumference, 
Including all preheminence, 



32 CHRISTOPHER HARVEY 

Excluding nothing but defect, 
And infinite in each respect, 
Is equally both here and there, 
And now and then and every where, 
And alwaies, one, himselfe, the same, 
A beeing farre above a name. 
Draw neer then, and freely poure 
Forth all thy light into that houre, 
Which was crowned with his birth, 
And made heaven envy earth. 

Let not his birth-day clouded be, 
By whom thou shinest, and we see. 



RICHARD CRASHAW 

? 1613-1649 

' I am not worthy that thou should'st come under my roofe.' 

'"T'HY God was making hast into thy roofe, 

JL Thy humble faith, and feare, keepes him aloofe : 
Hee'l be thy guest, because he may not be, 
Hee'l come into thy house ? no, into thee. 

The Recommendation 

HPHESE Houres, and that which hovers o're my End, 
1 Into thy hands, and hart, lord, I commend. 

Take Both to Thine Account, that I and mine 
In that Hour, and in these, may be all thine. 

That as I dedicate my devoutest Breath 
To make a kind of Life for my lord's Death, 

So from his living, and life-giving Death, 

My dying Life may draw a new, and never fleeting Breath. 



RICHARD CRASHAW 33 

To the Name above every Name, the 
Name of Jesus 

A HYMN 

I SING the Name which None can say 
But touch't with An interiour Ray : 
The Name of our New Peace ; our Good : 
Our Blisse : and Supernaturall Blood : 
The Name of All our Lives and Loves. 
Hearken, And Help, ye holy Doves ! 
The high-born Brood of Day ; you bright 
Candidates of blissefull Light, 
The Heirs Elect of Love ; whose Names belong 
Unto The everlasting life of Song ; 
All ye wise Soules, who in the wealthy Brest 
Of This unbounded Name build your warm Nest. 
Awake, My glory. Soul, (if such thou be, 
And That fair Word at all referr to Thee) 

Awake and sing 

And be All Wing; 

Bring hither thy whole Self ; and let me see 
What of thy Parent Heavn yet speakes in thee. 

O thou art Poore 

Of noble Powres, I see, 
And full of nothing else but empty Me, 
Narrow, and low, and infinitely lesse 
Then this Great mornings mighty Busynes. 

One little World or two 

(Alas) will never doe. 

We must have store. 
Goe, Soul, out of thy Self, and seek for More. 

Goe and request 
Great Nature for the Key of her huge Chest 



54 RICHARD CRASHAW 

Of Heavns, the self involving Sett of Sphears 
(Which dull mortality more Feeles then heares) 

Then rouse the nest 
Of nimble Art, and traverse round 
The Aiery Shop of soul-appeasing Sound : 
And beat a summons in the Same 

All-soveraign Name 
To warn each severall kind 
And shape of sweetnes, Be they such 

As sigh with supple wind 

Or answer Artfull Touch, 
That they convene and come away 
To wait at the love-crowned Doores of 

This Illustrious Day. 

Shall we dare This, my Soul ? we'l doe't and bring 
No Other note for't, but the Name we sing. 

Wake Lute and Harp 

And every sweet-lipp't Thing 

That talkes with tunefull string ; 
Start into life, And leap with me 
Into a hasty Fitt-tun'd Harmony. 

Nor must you think it much 

T'obey my bolder touch ; 
I have Authority in Love's name to take you 
And to the worke of Love this morning wake you ; 

Wake ; In the Name 
Of Him who never sleeps, All Things that Are, 

Or, what's the same, 

Are Musicall ; 

Answer my Call 

And come along ; 

Help me to meditate mine Immortall Song. 
Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth, 
Bring All your houshold stuffe of Heavn on earth ; 






RICHARD CRASHAW 35 

O you, my Soul's most certain Wings, 
Complaining Pipes, and prattling Strings, 

Bring All the store 

Of Sweets you have ; And murmur that you have no 
more. 

Come, nere to part, 

Nature and Art ! 

Come ; and come strong, 
To the conspiracy of our Spatious song. 

Bring All the Powres of Praise 
Your Provinces of well-united Worlds can raise ; 
Bring All your Lutes and Harps of Heavn and Earth ; 
What ere cooperates to The common mirthe 

Vessells of vocall loyes, 

Or You, more noble Architects of Intellectuall Noise, 
Cymballs of Heav'n, or Humane sphears, 
Sollickers of Soules or Eares ; 

And when you'are come, with All 
That you can bring or we can call ; 

O may you fix 

For ever here, and mix 

Your selves into the long 
And everlasting series of a deathlesse Song ; 
Mix All your many Worlds, Above, 
And loose them into One of Love. 

Chear thee my Heart ! 

For Thou too hast thy Part 

And Place in the Great Throng 
Of This unbounded All-imbracing Song. 

Powres of my Soul, be Proud ! 

And speake lowd 

To All the dear-bought Nations This Redeeming Name 
And in the wealth of one Rich Word proclaim 
New Similes to Nature. 



36 RICHARD CRASHAW 

May it be no wrong 

Blest Heavns, to you, and your Superiour song, 
That we, dark Sons of Dust and Sorrow, 

A while Dare borrow 

The Name of Your Dilights and our Desires, 
And fitt it to so farr inferior Lyres. 
Our Murmurs have their Musick too, 
Ye mighty Orbes, as well as you, 

Nor yeilds the noblest Nest 
Of warbling Seraphim to the eares of Love, 
A choicer Lesson then the joyfull Brest 

Of a poor panting Turtle-Dove. 
And we, low Wormes have leave to doe 
The Same bright Busynes (ye Third Heavens) with you, 
Gentle Spirits, doe not complain. 

We will have care 

To keep it fair, 
And send it back to you again. 
Come, lovely Name ! Appeare from forth the Bright 

Regions of peacefull Light, 
Look from thine own Illustrious Home, 
Fair King of Names, and come. 

Leave All thy native Glories in their Georgeous Nest, 
And give thy Self a while The gracious Guest 
Of humble Soules, that seek to find 

The hidden Sweets 

Which man's heart meets 
When Thou art Master of the Mind. 
Come, lovely Name ; life of our hope ! 
Lo we hold our Hearts wide ope ! 
Unlock thy Cabinet of Day 
Dearest Sweet, and come away. 

Lo how the thirsty Lands 
Gasp for thy Golden Showres 1 with longstretch't Hands. 



RICHARD CRASHAW 37 

Lo how the laboring Earth 

That hopes to be 

All Heaven by Thee, 

Leapes at thy Birth. 
The' attending World, to wait thy Rise, 

First turn'd to eyes ; 
And then, not knowing what to doe ; 
Turn'd Them to Teares, and spent Them too. 
Come Royall Name, and pay the expence 
Of All this Pretious Patience. 

O come away 

And kill the Death of This Delay. 
O see, so many Worlds of barren yeares 
Melted and measur'd out in Seas of Teares. 
O see, The Weary liddes of wakefull Hope 
(Love's Eastern windowes) All wide ope 

With Curtains drawn, 
To catch The Day-break of Thy Dawn. 
O dawn, at last, long look't for Day ! 
Take thine own wings, and come away. 
Lo, where Aloft it comes ! It comes, Among 
The Conduct of Adoring Spirits, that throng 
Like diligent Bees, And swarm about it. 

O they are wise ; 
And know what Sweetes are suck't from out it. 

It is the Hive, 

By which they thrive, 
Where All their Hoard of Hony lyes. 
Lo whereat comes, upon The snowy Dove's 
Soft Back ; And brings a Bosom big with Loves. 
Welcome to our dark world, Thou 

Womb of Day ! 

Unfold thy fair Conceptions ; And display 
The Birth of our Bright loyes. 



38 RICHARD CRASHAW 

O thou compacted 

Body of Blessings : spirit of Soules extracted ! 
O dissipate thy spicy Powres 
(Clowd of condensed sweets) and break upon us 

In balmy showrs ; 
O fill our senses, And take from us 
All force of so Prophane a Fallacy 
To think ought sweet but that which smells of Thee. 
Fair, flowry Name ; In none but Thee 
And Thy Nectareall Fragrancy, 

Hourly there meetes 
An universall Synod of All sweets ; 
By whom it is defined Thus 

That no Perfume 

For ever shall presume 
To passe for Odoriferous, 
But such alone whose sacred Pedigree 
Can prove it Self some kin (sweet name) to Thee. 
Sweet Name, in Thy each Syllable 
A Thousand Blest Arabias dwell ; 
A Thousand Hills of Frankincense ; 
Mountains of myrrh, and Beds of species, 
And ten Thousand Paradises, 
The soul that tasts thee takes from thence. 
How many unknown Worlds there are 
Of Comforts, which Thou hast in keeping ! 
How many Thousand Mercyes there 
In Pitty's soft lap ly a sleeping ! 
Happy he who has the art 

To awake them, 

And to take them 

Home, and lodge them in his Heart. 
O that it were as it was wont to be ! 
When thy old Freinds of Fire, All full of Thee, 



RICHARD CRASHAW 



39 



Fought against Frowns with smiles ; gave Glorious chase 

To Persecutions ; And against the Face 

Of Death and feircest Dangers, durst with Brave 

And sober pace march on to meet A Grave. 

On their Bold Brests about the world they bore thee 

And to the Teeth of Hell stood up to teach thee, 

In Center of their inmost Soules they wore thee, 

Where Rackes and Torments striv'd, in vain, to reach thee. 

Little, alas, thought They 
Who tore the Fair Brests of thy Freinds, 

Their Fury but made way 

For Thee ; And serv'd them in Thy glorious ends. 
What did Their weapons but with wider pores 
Inlarge thy flaming-brested Lovers 

More freely to transpire 

That impatient Fire 

The Heart that hides Thee hardly covers. 
What did their Weapons but sett wide the Doores 
For Thee : Fair, purple Doores, of love's devising ; 
The Ruby windowes which inrich't the East 
Of Thy so oft repeated Rising. 
Each wound of Theirs was Thy new Morning ; 
And reinthron'd thee in thy Rosy Nest, 
With blush of thine own Blood thy day adorning, 
It was the witt of love oreflowd the Bounds 
Of Wrath, and made thee way through All Those wounds. 
Wellcome dear, All-Adored Name ! 

For sure there is no Knee 

That knowes not Thee. 
Or if there be such sonns of shame, 

Alas what will they doe 

When stubborn Rocks shall bow 
And Hills hang down their Heavn-saluting Heads 

To seek for humble Beds 



40 RICHARD CRASHAW 

Of Dust, where in the Bashfull shades of night 

Next to their own low Nothing they may ly, 

And couch before the dazeling light of thy dread majesty. 

They that by Love's mild Dictate now 

Will not adore thee, 
Shall Then with Just Confusion, bow 

And break before thee. 



A Hymn to the Name and Honor of the 
Admirable Samte Teresa 

Fovndresse of the Reformation of the Discalced Carmelites, both 
men and Women ; a Woman for Angelicall heigth of speculation, 
for Masculine courage of performance, more then a woman. Who 
yet a child, out ran maturity, and durst plott a Martyrdome. 

OVE, thou art Absolute sole lord 

Life and Death. To prove the word, 
Wee'l now appeal to none of all 
Those thy old Souldiers, Great and tall, 
Ripe Men of Martyrdom, that could reach down 
With strong armes, their triumphant crown ; 
Such as could with lusty breath 
Speak lowd into the face of death 
Their Great Lord's glorious name, to none 
Of those whose spatious Bosomes spread a throne 
For Love at larg to fill, spare blood and sweat ; 
And see him take a private seat, 
Making his mansion in the mild 
And milky soul of a soft child. 

Scarse has she learn't to lisp the name 
Of Martyr ; yet she thinks it shame 
Life should so long play with that breath 
Which spent can buy so brave a death. 



RICHARD CRASHAW 41 

She never undertook to know 

What death with love should have to doe ; 

Nor has she e're yet understood 

Why to show love, she should shed blood 

Yet though she cannot tell you why, 

She can Love, and she can Dy. 

Scarse has she Blood enough to make 
A guilty sword blush for her sake ; 
Yet has she'a Heart dares hope to prove 
How much lesse strong is Death then Love. 

Be love but there ; let poor six yeares 
Be pos'd with the maturest Feares 
Man trembles at, you straight shall find 
Love knowes no nonage, nor the Mind. 
'Tis Love, not Yeares or Limbs that can 
Make the Martyr, or the man. 

Love touch't her Heart, and lo it beates 
High, and burnes with such brave heates ; 
Such thirsts to dy, as dares drink up, 
A thousand cold deaths in one cup. 
Good reason. For she breathes All fire. 
Her weake brest heaves with strong desire 
Of what she may with fruitles wishes 
Seek for amongst her Mother's kisses. 

Since 'tis not to be had at home 
She'l travail to a Martyrdom. 
No home for hers confesses she 
But where she may a Martyr be. 

Sh'el to the Moores ; And trade with them, 
For this unvalued Diadem. 
She'l offer them her dearest Breath, 
With Christ's Name in't, in change for deatlu 
Sh'el bargain with them ; and will give 
Them God ; teach them how to live 



42 RICHARD CRASHAW 

In him : or, if they this deny, 
For him she'l teach them how to Dy. 
So shall she leave amongst them sown 
Her Lord's Blood ; or at lest her own. 

Farewel then, all the world ! Adieu. 
Teresa is no more for you. 
Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and ioyes, 
(Never till now esteemed toyes) 
Farewell what ever deare may be, 
Mother's armes or Father's knee. 
Farewell house, and farewell home ! 
She's for the Moores, and Martyrdom. 

Sweet, not so fast ! lo thy fair Spouse 
Whom thou seekst with so swift vowes, 
Calls thee back, and bidds thee come 
T'embrace a milder Martyrdom. 

Blest powres forbid, Thy tender life 
Should bleed upon a barborous knife ; 
Or some base hand have power to race 
Thy Brest's chast cabinet, and uncase 
A soul kept there so sweet, 6 no ; 
Wise heavn will never have it so. 
Thou art love's victime ; and must dy 
A death more mysticall and high. 
Into love's armes thou shalt let fall 
A still-surviving funerall. 
His is the Dart must make the Death 
Whose stroke shall tast thy hallow'd breath ; 
A Dart thrice dip't in that rich flame 
Which writes thy spouse's radiant Name 
Upon the roof of Heav'n ; where ay 
It shines, and with a soveraign ray 
Beates bright upon the burning faces 
Of soules which in that name's sweet graces 



RICHARD CRASHAW 43 

Find everlasting smiles. So rare, 
So spirituall, pure, and fair 
Must be th'immortall instrument 
Upon whose choice point shall be sent 
A life so lov'd ; And that there be 
Fitt executioners for Thee, 
The fair'st and first-born sons of fire 
Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire 
And turn love's souldiers, upon Thee 
To exercise their archerie. 

O how oft shalt thou complain 
Of a sweet and subtle Pain. 
Of intolerable loyes ; 
Of a Death, in which who dyes 
Loves his death, and dyes again. 
And would for ever so be slain. 
And lives, and dyes ; and knowes not why 
To live, But that he thus may never leave to Dy. 

How kindly will thy gentle Heart 
Kisse the sweetly-killing Dart ! 
And close in his embraces keep 
Those delicious Wounds, that weep 
Balsom to heal themselves with. Thus 
When These thy Deaths, so numerous, 
Shall all at last dy into one, 
And melt thy Soul's sweet mansion ; 
Like a soft lump of incense, hasted 
By too hott a fire, and wasted 
Into perfuming clouds, so fast 
Shalt thou exhale to Heavn at last 
In a resolving Sigh, and then 
O what ? Ask not the Tongues of men. 
Angells cannot tell, suffice, 
Thy selfe shall feel thine own full ioyes 



44 RICHARD CRASHAW 

And hold them fast for ever there 
So soon as you first appear, 
The Moon of maiden Starrs, thy white 
Mistresse, attended by such bright 
Soules as thy shining self, shall come 
And in her first rankes make thee room ; 
Where 'mongst her snowy family 
Immortall wellcomes wait for thee. 

O what delight, when reveal'd Life shall stand 
And teach thy lipps heav'n with his hand ; 
On which thou now maist to thy wishes 
Heap up thy consecrated kisses. 
What ioyes shall seize thy soul, when she 
Bending her blessed eyes on thee 
(Those second Smiles of Heav'n) shall dart 
Her mild rayes through thy melting heart ! 

Angels, thy old freinds, there shall greet thee 
Glad at their own home now to meet thee. 

All thy good Workes which went before 
And waited for thee, at the door, 
Shall own thee there ; and all in one 
Weave a constellation 

Of Crowns, with which the King thy spouse 
Shall build up thy triumphant browes. 

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee 
And thy paines sitt bright upon thee, 
All thy Suffrings be divine. 
Teares shall take comfort, and turn gemms 
And Wrongs repent to Diademms. 
Ev'n thy Death shall live ; and new 
Dresse the soul that erst they slew. 
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarres 
As keep account of the Lamb's warres. 

Those rare Workes where thou shalt leave writt 



RICHARD CRASHAW 45 

Love's noble history, with witt 
Taught thee by none but him, while here 
They feed our soules, shall cloth Thine there. 
Each heavnly word by whose hid flame 
Our hard Hearts shall strike fire, the same 
Shall flourish on thy browes, and be 
Both fire to us and flame to thee ; 
Whose light shall live bright in thy Face 
By glory, in our hearts by grace. 

Thou shalt look round about, and see 
Thousands of crown'd Soules throng to be 
Themselves thy crown. Sons of thy vowes 
The virgin-births with which thy soveraign spouse 
Made fruitfull thy fair soul, goe now 
And with them all about thee bow 
To Him, put on (hee'l say) put on 
(My rosy love) That thy rich zone 
Sparkling with the sacred flames 
Of thousand soules, whose happy names 
Heav'n keep upon thy score,. (Thy bright 
Life brought them first to kisse the light 
That kindled them to Starrs.) and so 
Thou with the Lamb, thy lord, shalt goe ; 
And whereso'ere he setts his white 
Stepps, walk with Him those wayes of light 
Which who in death would live to see, 
Must learn in life to dy like thee. 



46 RICHARD CRASHAW 

The Flaming Heart 

Vpon the look and. Picture of the seraphicall saint Teresa^ 
(as she is vsvally expressed with a Seraphim biside her) 

WELL meaning readers ! you that come as freinds 
And catch the pretious name this peice pretends ; 
Make not too much hast to' admire 
That f air-cheek' t fallacy of fire. 
That is a Seraphim, they say 
And this the great Teresia. 
Readers, be rul'd by me ; and make 
Here a well-plac't and wise mistake. 
You must transpose the picture quite, 
And spell it wrong to read it right ; 
Read Him for her, and her for him ; 
And call the Saint the Seraphim. 

Painter, what didst thou understand 
To put her dart into his hand ! 
See, even the yeares and size of him 
Showes this the mother Seraphim. 
This is the mistresse flame ; and duteous he 
Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see. 
O most poor-spirited of men ! 
Had thy cold Pencil kist her Pen 
Thou couldst not so unkindly err 
To show us This faint shade for Her. 
Why man, this speakes pure mortall frame ; 
And mockes with female Frost love's manly flame. 
One would suspect thou meant'st to print 
Some weak, inferiour, woman saint. 
But had thy pale-fac't purple took 
Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright Booke 
Thou wouldst on her have heap't up all 
That could be found Seraphicall ; 



RICHARD CRASHAW 47 

What e're this youth of fire weares fair, 

Rosy fingers, radiant hair, 

Glowing cheek, and glistering wings, 

All those fair and flagrant things, 

But before all, that fiery Dart 

Had fill'd the Hand of this great Heart. 

Doe then as equall right requires, 
Since His the blushes be, and her's the fires, 
Resume and rectify thy rude design ; 
Undresse thy Seraphim into Mine. 
Redeem this injury of thy art ; 
Give Him the vail, give her the dart. 

Give Him the vail ; that he may cover 
The Red cheeks of a rivall'd lover. 
Asham'd that our world, now, can show 
Nests of new Seraphims here below. 

Give her the Dart for it is she 
(Fair youth) shootes both thy shaft and Thee 
Say, all ye wise and well-peirc't hearts 
That live and dy amidst her darts, 
What is't your tastfull spirits doe prove 
In that rare life of Her, and love ? 
Say and bear wittnes. Sends she not 
A Seraphim at every shott ? 
What magazins of immortall Armes there shine ! 
Heavn's great artillery in each love-spun line. 
Give then the dart to her who gives the flame ; 
Give him the veil, who gives the shame. 

But if it be the frequent fate 
Of worst faults to be fortunate ; 
If all's prescription ; and proud wrong 
Hearkens not to an humble song ; 
For all the gallantry of him, 
Give me the suffring Seraphim. 



48 RICHARD CRASHAW 

His be the bravery of all those Bright things. 
The glowing cheekes, the glistering wings ; 
The Rosy hand, the radiant Dart ; 
Leave Her alone The Flaming Heart. 

Leave her that ; and thou shalt leave her 
Not one loose shaft but love's whole quiver. 
For in love's feild was never found 
A nobler weapon then a Wound. 
Love's passives are his activ'st part. 
The wounded is the wounding heart. 
O Heart ! the sequall poise of love's both parts 
Bigge alike with wound and darts. 
Live in these conquering leaves ; live all the same ; 
And walk through all tongues one triumphant Flame. 
Live here, great Heart ; and love and dy and kill ; 
And bleed and wound ; and yeild and conquer still. 
Let this immortall life wherere it comes 
Walk in a crowd of loves and Martyrdomes. 
Let mystick Deaths wait on't ; and wise soules be 
The love-slain wittnesses of this life of thee. 
O sweet incendiary ! shew here thy art, 
Upon this carcasse of a hard, cold, hart, 
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play 
Among the leaves of thy larg Books of day, 
Combin'd against this Brest at once break in 
And take away from me my self and sin, 
This gratious Robbery shall thy bounty be ; 
And my best fortunes such fair spoiles of me. 
O thou undanted daughter of desires ! 
By all thy dowr of Lights and Fires ; 
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove ; 
By all thy lives and deaths of love ; 
By thy larg draughts of intellectuall day, 
And by thy thirsts of love more large then they; 



RICHARD CRASHAW 49 

By all thy brim-filPd Bowles of feirce desire 

By thy last Morning's draught of liquid fire ; 

By the full kingdome of that finall kisse 

That seiz'd thy parting Soul, and seal'd thee his ; 

By all the heav'ns thou hast in him 

(Fair sister of the Seraphim !) 

By all of Him we have in Thee ; 

Leave nothing of my Self in me. 

Let me so read thy life, that I 

Unto all life of mine may dy. 



A Song 

ERD, when the sense of thy sweet grace 
Sends up my soul to seek thy face. 
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire, 
I dy in love's delicious Fire. 

O love, I am thy Sacrifice. 
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes. 
Still shine on me, fair suns ! that I 
Still may behold, though still I dy. 

Though still I dy, I live again ; 
Still longing so to be still slain, 
So gainfull is such losse of breath. 
I dy even in desire of death. 

Still live in me this loving strife 
Of living Death and dying Life. 
For while thou sweetly slayest me 
Dead to my selfe, I live in Thee. 



50 RICHARD CRASHAW 



Prayer 

An Ode which was prefixed to a little Prayer-book given 
to a young Gentle-woman 

Ehere a little volume, but great Book 
A nest of new-born sweets ; 

Whose native fires disdaining 

To ly thus folded, and complaining 

Of these ignoble sheets, 

Affect more comly bands 

(Fair one) from the kind hands 

And confidently look 

To find the rest 
Of a rich binding in your Brest. 
It is, in one choise handfull, heavenn ; and all 
Heavn's Royall host ; incamp't thus small 
To prove that true schooles use to tell, 
Ten thousand Angels in one point can dwell. 
It is love's great artillery 
Which here contracts itself, and comes to ly 
Close couch't in their white bosom : and from thence 
As from a snowy fortresse of defence, 
Against their ghostly foes to take their part, 
And fortify the hold of their chast heart. 
It is an armory of light 
Let constant use but keep it bright, 

You'l find it yeilds 
To holy hands and humble hearts 

More swords and sheilds 
Then sin hath snares, or Hell hath darts. 




RICHARD CRASHAW 51 

Only be sure 

The hands be pure 

That hold these weapons ; and the eyes 
Those of turtles, chast and true ; 

Wakefull and wise ; 
Here is a freind shall fight for you, 
Hold but this book before their heart ; 
Let prayer alone to play his part, 

But 6 the heart 

That studyes this high Art 

Must be a sure house-keeper ; 

And yet no sleeper. 

Dear soul, be strong. 

Mercy will come e're long 
And bring his bosom fraught with blessings, 
Flowers of never fading graces 
To make immortall dressings 
For worthy soules, whose wise embraces 
Store up themselves for Him, who is alone 
The Spouse of Virgins and the Virgin's son. 
But if the noble Bridegroom, when he come 
Shall find the loytering Heart from home ; 

Leaving her chast aboad 

To gadde abroad 

Among the gay mates of the god of flyes ; 
To take her pleasure and to play 
And keep the devill's holyday ; 
To dance th'sunshine of some smiling 

But beguiling 
Spheares of sweet and sugred Lyes, 

Some slippery Pair 
Of false, perhaps as fair, 
Flattering but forswearing eyes ; 



52 RICHARD CRASHAW 

Doubtlesse some other heart 

Will gett the start 
Mean while, and stepping in before 
Will take possession of that sacred store 
Of hidden sweets and holy ioyes. 
Words which are not heard with Eares 
(Those tumultuous shops of noise) 
Effectuall wispers, whose still voice 
The soul it selfe more feeles then heares ; 
Amorous languishments ; luminous trances ; 
Sights which are not seen with eyes ; 
Spirituall and soul-peircing glances 
Whose pure and subtil lightning flyes 
Home to the heart, and setts the house on fire 
And melts it down in sweet desire 

Yet does not stay 

To ask the windows leave to passe that way ; 
Delicious Deaths ; soft exalations 
Of soul ; dear and divine annihilations ; 

A thousand unknown rites 
Of ioyes and rarefy'd delights ; 
A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, 

And many a mystick thing 

Which the divine embraces 
Of the deare spouse of spirits with them will bring 

For which it is no shame 
That dull mortality must not know a name. 

Of all this store 
Of blessings and ten thousand more 

(If when he come 

He find the Heart from home) 

Doubtlesse he will unload 

Himself some other where, 

And poure abroad 



RICHARD CRASHAW 53 

His pretious sweets 
On the fair soul whom first he meets. 
O fair, 6 fortunate ! O riche, 6 dear ! 
O happy and thrice happy she 

Selected dove 

Who ere she be, 

Whose early love 

With winged vowes 
Makes hast to meet her morning spouse 
And close with his immortall kisses. 
Happy indeed, who never misses 
To improve that pretious hour, 

And every day 

Seize her sweet prey 
All fresh and fragrant as he rises 
Dropping with a baulmy Showr 
A delicious dew of spices ; 
O let the blissfull heart hold fast 
Her heavnly arm-full, she shall tast 
At once ten thousand paradises ; 

She shall have power 

To rifle and deflour 

The rich and roseall spring of those rare sweets 
Which with a swelling bosome there she meets 

Boundles and infinite 

Bottomles treasures 
Of pure inebriating pleasures 
Happy proof ! she shal discover 

What ioy, what blisse, 
How many Heav'ns at once it is 
To have her God become her Lover. 



54 
ANDREW MARVELL 

On a Drop of Dew 

SEE how the orient dew 
Shed from the bosom of the Morn 
Into the blowing roses, 
Yet careless of its mansion new, 
For the clear region where 'twas born, 

Round in its self incloses : 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple flow'r does slight, 

Scarce touching where it lyes, 

But gazing back upon the skies, 

Shines with a mournful light, 

Like its own tear, 

Because so long divided from the sphear. 
Restless it roules, and unsecure, 

Trembling, lest it grow impure ; 
Till the warm sun pitty its pain 
And to the skies exhale it back again. 
So the soul, that drop, that ray, 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 
(Could it within the humane flow'r be seen) 
Rememb'ring still its former height, 
Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green, 
And, recollecting its own light, 
Does in its pure and circling thoughts express 
The greater heaven in an heaven less. 
In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ; 
(So the world-excluding round) 
Yet receiving in the day. 



1621-1678 



ANDREW MARVELL 55 

Dark beneath, but bright above, 

Here disdaining, there in love. 

How loose and easie hence to go ; 

How girt and ready to ascend ; 

Moving but on a point below, 

It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew destil, 
White and intire, though congeal'd and chill ; 
Congeal'd on Earth ; but does, dissolving, run 
Into the glories of th' almighty sun. 



The Coronet 

WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long, 
With many a piercing wound, 
My Saviour's head have crowned, 

I seek with garlands to redress that wrong ; 

Through every garden, every mead, 

I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs), 
Dismantling all the fragrant towers 

That once adorn'd my shepherdesse's head : 

And now, when I have summ'd up all my store, 
Thinking (so I my self deceive) 
So rich a chaplet thence to weave 

As never yet the King of Glory wore, 
Alas ! I find the Serpent old, 
That, twining in his speckled breast 
About the flowers disguis'd, does fold, 
With wreaths of fame and interest. 

Ah, foolish man, that would'st debase with them 

And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem ! 

But Thou who only could'st the Serpent tame, 

Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie, 



56 ANDREW MARVELL 

And disintangle all his winding snare ; 
Or shatter too with him my curious frame, 
And let these wither so that he may die 
Though set with skill, and chosen out with care ; 
That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread, 
May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head. 



HENRY VAUGHAN 

1621-1695 
The Search 

EWE, leave, thy gadding thoughts ; 
Who Pores 
and spies 
Still out of Doores, 

descries 
Within them nought. 

The skinne, and shell of things 

Though faire, 

are not 
Thy wish, nor pray'r, 

but got 
By meer Despair 

of wings. 

To rack old Elements, 
or Dust 
and say 
Sure here he must 

needs stay, 
Is not the way, 

nor just. 

Search well another world ; who studies this, 
Travels in Clouds, seeks Manna, where none is. 



HENRY VAUGHAN 57 

The Retreat e 

HAPPY those early dayes ! when I 
Shin'd in my Angell-infancy. 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race, 
Or taught my soul to fancy ought 
But a white, Celestiall thought ; 
When yet I had not walkt above 
A mile, or two, from my first love, 
And looking back (at that short space,) 
Could see a glimpse of his bright-face* 
When on some gilded Cloud, orjlowre 
My gazing soul would dwell an houre, 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity ; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My Conscience with a sinfull sound, 
Or had the black art to dispence 
A sev'rall sinne to ev'ry sence, 
But felt through all this fleshly dresse 
Bright shootes of everlastingnesse. 

O how I long to travell back 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that plain e, 
Where first I left my glorious traine, 
From whence th' Inlightned spirit sees 
That shady City of Palme trees ; 
But (ah !) my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way. 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move, 
And when this dust falls to the urn 
In that state I came return. 



58 HENRY VAUGHAN 

The Morning Watch 

OJOYES ! Infinite sweetnes ! with what flowres, 
And shoots of glory, my soul breakes, and buds ! 

All the long houres 

Of night, and Rest, 

Through the still shrouds 

Of sleep, and Clouds, 
This Dew fell on my Breast ; 

O how it Blonds, 

And Spirits all my Earth ! heark ! In what Rings, 
And Hymning Circulations the quick world 

Awakes, and sings ; 

The rising winds, 

And falling springs, 

Birds, beasts, all things 
Adore him in their kinds. 

Thus all is hurl'd 

In sacred Hymnes, and Order, The great Chime 
And Symphony of nature. Prayer is 

The world in tune, 

A spirit-voyce, 

And vocall joyes 
Whose Eccho is heav'ns blisse. 

O let me climbe 

When I lye down ! The Pious soul by night 
Is like a clouded starre, whose beames though sed 

To shed their light 

Under some Cloud 

Yet are above, 

And shine, and move 
Beyond that mistie shrowd. 

So in my Bed 

That Curtain'd grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide 
My lamp, and life, both shall in thee abide. 



HENRY VAUGHAN 59 

Rules and Lessons 

WHEN first thy Eies unveil, give thy Soul leave 
To do the like ; our Bodies but forerun 
The spirits duty ; True hearts spread, and heave 
Unto their God, as flow'rs do to the Sun. 

Give him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep 
Him company all day, and in him sleep. . . . 

Walk with thy fellow-creatures : note the hush 
And whispers amongst them. There 's not a Spring, 
Or Leafe but hath his Morning-hymn ; Each Bush 
And Oak doth know / AM ; canst thou not sing ? 
O leave thy Cares, and follies ! go this way 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. . . . 

Spend not an hour so, as to weep another, 
For tears are not thine own ; If thou giv'st words 
Dash not thy friend, nor Heaven ; O smother 
A vip'rous thought ; some Syllables are Swords. 

Unbitted tongues are in their penance double, 
They shame their owners, and the hearers trouble. . . . 

When Seasons change, then lay before thine Eys 
His wondrous Method ; mark the various Scenes 
In heav'n ; Hail, Thunder, Rain-bows, Snow, and Ice, 
Calmes, Tempests, Light, and darknes by his means ; 

Thou canst not misse his Praise ; Each tree, herb, 
jlowre 

Are shadows of his wisedome, and his Pow'r. 



The 

SAW Eternity the other night 

Like a great Ring of pure and endless light, 
All calm, as it was bright, 



6o 



HENRY VAUGHAN 



And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years 

Driv'n by the spheres 
Like a vast shadow mov'd, In which the world 

And all her train were hurl'd ; 
The doting Lover in his queintest strain 

Did their Complain, 
Neer him, his Lute, his fancy, and his flights, 

Wits sour delights, 
With gloves, and knots the silly snares of pleasure 

Yet his dear Treasure 
All scatter'd lay, while he his eys did pour 

Upon a flowr. 

The darksome States-man hung with weights and woe 
Like a thick midnight-fog mov'd there so slow 

He did nor stay, nor go ; 
Condemning thoughts (like sad Ecclipses) scowl 

Upon his soul, 
And Clouds of crying witnesses without 

Pursued him with one shout. 
Yet dig'd the Mole, and lest his ways be found 

Workt under ground, 
Where he did Clutch his prey, but one did see 

That policie, 
Churches and altars fed him, Perjuries 

Were gnats and flies, 
It rain'd about him bloud and tears, but he 

Drank them as free. 

The fearfull miser on a heap of rust 

Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust 

His own hands with the dust, 
Yet would not place one peece above, but lives 
In feare of theeves. 



HENRY VAUGHAN 61 

Thousands there were as frantick as himself 

And hug'd each one his pelf, 
The down-right Epicure plac'd heav'n in sense 

And scornd pretence 
While others slipt into a wide Excesse 

Said little lesse ; 
The weaker sort sKght, triviall wares Inslave 

Who think them brave, 
And poor, despised truth sate Counting by 

Their victory. 

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, 
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the Ring, 

But most would use no wing. 
O fools (said I,) thus to prefer dark night 

Before true light, 
To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day 

Because it shews the way, 
The way which from this dead and dark abode 

Leads up to God, 
A way where you might tread the Sun, and be 

More bright than he. 
But as I did their madnes so discusse 

One whisper'd thus, 
This Ring the Bride-groome did for none provide 

But for his bride. 



The Knot 

BRIGHT Queen of Heaven ! Gods Virgin Spouse 
The glad worlds blessed maid ! 
Whose beauty tyed life to thy house, 
And brought us saving ayd. 



62 HENRY VAUGHAN 

Thou art the true Loves-knot ; by thee 

God is made our Allie, 
And mans inferior Essence he 

With his did dignifie. 

For Coalescent by that Band 

We are his body grown, 
Nourished with favors from his hand 

Whom for our head we own. 

And such a Knot, what arm dares loose, 
What life, what death can sever r 

Which us in him, and him in us 
United keeps for ever. 



The Dwelling-place 

WHAT happy, secret fountain, 
Fair shade, or mountain, 
Whose undiscover'd virgin glory 
Boasts it this day, though not in story, 
Was then thy dwelling ? did some cloud 
Fix'd to a Tent, descend and shrowd 
My distrest Lord ? or did a star, 
Becken'd by thee, though high and far, 
In sparkling smiles haste gladly down 
To lodge light, and increase her own ? 
My dear, dear God ! I do not know 
What lodgd thee then, nor where, nor how ; 
But I am sure, thou dost now come 
Oft to a narrow, homely room, 
Where thou too hast but the least part, 
My God, I mean my sinful heart. 



HENRY VAUGHAN 63 

Quickness 

FALSE life ! a foil and no more, when 
Wilt thou be gone ? 
Thou foul deception of all men 
That would not have the true come on. 

Thou art a Moon-like toil ; a blinde 

Self-posing state ; 

A dark contest of waves and winde ; 
A meer tempestuous debate. 

Life is a fix'd, discerning light, 

A knowing -Joy ; 

No .chance, or fit : but ever bright, 
And calm and full, yet doth not cloy. 

'Tis such a blissful thing, that still 

Doth vivifie, 

And shine and smile, and hath the skill 
To please without Eternity. 

Thou art a toylsom Mole, or less 

A moving mist 

But life is, what none can express, / 

A quickness^ which my God hath kist. 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 

? 1636-1674 

Wonder 

HOW like an Angel came I down ! 
How bright are all things here ! 
When first among His works I did appear 
O how their glory me did crown ! 



64 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

The world resembled His Eternity, 

In which my soul did walk ; 
And every thing that I did see 
Did with me talk. 

The skies in their magnificence, 

The lively, lovely air, 
Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair ! 

The stars did entertain my sense, 
And all the works of God, so bright and pure, 

So rich and great did seem, 
As if they ever must endure 
In my esteem. 

A native health and innocence 
Within my bones did grow, 
And while my God did all his Glories show, 

I felt a vigour in my sense 
That was all Spirit. I within did flow 

With seas of life, like wine ; 
I nothing in the world did know 
But 'twas divine. 

Harsh ragged objects were concealed, 
^ Oppressions, tears and cries, 
Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes 

Were hid, and only things revealed 
Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize. 

The state of Innocence 
And bliss, not trades and poverties, 
Did fill my sense. 

The streets were paved with golden stones, 

The boys and girls were mine, 

Oh how did all their lovely faces shine ! 

The sons of men were holy ones, 




THOMAS TRAHERNE 65 

In joy and beauty they appeared to me, 

And every thing which here I found, 
While like an Angel I did see, 
Adorned the ground. 

Rich diamond and pearl and gold 

In every place was seen ; 
Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, 

Mine eyes did everywhere behold. 
Great wonders clothed with glory did appear, 

Amazement was my bliss, 
That and my wealth was everywhere ; 
No joy to this ! 

Cursed and devised proprieties, 

With envy, avarice 
And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise, 

Flew from the splendour of mine eyes, 
And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, 

I dreamed not aught of those, 
But wandered over all men's grounds, 
And found repose. 

Proprieties themselves were mine, 

And hedges ornaments ; 
Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents 
Did not divide my joys, but all combine. 
Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed 

My joys by others worn : 
For me they all to wear them seemed 
When I was born. 



66 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

The Frisian 

FLIGHT is but the preparative. The sight 
Is deep and infinite, 
Ah me ! 'tis all the glory, love, light, space, 

Joy, beauty and variety 
That doth adorn the Godhead's dwelling-place ; 

'Tis all that eye can see. 
Even trades themselves seen in celestial light, 
And cares and sins and woes are bright. 

Order the beauty even of beauty is, 

It is the rule of bliss, 
The very life and form and cause of pleasure ; 

Which if we do not understand, 
Ten thousand heaps of vain confused treasure 

Will but oppress the land. 
In blessedness itself we that shall miss, 
Being blind, which is the cause of bliss. 

First then behold the world as thine, and well 
Note that where thou dost dwell. 

See all the beauty of the spacious case, 
Lift up thy pleas'd and ravisht eyes, 

Admire the glory of the Heavenly place 
And all its blessings prize. 

That sight well seen thy spirit shall prepare, 
The first makes all the other rare. 

Men's woes shall be but foils unto thy bliss, 

Thou once enjoying this : 
Trades shall adorn and beautify the earth, 

Their ignorance shall make thee bright ; 






THOMAS TRAHERNE 67 

Were not their griefs Democritus his mirth ? 

Their faults shall keep thee right : 
All shall be thine, because they all conspire 
To feed and make thy glory higher. 

To see a glorious fountain and an end, 

To see all creatures tend 
To thy advancements, and so sweetly close 

In thy repose : to see them shine 
In use, in worth, in service, and even foes 

Among the rest made thine : 
To see all these unite at once in thee 
Is to behold felicity. 

To see the fountain is a blessed thing, 

It is to see the King 
Of Glory face to face : but yet the end, 

The glorious, wondrous end is more ; 
And yet the fountain there we comprehend, 

The spring we there adore : 
For in the end the fountain best is shown, 
As by effects the cause is known. 

From one, to one, in one to see all things, 

To see the King of Kings 
But once in two ; to see His endless treasures 

Made all mine own, myself the end 
Of all his labours ! 'Tis the life of pleasures ! 

To see myself His friend ! 
Who all things finds conjoined in Him alone, 
Sees and enjoys the Holy One. 



68 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

The Rapture 

SWEET Infancy ! 
O fire of heaven i O sacred Light 
How fair and bright, 
How great am I, 
Whom all the world doth magnify ! 

O Heavenly Joy ! 
O great and sacred blessedness 

Which I possess ! 

So great a joy 
Who did into my arms convey ? 

From God above 
Being sent, the Heavens me enflame : 

To praise his Name 

The stars do move ! 
The burning sun doth shew His love. 

O how divine 

Am I ! To all this sacred wealth, 
This life and health, 
Who raised ? Who mine 

Did make the same ? What hand divine ? 



Dumbness 

SURE Man was born to meditate on things, 
And to contemplate the eternal springs 
Of God and Nature, glory, bliss, and pleasure ; 
That life and love might be his Heavenly treasure ; 
And therefore speechless made at first, that He 
Might in himself profoundly busied be : 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 69 

And not vent out, before he hath ta'en in 
Those antidotes that guard his soul from sin. 

Wise Nature made him deaf, too, that He might 
Not be disturbed, while he doth take delight 
In inward things, nor be depraved with tongues, 
Nor injured by the errors and the wrongs 
That mortal words convey. For sin and death 
Are most infused by accursed breath, 
That flowing from corrupted entrails, bear 
Those hidden plagues which souls may justly fear. 

This, my dear friends, this was my blessed case ; 
For nothing spoke to me but the fair face 
Of Heaven and Earth, before myself could speak, 
/ then my Bliss did, when my silence, break. 
My non-intelligence of human words 
Ten thousand pleasures unto me affords ; 
For while I knew not what they to me said, 
Before their souls were into mine conveyed, 
Before that living vehicle of wind 
Could breathe into me their infected mind, 
Before my thoughts were leavened with theirs, before 
There any mixture was ; the Holy Door, 
Or gate of souls was close, and mine being one 
Within itself to me alone was known. 
Then did I dwell within a world of light, 
Distinct and separate from all men's sight, 
Where I did feel strange thoughts, and such things see 
That were, or seemed, only revealed to me, 
There I saw all the world enjoyed by one ; 
There I was in the world myself alone ; 
No business serious seemed but one ; no work 
But one was found ; and that did in me lurk. 

D'ye ask me what ? It was with clearer eyes 
To see all creatures full of Deities ; 



70 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

Especially one's self : And to admire 

The satisfaction of all true desire : 

'Twas to be pleased with all that God hath done ; 

'Twas to enjoy even all beneath the sun : 

'Twas with a steady and immediate sense 

To feel and measure all the excellence 

Of things ; 'twas to inherit endless treasure, 

And to be rilled with everlasting pleasure : 

To reign in silence, and to sing alone, 

To see, love, covet, have, enjoy and praise, in one ; 

To prize and to be ravished ; to be true, 

Sincere and single in a blessed view 

Of all His gifts. Thus was I pent within 

A fort, impregnable to any sin : 

Until the avenues being open laid 

Whole legions entered, and the forts betrayed : 

Before which time a pulpit in my mind, 

A temple and a teacher I did find, 

With a large text to comment on. No ear 

But eyes themselves were all the hearers there, 

And every stone, and every star a tongue, 

And every gale of wind a curious song. 

The Heavens were an oracle, and spake 

Divinity : the Earth did undertake 

The office of a priest ; and I being dumb 

(Nothing besides was dumb), all things did come 

With voices and instructions ; but when I 

Had gained a tongue, their power began to die. 

Mine ears let other noises in, not theirs, 

A noise disturbing all my songs and prayers. 

My foes pulled down the temple to the ground ; 

They my adoring soul did deeply wound 

And casting that into a swoon, destroyed 

The Oracle, and all I there enjoyed : 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 71 

And having once inspired me with a sense 
Of foreign vanities, they march out thence 
In troops that cover and despoil my coasts, 
Being the invisible, most hurtful hosts. 

Yet the first words mine infancy did hear, 
The things which in my dumbness did appear, 
Preventing all the rest, got such a root 
Within my heart, and stick so close unto 't, 
It may be trampled on, but still will grow 
And nutriment to soil itself will owe. 
The first Impressions are Immortal all, 
And let mine enemies hoop, cry, roar, or call, 
Yet these will whisper if I will but hear, 
And penetrate the heart, if not the ear. 

My Spirit 

MY naked simple Life was I ; 
That Act so strongly shin'd 
Upon the earth, the sea, the sky, 
It was the substance of my mind ; 

The sense itself was I. 
I felt no dross nor matter in my soul, 
No brims nor borders, such as in a bowl 
We see. My essence was capacity, 
That felt all things ; 
The thought that springs 
Therefrom 's itself. It hath no other wings 
To spread abroad, nor eyes to see, 
Nor hands distinct to feel, 

Nor knees to kneel ; 
But being simple like the Deity 
In its own centre is a sphere 
Not shut up here, but everywhere. 



72 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

It acts not from a centre to 

Its object as remote, 
But present is when it doth view, 
Being with the Being it doth note 

Whatever it doth do. 
It doth not by another engine work, 
But by itself ; which in the act doth lurk. 
Its essence is transformed into a true 
And perfect act. 
And so exact 

Hath God appeared in this mysterious fact, 
That 'tis all eye, all act, all sight, 
And what it please can be, 

Not only see, 

Or do ; for 'tis more voluble than light, 
Which can put on ten thousand forms, 
Being cloth'd with what itself adorns. 

This made me present evermore 

With whatsoe'er I saw. 
An object, if it were before 
My eye, was by Dame Nature's law, 

Within my soul. Her store 
Was all at once within me ; all Her treasures 
Were my immediate and internal pleasures, 
Substantial joys, which did inform my mind. 
With all she wrought 
My soul was fraught, 
And every object in my heart a thought 
Begot, or was ; I could not tell, 
Whether the things did there 

Themselves appear, 

Which in my Spirit truly seem'd to dwell ; 
Or whether my conforming mind 
Were not even all that therein shin'd. 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 

But yet of this I was most sure, 

That at the utmost length, 
(So worthy was it to endure) 
My soul could best express its strength. 

It was so quick and pure, 
That all my mind was wholly everywhere, 
Whate'er it saw, 'twas ever wholly there ; 
The sun ten thousand legions off, was nigh : 
The utmost star, 
Though seen from far, 
Was present in the apple of my eye. 
There was my sight, my life, my sense, 
My substance, and my mind ; 

My spirit shin'd 

Even there, not by a transient influence : 
The act was immanent, yet there : 
The thing remote, yet felt even here. 

O Joy ! O wonder and delight ! 

O sacred mystery ! 
My Soul a Spirit infinite ! 
An image of the Deity ! 

A pure substantial light ! 

That Being greatest which doth nothing seem ! 
Why, 'twas my all, I nothing did esteem 
But that alone. A strange mysterious sphere ! 
A deep abyss 
That sees and is 

The only proper place of Heavenly Bliss. 
To its Creator 'tis so near 
In love and excellence, 

In life and sense, 

In greatness, worth, and nature ; and so dear, 
In it, without hyperbole, 
The Son and friend of God we see. 



73 



74 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 



A strange extended orb of Joy, 

Proceeding from within, 
Which did on every side, convey 
Itself, and being nigh of kin 

To God did every way 
Dilate itself even in an instant, and 
Like an indivisible centre stand, 
At once surrounding all eternity. 
'Twas not a sphere, 
Yet did appear, 

One infinite. 'Twas somewhat every where, 
And though it had a power to see 
Far more, yet still it shin'd 

And was a mind 
Exerted, for it saw Infinity. 

'Twas not a sphere, but 'twas a might 

Invisible, and yet gave light. 

O wondrous Self ! O sphere of light, 

O sphere of joy most fair 
O act, O power infinite ; 
O subtile and unbounded air ! 

O living orb of sight ! 

Thou which within me art, yet me ! Thou eye, 
And temple of His whole infinity ! 

O what a world art Thou ! A world within ! 
All things appear, 
All objects are 

Alive in Thee ! Supersubstantial, rare, 

Above themselves, and nigh of kin 

To those pure things we find 

In His great mind 

Who made the world ! Tho' now eclipsed by sin 
There they are useful and divine, 
Exalted there they ought to shine. 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 75 

Amendment 

all things should be mine, 
This makes His bounty most divine. 
But that they all more rich should be, 
And far more brightly shine, 

As used by me ; 

It ravishes my soul to see the end, 
To which this work so wonderful doth tend. 

That we should make the skies 
More glorious far before Thine eyes 
Than Thou didst make them, and even Thee 
Far more Thy works to prize, 

As used they be 

Than as they're made, is a stupendous work, 
Wherein Thy wisdom mightily doth lurk. 

Thy greatness, and Thy love, 
Thy power, in this, my joy doth move ; 
Thy goodness, and felicity 
In this exprest above 

.All praise I see : 

While Thy great Godhead over all doth reign, 
And such an end in such a sort attain. 

What bound may we assign, 
O God, to any work of Thine ! 
Their endlessness discovers Thee 
In all to be divine ; 

A Deity, 

That will for evermore exceed the end 
Of all that creature's wit can comprehend. 



76 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

Am I a glorious spring 
Of joys and riches to my King ? 
Are men made Gods ? And may they see 
So wonderful a thing 

As God in me ? 

And is my soul a mirror that must shine 
Even like the sun and be far more divine ? 

Thy Soul, O God, doth prize 
The seas, the earth, our souls, the skies ; 
As we return the same to Thee 

They more delight Thine eyes, 

And sweeter be 

As unto Thee we offer up the same, 
Than as to us from Thee at first they came. 

O how doth Sacred Love 
His gifts refine, exalt, improve ! 
Our love to creatures makes them be 
In Thine esteem above 
Themselves to Thee ! 
O here His goodness evermore admire ! 
He made our souls to make His creatures higher. 

The Anticipation 

MY contemplation dazzles in the End 
Of all I comprehend, 
And soars above all heights, 
Diving into the depths of all delights. 
Can He become the End, 
To whom all creatures tend, 
Who is the Father of all Infinites ? 
Then may He benefit receive from things, 
And be not Parent only of all springs. 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 77 

The End doth want the means, and is the cause, 

Whose sake, by Nature's laws, 

Is that for which they are. 
Such sands, such dangerous rocks we must beware : 

From all Eternity 

A perfect Deity 

Most great and blessed He doth still appear ; 
His essence perfect was in all its features, 
He ever blessed in His joys and creatures. 

From everlasting He those joys did need, 

And all those joys proceed 

From Him eternally. 
From everlasting His felicity 

Complete and perfect was, 

Whose bosom is the glass, 
Wherein we all things everlasting see. 
His name is Now, His Nature is For-ever : 
None can His creatures from their Maker sever. 

The End in Him from everlasting is 

The fountain of all bliss : 

From everlasting it 
Efficient was, and influence did emit, 

That caused all. Before 

The world, we do adore 
This glorious End. Because all benefit 
From it proceeds : both are the very same, 
The End and Fountain differ but in Name. 

That so the End should be the very Spring 

Of every glorious thing ; 

And that which seemeth last, 
The fountain and the cause ; attained so fast 



78 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

That it was first ; and mov'd 

The Efficient, who so lov'd 
All worlds and made them for the sake of this ; 
It shews the End complete before, and is 
A perfect token of His perfect bliss. 

The End complete, the means must needs be so, 

By which we plainly know, 

From all Eternity 
The means whereby God is, must perfect be. 

God is Himself the means 

Whereby He doth exist : 

And as the Sun by shining 's cloth'd with beams, 
So from Himself to all His glory streams, 
Who is a Sun, yet what Himself doth list. 

His endless wants and His enjoyments be 

From all Eternity 

Immutable in Him : 
They are His joys before the Cherubim. 

His wants appreciate all, 

And being infinite, 
Permit no being to be mean or small 
That He enjoys, or is before His sight. 
His satisfactions do His wants delight. 

Wants are the fountains of Felicity ; 

No joy could ever be 

Were there no want. No bliss, 
No sweetness perfect, were it not for this. 

Want is the greatest pleasure 

Because it makes all treasure. 
O what a wonderful profound abyss 
Is God ! In whom eternal wants and treasures 
Are more delightful since they both are pleasures. 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 79 

He infinitely wanteth all His joys ; 

(No want the soul e'er cloys.) 

And all thqse wanted pleasures 
He infinitely hath. What endless measures, 

What heights and depths may we 

In His felicity 

Conceive ! Whose very wants are endless pleasures. 
His life in wants and joys is infinite, 
And both are felt as His Supreme Delight. 

He 's not like us ; possession doth not cloy, 

Nor sense of want destroy ; 

Both always are together ; 
No force can either from the other sever. 

Yet there 's a space between 

That 's endless. Both are seen 
Distinctly still, and both are seen for ever. 
As soon as e'er He wanteth all His bliss, 
His bliss, tho' everlasting, in Him is. 

His Essence is all Act : He did that He 

All Act might always be. 

His nature burns like fire ; 
His goodness infinitely does desire 

To be by all possesst ; 

His love makes others blest. 
It is the glory of His high estate, 
And that which I for evermore admire, 
He is an Act that doth communicate. 

From all to all Eternity He is 

That Act : an Act of bliss : 

Wherein all bliss to all 
That will receive the same, or on Him call, 



8o THOMAS TRAHERNE 

Is freely given : from whence 

'Tis easy even to sense 
To apprehend that all receivers are 
In Him, all gifts, all joys, all eyes, even all 
At once, that ever will or shall appear. 

He is the means of them, they not of Him. 

The Holy Cherubim, 

Souls, Angels from Him came 
Who is a glorious bright and living Flame, 

That on all things doth shine, 

And makes their face divine. 
And Holy, Holy, Holy is His Name : 
He is the means both of Himself and all, 
Whom we the Fountain, Means, and End do call 



Love 

O NECTAR ! O delicious stream ! 
O ravishing and only pleasure ! Where 
Shall such another theme 
Inspire my tongue with joys or please mine ear ! 
Abridgement of delights ! 

And Queen of sights ! 
O mine of rarities ! O Kingdom wide ! 
O more ! O cause of all ! O glorious Bride ! 
OGod! O Bride of God! O King ! 
O soul and crown of everything ! 

Did not I covet to behold 
Some endless monarch, that did always live 

In palaces of gold, 

Willing all kingdoms, realms, and crowns to give 
Unto my soul ! Whose love 
A spring might prove 



THOMAS TRAHERNE 81 

Of endless glories, honours, friendships, pleasures, 
Joys, praises, beauties and celestial treasures ! 

Lo, now I see there 's such a King, 

The fountain-head of everything ! 

Did my ambition ever dream 
Of such a Lord, of such a love ! Did I 

Expect so sweet a stream 
As this at any time ! Could any eye 
Believe it ? Why all power 

Is used here ; 

Joys down from Heaven on my head do shower, 
And Jove beyond the fiction doth appear 
Once more in golden rain to come 
To Danae's pleasing fruitful womb. 

His Ganymede ! His life ! His joy ! 
Or He comes down to me, or takes me up 

That I might be His boy, 

And fill, and taste, and give, and drink the cup. 
But those (tho' great) are all 

Too short and small, 
Too weak and feeble pictures to express 
The true mysterious depths of Blessedness. 
I am His image, and His friend, 
His son, bride, glory, temple, end. 



An Hymn upon St. Bartholomew s Day 

WHAT powerful Spirit lives within ! 
What active Angel doth inhabit here ! 
What heavenly light inspires my skin, 
Which doth so like a Deity appear ! 



82 THOMAS TRAHERNE 

A living Temple of all ages, I 

Within me see 
A Temple of Eternity ! 
All Kingdoms I descry 
In me. 

An inward Omnipresence here 
Mysteriously like His within me stands, 
Whose knowledge is a Sacred Sphere 
That in itself at once includes all lands. 
There is some Angel that within me can 

Both talk and move, 
And walk and fly and see and love, 
A man on earth, a man 
Above. 

Dull walls of clay my Spirit leaves, 
And in a foreign Kingdom doth appear, 

This great Apostle it receives, 
Admires His works and sees them, standing here. 
Within myself from East to West I move 

As if I were 

At once a Cherubim and Sphere, 
Or was at once above 
And here. 

The Soul 's a messenger whereby 
Within our inward Temple we may be 

Even like the very Deity 
In all the parts of His Eternity. 
O live within and leave unwieldy dross ! 

Flesh is but clay ! 
O fly my Soul and haste away 
To Jesus' Throne or Cross! 
Obey! 



ISAAC WATTS 

1674-1748 

The Incomprehensible 

FAR in the Heavens my God retires : 
My God, the mark of my desires, 
And hides his lovely face ; 
When he descends within my view, 
He charms my reason to pursue, 
But leaves it tir'd and fainting in th j unequal chase. 

Or if I reach unusual height 

Till near his presence brought, 
There floods of glory check my flight, 
Cramp the bold pinions of my wit, 

And all untune my thought ; 
Plunged in a sea of light I roll, 
Where wisdom, justice, mercy, shines ; 
Infinite rays in crossing lines 
Beat thick confusion oil my sight, and overwhelm my 

soul. . . . 

Great God ! behold my reason lies 
Adoring : yet my love would rise 

On pinions not her own : 
Faith shall direct her humble flight, 
Through all the trackless seas of light, 
To Thee, th' Eternal Fair, the infinite Unknown. 



8 4 

ALEXANDER POPE 

1688-1744 

From ' An Essay on Man ' 

A^L are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent : , 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part ; 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns 
As the rapt Seraphim, that sings and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. . . . 
All nature is but art, unknown to thee : 
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see : 
All discord, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evil, universal good. 

JOHN BYROM 

1691-1763 

A Poetical Version of a Letter from 
Jacob Behmen 

TIS Man's own Nature, which in its own Life, 
Or Centre, stands in Enmity and Strife, 
And anxious, selfish, doing what it lists, 
(Without God's Love) that tempts him, and resists ; 
The Devil also shoots his fiery Dart, 
From Grace and Love to turn away the Heart. 



JOHN BYROM 85 

This is the greatest Trial ; 'tis the Fight 
Which Christ, with His internal Love and Light, 
Maintains within Man's Nature, to dispel 
God's Anger, Satan, Sin, and Death, and Hell ; 
The human Self, or Serpent, to devour, 
And raise an Angel from it by His Pow'r. 

Now if God's Love in Christ did not subdue 
In some Degree this Selfishness in you, 
You would have no such Combat to endure ; 
The Serpent, then, triumphantly secure, 
Would unoppos'd exert its native Right, 
And no such Conflict in your Soul excite. 

For all the huge Temptation and Distress 
Rises in Nature, tho' God seeks to bless ; 
The Serpent feeling its tormenting State, 
(Which of itself is a mere anxious Hate,) 
When God's amazing Love comes in, to fill 
And change the selfish to a God-like Will. 

Here Christ, the Serpent-bruiser, stands in Man, 
Storming the Devil's hellish, self-built Plan ; 
And hence the Strife within the human Soul, 
Satan's to kill, and Christ's to make it whole ; 
As by Experience, in so great Degree, 
God in His Goodness causes you to see. . . . 

The next Temptation, which befalls of Course 
From Satan and from Nature's selfish Force, 
Is, when the Soul has tasted of the Love 
And been illuminated from above ; 
Still in its Self -hood it would seek to shine, 
And as its own possess the Light Divine. 



86 JOHN BYROM 

That is, the soulish Nature, take it right, 
As much a Serpent, if without God's Light, 
As Lucifer, this Nature still would claim 
For own Propriety the Heav'nly Flame, 
And elevate its Fire to a Degree 
Above the Light's Good Pow'r, which cannot be. 

This domineering Self, this Nature- Fire, 
Must be transmuted to a Love-Desire. 
Now, when this Change is to be undergone, 
It looks for some own Pow'r, and, finding none, 
Begins to doubt of Grace, unwilling quite 
To yield up its self-willing Nature's Right. 

It never quakes for Fear, and will not die 
In Light Divine, tho' to be blest thereby : 
The Light of -Grace it thinks to be Deceit, 
Because it worketh gently without Heat ; 
Mov'd too by outward Reason, which is blind, 
And of itself sees nothing of this Kind. 

Who knows, it thinketh, whether it be true 
That God is in thee, and enlightens too ? 
Is it not Fancy ? For thou dost not see 
Like other People, who as well as thee 
Hope for Salvation by the Grace of God, 
Without such Fear and Trembling at his Rod. . . 

The own Self-will must die away, and shine, 
Rising thro' Death, in Saving Will Divine ; 
And from the Opposition which it tries 
Against God's Will such great Temptations rise ; 
The Devil too is loth to lose his Prey, 
And see his Fort cast down, if it obey. 



JOHN BYROM 87 

For, if the Life of Christ within arise, 
Self-Lust and false Imagination dies, 
Wholly, it cannot in this present Life, 
But by the Flesh maintains the daily Strife, 
Dies, and yet lives ; as they alone can tell 
In whom Christ fights against the Pow'rs of Hell. 

The third Temptation is in Mind and Will, 
And Flesh and Blood, if Satan enter still ; 
Where the false Centres lie in Man, the Springs 
Of Pride and Lust, and Love of earthly Things, 
And all the Curses wish'd by other Men, 
Which are occasion'd by this Devil's Den. 

These in the Astral Spirit make a Fort, 
Which all the Sins concentre to support ; 
And human Will, esteeming for its Joy 
What Christ, to save it, combats to destroy, 
W T ill not resign the Pride-erected Tow'r, 
Nor live obedient to the Saviour's Pow'r. . . . 

Let go all earthly Will, and be resign'd 
Wholly to Him with all your Heart and Mind ! 
Be Joy or Sorrow, Comfort or Distress, 
Receiv'd alike, for He alike can bless, 
To gain the Victory of Christian Faith 
Over the World and all Satanic Wrath ! 

WILLIAM COWPER 

1731-1800 

From ' The Task ' 

THE Lord of all, himself through all diffus'd, 
Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. 
Nature is but a name for an effect, 
Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire 



88 WILLIAM COWPER 

By which the mighty process is maintain'd, 

Who sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 

Slow circling ages are as transient days ; 

Whose work is without labour ; whose designs 

No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts ; 

And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. 

Him blind antiquity profan'd, not serv'd, 

With self-taught rites, and under various names, 

Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 

And Flora, and Vertumnus ; peopling earth 

With tutelary goddesses and gods 

That were not ; and commending, as they would, 

To each some province, garden, field, or grove. 

But all are under one. One spirit His 

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows 

Rules universal nature. Not a flow'r 

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 

Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 

In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, 

The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 

Happy who walks with him ! whom what he finds 

Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flow'r, 

Or what he views of beautiful or grand 

In nature, from the broad majestic oak 

To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, 

Prompts with remembrance of a present God ! 



8 9 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

1757-1827 

The Divine Image 

HPO Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love 

JL All pray in their distress ; 
And to these virtues of delight 
Return their thankfulness. 

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love 
Is God, our Father dear, 
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love 
Is man, His child and care. 

For Mercy has a human heart, 
Pity a human face, 
And Love, the human form divine, 
And Peace, the human dress. 

Then every man, of every clime, 
That prays in his distress, 
Prays to the human form divine, 
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. 

And all must love the human form, 
In heathen, Turk, or Jew ; 
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell 
There God is dwelling too. 



9 o 



WILLIAM BLAKE 



Ntght 

' I 'HE sun descending in the west, 

1 The evening star does shine ; 
The birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 
The moon, like a flower, 
In heaven's high bower, 
With silent delight 
Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, 
Where flocks have took delight. 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves 
The feet of angels bright ; 
Unseen they pour blessing, 
And joy without ceasing, 
On each bud and blossom, 
And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 
Where birds are cover'd warm ; 
They visit caves of every beast, 
To keep them all from harm. 
If they see any weeping * 
That should have been sleeping, 
They pour sleep on their head, 
And sit down by their bed. 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey, 
They pitying stand and weep ; 
Seeking to drive their thirst away, 
And keep them from the sheep. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 91 

But if they rush dreadful, 
The angels, most heedful, 
Receive each mild spirit, 
New worlds to inherit. 

And there the lion's ruddy eyes 
Shall flow with tears of gold, 
And pitying the tender cries, 
And walking round the fold, 
Saying : ' Wrath, by His meekness. 
And, by His health, sickness 
Is driven away 
From our immortal day. 

' And now beside thee, bleating lamb, 

I can lie down and sleep ; 

Or think on Him who bore thy name, 

Graze after thee and weep. 

For, wash'd in life's river, 

My bright mane for ever 

Shall shine like the gold 

As I guard o'er the fold.' 



Broken Love 

MY Spectre around me night and day 
Like a wild beast guards my way ; 
My Emanation far within 
Weeps incessantly for my sin. 

1 A fathomless and boundless deep, 
There we wander, there we weep ; 
On the hungry craving wind 
My Spectre follows thee behind. 



92 WILLIAM BLAKE 

' He scents thy footsteps in the snow 
Wheresoever thou dost go, 
Thro' the wintry hail and rain. 
When wilt thou return again ? 

' Dost thou not in pride and scorn 
Fill with tempests all my morn, 
And with jealousies and fears 
Fill my pleasant nights with tears ? 

' Seven of my sweet loves thy knife 
Has bereaved of their life. 
Their marble tombs I built with tears ; 
And with cold and shuddering fears. 

1 Seven more loves weep night and day 
Round the tombs where my loves lay, 
And seven more loves attend each night 
Around my couch with torches bright. 

' And seven more loves in my bed 
Crown with wine my mournful head, 
Pitying and forgiving all 
Thy transgressions great and small. 

* When wilt thou return and view 
My loves, and them to life renew ? 
When wilt thou return and live ? 
When wilt thou pity as I forgive ? ' 

( O'er my sins thou sit and moan : 
Hast thou no sins of thy own ? 
O'er my sins thou sit and weep, 
And lull thy own sins fast asleep. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 93 

' What transgressions I commit 
Are for thy transgressions fit. 
They thy harlots, thou their slave ; 
And my bed becomes their grave. 

' Never, never, I return : 
Still for victory I burn. 
Living, thee alone I'll have ; 
And when dead I'll be thy grave. 

' Thro' the Heaven and Earth and Hell 
Thou shalt never, never quell : 
I will fly and thou pursue : 
Night and morn the flight renew.' 

4 Poor, pale, pitiable form 
That I follow in a storm ; 
Iron tears and gr6ans of lead 
Bind around my aching head. 

' Till I turn from Female love 
And root up the Infernal Grove, 
I shall never worthy be 
To step into Eternity. 

* And, to end thy cruel mocks, 
Annihilate thee on the rocks, 
And another form create 
To be subservient to my fate. 

' Let us agree to give up love, 
And root up the Infernal Grove ; 
Then shall we return and see 
The worlds of happy Eternity. 



94 WILLIAM BLAKE 

4 And throughout all Eternity 

I forgive you, you forgive me. 

As our dear Redeemer said : 

" This the Wine, and this the Bread." ' 



The Everlasting Gospel 

'T'HE Vision of Christ that thou dost see 

JL Is my vision's greatest enemy. 
Thine has a great hook nose like thine ; 
Mine has a snub nose like to mine. 
Thine is the Friend of all Mankind ; 
Mine speaks in parables to the blind. 
Thine loves the same world that mine hates ; 
Thy heaven doors are my hell gates. 
Socrates taught what Meletus 
Loath'd as a nation's bitterest curse, 
And Caiaphas was in his own mind 
A benefactor to mankind. 
Both read the Bible day and night, 
But thou read'st black where I read white. 

Was Jesus gentle, or did He 
Give any marks of gentility ? 
When twelve years old He ran away, 
And left His parents in dismay. 
When after three days' sorrow found, 
Loud as Sinai's trumpet-sound : 
' No earthly parents I confess 
My Heavenly Father's business ! 
Ye understand not what I say, 
And, angry, force Me to obey. 
Obedience is a duty then, 
And favour gains with God and men.' 



WILLIAM BLAKE 95 

John from the wilderness loud cried ; 

Satan gloried in his pride. 

' Come,' said Satan, ' come away, 

I'll soon see if you'll obey ! 

John for disobedience bled, 

But you can turn the stones to bread. 

God's high king and God's high priest 

Shall plant their glories in your breast, 

If Caiaphas you will obey, 

If Herod you with bloody prey 

Feed with the sacrifice, and be 

Obedient, fall down, worship me.' 

Thunders and lightnings broke around, 

And Jesus' voice in thunders' sound : 

4 Thus I seize the spiritual prey. 

Ye smiters with disease, make way. 

I come your King and God to seize, 

Is God a smiter with disease ? ' 

The God of this world rag'd in vain : 

He bound old Satan in His chain, 

And, bursting forth, His furious ire 

Became a chariot of fire. 

Throughout the land He took His course, 

And trac'd diseases to their source. 

He curs'd the Scribe and Pharisee, 

Trampling down hypocrisy. 

Where'er His chariot took its way, 

There Gates of Death let in the Day, 

Broke down from every chain and bar ; 

And Satan in His spiritual war 

Dragg'd at His chariot-wheels : loud howl'd 

The God of this world : louder roll'd 

The chariot-wheels, and louder still 

His voice was heard from Zion's Hill, 



96 WILLIAM BLAKE 

And in His hand the scourge shone bright ; 

He scourg'd the merchant Canaanite 

From out the Temple of His Mind, 

And in his body tight does bind 

Satan and all his hellish crew ; 

And thus with wrath He did subdue 

The serpent bulk of Nature's dross, 

Till He had nail'd it to the Cross. 

He took on sin in the Virgin's womb 

And put it off on the Cross and tomb 

To be worshipp'd by the Church of Rome. 

Was Jesus humble ? or did He 

Give any proofs of humility ? 

Boast of high things with humble tone, 

And give with charity a stone ? 

When but a child He ran away, 

And left His parents in dismay. 

When they had wander'd three days long 

These were the words upon His tongue : 

' No earthly parents I confess : 

I am doing My Father's business.' 

When the rich learned Pharisee 

Came to consult Him secretly, 

Upon his heart with iron pen 

He wrote ' Ye must be born again.' 

He was too proud to take a bribe ; 

He spoke with authority, not like a Scribe. 

He says with most consummate art 

' Follow Me, I am meek and lowly of heart, 

As that is the only way to escape 

The miser's net and the glutton's trap.' 

What can be done with such desperate fools 

Who follow after the heathen schools ? 



WILLIAM BLAKE 97 

I was standing by when Jesus died ; 
What I call'd humility, they call'd pride. 
He who loves his enemies betrays his friends. 
This surely is not what Jesus intends ; 
But the sneaking pride of heroic schools, 
And the Scribes' and Pharisees' virtuous rules ; 
For He acts with honest, triumphant pride, 
And this is the cause that Jesus died. 
He did not die with Christian ease, 
Asking pardon of His enemies : 
If He had, Caiaphas would forgive ; 
Sneaking submission can always live. 
He had only to say that God was the Devil, 
And the Devil was God, like a Christian civil ; 
Mild Christian regrets to the Devil confess 
For affronting him thrice in the wilderness ; 
He had soon been bloody Caesar's elf, 
And at last he would have been Caesar himself, 
Like Dr. Priestly and Bacon and Newton 
Poor spiritual knowledge is not worth a button ! 
For thus the Gospel Sir Isaac confutes : 
' God can only be known by His attributes ; 
And as for the indwelling of the Holy Ghost, 
Or of Christ and His Father, it's all a boast 
And pride, and vanity of the imagination, 
That disdains to follow this world's fashion.' 
To teach doubt and experiment 
Certainly was not what Christ meant. 
What was He doing all that time, 
From twelve years old to manly prime ? 
Was He then, idle, or the less 
About His Father's business ? 
Or was His wisdom held in scorn 
Before His wrath began to burn 
MYST. E 



WILLIAM BLAKE 

In miracles throughout the land, 

That quite unnerv'd the Seraph band ? 

If He had been Antichrist, Creeping Jesus, 

He'd have done anything to please us ; 

Gone sneaking into synagogues, 

And not us'd the Elders and Priests like dogs ; 

But humble as a lamb or ass 

Obey'd Himself to Caiaphas. 

God wants not man to humble himself : 

That is the trick of the Ancient Elf. 

This is the race that Jesus ran : 

Humble to God, haughty to man, 

Cursing the Rulers before the people 

Even to the Temple's highest steeple, 

And when He humbled Himself to God 

Then descended the cruel rod. 

' If Thou Humblest Thyself, Thou humblest Me. 

Thou also dwell'st in Eternity. 

Thou art a Man : God is no more : 

Thy own Humanity learn to adore, 

For that is My spirit of life. 

Awake, arise to spiritual strife, 

And Thy revenge abroad display 

In terrors at the last Judgement Day. 

God's mercy and long suffering 

Is but the sinner to judgement to bring. 

Thou on the Cross for them shalt pray 

And take revenge at the Last Day.' 

Jesus replied, and thunders hurl'd : 

' I never will pray for the world. 

Once I did so when I pray'd in the Garden ; 

I wish'd to take with Me a bodily pardon.' 

Can that which was of woman born, 

In the absence of the morn, 



WILLIAM BLAKE 

When the Soul fell into sleep, 

And Archangels round it weep, 

Shooting out against the light 

Fibres of a deadly night, 

Reasoning upon its own dark fiction, 

In doubt which is self-contradiction ? 

Humility is only doubt, 

And does the sun and moon blot out, 

Rooting over with thorns and stems 

The buried soul and all its gems. 

This life's five windows of the soul 

Distorts the Heavens from pole to pole, 

And leads you to believe a lie 

When you see with, not thro', the eye 

That was born in a night, to perish in a night, 

When the soul slept in the beams of light. 

Did Jesus teach doubt ? or did He 
Give any lessons of philosophy, 
Charge Visionaries with deceiving, 
Or call men wise for not believing ? . . . 

Was Jesus born of a Virgin pure 
With narrow soul and looks demure ? 
If He intended to take on sin 
The Mother should an harlot been, 
Just such a one as Magdalen, 
With seven devils in her pen. 
Or were Jew virgins still more curs'd, 
And more sucking devils nurs'd ? 
Or what was it which He took on 
That He might bring salvation ? 
A body subject to be tempted, 
From neither pain nor grief exempted ; 
Or such a body as might not feel 
The passions that with sinners deal ? 



99 



ioo WILLIAM BLAKE 

Yes, but they say He never fell. 

Ask Caiaphas ; for he can tell. 

' He mock'd the Sabbath, and He mock'd 

The Sabbath's God, and He unlock'd 

The evil spirits from their shrines, 

And turn'd fishermen to divines ; 

O'erturn'd the tent of secret sins, 

And its golden cords and pins, 

In the bloody shrine of war 

Pour'd around from star to star, 

Halls of justice, hating vice, 

Where the Devil combs his lice. 

He turn'd the devils into swine 

That He might tempt the Jews to dine ; 

Since which, a pig has got a look 

That for a Jew may be mistook. 

" Obey your parents." What says He ? 

" Woman, what have I to do with thee ? 

No earthly parents I confess : 

I am doing my Father's business." 

He scorn'd Earth's parents, scorn'd Earth's God, 

And mock'd the one and the other's rod ; 

His seventy Disciples sent 

Against Religion and Government 

They by the sword of Justice fell, 

And Him their cruel murderer tell. 

He left His father's trade to roam, 

A wand'ring vagrant without home ; 

And thus He others' labour stole, 

That He might live above control. 

The publicans and harlots He 

Selected for His company, 

And from the adulteress turn'd away 

God's righteous law, that lost its prey.' 



WILLIAM BLAKE 101 

Was Jesus chaste ? or did He 

Give any lessons of chastity ? 

The Morning blushed fiery red : 

Mary was found in adulterous bed ; 

Earth groan'd beneath, and Heaven above 

Trembled at discovery of Love. 

Jesus was sitting in Moses' chair. 

They brought the trembling woman there. 

Moses commands she be ston'd to death. 

What was the sound of Jesus' breath ? 

He laid His hand on Moses' law ; 

The ancient Heavens, in silent awe, 

Writ with curses from pole to pole, 

All away began to roll. 

The Earth trembling and naked lay 

In secret bed of mortal clay ; 

On Sinai felt the Hand Divine 

Pulling back the bloody shrine ; 

And she heard the breath of God, 

As she heard by Eden's flood : 

' Good and Evil are no more ! 

Sinai's trumpets cease to roar ! 

Cease, finger of God, to write-! 

The Heavens are not clean in Thy sight. 

Thou art good, and Thou alone ; 

Nor may the sinner cast one stone. 

To be good only, is to be 

A God or else a Pharisee. 

Thou Angel of the Presence Divine, 

That didst create this Body of Mine, 

Wherefore hast thou writ these laws 

And created Hell's dark jaws ? 

My Presence I will take from thee : 

A cold leper thou shalt be. 



102 WILLIAM BLAKE 

Tho' thou wast so pure and bright 
That Heaven was impure in thy sight, 
Tho' thy oath turn'd Heaven pale, 
Tho' thy covenant built Hell's jail, 
Tho' thou didst all to chaos roll 
With the Serpent for its soul, 
Still the breath Divine does move, 
And the breath Divine is Love. 
Mary, fear not ! Let me see 
The seven devils that torment thee. 
Hide not from My sight thy sin, 
That forgiveness thou may'st win. 
Has no man condemned thee ? ' 
' No man, Lord.' ' Then what is he 
Who shall accuse thee ? Come ye forth, 
Fallen fiends of heavenly birth, 
That have forgot your ancient love, 
And driven away my trembling Dove. 
You shall bow before her feet ; 
You shall lick the dust for meat ; 
And tho' you cannot love, but hate, 
Shall be beggars at Love's gate. 
What was thy love ? Let Me see it ; 
Was it love or dark deceit ? ' 
* Love too long from me has fled ; 
'Twas dark deceit, to earn my bread ; 
'Twas covet, or 'twas custom, or 
Some trifle not worth caring for ; 
That they may call a shame and sin 
Love's temple that God dwelleth in, 
And hide in secret hidden shrine 
The naked Human Form Divine, 
And render that a lawless thing 
On which the Soul expands its wing. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 103 

But this, O Lord, this was my sin, 

When first I let these devils in, 

In dark pretence to chastity 

Blaspheming Love, blaspheming Thee, 

Thence rose secret adulteries, 

And thence did covet also rise. 

My sin Thou hast forgiven me ; 

Canst Thou forgive my blasphemy ? 

Canst Thou return to this dark hell, 

And in my burning bosom dwell ? 

And canst Thou die that I may live ? 

And canst Thou pity and forgive ? ' 

Then roll'd the shadowy Man away 

From the limbs of Jesus, to make them His prey, 

An ever devouring appetite, 

Glittering with festering venoms bright ; 

Crying ' Crucify this cause of distress, 

Who don't keep the secrets of holiness ! 

The mental powers by diseases we bind ; 

But He heals the deaf, the dumb, and the blind. 

Whom God has afflicted for secret ends, 

He comforts and heals and calls them friends.' 

But, when Jesus was crucified, 

Then was perfected His galling pride. 

In three nights He devour'd His prey, 

And still He devours the body of clay ; 

For dust and clay is the Serpent's meat, 

Which never was made for Man to eat. 

Seeing this False Christ, in fury and passion 
I made my voice heard all over the nation. 
What are those. . . 

I am sure this Jesus will not do, 
Either for Englishman or Jew. 



104 WILLIAM BLAKE 

The Crystal Cabinet 

THE Maiden caught me in the wild, 
Where I was dancing merrily ; 
She put me into her Cabinet, 
And lock'd me up with a golden key. 

This Cabinet is form'd of gold 
And pearl and crystal shining bright, 
And within it opens into a world 
And a little lovely moony night. 

Another England there I saw, 
Another London with its Tower, 
Another Thames and other hills, 
And another pleasant Surrey bower, 

Another Maiden like herself, 
Translucent, lovely, shining clear, 
Threefold each in the other clos'd 
O, what a pleasant trembling fear ! 

O, what a smile ! a threefold smile 
Fill'd me, that like a flame I burn'd ; 
I bent to kiss the lovely Maid, 
And found a threefold kiss return'd. 

I strove to seize the inmost form 
With ardour fierce and hands of flame, 
But burst the Crystal Cabinet, 
And like a weeping Babe became 

A weeping Babe upon the wild, 
And weeping Woman pale reclin'd, 
And in the outward air again 
I filPd with woes the passing wind. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 105 

Auguries of Innocence 

TO see a World in a grain of sand, 
And a Heaven in a wild flower, 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, 
And Eternity in an hour. . . . 

The bat that flits at close of eve 
Has left the brain that won't believe. 
The owl that calls upon the night 
Speaks the unbeliever's fright. . . . 

Joy and woe are woven fine, 
A clothing for the soul divine ; 
Under every grief and pine 
Runs a joy with silken twine. . . . 

Every tear from every eye 
Becomes a babe in Eternity. . . . 

The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar 

Are waves that beat on Heaven's shore. . . . 

He who doubts from what he sees 
Will ne'er believe, do what you please. 
If the Sun and Moon should doubt, 
They'd immediately go out. . . . 

God appears, and God is Light, 

To those poor souls who dwell in Night ; 

But does a Human Form display 

To those who dwell in realms of Day. 



io6 WILLIAM BLAKE 

To Thomas Butts 

TO my friend Butts I write 
My first vision of light, 
On the yellow sands sitting. 
The sun was emitting 
His glorious beams 
From Heaven's high streams. 
Over sea, over land, 
My eyes did expand 
Into regions of air, 
Away from all care ; 
Into regions of fire, 
Remote from desire ; 
The light of the morning 
Heaven's mountains adorning : 
In particles bright, 
The jewels of light 
Distinct shone and clear. 
Amaz'd and in fear 
I each particle gazed, 
Astonish'd, amazed ; 
For each was a Man 
Human-form'd. Swift I ran, 
For they beckon'd to me, 
Remote by the sea, 
Saying : * Each grain of sand, 
Every stone on the land, 
Each rock and each hill, 
Each fountain and rill, 
Each herb and each tree, 
Mountain, hill, earth, and sea, 
Cloud, meteor, and star, 
Are men seen afar.' 



WILLIAM BLAKE 107 

I stood in the streams 
Of Heaven's bright beams, 
And saw Felpham sweet 
Beneath my bright feet, 
In soft Female charms ; 
And in her fair arms 
My Shadow I knew, 
And my wife's Shadow too, 
And my sister, and friend. 
We like infants descend 
In our Shadows on earth, 
Like a weak mortal birth. 
My eyes, more and more, 
Like a sea without shore, 
Continue expanding, 
The Heavens commanding ; 
Till the jewels of light, 
Heavenly men beaming bright, 
Appear'd as One Man, 
Who complacent began 
My limbs to enfold 
In His beams of bright gold ; 
Like dross purg'd away 
All my mire and my clay. 
Soft consum'd in delight, 
In His bosom sun-bright 
I remain'd. Soft He smil'd, 
And I heard His voice mild, 
Saying : ' This is My fold, 
O thou ram horn'd with gold, 
Who awakest from sleep 
On the sides of the deep. 
On the mountains around 
The roarings resound 



io8 WILLIAM BLAKE 

Of the lion and wolf, 

The loud sea, and deep gulf. 

These are guards of My fold, 

thou ram horn'd with gold ! 
And the voice faded mild ; 

1 remain'd as a child ; 
All I ever had known 
Before me bright shone : 
I saw you and your wife 
By the fountains of life. 
Such the vision to me 
Appear'd on the sea. 



From ''Milton ' 

A~WD did those feet in ancient time 
Walk upon England's mountains green ? 
And was the holy Lamb of God 

On England's pleasant pastures seen ? 

And did the Countenance Divine 
Shine forth upon our clouded hills ? 

And was Jerusalem builded here 
Among these dark Satanic Mills ? 

Bring me my bow of burning gold ! 

Bring me my arrows of desire ! 
Bring me my spear ! O clouds, unfold ! 

Bring me my chariot of fire ! 

I will not cease from mental fight, 
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 

Till we have built Jerusalem 

In England's green and pleasant land. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 109 

From ''Jerusalem ' 

To the Christians 

I GIVE you the end of a golden string ; 
Only wind it into a ball, 
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, 
Built in Jerusalem's wall. . . . 

England ! awake ! awake ! awake ! 

Jerusalem thy sister calls ! 
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, 

And close her from thy ancient walls ? 

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet 

Gently upon their bosoms move : 
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways ; 

Then was a time of joy and love. 

And now the time returns again : 

Our souls exult, and London's towers 

Receive the Lamb of God to dwell 

In England's green and pleasant bowers. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

1770-1850 
From ' The Excursion ' 



SUCH was the Boy but for the growing Youth 
What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light 1 He looked 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 



i io WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Beneath him : Far and wide the clouds were touched, 

And in their silent faces could he read 

Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 

Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 

The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 

All melted into him ; they swallowed up 

His animal being ; in them did he live, 

And by them did he live ; they were his life. 

In such access of mind, in such high hour 

Of visitation from the living God, 

Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 

No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 

Rapt into still communion that transcends 

The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 

His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 

That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 



Thou, who didst wrap the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed ; 
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
And reason's steadfast rule thou, thou alone 
Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
Which thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 
For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 
Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 
(Submission constituting strength and power) 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH in 

Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 

This universe shall pass away a work 

Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 

A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 

Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 

No more shall stray where meditation leads, 

By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 

Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned Mind 

May yet have scope to range among her own, 

Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 

Still, it may be allowed me to remember 

What visionary powers of eye and soul 

In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 

Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld 

The sun rise up, from distant climes returned 

Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day 

His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 

Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 

Attended ; then, my spirit was entranced 

With joy exalted to beatitude ; 

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 

And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

in 

I have seen 

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 



112 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. 

IV 

To every Form of being is assigned 

An active Principle : howe'er removed 

From sense and observation, it subsists 

In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 

Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 

In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 

That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 

The moving waters, and the invisible air. 

Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 

Beyond itself, communicating good, 

A simple blessing, or with evil mixed ; 

Spirit that knows no insulated spot, 

No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 

It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 

This is the freedom of the universe ; 

Unfolded still the more, more visible, 

The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 

And least respected in the human Mind, 

Its most apparent home. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 113 

From 'On the Power of Sound' 

BY one pervading spirit 
Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 
As sages taught, where faith was found to merit 
Initiation in that mystery old. 
The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 
As they themselves appear to be, 
Innumerable voices fill 
With everlasting harmony ; 
The towering headlands, crowned with mist, 
Their feet among the billows, know 
That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 
Thy pinions, universal Air, 
Ever waving to and fro, 
Are delegates of harmony, and bear 
Strains that support the Seasons in their round ; 
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 

Break forth into thanksgiving, 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ; 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 

Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, 

Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 

Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 

From snowy peak and cloud, attune 

Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 

Of joy, that from her utmost walls 

The six-days' Work by naming Seraphim 

Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 

Shouting through one valley calls, 

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 

For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 



ii4 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 

A Voice to Light gave Being ; 

To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ; 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 

And sweep away life's visionary stir ; 

The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied, 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 

No more than moments of thy life ? 

Is Harmony, blest. queen of smiles and tears, 

With her smooth tones and discords just, 

Tempered into rapturous strife, 

Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though earth be dust 

And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 

Is in the WORD, that shall not pass away. 

Ode : Intimations of Immortality from 
Recollections of Early Childhood 

PHERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
A The earth, and every common sight; 

To me did seem 
- Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 

By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 115 

Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 

Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; 

Thou Child of Joy, 

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 



ii6 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

This sweet May-morning, 

And the Children are culling 
On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

But there 's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The Pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 117 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child., her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 
And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his * humorous stage ' 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
Thy Soul's immensity ; 



ii8 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O.joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 

That nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive ! 

The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 

Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 119 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never : 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be, 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 

And let the young Lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play, 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 



izo WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind ; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering ; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 121 

From ^L.ines composed a few miles above 
Tintern 



FOR I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
Of eye, and ear, both what they half create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The. guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

From ' The Prelude' 



PHUS while the days flew by, and years passed on, 
J. From Nature and her overflowing soul 
I had received so much, that all my thoughts 
Were steeped in feeling ; I was only then 



122 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Contented, when with bliss ineffable 

I felt the sentiment of Being spread 

O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still ; 

O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought 

And human knowledge, to the human eye 

Invisible, yet liveth to the heart ; 

O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, 

Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that glides 

Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 

And mighty depth of waters.' Wonder not 

If high the transport, great the joy I felt 

Communing in this sort through earth and heaven 

With every form of creature, as it looked 

Towards the Uncreated with a countenance 

Of adoration, with an eye of love. 

One song they sang, and it was audible, 

Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, 

O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 

Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. 



Of that external scene which round me lay, 
Little, in this abstraction, did I see ; 
Remembered less ; but I had inward hopes 
And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed, 
Conversed with promises, had glimmering views 
How life pervades the undecaying mind ; 
How the immortal soul with God-like power 
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep 
That time can lay upon her ; how on earth, 
Man, if he do but live within the light 
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad 
His being armed with strength that cannot fail. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 123 

in 

Visionary power 

Attends the motions of the viewless winds, 
Embodied in the mystery of words : 
There, darkness makes abode, and all the host 
Of shadowy things work endless changes, there, 
As in a mansion like their proper home, 
Even forms and substances are circumfused 
By that transparent veil with light divine, 
And, through the turnings intricate of verse, 
Present themselves as objects recognized, 
In flashes, and with glory not their own. 

IV 

Imagination here the Power so called 
Through sad incompetence of human speech, 
That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss 
Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps, 
At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost ; 
Halted without an effort to break through ; 
But to my conscious soul I now can say 
4 I recognize thy glory ' : in such strength 
Of usurpation, when the light of sense 
Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed 
The invisible world, doth greatness make abode, 
There harbours ; whether we be young or old, 
Our destiny, our being's heart and home, 
Is with infinitude, and only there ; 
With hope it is, hope that can never die, 
Effort, and expectation, and desire, 
And something evermore about to be. 
Under such banners militant, the soul 
Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils 
That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts 



124 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

That are their own perfection and reward, 
Strong in herself and in beatitude 
That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile 
Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds 
To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain. 

v 

The brook and road 1 

Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, 
And with them did we journey several hours 
At a slow pace. The immeasurable height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
The stationary blasts of waterfalls, 
And in the narrow rent at every turn 
Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, 
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, 
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 
Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, 
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light 
Were all like workings of one mind, the features 
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree ; 
Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
The types and symbols of Eternity, 
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 

VI 

In some green bower 

Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there 
The One who is thy choice of all the world : 
There linger, listening, gazing, with delight 

1 The passage refers to the Simplon Pass. 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 125 

Impassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 

Unless this love by a still higher love 

Be hallowed, love that breathes not without awe ; 

Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer, 

By heaven inspired ; that frees from chains the soul, 

Lifted, in union with the purest, best, 

Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise 

Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's Throne. 

VII 

This spiritual Love acts not .nor can exist 

Without Imagination, which, in truth, 

Is but another name for absolute power 

And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 

And Reason in her most exalted mood. 

This faculty hath been the feeding source 

Of our long labour - 1 : we have traced the stream 

From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard 

Its natal murmur ; followed it to light 

And open day ; accompanied its course 

Among the ways of Nature, for a time 

Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed ; 

Then given it greeting as it rose once more 

In strength, reflecting from its placid breast 

The works of man and face of human life ; 

And lastly, from its progress have we drawn 

Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought 

Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 

1 The labour shared between the writer and the reader of the 
Prelude. 



126 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

1772-1834 
From ' Religious Musings ' 

i 

THERE is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 
Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 
Truth of subliming import ! with the which 
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, 
He from his small particular orbit flies 
With blest outstarting ! From himself he flies, 
Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 
Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 
And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 
This is indeed to dwell with the Most High ! 
Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim 
Can press no nearer to the Almighty's throne. 
But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 
Unfeeling of our universal Sire, 
And that in His vast family no Cain 
Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow 
Victorious Murder a blind Suicide) 
Haply for this some younger Angel now 
Looks down on Human Nature : and, behold ! 
A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad 
Embattling Interests on each other rush 
With unhelmed rage ! 

'Tis the sublime of man, 
Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves 
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole ! 
This fraternizes man, this constitutes 
Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God 
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole ; 
This the worst superstition, him except 
Aught to desire, Supreme Reality ! 
The plenitude and permanence of bliss ! 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 127 



Toy-bewitched, 

Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul, 
No common centre Man, no common sire 
Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing, 
Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 
Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams 
Feeling himself, his own low self the whole ; 
When he by sacred sympathy might make 
The whole one Self ! Self, that no alien knows ! 
Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel ! 
Self, spreading still ! Oblivious of its own, 
Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 
This the Messiah's destined victory ! 



M 



From * 'Dejection: an Ode' 

Y genial spirits fail ; 
And what can these 1 avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? 
It were a vain endeavour, 
Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the west : 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 

Lady ! we receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does Nature live : 

Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

1 The clouds, the stars, and the moon, at which the poet was 
gazing. 



128 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



Enveloping the Earth 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 



1792-1822 



THE awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats though unseen among us, visiting ' 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower, 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower, 
It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance ; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, 
Like memory of music fled, 
Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

ii 
Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate 

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon 
Of human thought or form, where art thou gone ? 
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, 
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? 
Ask why the sunlight not for ever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain-river, 
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown, 
Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope ? 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 129 

in 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given 
Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain endeavour, 
Frail spells whose uttered charm might not avail to sever, 
From all we hear and all we see, 
Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
Thy light alone like mist o'er mountains driven, 
Or music by the night-wind sent 
Through strings of some still instrument, 
Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

iv * 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies, 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes 
Thou that to human thought art nourishment, 
Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
Depart not as thy shadow came, 
Depart not lest the grave should be, 
Like life and fear, a dark reality. 

v 

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 

Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, 
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 

Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 

I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed ; 

MYST. p 



1 3 o 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



I was not heard I saw them not 

When musing deeply on the lot 
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing 

All vital things that wake to bring 

News of birds and blossoming, 

Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! 

VI 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 

To thee and thine have I not kept the vow ? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they have in visioned bowers 

Of studious zeal or love's delight 

Outwatched with me the envious night 
They know that never joy illumed my brow 

Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free 

This world from its dark slavery, 

That thou O awful LOVELINESS, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. 

VII 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 
Which through the summer is not heard or seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 

Thus let thy power, which like the truth 

Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 

Its calm to one who worships thee, 

And every form containing thee, 

Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love all human kind. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 131 

From ''Adonais ' 

HE is made one with Nature : there is heard 
His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
Which wields the world with never-wearied love, 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there, 
All new successions to the forms they wear ; 
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight 
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ; 
And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. 

The splendours of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not ; 
Like stars to their appointed height they climb 
And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. 

The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 



132 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Until Death tramples it to fragments. Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek ! 
Follow where all is fled ! Rome's azure sky, 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart ! 
A light is passed from the revolving year, 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near : 
'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
No more let Life divide what Death can join together. 

That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, 
That Beauty in which all things work and move, 
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
Which through the web of being blindly wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and sea, 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst ; now beams on me, 
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven, 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 



133 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 

1801-1890 
Mekhizedek 

Without father, without mother, without descent ; having neither 
beginning of days, nor end of life. 

THRICE bless'd are they, who feel their loneliness : 
To whom nor voice of friends nor pleasant scene 

Brings that on which the sadden'd heart can lean ; 
Yea, the rich earth, garb'd in her daintiest dress 
Of light and joy, doth but the more oppress, 

Claiming responsive smiles and rapture high ; 

Till, sick at heart, beyond the veil they fly, 
Seeking His Presence, who alone can bless. 
Such, in strange days, the weapons of Heaven's grace ; 
When, passing o'er the high-born Hebrew line, 
He forms the vessel of His vast design ; 
Fatherless, homeless, reft of age and place, 
Sever'd from earth, and careless of its wreck, 
Born through long woe His rare Mekhizedek. 

From ' The Dream of Gerontius ' 

Choir of Angelicals. 

A DOUBLE debt he has to pay 
The forfeit of his sins : 
The chill of death is past, and now 
The penance-fire begins. 

Glory to Him, who evermore 

By truth and justice reigns ; 
Who tears the soul from out its case, 

And burns away its stains ! 



134 JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 

Angel 

They sing of thy approaching agony, 
Which thou so eagerly didst question of : 
It is the face of the Incarnate God 
Shall smite thee with that keen and subtle pain ; 
And yet the memory which it leaves will be 
A sovereign febrifuge to heal the wound ; 
And yet withal it will the wound provoke, 
And aggravate and widen it the more. 

Soul 

Thou speakest mysteries : still methinks I know 
To disengage the tangle of thy words : 
Yet rather would I hear thy angel voice, 
Than for myself be thy interpreter. 

Angel 

When then if such thy lot thou seest thy Judge, 
The sight of Him will kindle in thy heart 
All tender, gracious, reverential thoughts. 
Thou wilt be sick with love, and yearn for Him, 
And feel as though thou couldst but pity Him, 
That one so sweet should e'er have placed Himself 
At disadvantage such, as to be used 
So vilely by a being so vile as thee. 
There is a pleading in His pensive eyes 
Will pierce thee to the quick, and trouble thee. 
And thou wilt hate and loathe thyself ; for, though 
Now sinless, thou wilt feel that thou hast sinn'd, 
As never thou didst feel ; and wilt desire 
To slink away, and hide thee from His sight : 
And yet wilt have a longing ay to dwell 
Within the beauty of His countenance. 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 135 

And these two pains, so counter and so keen, 
The longing for Him, when thou seest Him not ; 
The shame of self at thought of seeing Him, 
Will be thy veriest, sharpest purgatory. 



The Pillar of the Cloud 

EAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home 

Lead Thou me on ! 

Keep Thou my feet : I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on. 
I loved to choose and see my path ; but now 

Lead Thou me on ! 

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on, 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone ; 

And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 



136 



1803-1849 



JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN 

S. Pa t rick's Hymn before Tarn 
(FROM THE IRISH) 

/CHRIST, as a light, 

\^>i Illumine and guide me ! 
Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me I 
Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! 

Christ be beside me 

On left hand and right ! 
Christ be before me, behind me, about me ! 
Christ this day be within and without me ! 

Christ, the lowly and meek, 

Christ, the All-powerful, be 
In the heart of each to whom I speak, 
In the mouth of each who speaks to me ! 
In all who draw near me, 
Or see me or hear me ! 



At Tara to-day, in this awful hour, 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
Glory to Him who reigneth in power, 
The God of the Elements, Father, and Son, 
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 

The ever-existing Divinity ! 

Salvation dwells with the Lord, 

With Christ, the Omnipotent Word. 

From generation to generation 

Grant us, O Lord, Thy grace and salvation ! 



137 

i 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

1803-1882 
The Problem 

I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl ; 
I love a prophet of the soul ; 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles ; 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 

His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 

Up from the burning core below, 

The canticles of love and woe ; 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 

Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 

Himself from God he could not free ; 

He builded better than he knew ; 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
Painting with morn each annual cell ? 
F3 



138 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 
Such and so grew these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
As the best gem upon her zone ; 
And Morning opes with haste her lids, 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 
As on its friends, with kindred eye ; 
For, out of Thought's interior sphere, 
These wonders rose to upper air ; 
And Nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race, 
And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass ; 

Art might obey, but not surpass. 

The passive Master lent his hand 

To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; 

And the same power that reared the shrine, 

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 

Girds with one flame the countless host, 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 

And through the priest the mind inspires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
The word by seers or sibyls told, 
In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 139 

I know what say the fathers wise, 
The Book itself before me lies, 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line, 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
His words are music in my ear, 
I see his cowled portrait dear ; 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be. 



Ode to Beauty 

WHO gave thee, O Beauty, 
The keys of this breast, 
Too credulous lover 
Of blest and unblest ? 
Say, when in lapsed ages 
Thee knew I of old ? 
Or what was the service 
For which I was sold ? 
When first my eyes saw thee, 
I found me thy thrall, 
By magical drawings, 
Sweet tyrant of all ! 
I drank at thy fountain 
False waters of thirst ; 
Thou intimate stranger, 
Thou latest and first ! 
Thy dangerous glances 
Make women of men ; 
New-born, we are melting 
Into nature again. 



140 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Lavish, lavish pro miser, 
Nigh persuading gods to err ! 
Guest of million painted forms, 
Which in turn thy glory warms ! 
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark, 
The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc, 
The swinging spider's silver line, 
The ruby of the drop of wine, 
The shining pebble of the pond, 
Thou inscribest with a bond, 
In thy momentary play, 
Would bankrupt nature to repay. 

Ah, what avails it 

To hide or to shun 

Whom the Infinite One 

Hath granted His throne ? 

The heaven high over 

Is the deep's lover ; 

The sun and sea, 

Informed by thee, 

Before me run, 

And draw me on, 

Yet fly me still, 

As Fate refuses 

To me the heart Fate for me chooses. 

Is it that my opulent soul 

Was mingled from the generous whole ; 

Sea-valleys and the deep of skies 

Furnished several supplies ; 

And the sands whereof I'm made 

Draw me to them, self-betrayed ? 

I turn the proud portfolios 

Which hold the grand designs 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 141 

Of Salvator, of Guercino, 

And Piranesi's lines. 

I hear the lofty paeans 

Of the masters of the shell, 

Who heard the starry music 

And recount the numbers well ; 

Olympian bards who sung 

Divine Ideas below, 

Which always find us young, 

And always keep us so. 

Oft, in streets or humblest places, 

I detect far-wandered graces, 

Which, from Eden wide astray, 

In lonely homes have lost their way. 

Thee gliding through the sea of form, 
Like the lightning through the storm, 
Somewhat not to be possessed, 
Somewhat not to be caressed. 
No feet so fleet could ever find, 
No perfect form could ever bind. 
Thou eternal fugitive, 
Hovering over all that live, 
Quick and skilful to inspire 
Sweet, extravagant desire, 
Starry space and lily-bell 
Filling with thy roseate smell, 
Wilt not give the lips to taste 
Of the nectar which thou hast. 

All that 's good and great with thee 
Works in close conspiracy ; 
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely 
To report thy features only, 



142 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

And the cold and purple morning 
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning ; 
The leafy dell, the city mart, 
Equal trophies of thine art ; 
E'en the flowing azure air 
Thou hast touched for my despair ; 
And, if I languish into dreams, 
Again I meet the ardent beams. 
Queen of things ! I dare not die 
In Being's deeps past ear and eye ; 
Lest there I find the same deceiver, 
And be the sport of Fate for ever. 
Dread Power, but dear ! if God thou be, 
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me ! 

Brahma 

IF the red slayer think he slays, 
Or if the slain think he is slain, 
They know not well the subtle ways 
I keep, and pass, and turn again. 

Far or forgot to me is near ; 

Shadow and sunlight are the same ; 
The vanished gods to me appear ; 

And one to me are shame and fame. 

They reckon ill who leave me out ; 

When me they fly, I am the wings ; 
I am the doubter and the doubt, 

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. 

The strong gods pine for my abode, 
And pine in vain the sacred Seven ; 

But thou, meek lover of the good ! 

Find me and turn thy back on heaven. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 143 

Worship 

'""PHIS is he, who, felled by foes, 

J. Sprung harmless up, refreshed by blows ! 
He to captivity was sold, 
But him no prison-bars would hold : 
Though they sealed him in a rock, 
Mountain chains he can unlock : 
Thrown to lions for their meat, 
The crouching lion kissed his feet : 
Bound to the stake, no flames appalled, 
But arched o'er him an honouring vault. 
This is he men miscall Fate, 
Threading dark ways, arriving late, 
But ever coming in time to crown 
The truth, and hurl wrong-doers down. 
He is the oldest, and best known, 
More near than aught thou call'st thy own, 
Yet, greeted in another's eyes, 
Disconcerts with glad surprise. 
This is Jove, who, deaf to prayers, 
Floods with blessings unawares. 
Draw, if thou canst, the mystic line 
Severing rightly his from thine, 
Which is human, which divine. 

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 

1803-1875 
Aifhah Shechmah 

A SHAPE, like folded light, embodied air, 
Yet wreathed with flesh, and warm : 
All that of heaven is feminine and fair, 
Moulded in visible form, 



i 4 4 



ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 



She stood, the Lady Shechinah of earth, 

A chancel for the sky : 
Where woke, to breath and beauty, God's own Birth, 

For men to see Him by. 

Round her, too pure to mingle with the day, 

Light, that was life, abode ; 
Folded within her fibres meekly lay 

The link of boundless God. 

So linked, so blent, that when, with pulse fulfilled, 

Moved but that Infant Hand, 
Far, far away, His conscious Godhead thrilled, 

And stars might understand. 

Lo ! where they pause, with inter-gathering rest, 

The Threefold, and the One ; 
And lo, He binds them to her orient breast, 

His manhood girded on. 

The zone, where two glad worlds for ever meet, 

Beneath that bosom ran : 
Deep in that womb the conquering Paraclete 

Smote Godhead on to man. 



Sole scene among the stars, where, yearning, glide 

The Threefold and the One ; 
Her God upon her lap, the Virgin Bride, 

Her awful Child, her Son ! 



ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 145 

From ' The Quest of the Sangraal ' 

T^HEN came Sir Joseph, hight, of Arimathee, 

J. Bearing that awful vase, the Sangraal ! 
The vessel of the Pasch, Shere Thursday night : 
The selfsame Cup, wherein the faithful Wine 
Heard God, and was obedient unto Blood ! 
Therewith he knelt, and gathered blessed drops 
From his dear Master's Side that sadly fell, 
The ruddy dews from the great Tree of Life : 
Sweet Lord ! what treasures ! like the priceless gems, 
Hid in the tawny casket of a king 
A ransom for an army, one by one. 
That wealth he cherished long ; his very soul 
Around his ark ; bent, as before a shrine ! 
He dwelt in orient Syria : God's own land : 
The ladder-foot of heaven where shadowy shapes 
In white apparel glided up and down ! 
His home was like a garner, full of corn 
And wine and oil : a granary of God ! 
Young men, that no one knew, went in and out, 
With a far look in their eternal eyes ! 
All things were strange and rare : the Sangraal 
As though it clung to some etherial chain, 
Brought down high heaven to earth at Arimathee. 
He lived long centuries ! and prophesied. 
A girded pilgrim ever and anon : 
Cross-staff in hand, and folded at his side, 
The mystic marvel of the feast of blood ! 
Once in old time he stood in this dear land, 
Enthralled : for lo ! a sign ! his grounded staff 
Took root, and branched, and bloomed, like Aaron's rod ; 
Thence came the shrine, the cell : therefore he dwelt, 
The vassal of the vase, at Avalon ! 



i 4 6 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

1806-1861 
Chorus of Eden Spirits 

(Chanting from Paradise, while Adam and Eve 
fly across the Sword- glare) 

HEARKEN, oh hearken ! let your souls behind you 
Turn, gently moved ! 
Our voices feel along the Dread to find you, 

O lost, beloved ! 
Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels, 

They press and pierce : 
Our requiems follow, fast on our evangels, 

Voice throbs in verse. 
We are but orphaned spirits left in Eden 

A time ago : 
God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden 

To feed you so. 
But now our right hand hath no cup remaining, 

No work to do, 
The mystic hydromel is spilt, and staining 

The whole earth through. 
Most ineradicable stains, for showing 

(Not interfused !) 
That brighter colours were the world's foregoing, 

Than shall be used. 
Hearken, oh hearken ! ye shall hearken surely 

For years and years, 
The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely, 

Of spirits' tears. 
The yearning to a beautiful* denied you, 

Shall strain your powers. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 147 

Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide you, 

Resumed from ours. 
In all your music, our pathetic minor 

Your ears shall cross ; 
And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner, 

With sense of loss. 
We shall be near you in your poet-languors 

And wild extremes, 
What time ye vex the desert with vain angers, 

Or mock with dreams. 
And when upon you, weary after roaming, 

Death's seal is put, 
By the foregone ye shall discern the coming, 

Through eyelids shut. 



From ''The Soul's Travelling 

GOD, God ! 
With a child's voice I cry, 
Weak, sad, confidingly 

God, God ! 

Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up 
Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop 

As ours, o'er many a tear ! 
Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad, 
Two little tears suffice to cover all : 
Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal 
Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer 
Expiring in the woods that care for none 
Of those delightsome flowers they die upon. 

O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath 
We name our souls, self-spoilt ! by that strong passion 



148 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Which paled Thee once with sighs, by that strong death 
Which made Thee once unbreathing from the wrack 
Themselves have called around them, call them back, 
Back to Thee in continuous aspiration ! 

For here, O Lord, 

For here they travel vainly, vainly pass 
From city-pavement to untrodden sward, 
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass 
Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, very vain 
The greatest speed of all these souls of men ' 
Unless they travel upward to the throne 
Where sittest THOU, the satisfying ONE, 
With help for sins and holy perfectings 
For all requirements while the archangel, raising 
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing, 
Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings. 



Human Life's Mystery 

WE sow the glebe, we reap the corn, 
We build the house- where we may rest, 
And then, at moments, suddenly, 
We look up to the great wide sky, 
Inquiring wherefore we were born .... 
For earnest or for jest ? 



The senses folding thick and dark 
About the stifled soul within, 

We guess diviner things beyond, 

And yearn to them with yearning fond ; 

We strike out blindly to a mark 
Believed in, but not seen. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 149 

We vibrate to the pant and thrill 

Wherewith Eternity has curled 
In serpent-twine about God's seat ; 
While, freshening upward to His feet, 
In gradual growth His full-leaved will 

Expands from world to world. 

And, in the tumult and excess 

Of act and passion under sun, 
We sometimes hear oh, soft and far, 
As silver star did touch with star, 
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness 

Through all things that are done. 

God keeps His holy mysteries 

Just on the outside of man's dream ; 
In diapason slow, we think 
To hear their pinions rise and sink, 
While they float pure beneath His eyes, 

Like swans adown a stream. 

Abstractions, are they, from the forms 

Of His great beauty ? exaltations 
From His great glory ? strong previsions 
Of what we shall be ? intuitions 
Of what we are in calms and storms, 

Beyond our peace and passions ? 

Things nameless ! which, in passing so, 

Do stroke us with a subtle grace. 
We say, ' Who passes ? ' they are dumb. 
We cannot see them go or come : 
Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow 

Upon a blind man's face. 



150 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Yet, touching so, they draw above 

Our common thoughts to Heaven's unknown, 
Our daily joy and pain advance 
To a divine significance, 
Our human love O mortal love, 

That light is not its own ! 

And sometimes horror chills our blood 

To be so near such mystic Things, 
And we wrap round us for defence 
Our purple manners, moods of sense 
As angels from the face of God 

Stand hidden in their wings. 

And sometimes through life's heavy swound 
We grope for them ! with strangled breath 

We stretch our hands abroad and try 

To reach them in our agony, 

And widen, so, the broad life-wound 
Which soon is large enough for death. 

From ''Aurora Leigh ' 

' I 'RUTH, so far, in my book ; the truth which draws 

1 Through all things upwards, that a twofold world 
Must go to a perfect cosmos. Natural things 
And spiritual, who separates those two 
In art, in morals, or the social drift 
Tears up the bond of nature and brings death, 
Paints futile pictures, writes unreal verse, 
Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly with men, 
Is wrong, in short, at all points. We divide 
This apple of life, and cut it through the pips, 
The perfect round which fitted Venus' hand 
Has perished as utterly as if we ate 
Both halves. Without the spiritual, observe, 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 151 

The natural 's impossible, no form, 

No motion : without sensuous, spiritual 

Is inappreciable, no beauty or power : 

And in this twofold sphere the twofold man 

(For still the artist is intensely a man) 

Holds firmly by the natural, to reach 

The spiritual beyond it, fixes still 

The type with mortal vision, to pierce through, 

With eyes immortal, to the antetype 

Some call the ideal, better call the real, 

And certain to be called so presently 

When things shall have their names. Look long enough 

On any peasant's face here, coarse and lined, 

You'll catch Antinous somewhere in that clay, 

As perfect featured as he yearns at Rome 

From marble pale with beauty ; then persist, 

And, if your apprehension 's competent, 

You'll find some fairer angel at his back, 

As much exceeding him as he the boor, 

And pushing him with empyreal disdain 

For ever out of sight. Aye, Carrington 

Is glad of such a creed : an artist must, 

Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common stone 

With just his hand, and finds it suddenly 

A-piece with and conterminous to his soul. 

Why else do these things move him, leaf, or stone ? 

The bird's not moved, that pecks at a spring-shoot ; 

Nor yet the horse, before a quarry, a-graze : 

But man, the twofold creature, apprehends 

The twofold manner, in and outwardly, 

And nothing in the world comes single to him, 

A mere itself, cup, column, or candlestick, 

All patterns of what shall be in the Mount ; 

The whole temporal show related royally, 



152 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

And built up to eterne significance 

Through the open arms of God. ' There 's nothing great 

Nor small ', has said a poet of our day, 

Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve 

And not be thrown out by the matin's bell : 

And truly, I reiterate, nothing's small ! 

No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee, 

But finds some coupling with the spinning stars ; 

No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere ; 

No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim ; 

And (glancing on my own thin, veined wrist), 

In such a little tremor of the blood 

The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul 

Doth utter itself distinct. Earth 's crammed with heaven, 

And every common bush afire with God ; 

But only he who sees, takes off his'shoes, 

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries, 

And daub their natural faces unaware 

More and more from the first similitude. 

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, ARCHBISHOP 

OF DUBLIN 

1807-1886 

' If there had anywhere ' 

IF there had anywhere appeared in space 
Another place of refuge, where to flee, 
Our hearts had taken refuge in that place, 
And not with Thee. 

For we against creation's bars had beat 

Like prisoned eagles, through great worlds had sought 
Though but a foot of ground to plant our feet, 
Where Thou wert not. 



RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH 153 

And only when we found in earth and air, 

In heaven or hell, that such might nowhere be 
That we could not flee from Thee anywhere, 
We fled to Thee. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

1809-1849 

The Goddess s Song from ''Al 

SPIRIT ! that dwellest where, 
In the deep sky, 
The terrible and fair, 

In beauty vie ! 
Beyond the line of blue 

The boundary of the star 
Which turneth at the view 

Of thy barrier and thy bar 
Of the barrier overgone 

By the comets who were cast 
From their pride and from their throne 

To be drudges till the last 
To be carriers of fire 

(The red fire of their heart) 
With speed that may not tire 

And with pain that shall not part 
Who livest that we know 

In Eternity we feel 
But the shadow of whose brow 

What spirit shall reveal ? 
Though the beings whom thy Nesace, 

Thy messenger hath known, 
Have dreamed for thy Infinity 

A model of their own 



154 EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Thy will is done, O God ! 

The star hath ridden high 
Through many a tempest, but she rode 

Beneath thy burning eye ; 
And here, in thought, to thee 

In thought that can alone 
Ascend thy empire, and so be 

A partner of thy throne 
By winged Fantasy, 

My embassy is given, 
Till secrecy shall knowledge be 

In the environs of Heaven. 



RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD 

HOUGHTON 

1809-1885 

The Sayings of Jtabia 



A PIOUS friend one day of Rabia asked, 
How she had learnt the truth of Allah wholly ? 
By what instructions was her memory tasked 

How was her heart estranged from this world's folly ? 

She answered * Thou, who knowest God in parts, 
Thy spirit's moods and processes can tell ; 

I only know that in my heart of hearts 

I have despised myself and loved Him well.' 



Some evil upon Rabia fell, 
And one who loved and knew her well 
Murmured that God with pain undue 
Should strike a child so fond and true : 



RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 155 

But she replied ' Believe and trust 
That all I suffer is most just ; 
I had in contemplation striven 
To realize the joys of heaven ; 
I had extended fancy's flights 
Through all that region of delights, 
Had counted, till the numbers failed, 
The pleasures on the blest entailed, 
Had sounded the ecstatic rest 
I should enjoy on Allah's breast ; 
And for those thoughts I now atone 
That were of something of my own, 
And were not thoughts of Him alone.' 



in 
When Rabia unto Mekkeh came, 

She stood awhile apart alone, 
Nor joined the crowd with hearts on flame 

Collected round the sacred stone. 

She, like the rest, with toil had crossed 
The waves of water, rock, and sand, 

And now, as one long tempest-tossed, 
Beheld the Kaabeh's promised land. 

Yet in her eyes no transport glistened ; 

She seemed with shame and sorrow bowed ; 
The shouts of prayer she hardly listened, 

But beat her heart and cried aloud : 

' O heart ! weak follower of the weak, 

That thou should'st traverse land and sea, 

In this far place that God to seek 
Who long ago had come to thee ! ' 



156 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 

IV 

Round holy Rabia's suffering bed 

The wise men gathered, gazing gravely 

' Daughter of God ! ' the youngest said, 
' Endure thy Father's chastening bravely ; 

They who have steeped their souls in prayer 

Can every anguish calmly bear.' 

She answered not, and turned aside, 
Though not reproachfully nor sadly ; 

' Daughter of God ! ' the eldest cried, 
1 Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly ; 

They who have learnt to pray aright, 

From pain's dark well draw up delight.' 

Then she spoke out ' Your words are fair ; 

But, oh ! the truth lies deeper still ; 
I know not, when absorbed in prayer, 

Pleasure or pain, or good or ill ; 
They who God's face can understand 
Feel not the motions of His hand.' 



From ' Ghazeks ' 

AjL things once are things for ever ; 
Soul, once living, lives for ever ; 
Blame not what is only once, 
When that once endures for ever ; 
Love, once felt, though soon forgot, 
Moulds the heart to good for ever ; 
Once betrayed from childly faith, 
Man is conscious man for ever ; 
Once the void of life revealed, 
It must deepen on for ever, 



RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 157 

Unless God fill up the heart 
With Himself for once and ever : 
Once made God and man at once, 
God and man are one for ever. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

1809-1892 
St. Agnes' Eve 

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon : 
My breath to heaven like vapour goes : 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 



158 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide 
A light upon the shining sea 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 



Sir Galahad 

MY good blade carves the casques of men, 
My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favours fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 159 

But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white. 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 



160 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields 

A maiden knight to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odours haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armour that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move' the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
1 O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near.' 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 161 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



The Higher Pantheism 

THE sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and 
the plains 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He 

seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in 

dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; 
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 
l l am P? 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest thy 

doom, 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and 

gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit 

can meet 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and 

feet. 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 
MYST. G 



162 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in 
a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man can 
not see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision were it not He ? 



' Flower in the crannied wall 3 

FLOWER in the crannied wall, 
I pluck you out of the crannies ; 
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 
Little flower but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



From ' In Memoriam ' 

i 

TT^VEAR friend, far off, my lost desire, 
\_J So far, so near in woe and weal ; 

O loved the most, when most I feel 
There, is a lower and a higher ; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 163 

ii 
Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

in 
O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 

Rise in the spiritual rock, 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 

A voice as unto him that hears, 

A cry above the conquer'd years 
To one that with us works, and trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



164 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

From ' The Holy Grail' 



BUT she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for her feet ; 
And out of this she plaited broad and long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread 
And crimson in the belt a strange device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam ; 
And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him, 
Saying, ' My knight, my love, my knight of heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen, 
And break thro' all, till one will crown thee king 
Far in the spiritual city : ' and as she spake 
She sent the deathless passion in her eyes 
Thro' him, and made him hers, and laid her mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

Then came a year of miracle : O brother, 
In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, 
Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away, 
And carven with strange figures ; and in and out 
The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll 
Of letters in a tongue no man could read. 
And Merlin call'd it ' The Siege perilous,' 
Perilous for good and ill ; ' for there,' he said, 
' No man could sit but he should lose himself : ' 
And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 
In his own chair, and so was lost ; but he, 
Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, 
Cried, ' If I lose myself, I save myself ! ' 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 165 



. . . When the hermit made an end, 
In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone 
Before us, and against the chapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt in prayer. 
And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, 
And at the sacring of the mass I saw 
The holy elements alone ; but he : 
* Saw ye no more ? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine : 
I saw the fiery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread, and went ; 
And hither am I come ; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, 
This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, nor come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night and day, 
Fainter by day, but always in the night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken'd marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode, 
Shattering all evil customs everywhere, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, and made them mine, 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, 
And broke thro' all, and in the strength of this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, 
And hence I go ; and one will crown me king 
Far in the spiritual city ; and come thou, too, 
For thou shalt see the vision when I go.' 

While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, 
Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew 
One with him, to believe as he believed. 
Then, when the day began to wane, we went. 



166 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

There rose a hill that none but man could climb, 
Scarr'd with a hundred wintry watercourses 
Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, storm 
Round us and death ; for every moment glanced 
His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick and thick 
The lightnings here and there to left and right 
Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, 
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, 
Sprang into fire : and at the base we found 
On either hand, as far as eye could see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil smell, 
Part black, part whiten'd with the bones of men, 
Not to be crost, save that some ancient king 
Had built a way, where, link'd with many a bridge, 
A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. 
And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, 
And every bridge as quickly as he crost 
Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I yearn'd 
To follow ; and thrice above him all the heavens 
Open'd and blazed with thunder such as seem'd 
Shoutings of all the sons of God : and first 
At once I saw him far on the great Sea, 
In silver-shining armour starry-clear ; 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung 
Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. 
And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, 
If boat it were I saw not whence it came. 
And when the heavens open'd and blazed again 
Roaring, I saw him like a silver star 
And had he set the sail, or had the boat 
Become a living creature clad with wings ? 
And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung 
Redder than any rose, a joy to me, 
For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 167 

Then in a moment when they blazed again 
Opening, I saw the least of little stars 
Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star 
I saw the spiritual city and all her spires 
And gateways in a glory like one pearl 
No larger, tho' the goal of all the saints 
Strike from the sea ; and from the star there shot 
A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there 
Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, 
Which never eyes on earth again shall see. 

The Human Cry 

HALLOWED be Thy name Halleluiah ! 
Infinite Ideality ! 
Immeasurable Reality ! 
Infinite Personality ! 
Hallowed be Thy name Halleluiah ! 

We feel we are nothing for all is Thou and in Thee ; 
We feel we are something that also has come from Thee ; 
We know we are nothing but Thou wilt help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name Halleluiah ! 

From ' The Ancient Sage ' 

IF thou would'st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive 
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self, 
There, brooding by the central altar, thou 
May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice, 
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise, 
As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst not know ; 
For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake 
That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there 



168 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

But never yet hath dipt into the abysm, 
The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, within 
The blue of sky and sea, the green of earth, 
And in the million-millionth of a grain 
Which cleft and cleft again for evermore, 
And ever vanishing, never vanishes, 
To me, my son, more mystic than myself, 
Or even than the Nameless is to me. 

And when thou sendest thy free soul thro' heaven, 
Nor understandest bound nor boundlessness, 
Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred names. 

And if the Nameless should withdraw from all 
Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world 
Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark. 

' And since from when this earth began 

The Nameless never came 
Among us, never spake with man, 

And never named the Name ' 

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O my son, 
Nor canst thou prove the world thou movest in, 
Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone, 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone, 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one : 
Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no 
Nor yet that thou art mortal nay my son, 
Thou canst not prove that I, who speak with thee, 
Am not thyself in converse with thyself, 
For nothing worthy proving can be proven, 
Nor yet disproven : wherefore thou be wise, 
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, 
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith ! 
She reels not in the storm of warring words, 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 169 

She brightens at the clash of ' Yes > and * No ', 

She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the Worst, 

She feels the Sun is hid but for a night, 

She spies the summer thro' the winter bud, 

She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls, 

She hears the lark within the songless egg, 

She finds the fountain where they wail'd * Mirage ' ! 



JOHN STUART BLACKIE 

1809-1895 

things are full of God 

A^L things are full of God. Thus spoke 
Wise Thales in the days 
When subtle Greece to thought awoke 

And soared in lofty ways. 
And now what wisdom have we more I 

No sage divining-rod 
Hath taught than this a deeper lore, 

ALL THINGS ARE FULL OF GOD. 

The Light that gloweth in the sky 

And shimmers in the sea, 
That quivers in the painted fly 

And gems the pictured lea, 
The million hues of Heaven above 

And Earth below are one, 
And every lightful eye ddth love 

The primal light, the Sun. 

Even so, all vital virtue flows 

From life's first fountain, God ; 
And he who feels, and he who knows, 

Doth feel and know from God. 
G3 



170 JOHN STUART BLACKIE 

As fishes swim in briny sea, 
As fowl do float in air, 

From Thy embrace we cannot flee ; 
We breathe, and Thou art there. 

Go, take thy glass, astronomer, 

And all the girth survey 
Of sphere harmonious linked to sphere, 

In endless bright array. 
All that far-reaching Science there 

Can measure with her rod, 
All powers, all laws, are but the fair 

Embodied thoughts of God. 



Trimurti 

TRIMURTI, Trimurti, 
Despise not the name ; 
Think and know 

Before thou blame ! 

Look upon the face of Nature 

In the flush of June ; 
BRAHMA is the great Creator, 

Life is Brahma's boon. 
Dost thou hear the zephyr blowing 

That is Brahma's breath, 
Vital breath, live virtue showing 

'Neath the ribs of death. 
Dost thou see the fountain flowing ? 

That is Brahma's blood, 
Lucid blood the same is glowing 

In the purpling bud. 



JOHN STUART BLACKIE 171 

Brahma's Eyes look forth divining 

From the welkin's brow, 
Full bright eyes the same are shining 

In the sacred cow. 
Air, and Fire, and running River, 

And the procreant clod, 
Are but faces changing ever 

Of one changeless God. 
When thy winged thought ascendeth 

Where high thoughts are free, 
This is Brahma when he lendeth 

Half the God to thee. 
Brahma is the great Creator, 

Life a mystic drama ; 
Heaven, and Earth, and living Nature 

Are but masks of Brahma. 



ROBERT BROWNING 

1812-1889 
From ' Pauline ' 

OGOD, where does this tend these struggling 
aims ? 

What would I have ? What is this ' s-leep ', which seems 
To bound all ? can there be a * waking ' point 
Of crowning life ? The soul would never rule 
It would be first in all things it would have 
Its utmost pleasure filled, but that complete 
Commanding for commanding sickens it. 
The last point I can trace is, rest beneath 
Some better essence than itself in weakness ; 
This is ' myself ' not what I think should be 
And what is that I hunger for but God ? 



172 



ROBERT BROWNING 



My God, my God ! let me for once look on thee 

As tho' nought else existed : we alone. 

And as creation crumbles, my soul's spark 

Expands till I can say, ' Even from myself 

I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee ; 

I do not plead my rapture in thy works 

For love of thee or that I feel as one 

Who cannot die but there is that in me 

Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.' 

Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress ? 

Why have I laboured to put out my life ? 

Is it not in my nature to adore, 

And e'en for all my reason do I not 

Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him now ? 

Can I forgo the trust that he loves me ? 

Do I not feel a love which only ONE . . . 

thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed, 

1 have denied thee calmly do I not 

Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds, 
And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flash 
The brightest gleams of earth's philosophy ? 
Do I not shake to hear aught question thee ? 
If I am erring save me, madden me, 
Take from me powers and pleasures let me die. 
Ages, so I see thee : I am knit round 
As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride, 
Yet tho' my wandering dreams have seen all shapes 
Of strange delight, oft have I stood by thee 
Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee 
In the damp night by weeping Olivet, 
Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less 
Or dying with thee on the lonely cross 
Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 173 

From 4 Paracelsus ' 



TRUTH is within ourselves ; it takes no rise 
From outward things, whate'er you may believe. 
There is an inmost centre in us all, 
Where truth abides in fullness ; and around, 
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
This perfect, clear perception which is truth. 
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
Binds it, and makes all error : and, to KNOW, 
Rather consists in opening out a way 
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, 
Than in effecting entry for a light 
Supposed to be without. 

ii 

I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, 
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 
But somehow felt and known in every shift 
And change in the spirit, nay, in every pore 
Of the body, even,) what God is, what we are 
What life is how God tastes an infinite joy 
In infinite ways one everlasting bliss, 
From whom all being emanates, all power 
Proceeds ; in whom is life for evermore, 
Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
Includes ; where dwells enjoyment there is he : 
With still a flying point of bliss remote, 
A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
Of distant glory in full view ; thus climbs 
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. 
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, 
And the earth changes like a human face ; 



174 ROBERT BROWNING 

The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, 

Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright 

In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, 

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask 

God joys therein ! The wroth sea's waves are edged 

With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, 

When, in the solitary waste, strange groups 

Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, 

Staring together with their eyes on flame 

God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. 

Then all is still ; earth is a wintry clod : 

But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 

Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure 

Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 

The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, 

Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face ; 

The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms 

Like chrysalids impatient for the air, 

The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run 

Along the furrows, ants make their ado ; 

Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark 

Soars up and up, shivering for very joy ; 

Afar the ocean sleeps ; white fishing-gulls 

Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe 

Of nested limpets ; savage creatures seek 

Their loves in wood and plain and God renews 

His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all, 

From life's minute beginnings, up at last 

To man the consummation of this scheme 

Of being, the completion of this sphere 

Of life : whose attributes had here and there 

Been scattered o'er the visible world before, 

Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant 

To be united in some wondrous whole, 






ROBERT BROWNING 175 

Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
Suggesting some one creature yet to make, 
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 
Convergent in the faculties of man. 



From 'Saul 9 

I HAVE gone the whole round of Creation : I saw and 
I spoke ! 
I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received hi my 

brain 
And pronounced on the rest of His handwork returned 

Him again 

His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I saw. 
I report, as a man may of God's work all's love, yet all's 

law. 
Now I lay down the judgeship He lent me. Each faculty 

tasked 
To perceive Him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop 

was asked. 
Have I knowledge ? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom 

laid bare. 
Have I forethought ? how purblind, how blank, to the 

Infinite Care ! 

Do I task any faculty highest, to image success ? 
I but open my eyes, and perfection, no more and no less, 
In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen 

God 
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the 

clod. 

And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew 
(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises 

it too) 



i 7 6 



ROBERT BROWNING 



The submission of Man's nothing-perfect to God's All- 
Complete, 

As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to His feet ! 
Yet with all this abounding experience, this Deity known, 
I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. 
There 's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, 
I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) 
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst 
E'en the Giver in one gift. Behold ! I could love if I durst ! 
But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake 
God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for 

love's sake. 
What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther ? when 

doors great and small, 
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the 

hundredth appal ? 
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the 

greatest of all ? 

Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, 
That I doubt His own love can compete with it ? here, 

the parts shift ? 
Here, the creature surpass the Creator, the end, what 

Began ? 

Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, 
And dare doubt He alone shall not help him, who yet 

alone can ? 
Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much 

less power, 
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous 

dower 
Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? to make such 

a soul, 
Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the 

whole ? 



ROBERT BROWNING 177 

And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears 

attest) 
These good things being given, to go on, and give one 

more, the best ? 
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the 

height 
This perfection succeed with life's dayspring, death's 

minute of night ? 

Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, 
Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now and bid him 

awake 
From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find 

himself set 
Clear and safe in new light and new life, a new harmony 

yet 
To be run, and continued, and ended who knows ? 

or endure ! 
The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to 

make sure ; 

By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, 
And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles 

in this. 



I believe it ! 'tis Thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who 

receive : 

In the first is the last, in Thy will is my power to believe. 
All 's one gift : Thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt 

to my prayer 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the 

air. 
From Thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy 

dread Sabaoth : 
/ will ? the mere atoms despise me ! why am I not loth 



I 7 8 



ROBERT BROWNING 



To look that, even that in the face too ? why is it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance ? what stops my 

despair ? 
This ; 'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but 

what man Would do ! 
See the King I would help him but cannot, the wishes 

fall through. 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to 

enrich, 
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would knowing 

which, 
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through 

me now ! 
Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst Thou 

so wilt Thou ! 
So shall crown Thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost 

crown 
And Thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor 

down 

One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, 
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with 

death ! 

As Thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved 
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved ! 
He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall 

stand the most weak. 
'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for ! my flesh, 

that I seek 

In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be 
A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, 
Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever : a Hand like 

this hand 
Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the 

Christ stand ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 179 



From ''Raster Day ' 

HE stood there. Like the smoke 
Pillared o'er Sodom, when day broke, 
I saw Him. One magnific pall 
Mantled in massive fold and fall 
His dread, and coiled in snaky swathes 
About His feet : night's black, that bathes 
All else, broke, grizzled with despair, 
Against the soul of blackness there. 
A gesture told the mood within 
That wrapped right hand which based the chin. 
That intense meditation fixed 
On His procedure, pity mixed 
With the fulfilment of decree. 
Motionless, thus, He spoke to me, 
Who fell before His feet, a mass, 
No man now. 

* All is come to pass. 
Such shows are over for each soul 
They had respect to. In the roll 
Of Judgement which convinced mankind 
Of sin, stood many, bold and blind, 
Terror must burn the truth into : 
Their fate for them ! thou hadst to do 
With absolute omnipotence, 
Able its judgements to dispense 
To the whole race, as every one 
Were its sole object. Judgement done, 
God is, thou art, the rest is hurled 
To nothingness for thee. This world, 



i8o 



ROBERT BROWNING 



This finite life, them hast preferred, 

In disbelief of God's own word, 

To Heaven and to Infinity. 

Here the probation was for thee, 

To show thy soul the earthly mixed 

With heavenly, it must choose betwixt. 

The earthly joys lay palpable, 

A taint, in each, distinct as well ; 

The heavenly flitted, faint and rare, 

Above them, but as truly were 

Taintless, so, in their nature, best. 

Thy choice was earth : thou didst attest 

'Twas fitter spirit should subserve 

The flesh, than flesh refine to nerve 

Beneath the spirit's play. Advance 

No claim to their inheritance 

Who chose the spirit's fugitive 

Brief gleams, and yearned, " This were to live 

Indeed, if rays, completely pure 

From flesh that dulls them, could endure, 

Not shoot in meteor-light athwart 

Our earth, to show how cold and swart 

It lies beneath their fire, but stand 

As stars do, destined to expand, 

Prove veritable worlds, our home." 

Thou saidst, " Let spirit star the dome 

Of sky, that flesh may miss no peak, 

No nook of earth, I shall not seek 

Its service further ! " Thou art shut 

Out of the heaven of spirit ; glut 

Thy sense upon the world : 'tis thine 

For ever take it ! ' 



ROBERT BROWNING 181 

* How ? Is mine, 

The world ? ' (I cried, while my soul broke 
Out in a transport.) ' Hast Thou spoke 
Plainly in that ? Earth's exquisite 
Treasures of wonder and delight, 
For me ? ' 

The austere voice returned, 
' So soon made happy ? Hadst thou learned 
What God accounteth happiness, 
Thou wouldst not find it hard to guess 
What hell may be His punishment 
For those who 'doubt if God invent 
Better than they. Let such men rest 
Content with what they judged the best. 
Let the unjust usurp at will : 
The filthy shall be filthy still : 
Miser, there waits the gold for thee ! 
Hater, indulge thine enmity ! 
And thou, whose heaven self-ordained 
Was, to enjoy earth unrestrained, 
Do it ! Take all the ancient show ! 
The woods shall wave, the rivers flow, 
And men apparently pursue 
Their works, as they were wont to do, 
While living in probation yet. 
I promise not thou shalt forget 
The Past, now gone to its account ; 
But leave thee with the old amount 
Of faculties, nor less nor more, 
Unvisited, as heretofore, 
By God's free spirit, that makes an end. 
So, once more, take thy world ! expend 
Eternity upon its shows, 
Flung thee as freely as one rose 



1 82 ROBERT BROWNING 

Out of a summer's opulence, 

Over the Eden-barrier whence 

Thou art excluded. Knock in vain ! ' 

I sat up. All was still again. 

I breathed free : to my heart, back fled 

The warmth. ' But, all the world ! ' I said. 

I stooped and picked a leaf of fern, 

And recollected I might learn 

From books, how many myriad sorts 

Of fern exist, to trust reports, 

Each as distinct and beautiful 

As this, the very first I cull. 

Think, from the first leaf to the last ! 

Conceive, then, earth's resources ! Vast 

Exhaustless beauty, endless change 

Of wonder ! And this foot shall range 

Alps, Andes, and this eye devour 

The bee-bird and the aloe-flower ? 



Then the Voice, ' Welcome so to rate 

The arras-folds that variegate 

The earth, God's antechamber, well ! 

The wise, who waited *there, could tell 

By these, what royalties in store 

Lay one step past the entrance-door. 

For whom, was reckoned, not too much, 

This life's munificence ? For such 

As thou, a race, whereof scarce one 

Was able, in a million, 

To feel that any marvel lay 

In objects round his feet all day ; 

Scarce one, in many millions more, 

Willing, if able, to explore 



ROBERT BROWNING 183 

The secreter, minuter charm ! 

Brave souls, a fern-leaf could disarm 

Of power to cope with God's intent, 

Or scared if the south firmament 

With north-fire did its wings refledge ! 

All partial beauty was a pledge 

Of beauty in its plenitude : 

But since the pledge sufficed thy mood, 

Retain it ! plenitude be theirs 

Who looked above ! ; 

Though sharp despairs 
Shot through me, I held up, bore on. 
' What matter though my trust were gone 
From natural things ? Henceforth my part 
Be less with Nature than with Art ! 
For Art supplants, gives mainly worth 
To Nature ; 'tis Man stamps the earth 
And I will seek his impress, seek 
The statuary of the Greek, 
Italy's painting there my choice 
Shall fix ! ' 

' Obtain it ! ' said the voice, 
' The one form with its single act, 
Which sculptors laboured to abstract, 
The one face, painters tried to draw, 
With its one look, from throngs they saw . . . 

. . . ' But through 

Life pierce, and what has earth to do, 
Its utmost beauty's appanage, 
With the requirement of next stage ? 
Did God pronounce earth " very good " ? 
Needs must it be, while understood 
For man's preparatory state ; 



1 84 ROBERT BROWNING 

Nothing to heighten nor abate : 

Transfer the same completeness here, 

To serve a new state's use and drear 

Deficiency gapes every side ! 

The good, tried once, were bad, retried. 

See the enwrapping rocky niche, 

Sufficient for the sleep, in which 

The lizard breathes for ages safe : 

Split the mould and as this would chafe 

The creature's new world-widened sense, 

One minute after day dispense 

The thousand sounds and sights that broke 

In on him at the chisel's stroke, 

So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuff 

Was, neither more nor less, enough 

To house man's soul, man's need fulfil. 

Man reckoned it immeasurable ? 

So thinks the lizard of his vault ! 

Could God be taken in default, 

Short of contrivances, by you 

Or reached, ere ready to pursue 

His progress through eternity ? 

That chambered rock, the lizard's world, 

Your easy mallet's blow has hurled 

To nothingness for ever ; so, 

Has God abolished at a blow 

This world, wherein His saints were pent 

Who, though found grateful and content, 

With the provision there, as thou, 

Yet knew He would not disallow 

Their spirit's hunger, felt as well, 

Unsated, not unsalable, . 

As Paradise gives proof. Deride 

Their choice now, thou who sit'st outside ! 






ROBERT BROWNING 185 

I cried in anguish, ' Mind, the mind, 

So miserably cast behind, 

To gain what had been wisely lost ! 

Oh, let me strive to make the most 

Of the poor stinted soul, I nipped 

Of budding wings, else now equipt 

For voyage from summer isle to isle ! 

And though she needs must reconcile 

Ambition to the life on ground, 

Still, I can profit by late found 

But precious knowledge. Mind is best 

I will seize mind, forgo the rest, 

And try how far my tethered strength 

May crawl in this poor breadth and length. 

Let me, since I can fly no more, 

At least spin dervish-like about 

(Till giddy rapture almost doubt 

I fly) through circling sciences, 

Philosophies and histories ! 

Should the whirl slacken there, then verse, 

Fining to music, shall asperse 

Fresh and fresh fire-dew, till I strain 

Intoxicate, half-break my chain ! 

Not joyless, though more favoured feet 

Stand calm, where I want wings to beat 

The floor. At least earth's bond is broke ! ' 

Then (sickening even while I spoke), 
' Let me alone ! No answer, pray, 
To this ! I know what Thou wilt say ! 
All still is earth's to know, as much 
As feel its truths, which if we touch 
With sense, or apprehend in soul, 
What matter ? I have reached the goal 



1 86 



ROBERT BROWNING 



" Whereto does Knowledge serve ! " will burn 

My eyes, too sure, at every turn ! 

I cannot look back now, nor stake 

Bliss on the race, for running's sake. 

The goal 's a ruin like the rest ! ' 

' And so much worse thy latter quest,' 

(Added the voice) ' that even on earth 

Whenever, in man's soul, had birth 

Those intuitions, grasps of guess, 

That pull the more into the less, 

Making the finite comprehend 

Infinity, the bard would spend 

Such praise alone, upon his craft, 

As, when wind-lyres obey the waft, 

Goes to the craftsman who arranged 

The seven strings, changed them and rechanged- 

Knowing it was the South that harped. 

He felt his song, in singing, warped ; 

Distinguished his and God's part : whence 

A world of spirit as of sense 

Was plain to him, yet not too plain, 

Which he could traverse, not remain 

A guest in : else were permanent 

Heaven on earth which its gleams were meant 

To sting with hunger for full light 

Made visible in verse, despite 

The veiling weakness, truth by means 

Of fable, showing while it screens, 

Since highest truth, man e'er supplied, 

Was ever fable on outside. 

Such gleams made bright the earth an age ; 

Now, the whole sun 's his heritage ! 

Take up thy world, it is allowed, 

Thou who hast entered in the cloud ! ' 



ROBERT BROWNING 187 

Then I * Behold, my spirit bleeds, 

Catches no more at broken reeds, 

But lilies flower those reeds above : 

I let the world go, and take love ! 

Love survives in me, albeit those 

I love be henceforth masks and shows, 

Not loving men and women : still 

I mind how love repaired all ill, 

Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amends 

With parents, brothers, children, friends ! 

Some semblance of a woman yet 

With eyes to help me to forget, 

Shall live with me ; and I will match 

Departed love with love, attach 

Its fragments to my whole, nor scorn 

The poorest of the grains of corn 

I save from shipwreck on this isle, 

Trusting its barrenness may smile 

With happy foodful green one day, 

More precious for the pains. I pray, 

For love, then, only ! ' 

At the word, 

The form, I looked to have been stirred 
With pity and approval, rose 
O'er me, as when the headsman throws 
Axe over shoulder to make end 
I fell prone, letting Him expend 
His wrath, while, thus, the inflicting voice 
Smote me. ' Is this thy final choice ? 
Love is the best ? 'Tis somewhat late ! 
And all thou dost enumerate 
Of power and beauty in the world, 
The mightiness of love was curled 



1 88 ROBERT BROWNING 

Inextricably round about. 

Love lay within it and without, 

To clasp thee but in vain ! Thy soul 

Still shrunk from Him who made the whole, 

Still set deliberate aside 

His love ! Now take love ! Well betide 

Thy tardy conscience ! Haste to take 

The show of love for the name's sake, 

Remembering every moment Who, 

Beside creating thee unto 

These ends, and these for thee, was said 

To undergo death in thy stead 

In flesh like thine : so ran the tale. 

What doubt in thee could countervail 

Belief in it ? Upon the ground 

" That in the story had been found 

Too much love ! How could God love so ? " 

He who in all His works below 

Adapted to the needs of man, 

Made love the basis of the plan, 

Did love, as was demonstrated : 

While man, who was so fit instead 

To hate, as every day gave proof 

Man thought man, for his kind's behoof, 

Both could and did invent that scheme 

Of perfect love 'twould well beseem 

Cain's nature thou wast wont to praise, 

Not tally with God's usual ways ! ' 

And I cowered deprecatingly 
' Thou Love of God ! Or let me die, 
Or grant what shall seem Heaven almost ! 
Let me not know that all is lost, 
Though lost it be leave me not tied 



ROBERT BROWNING 189 

To this despair, this corpse-like bride ! 

Let that old life seem mine no more 

With limitation as before, 

With darkness, hunger, toil, distress : 

Be all the earth a wilderness ! 

Only let me go on, go on, 

Still hoping ever and anon 

To reach one eve the Better Land ! ' 

Then did the form expand, expand 
I knew Him through the dread disguise, 
As the whole God within his eyes 
Embraced me. 



(After he has been extemporizing upon the musical instru 
ment of his invention) 

WOULD that the structure brave, the manifold 
music I build, 

Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when 

Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that 

lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly, alien of end and of aim, 

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep 

removed, 
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable 

Name,. 

And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess 
he loved ! 




190 ROBERT BROWNING 

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of 

mine, 
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned 

to raise ! 
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and 

now combine, 
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his 

praise ! 
And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down 

to hell, 

Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, 
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my 

palace well, 
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 

And another would mount and march, like the excellent 

minion he was, 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many 

a crest, 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, 

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest : 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, 
When a great illumination surprises a festal night 
Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to 



^ 

Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my 
soul was in sight. 

In sight? Not half ! for it seemed, it was certain, to 

match man's birth, 

Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I ; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to 

reach the earth, 

As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale 
the sky : 



ROBERT BROWNING 191 

Novel splendours brfrst forth, grew familiar and dwelt 

with mine, 
Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering 

star ; 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not pale 

nor pine, 

For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more 
near nor far. 

Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare 

and glow, 

Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh from the Proto 
plast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should 

blow, 
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking 

at last ; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the 

body and gone, 
But were back once more to breathe in an old world 

worth their new : 
What never had been, was now ; what was, as it shall be 

anon ; 

And what is, shall I say, matched both? for I was 
made perfect too. 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of 

my soul, 
All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed 

visibly forth, 
All through music and me ! For think, had I painted 

the whole, 

Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so 
wonder-worth : 



192 ROBERT BROWNING 

Had I written the same, made verse still, effect proceeds 

from cause, 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is 

told ; 

It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, 
Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled : 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can. 
Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they 

are! 
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to 

man, 
That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, 

but a star. 
Consider it well : each tone of our scale in itself is 

nought ; 

It is everywhere in the world loud, soft, and all is said : 
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thought : 
And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and 
bow the head ! 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared ; 
Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises that come 

too slow ; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he 

feared, 
That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was 

to go. 
Never to be again I But many more of the kind 

As good, nay, better perchance : is this your comfort 

to me ? 

To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind 
To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, 
what was, shall be. 



ROBERT BROWNING 193 

Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable 

Name ? 
Builder and maker, Thou, of houses not made with 

hands ! 
What, have fear of change from Thee who art ever the 

same ? 
Doubt that Thy power can fill the heart that Thy 

power expands ? 
There shall never be one lost good ! WJiat was, shall 

live as before ; 

The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound ; 
What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much 

good more ; 

On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, a perfect 
round. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall 

exist ; 
Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, nor good, 

nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the 

melodist 

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too 

hard, 
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the 

sky, 

Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; 
Enough that He heard it once : we shall hear it by 
and by. 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 
For the fullness of the days ? Have we withered or 
agonized ? 

MYST. H 



194 ROBERT BROWNING 

Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might 

issue thence ? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should 

be prized ? 

Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, 
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and 

woe : 
But God has a few of us whom He whispers in the 

ear ; 

The rest may reason and welcome : 'tis we musicians 
know. 

Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign : 
I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord 

again, 

Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, yes, 
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien 

ground, 
Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the 

deep ; 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place 

is found, 
The C Major of this life : so, now I will try to sleep. 



Rabbi. Ben Ezra 

GROW old along with me ! 
The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was made : 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith ' A whole I planned, 
Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor be afraid ! ' 



ROBERT BROWNING 195 

Not that, amassing flowers, 
Youth sighed ' Which rose make ours, 
Which lily leave and then as best recall ? ' 
Not that, admiring stars, 
It yearned * Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends 
them all ! 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 

Do I remonstrate : folly wide the mark ! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without, 

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men ; 

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw- 
crammed beast? 

Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive ! 

A spark disturbs our clod ; 

Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough, 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 

Be our joys three-parts pain ! 

Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 

Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the throe ! 



196 



ROBERT BROWNING 



For thence, a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks, 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 

What I aspired to be, 

And was not, comforts me : 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play ? 

To man, propose this test 

Thy body at its best, 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? 

Yet gifts should prove their use : 
I own the Past profuse 
Of power each side, perfection every turn : 
Eyes, ears took in their dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole ; 

Should not the heart beat once f How good to live and 
learn ? ' 

Not once beat ' Praise be Thine ! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw Power, see now Love perfect too : 

Perfect I call Thy plan : 

Thanks that I was a man ! 

Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Thou shalt do ! ' 

For pleasant is this flesh ; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute, gain most, as we did best ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 197 

Let us not always say 
' Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole ! ' 
As the bird wings and sings, 
Let us cry ' All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps 
soul ! ' 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage, 

Life's struggle having so far reached its term : 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for ay removed 

From the developed brute ; a God though in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new : 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

When I wage battle next, 

What weapons to select, what armour to indue. 

Youth ended, I shall try 

My gain or loss thereby ; 

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 

And I shall weigh the same, 

Give life its praise or blame : 

Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the grey : 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots c Add this to the rest, 

Take it and try its worth : here dies another day.' 



198 



ROBERT BROWNING 



So, still within this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife, 

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 

1 This rage was right i' the main, 

That acquiescence vain : 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.' 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made ; 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age ; wait death nor be afraid ! 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, 

With knowledge absolute, 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

Be there, for once and all, 

Severed great minds from small, 

Announced to each his station in the Past ! 

Was I, the world arraigned, 

Were they, my soul disdained, 

Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last ! 






ROBERT BROWNING 199 

Now, who shall arbitrate ? 

Ten men love what I hate, 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive ; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me : we all surmise, 

They, this thing, and I, that : whom shall my soul believe ? 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called ' work ', must sentence pass, 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price ; 

O'er which, from level stand, 

The low world laid its hand, 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice : 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb, 
So passed in making up the main account ; 
All instincts immature, 
All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's 
amount : 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; 

All I could never be, 

All, men ignored in me, 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 
That metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, 
Thou, to whom fools propound, 
When the wine makes its round, 

* Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize 
to-day ! ' 



200 ROBERT BROWNING 

Fool ! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure : 

What entered into thee, 

That was, is, and shall be : 

Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure. 

He fixed thee mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent, 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves 

Which ran the laughing loves 

Aroiind thy base, no longer pause and press ? 

What though, about thy rim, 

Skull-things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 

Look not thou down but up ! 
To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 
The new wine's foaming flow, 
The Master's lips aglow ! 

Thou", heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou 
with earth's wheel ? 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 

Did I, to the wheel of life 

With shapes and colours rife, 

Bound dizzily, mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst : 




ROBERT BROWNING 201 

So, take and use Thy work ! 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o* the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 

My times be in Thy hand ! 

Perfect the cup as planned ! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same ! 



WILLIAM BELL SCOTT 

1812-1890 
Pebbles in the Stream 

HERE on this little bridge in this warm day 
We rest us from our idle sauntering walk. 
Over our shadows its continuous talk 
The stream maintains, while now and then a stray 
Dry leaf may fall where the still waters play 

In endless eddies, through whose clear brown deep 
The gorgeous pebbles quiver in their sleep. 
The stream still hastes but cannot pass away. 

Could I but find the words that would reveal 

The unity in multiplicity, 
And the profound strange harmony I feel 

With those dead things, God's garments of to-day, 
The listener's soul with mine they would anneal, 

And make us one within eternity. 



From ' The Tear of the If'orld' 

GIVE reverence, O man, to mystery, 
Keep your soul patient, and with closed eye hear. 
Know that the Good is in all things, the whole 
Being by him pervaded and upheld. 
H3 



202 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT 

He is the will, the thwarting circumstance, 

The two opposing forces equal both 

Birth, Death, are one. Think not the Lotus flower 

Or tulip is more honoured than the grass, 

The bindweed, or the thistle. He who kneels 

To Cama, kneeleth unto me ; the maid 

Who sings to Ganga sings to me ; I am 

Wisdom unto the wise, and cunning lore 

Unto the subtle. He who knows his soul, 

And from thence looketh unto mine ; who sees 

All underneath the moon regardlessly, 

Living on silent, as a shaded lamp 

Burns with steady flame : he sure shall find me 

He findeth wisdom, greatness, happiness. 

Know, further, the Great One delighteth not 

In him who works, and strives, and is against 

The nature of the present. Not the less 

Am I the gladness of the conqueror 

And the despair of impotence that fails. 

I am the ultimate, the tendency 

Of all things to their nature, which is mine. 

Put round thee garments of rich softness, hang 

Fine gold about thine ankles, hands, and ears, 

Set the rich ruby and rare diamond 

Upon thy brow. I made them, I also 

Made them be sought by thee ; thou lack'st them not ? 

Then throw them whence they came, and leave with them 

The wish to be aught else than nature forms. 

Know that the great Good in the age called First, 
Beheld a world of mortals, 'mong whom none 
Enquired for Truth, because no falsehood was : 
Nature was Truth ; man held whate'er he wished : 



WILLIAM BELL SCOTT 203 

No will was thwarted, and no deed was termed, 
Good, Evil. In much wisdom is much grief. 
He who increases knowledge sorrow also 
Takes with it, till he rises unto me, 
Knowing that I am in all, still the same : 
Knowing that I am Peace in the contented. 
I, Great, revealed unto the Seer, how man 
Had wandered, and he gave a name and form 
To my communings and he called it Veda. 
To him who understands it is great gain 
Who understandeth not, to him the Sign 
And ritual is authority and guide, 
A living and expiring confidence. 

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

1813-1892 
So far, so near 

THOU, so far, we grope to grasp thee - 
Thou, so near, we cannot clasp thee 
Thou, so wise, our prayers grow heedless 
Thou, so loving, they are needless ! 
In each human soul thou shinest, 
Human-best is thy divinest. 
In each deed of love thou warmest ; 

Evil into good transformest. 
Soul of all, and moving centre 
Of each moment's life we enter. 
Breath of breathing light of gladness 
Infinite antidote of sadness ; 
All-preserving ether flowing 
Through the worlds, yet past our knowing. 
Never past our trust and loving, 
Nor from thine our life removing. 



204 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Still creating, still inspiring, 
Never of thy creatures tiring ; 
Artist of thy solar spaces ; 
And thy humble human faces ; 
Mighty glooms and splendours voicing ; 
In thy plastic work rejoicing ; 
Through benignant law connecting 
Best with best and all perfecting, 
Though all human races claim thee, 
Thought and language fail to name thee, 
Mortal lips be dumb before thee, 
Silence only may adore thee ! 



From ' Ormuzd and Ahriman ' 

Satan speaks 
HPHERE were no shadows till the worlds were made ; 

J. No evil and no sin till finite souls, 
Imperfect thence, conditioned in free-will, 
Took form, projected by eternal law 
Through co-existent realms of time and space. 
Naught evil, though it were the Prince of evil, 
Hath being in itself. For God alone 
Existeth in Himself, and Good, which lives 
As sunshine lives, born of the Parent Sun. 
I am the finite shadow of that Sun, 
Opposite, not opposing, only seen 
Upon the nether side. 
No personal will am I, no influence bad 
Or good. I symbolize the wild and deep 
And unregenerated wastes of life, 
Dark with transmitted tendencies of race 
And blind mischance ; all crude mistakes of will 



CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 205 

Proclivity unbalanced by due weight 

Of favouring circumstance ; all passion blown 

By wandering winds ; all surplusage of force 

Piled up for use, but slipping from its base 

Of law and order ; all undisciplined 

And ignorant mutiny against the wise 

Restraint of rules by centuries old endorsed, 

And proved the best so long it needs no proof ; 

All quality o'erstrained until it cracks : 

Yet but a surface crack ; the Eternal Eye 

Sees underneath the soul's sphere, as above, 

And knows the deep foundations of the world 

Will not be jarred or loosened by the stress 

Of sun and wind and rain upon the crust 

Of upper soil. Nay, let the earthquake split 

The mountains into steep and splintered chasms 

Down deeper than the shock the adamant 

Of ages stands, symbol no less divine 

Of the eternal Law than heaven above. 

FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 

1814-1863 
From ' The Eternal Word* 



A1ID the eternal silences 
God's endless Word was spoken ; 
None heard but He who always spake, 
And the silence was unbroken. 
Oh marvellous ! Oh worshipful ! 
No song or sound is heard, * 
But everywhere and every hour, 
In love, in wisdom, and in power, 
The Father speaks His dear Eternal Word 



206 FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 



For ever in the eternal land 

The glorious Day is dawning ; 
For ever is the Father's Light 

Like an endless outspread morning. 
Oh marvellous ! Oh worshipful ! 

No song or sound is heard, 
But everywhere and every hour, 
In love, in wisdom, and in power, 
The Father speaks His dear Eternal Word 



in 
From the Father's vast tranquillity, 

In light co-equal glowing 
The kingly con substantial Word 
Is unutterably flowing. 

Oh marvellous ! Oh worshipful ! 

No song or sound is heard, 
But everywhere and every hour, 
In love, in wisdom, and in power, 
The Father speaks His dear Eternal Word ! 



IV 

For ever climbs that Morning Star 

Without ascent or motion ; 
For ever is its daybreak shed 

On the Spirit's boundless ocean. 
Oh marvellous ! Oh worshipful ! 

No song or sound is heard, 
But everywhere and every hour, 
In love, in wisdom, and in power, 
The Father speaks His dear Eternal Word J 



20 7 

EDWARD CASWALL 

1814-1878 

The Order of Pure Intuition 

HAIL, sacred Order of eternal Truth J 
That deep within the soul, 
In axiomatic majesty sublime, 
One undivided whole, 

Up from the underdepth unsearchable 

Of primal Being springs, 
An inner world of thought, co-ordinate 

With that of outward things ! 

Hail, Intuition pure ! whose essences 

The central core supply 
Of conscience, language, science, certitude, 

Art, beauty, harmony ! 

Great God ! I thank Thy majesty supreme, 

Whose all-creative grace 
Not in the sentient faculties alone 

Has laid my reason's base ; 

Not in abstractions thin by slow degrees 

From grosser forms refin'd ; 
Not in tradition, nor the broad consent 

Of conscious humankind ; 

But in th' essential Presence of Thyself, 

Within the soul's abyss ; 
Thyself, alike of her intelligence 

The fount, as of her bliss ; 

Thyself, by nurture, meditation, grace, 

Reflexively reveal'd ; 
Yet ever acting on the springs of thought, 

E'en when from thought conceal'd ! 



208 



AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE 
Implicit Faith 

OF all great Nature's tones that sweep 
Earth's resonant bosom, far or near, 
Low-breathed or loudest, shrill or deep, 
How few are grasped by mortal ear. 

Ten octaves close our scale of sound : 
Its myriad grades, distinct or twined, 

Transcend our hearing's petty bound, 
To us as colours to the blind. 

In Sound's unmeasured empire thus 
The heights, the depths alike we miss ; 

Ah, but in measured sound to us 
A compensating spell there is ! 

In holy music's golden speech 
Remotest notes to notes respond : 

Each octave is a world ; yet each 
Vibrates to worlds its own beyond. 

Our narrow pale the vast resumes ; 

Our sea-shell whispers of the sea : 
Echoes are ours of angel-plumes 

That winnow far infinity ! 

Clasp thou of Truth the central core 1 
Hold fast that centre's central sense 1 

An atom there shall fill thee more 

Than realms on Truth's circumference. 

That cradled Saviour, mute and small, 
Was God is God while worlds endure ! 

Who holds Truth truly holds it all 
In essence, or in miniature. 



1814-1902 



AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE 209 

Know what thou know'st ! He knoweth much 

Who knows not many things : and he 
Knows most whose knowledge hath a touch 

Of God's divine simplicity. 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 

1816-1902 
Knowledge 

THE knowledge of God is the wisdom of man 
This is the end of Being, wisdom ; this 
Of wisdom, action ; and of action, rest ; 
And of rest, bliss ; that by experience sage 
Of good and ill, the diametric powers 
Which thwart the world, the thrice-born might discern 
That death divine alone can perfect both, 
The mediate and initiate ; that between 
The Deity and nothing, nothing is. 

The Atlantean axis of the world 

And all the undescribed circumference, 

Where earth's thick breath thins off to blankest space 

Uniting with inanity, this truth 

Confess, the sun-sire and the death-world too, 

And undeflected spirit pure from Heaven, 

That He who makes, destroying, saves the whole. 

The Former and Re-Former of the world 

In wisdom's holy spirit all renew. 

To know this, is to read the runes of old, 
Wrought in the time-outlasting rock ; to see 
Unblinded in the heart of light ; to feel 
Keen through the soul, the same essential strain, 
Which vivifies the clear and fire-eyed stars, 
Still harping their serene and silvery spell 



210 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 



In the perpetual presence of the skies, 

And of the world-cored calm, where silence sits 

In secret light all hidden ; this to know 

Brings down the fiery unction from on high, 

The spiritual chrism of the sun, 

Which hallows and ordains the regnant soul 

Transmutes the splendid fluid of the frame 

Into a fountain of divine delight, 

And renovative nature ; shows us earth, 

One with the great galactic line of life 

Which parts the hemispheral palm of Heaven ; 

This with all spheres of Being makes concord 

As at the first creation, in that peace, 

Premotional, pre-elemental, prime, 

Which is the hope of earth, the joy of Heaven, 

The choice of the elect, the grace of life, 

The blessing and the glory of our God. 

And as the vesper hymn of time precedes 

The starry matins of Eternity, 

And daybreak of existence in the Heavens, 

To know this, is to know we shall depart 

Into the storm-surrounding calm on high, 

The sacred cirque, the all-central infinite 

Of that self-blessedness wherein abides 

Our God, all-kind, all-loving, all-beloved ; 

To feel life one great ritual, and its laws, 

Writ in the vital rubric of the blood, 

Flow in, obedience, and flow out, command, 

In sealike circulation ; and be here 

Accepted as a gift by Him who gives 

An empire as an alms, nor counts it aught, 

So long as all His creatures joy in Him, 

The great Rejoicer of the Universe, 

Whom all the boundless spheres of Being bless. 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 211 

From < The Mystic ' 

GOD was, alone in unity. He willed 
The infinite creation ; and it was. 
That the creation might exist, His Son, 
And that it might return to Him, the Spirit 
Disclosed themselves within Him ; thus triune 
But as the all-made must of necessity 
Inferior be to its creator, thus 
Arose the infinite imperfect, time, 
The spirit-host angelic, heavenly race, 
Brute life and vegetive, electric light, 
Matter and fleshly form ; to human souls 
Nine generations from aeternity. 
But God, who is Love, decreed it should return 
By pure regeneration unto God ; 
Wherefore was need that He from whom came life 
Should taste death, but in tasting swallow up ; 
That commune with all creatures might be made, 
On this hand, and on that, with Deity. 
Thus death and evil expiate ends divine ; 
The Spirit the imperfect hallowing, death 
The Son ; the soul regenerate hies to God ; 
And as in radial union with the point 
Infinite, both in greatness, place, and power. 
Lives with the maker and the all-made in love. 

From 'Festus ' 
i 

OD is the sole and self-subsistent one ; 

LFrom Him, the sun-creator, nature was ; 
Aethereal essences, all elements, 
The souls therein indigenous, and man 



212 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 



Symbolic of all being. Out of earth 
The matron moon was moulded, and the sea 
Filled up the shining chasm ; both now fulfil 
One orbit and one nature, and all orbs 
With them one fate, one universal end. 
From light's projective moment, in the earth 
The moon was, even as earth i' the sun ; the sun 
A fiery incarnation of the heavens. 
When sun, earth, moon again make one, resumes 
Nature her heavenly state ; is glorified.' 
As, to the sleepless eye, form forth, at last, 
The long immeasurable layers of light, 
And beams of fire enormous in the east, 
The broad foundations of the heaven-domed day 
All fineless as the future, so uprose 
On mine the great celestial certainty. 
The mask of matter fell off, I beheld, 
Void of all seeming, the sole substance mind, 
The actualized ideal of the world. 
An absolutest essence filled my soul ; 
And superseding all its modes and powers, 
Gave to the spirit a consciousness divine ; 
A sense of vast existence in the skies ; 
Boundless commune with spiritual light, and proof 
Self-shown, of heaven commensurate with all life. 
And I to the light of the great spirit's eyes 
Mine hungry eyes returned which, .past the first 
Intensifying blindness, clearlier saw 
The words she uttered of triumphant truth. 
For truly, and as my vision heightened, lo ! 
The universal volume of the heavens, 
Star-lettered in celestial characters, 
Moved musically into words her breath framed 
forth, 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 213 

And varied momently ; and I perceived 
That thus she spake of God : I silent still 
And hearkening to the sea-swell of her voice: 
* From one divine, all permanent unity comes 
The many and infinite ; from God all just 
To himself and others, who to all is love, 
Earth and the moon, like syllables of light, 
Uttered by him, were with all creatures blessed 
By him, and with a sevenfold blessing sealed 
To perfect rest, celestial order ; all 
The double-tabled book of heaven and earth, 
Despite such due deficiency as cleaves 
Inevitably to soul, till God resume, 
Progressive aye, possessing too all bliss 
Elect and universal in the heavens.' 



And none can truly worship but who have 
The earnest of their glory from on high, 
God's nature in them. It is the love of God, 
The ecstatic sense of oneness with all things, 
And special worship towards himself that thrills 
Through life's self-conscious chord, vibrant in him, 
Harmonious with the universe, which makes 
Our sole fit claim to being immortal ; that 
Wanting nor willing, the world cannot worship. 
And whether the lip speak, or in inspired 
Silence, we clasp our hearts as a shut book 
Of song unsung, the silence and the speech 
Is each his ; and as coming from and going 
To him, is worthy of him and his love. 
Prayer is the spirit speaking truth to truth ; 
The expiration of the thing inspired. 
Above the battling rock-storm of this world 



2i 4 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 

Lies heaven's great calm, through which as through a bell, 

Tolleth the tongue of God eternally, 

Calling to worship. Whoso hears that tongue 

Worships. The spirit enters with the sound. 

Preaching the one and universal word, 

The God-word, which is spirit, life, and light ; 

The written word to one race, the unwrit 

Revealment to the thousand-peopled world. 

The ear which hears is pre-attuned in heaven, 

The eye which sees prevision hath ere birth. 

But the just future shall to many give 

Gifts which the partial present doles to few ; 

To all the glory of obeying God. 

EMILY BRONTE 

1819-1848 
The Visionary 

SILENT is the house : all are laid asleep : 
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep, 
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze 
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning 
jtrees. 

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor ; 

Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door ; 

The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and 

far: 
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star. 

Frown, my haughty sire ! chide, my angry dame ! 
Set your slaves to spy ; threaten me with shame : 
But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, 
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow. 



EMILY BRONTE 215 

What I love shall come like visitant of air, 
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare ; 
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray, 
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay. 

Burn, then, little lamp ; glimmer straight and clear 
Hush ! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air : 
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me ; 
Strange Power ! I trust thy might ; trust thou my 
constancy. 

Last Lines 

NO coward soul is mine, 
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere : 
I see Heaven's glories shine, 
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. 

O God within my breast, 
Almighty, ever-present Deity ! 

Life that in me has rest, 
As I undying Life have power in Thee ! 

Vain are the thousand creeds 
That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ; 

Worthless as withered weeds, 
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, 

To waken doubt in one 
Holding so fast by thine infinity ; 

So surely anchor'd on 
The steadfast rock of immortality. 

With wide-embracing love 
Thy Spirit animates eternal years, 

Pervades and broods above, 
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. 



216 



EMILY BRONTE 



Though earth and man were gone, 
And suns and universes ceased to be, 

And Thou were left alone, 
Every existence would exist in Thee. 

There is not room for Death, 
Nor atom that his might could render void : 

Thou THOU art Being and Breath, 
And what THOU art may never be destroy'd. 

'WALT WHITMAN 1 

1819-1892 
From the ' Song of the Open Road* 



FROM this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and 
imaginary lines, 

Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute, 
Listening to others, and considering well what they say, 
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, 
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the 

holds that would hold me. 
I inhale great draughts of space, 
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the 

south are mine. 

I am larger, better than I thought, 
I did not know I held so much goodness. 
All seems beautiful to me ; 
I can repeat over to men and women, You have done such 

good to me, I would do the same to you, 
I will recruit for myself and you as I go ; 
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go ; 
I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them ; 
1 By permission of Messrs. Appleton &* Co., New York. 



WALT WHITMAN 217 

Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me ; 
Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall 
bless me. 



Here is the efflux of the Soul ; 

The efflux of the Soul comes from within, through em- 

bower'd gates, ever provoking questions ; 
These yearnings, why are they ? These thoughts in the 

darkness, why are they ? 
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh 

me, the sunlight expands my blood ? 
Why, when they leave me, do my pennants of joy sink 

flat and lank ? 
Why are there trees I never walk under, but large and 

melodious thoughts descend upon me ? 
(I think they hang there winter and summer on those 

trees, and always drop fruit as I pass ;) 
What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers ? 
What with some driver, as I ride on the seat by his side ? 
What with some fisherman, drawing his seine by the shore, 

as I walk by, and pause ? 
What gives me to be free to a woman's or man's good-will ? 

What gives them to be free to mine ? 

The efflux of the Soul is happiness here is happiness ; 
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times ; 
Now it flows unto us we are rightly charged. 

Here rises the fluid and attaching character ; 

The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and 
sweetness of man and woman ; 

(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter 
every day out of the roots of themselves, than it 
sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.) 



2i 8 WALT WHITMAN 

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the 

sweat of the love of young and old ; 
From it falls distill'd the charm that mocks beauty and 

attainments ; 
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact. 

Allons ! whoever you are, come travel with me ! 
Travelling with me, you find what never tires. 

The earth never tires ; 

The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first 

Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first ; 
Be not discouraged keep on there are divine things, 

well envelop'd ; 
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful 

than words can tell. 

Allons ! we must not stop here ! 

However sweet these laid-up stores however convenient 

this dwelling, we cannot remain here ; 
However shelter'd this port, and however calm these 

waters, we must not anchor here ; 
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us, we 

are permitted to receive it but a little while. 

in 

All parts away for the progress of souls ; 

All religion, all solid things, arts, governments all that 

was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls 

into niches and corners before the procession of souls 

along the grand roads of the universe. 
Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the 

grand roads of the universe, all other progress is -the 

needed emblem and sustenance. 



WALT WHITMAN 219 

From ' Passage to India ' 

OVAST Rondure, swimming in space, 
Cover'd all over with visible power and beauty, 

Alternate light and day and the teeming spiritual darkness, 

Unspeakable high processions of sun and moon and count 
less stars above, 

Below, the manifold grass and waters, animals, mountains, 
trees, 

With inscrutable purpose, some hidden prophetic inten 
tion, 

Now first it seems my thought begins to span thee. 

Down from the gardens of Asia descending radiating, 
Adam and Eve appear, then their myriad progeny after 

them, 

Wandering, yearning, curious, with restless explorations, 
With questionings, baffled, formless, feverish, with never- 
happy hearts, 

With that sad incessant refrain, Wherefore unsatisfied soul ? 
and Whither O mocking life ? 

Ah, who shall soothe these feverish children ? 

Who justify these restless explorations ? 

Who speak the secret of impassive earth ? 

Who bind it to us ? what is this separate Nature so 

unnatural ? 
What is this earth to our affections ? (unloving earth, 

without a throb to answer ours, 
Cold earth, the place of graves.) 

Yet soul be sure the first intent remains, and shall be 

carried out, 
Perhaps even now the time has arrived. 



220 WALT WHITMAN 






After the seas are all cross'd, (as they seem already cross'd,) 
After the great captains and engineers have accomplish'd 

their work, 
After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemist, 

the geologist, ethnologist, 
Finally shall come the poet worthy that name, 
The true son of God shall come singing his songs. 

Then not your deeds only O voyagers, O scientists and 

inventors, shall be justified ; 

All these hearts as of fretted children shall be sooth'd, 
All affection shall be fully responded to, the secret shall 

be told, 
All these separations and gaps shall be taken up and 

hook'd and link'd together, 
The whole earth, this cold, impassive, voiceless earth, 

shall be completely justified, 
Trinitas divine shall be gloriously accomplish'd and 

compacted by the true son of God, the poet, 
(He shall indeed pass the straits and conquer the mountains, 
He shall double the cape of Good Hope to some purpose,) 
Nature and Man shall be disjoin'd and diffused no more, 
The true son of God shall absolutely fuse them. . . . 

Passage indeed O soul to primal thought, 
Not lands and seas alone, thy own clear freshness, 
The young maturity of brood and bloom, 
To realms of budding bibles. 

O soul, repressless, I with thee and thou with me, 

Thy circumnavigation of the world begin, 

Of man, the voyage of his mind's return, 

To reason's early paradise, 

Back, back to wisdom's birth, to innocent intuitions, 

Again with fair creation. 



WALT WHITMAN 221 

O we can wait no longer, 

We too take ship O soul 

Joyous we too launch out on trackless seas, 

Fearless for unknown shores on waves of ecstasy to sail, 

Amid the wafting winds, (thou pressing me to thee, I thee 

to me, O soul,) 

Caroling free, singing our song of God, 
Chanting our chant of pleasant exploration. 

With laugh and many a kiss, 

(Let others deprecate, let others weep for sin, remorse, 

humiliation,) 
O soul thou pleasest me, I thee. 

Ah more than any priest O soul we too believe in God, 
But with the mystery of God we dare not dally. 

soul thou pleasest me, I thee, 

Sailing these seas or on the hills, or waking in the night, * 
Thoughts, silent thoughts, of Time and Space and Death, 

like waters flowing, 

Bear me indeed as through the regions infinite, 
Whose air I breathe, whose ripples hear, lave me all over, 
Bathe me O God in thee, mounting to thee, 

1 and my soul to range in range of thee. 

O Thou transcendent, 

Nameless, the fibre and the breath, 

Light of the light, shedding forth universes, thou centre 

of them, 

Thou mightier centre of the true, the good, the loving, 
Thou moral, spiritual fountain affection's source thou 

reservoir, 
(O pensive soul of me O thirst unsatisfied waitest not 

there ? 



222 WALT WHITMAN 

Waitest not haply for us somewhere there the Comrade 

perfect ?) 

Thou pulse thou motive of the stars, suns, systems, 
That, circling, move in order, safe, harmonious, 
Athwart the shapeless vastnesses of space, 
How should I think, how breathe a single breath, how 

speak, if, out of myself, 
I could not launch, to those, superior universes ? 

Swiftly I shrivel at the thought of God, 

At Nature and its wonders, Time and Space and Death, 

But that I, turning, call to thee O soul, thou actual 

Me, 

And lo, thou gently masterest the orbs, 
Thou matest Time, smilest content at Death, 
And fillest, swellest full the vastnesses of Space. 

Greater than stars or suns, 
Bounding O soul thou journeyest forth ; 
What love than thine and ours could wider amplify ? 
What aspirations, wishes, outvie thine and ours O soul ? 
What dreams of the ideal ? what plans of purity, per 
fection, strength ? 

What cheerful willingness for others' sake to give up all ? 
For others' sake to suffer all ? 

Reckoning ahead O soul, when thou, the time achiev'd, 
The seas all cross 'd, weather 'd the capes, the voyage 

done, 
Surrounded, copest, frontest God, yieldest, the aim 

attain'd, 
As fill'd with friendship, love complete, the Elder Brother 

found, 
The Younger melts in fondness in his arms. 



WALT WHITMAN 223 

Passage to more than India ! 

Are thy wings plumed indeed for such far nights ? 
O soul, voyagest thou indeed on voyages like those ? 
Disportest thou on waters such as those ? 
Soundest below the Sanscrit and the Vedas ? 
Then have thy bent unleash'd. 

Passage to you, your shores, ye aged fierce enigmas ! 

Passage to you, to mastership of you, ye strangling pro 
blems ! 

You, strew'd with the wrecks of skeletons, that, living, 
never reach'd you. 

Passage to more than India ! 

O secret of the earth and sky ! 

Of you O waters of the sea ! O winding creeks and 

rivers ! 
Of you O woods and fields ! of you strong mountains of 

my land ! 

Of you O prairies ! of you gray rocks ! 
O morning red ! O clouds ! O rain and snows ! 
O day and night, passage to you ! 

O sun and moon and all you stars ! Sirius and Jupiter ! 
Passage to you ! 

Passage, immediate passage ! the blood burns in my veins ! 

Away O soul ! hoist instantly the anchor ! 

Cut the hawsers haul out shake out every sail ! 

Have we not stood here like trees in the ground long 

enough ? 
Have we not grovel'd here long enough, eating and 

drinking like mere brutes ? 
Have we not darken'd and dazed ourselves with books 

long enough ? 



224 WALT WHITMAN 

Sail forth steer for the deep waters only, 
Reckless, O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me, 
For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go, 
And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all. 

O my brave soul ! 

O farther farther sail ! 

O daring joy, but safe ! are they not all the seas of God ? 

O farther, farther, farther sail ! 



Chanting the Square Dei fa 

CHANTING the square deific, out of the One 
advancing, out of the sides, 

Out of the old and new, out of the square entirely divine, 
Solid, four-sided, (all the sides needed,) from this side 

Jehovah am I, 

Old Brahm I, and I Saturnius am ; 
Not Time affects me I am Time, old, modern as any, 
Unpersuadable, relentless, executing righteous judgements, 
As the Earth, the Father, the brown old Kronos, with 

laws, 
Aged beyond computation, yet ever new, ever with those 

mighty laws rolling, 
Relentless, I forgive no man whoever sins dies I will 

have that man's life ; 
Therefore let none expect mercy have the seasons, 

gravitation, the appointed days, mercy ? no more 

have I, 
But as the seasons and gravitation, and as all the appointed 

days that forgive not, 
I dispense from this side judgements inexorable without 

the least remorse. 



WALT WHITMAN 225 

Consolator most mild, the promis'd one advancing, 
With gentle hand extended, the mightier God am I, 
Foretold by prophets and poets in their most rapt 

prophecies and poems, 
From this side, lo ! the Lord Christ gazes lo ! Hermes 

I lo ! mine is Hercules' face, 
All sorrow, labour, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in 

myself, 
Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison, 

and crucified, and many times shall be again, 
All the world have I given up for my dear brothers' and 

sisters' sake, for the soul's sake, 
Wending my way through the homes of men, rich or 

poor, with the kiss of affection, 
For I am affection, I am the cheer-bringing God, with 

hope and all-enclosing charity, 
With indulgent words as to children, with fresh and sane 

words, mine only, 
Young and strong I pass knowing well I am destin'd 

myself to an early death ; 
But my charity has no death my wisdom dies not, 

neither early nor late, 
And my sweet love bequeath'd here and elsewhere never 

dies. 

Aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt, 

Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves, 

Crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant, 

With sudra face and worn brow, black, but in the depths 

of my heart, proud as any, 
Lifted now and always against whoever scorning assumes 

to rule me, 
Morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, 

with many wiles, 
MYST. i 



226 



WALT WHITMAN 



(Though it was thought I was baffled and dispel'd, and 
my wiles done, but that will never be,) 

Defiant, I, Satan, still live, still utter words, in new lands 
duly appearing, (and old ones also,) 

Permanent here from my side, warlike, equal with any, 
real as any, 

Nor time nor change shall ever change me or my words. 

Santa Spirita, breather, life, 

Beyond the light, lighter than light, 

Beyond the flames of hell, joyous, leaping easily above 

hell, 

Beyond Paradise, perfumed solely with mine own perfume, 
Including all life on earth, touching, including God, 

including Saviour and Satan, 
Ethereal, pervading all (for without me what were all ? 

what were God ?), 
Essence of forms, life of the real identities, permanent, 

positive, (namely the unseen,) 
Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of 

man, I, the general soul, 

Here the square finishing, the solid, I the most solid, 
Breathe my breath also through these songs. 



All is Truth 

OME, man of slack faith so long, 
Standing aloof denying portions so long ; 
Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth ; 
Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can 
be none, but grows as inevitably upon itself as the 
truth does upon itself, 

Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of 
the earth does. 



WALT WHITMAN 227 

(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately 

But it must be realized ; 
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with 

the rest, 
And that the universe does.) 

Where has fail'd a perfect return, indifferent of lies or 

the truth ? 
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire ? or in the 

spirit of man ? or in the meat and blood ? 

Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into 

myself, I see that there are really no liars or lies after 

all, 
And nothing fails its perfect return And that what are 

called lies are perfect returns, 
And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what 

has preceded it, 
And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as 

much as space is compact, 
And that there is no law or vacuum in the amount of the 

truth but that all is truth without exception ; 
And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am, 
And sing and laugh, and deny nothing. 

Grand is the Seen 

GRAND is the seen, the light, to me grand are the 
sky and stars, 

Grand is the earth, and grand are lasting time and space, 
And grand their laws, so multiform, puzzling, evolu 
tionary ; 

But grander far the unseen soul of me, comprehending, 
endowing all those, 



228 WALT WHITMAN 

Lighting the light, the sky and stars, delving the earth, 

sailing the sea, 
(What were all those, indeed, without thee, unseen soul ? 

of what amount without thee ?) 
More evolutionary, vast, puzzling, O my soul ! 
More multiform far more lasting thou than they. 

DORA GREENWELL 

1821-1882 

The Blade of Grass 

' A sword shall go through thine own heart.' Prophecy ofZacharias 

\ little blade of grass, 
A little sword thou art, 
That in thy haste to pass 

Hast pierced thy mother's heart ! 

Oh ! little blade of grass, 

A little tongue thou art 
Of cleaving flame, alas ! 

Thou hast cleft thy mother's heart. 

Oh ! little blade, upcurled 

Leaf, sword, or fiery dart, 
To win thy Father's world 

Thou must break thy mother's heart ! 

MATTHEW ARNOLD 

1822-1888 

Progress 

THE Master stood upon the mount, and taught. 
He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes ; 
* The old law ', they said, * is wholly come to naught ! 
Behold the new world rise ! ' 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 229 

* Was it ', the Lord then said, * with scorn ye saw 
The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees ? 

I say unto you, see ye keep that law 
More faithfully than these ! 

' Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! 
Think not that I to annul the law have will'd ; 
No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass, 
Till all hath been fulfill'd.' 

So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. 
And what then shall be said to those to-day, 
Who cry aloud to lay the old world low 
To clear the new world's way ? 

4 Religious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! 
Hence, hence,' they cry, ' ye do but keep man blind ! 
But keep him self -immersed, preoccupied, 
And lame the active mind ! ' 

Ah ! from the old world let some one answer give : 

* Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares ? 
I say unto you, see that your souls live 

A deeper life than theirs ! 

' Say ye : The spirit of man has found new roads, 
And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein ? 
Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods, 
But guard the fire within ! 

' Bright, else, and fast the stream of life may roll, 
And no man may the other's hurt behold ; 
Yet each will have one anguish his own soul 
Which perishes of cold.' 



2 3 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Here let that voice make end ; then let a strain, 
From a far lonelier distance, like the wind 
Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again 
These men's profoundest mind : 

' Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye 
For ever doth accompany mankind, 
Hath looked on no religion scornfully 
That men did ever find. 

' Which has not taught weak wills how much they can ? 
Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain ? 
Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : 
Thou must be born again ! 

' Children of men ! not that your age excel 
In pride of life the ages of your sires, 
But that you think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, 
The Friend of man desires.' 



From 'The Buried Life' 

FATE, which foresaw 
How frivolous a baby man would be, 
By what distractions he would be possess'd, 
How he would pour himself in every strife, 
And well-nigh change his own identity 
That it might keep from his capricious play 
His genuine self, and force him to obey 
Even in his own despite, his being's law, 
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 
The unregarded River of our Life 
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; 
And that we should not see 
The buried stream, and seem to be 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 231 

Eddying about in blind uncertainty, 
Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world's most crowded streets, 
But often, in the din of strife, 
There rises an unspeakable desire 
After the knowledge of our buried life, 
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
In tracking out our true, original course ; 
A longing to inquire 
Into the mystery of this heart that beats 
So wild, so deep in us, to know 
Whence our thoughts come and where they go. 
And many a man in his own breast then delves, 
But deep enough, alas, none ever mines ! 
And we have been on many thousand lines, 
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power, 
But hardly have we, for one little hour, 
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves ; 
Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
The nameless feelings that course through our breast, 
But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
And long we try in vain to speak and act 
Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
Is eloquent, is well but 'tis not true ! 

And then we will no more be rack'd 
With inward striving, and demand 
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
Their stupefying power ; 
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call : 
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 
As from an infinitely distant land, 
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 
A melancholy into all our day. 



2 3 2 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Only but this is rare 

When a beloved hand is laid in ours, 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 

Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 

When our world-deaf en 'd ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again : 

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. 

A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 

And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 

The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
Wherein he doth for ever chase 
That flying and elusive shadow, Rest. 
An air of coolness plays upon his face, 
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 
And then he thinks he knows 
The Hills where his life rose, 
And the Sea where it goes. 



From 'Lines Written in Kensington Gardens } 

CALM soul of all things ! make it mine 
To feel, amid the city's jar, 
That there abides a peace of thine, 
Man did not make, and cannot mar ! 

The will to neither strive nor cry, 
The power to feel with others give ! 
Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die 
' Before I have begun to live. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 233 



From ' Empe docks on 

'T'O the elements it came from 

JL Everything will return. . 
Our bodies to earth, 
Our blood to water, 
Heat to fire, 
Breath to air. 

They were well born, they will be well entomb'd ! 
But mind ? . . . 

And we might gladly share the fruitful stir 

Down in our mother earth's miraculous womb ! 

Well might it be 

With what roll'd of us in the stormy main ! 

We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air, 

Or with the nimble radiant life of fire ! 

But mind but thought 
If these have been the master part of us 
Where will they find their parent element ? 
What will receive them, who will call them home ? 
But we shall still be in them, and they in us, 
And we shall be the strangers of the world, 
And they will be our lords, as they are now ; 
And keep us prisoners of our consciousness, 
And never let us clasp and feel the All 
But through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils. 
And we shall be unsatisfied as now ; 
And we shall feel the agony of thirst, 
The ineffable longing for the life of life 
Baffled for ever : and still thought and mind 
Will hurry us with them on their homeless march, 
i 3 



234 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Over the unallied unopening earth, 

Over the unrecognizing sea ; while air 

Will blow us fiercely back to sea and earth, 

And fire repel us from its living waves. 

And then we shall unwillingly return 

Back to this meadow of calamity, 

This uncongenial place, this human life ; 

And in our individual human state 

Go through the sad probation all again, 

To see if we will poise our life at last, 

To see if we will now at last be true 

To our own only true, deep-buried selves, 

Being one with which we are one with the whole world ; 

Or whether we will once more fall away 

Into some bondage of the flesh or mind, 

Some slough of sense, or some fantastic maze 

Forg'd by the imperious lonely thinking-power. 

And each succeeding age in which we are born 

Will have more peril for us than the last ; 

Will goad our senses with a sharper 'spur, 

Will fret our minds to an intenser play, 

Will make ourselves harder to be discern'd. 

And we shall struggle awhile, gasp and rebel ; 

And we shall fly for refuge to past times, 

Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness ; 

And the reality will pluck us back, 

Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature. 

And we shall feel our powers of effort flag, 

And rally them for one last fight, and fail ; 

And we shall sink in the impossible strife, 

And be astray for ever. 

Slave of sense 
I have in no wise been ; but slave of thought ? 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 235 

And who can say : I have been always free, 

Lived ever in the light of my own soul ? 

I cannot ! I have lived in wrath and gloom, 

Fierce, disputatious, ever at war with man, 

Far from my own soul, far from warmth and light. 

But I have not grown easy in these bonds 

But I have not denied what bonds these were ! 

Yea, I take myself to witness, 

That I have loved no darkness, 

Sophisticated no truth, 

Nursed no delusion, 

Allow'd no fear ! 

And therefore, O ye elements, I know 
Ye know it too it hath been granted me 
Not to die wholly, not to be all enslav'd. 
I feel it in this hour ! The numbing cloud 
Mounts off my soul ; I feel it, I breathe free ! 

Is it but for a moment ? 
Ah, boil up, ye vapours ! 
Leap and roar, thou sea of fire ! 
My soul glows to meet you. 
Ere it flag, ere the mists 
Of despondency and gloom 
Rush over it again, 
Receive me ! Save me ! 

(He plunges into the crater?) 



2 3 6 



COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE 

1823-1896 
Life of Life 

WHAT'S that, which, ere I spake, was gone ! 
So joyful and intense a spark 
That, whilst o'erhead the wonder shone, 

The day, before but dull, grew dark ? 
I do not know ; but this I know, 

That, had the splendour lived a year, 
The truth that I some heavenly show 

Did see, could not be now more clear. 
This know I too : might mortal breath 

Express the passion then inspired, 
Evil would die a natural death, 

And nothing transient be desired ; 
And error from the soul would pass, 

And leave the senses pure and strong 
As sunbeams. But the best, alas, 

Has neither memory nor tongue ! 

Fesica Piscis 

IN strenuous hope I wrought, 
And hope seem'd still betray'd ; 
Lastly I said, 

' I have labour'd through the Night, nor yet 
Have taken aught ; 

But at Thy word I will again cast forth the net ! ' 
And, lo, I caught 

(Oh, quite unlike and quite beyond my thought,) 
Not the quick, shining harvest of the Sea, 
For food, my wish, 
But Thee ! 



COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE 237 

Then, hiding even in me, 

As hid was Simon's coin within the fish, 

Thou sigh'd'st, with joy, * Be dumb, 

Or speak but of forgotten things to far-off times to come.' 

Sponsa Dei 

WHAT is this maiden fair, 
The laughing of whose eye 
Is in man's heart renew'd virginity ; 
Who yet sick longing breeds 
For marriage which exceeds 
The inventive guess of Love to satisfy 
With hope of utter binding, and of loosing endless dear 

despair ? 

What gleams about her shine, 
More transient than delight and more divine ! 
If she does something but a little sweet, 
As gaze towards the glass to set her hair, 
See how his soul falls humbled at her feet ! 
Her gentle step, to go or come, 
Gains her more merit than a martyrdom ; 
And, if she dance, it doth such grace confer 
As opes the heaven of heavens to- more than her, 
And makes a rival of her worshipper. 
To die unknown for her were little cost ! 
So is she without guile, 
Her mere refused smile 
Makes up the sum of that which may be lost ! 
Who is this Fair 
Whom each hath seen, 
The darkest once in this bewailed dell, 
Be he not destin'd for the glooms of hell ? 
Whom each hath seen 



238 COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE 

And known, with sharp remorse and sweet, as Queen 

And tear-glad Mistress of his hopes of bliss, 

Too fair for man to kiss ? 

Who is this only happy She, 

Whom, by a frantic flight of courtesy, 

Born of despair 

Of better lodging for his Spirit fair, 

He adores as Margaret, Maude, or Cecily ? 

And what this sigh, 

That each one heaves for Earth's last lowlihead 

And the Heaven high 

Ineffably lock'd in dateless bridal-bed ? 

Are all, then, mad, or is it prophecy ? 

4 Sons now we are of God,' as we have heard, 

* But what we shall be hath not yet appear'd.' 

O, Heart, remember thee, 

That Man is none, 

Save One. 

What if this Lady be thy Soul, and He 

Who claims to enjoy her sacred beauty be, 

Not thou, but God ; and thy sick fire 

A female vanity, 

Such as a Bride, viewing her mirror'd charms, 

Feels when she sighs, * All these are for his arms ! ' 

A reflex heat 

Flash'd on thy cheek from His immense desire, 

Which waits to crown, beyond thy brain's conceit, 

Thy nameless, secret, hopeless longing sweet, 

Not by and by, but now, 

Unless deny Him thou ! 



COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE 239 

To the Body 

CREATION'S and Creator's crowning good ; 
Wall of infinitude ; 
Foundation of the sky, 
In Heaven forecast 
And long'd for from eternity, 
Though laid the last ; 
Reverberating dome, 
Of music cunningly built home 
Against the void and indolent disgrace 
Of unresponsive space ; 
Little, sequestered pleasure-house 
For God and for His Spouse ; 
Elaborately, yea, past conceiving, fair, 
Since, from the graced decorum of the hair, 
Ev'n to. the tingling, sweet 
Soles of the simple, earth-confiding feet, 
And from the^inmost heart 
Outwards unto the thin 
Silk curtains of the skin, 
Every least part 
Astonish'd hears 

And sweet replies to some like region of the spheres ; 
Form'd for a dignity prophets but darkly name, 
Lest shameless men cry ' Shame ! ' 
So rich with wealth conceal'd 
That Heaven and Hell fight chiefly for this field ; 
Clinging to everything that pleases thee 
With indefectible fidelity ; 
Alas, so true 

To all thy friendships that no grace 
Thee from thy sin can wholly disembrace ; 
Which thus 'bides with thee as the Jebusite, 




240 COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE 



That, maugre all God's promises could do, 

The chosen People never conquer'd quite ; 

Who therefore lived with them, 

And that by formal truce and as of right, 

In metropolitan Jerusalem. 

For which false fealty 

Thou needs must, for a season, lie 

In the grave's arms, foul and unshriven, 

Albeit, in Heaven, 

Thy crimson-throbbing Glow 

Into its old abode aye pants to go, 

And does with envy see 

Enoch, Elijah, and the Lady, she 

Who left the lilies in her body's lieu. 

O, if the pleasures I have known in thee 

But my poor faith's poor first-fruits be, 

What quintessential, keen, ethereal bliss 

Then, shall be his 

Who has thy birth-time's consecrating dew 

For death's sweet chrism retain'd, 

Quick, tender, virginal, and unprofaned ! 

AUGUSTA THEODOSIA DRANE 

1823-1894 
Forgotten among the jLilies 

I fainted away abandoned ; 
And amid the lilies forgotten 
Threw all my cares away. 
(St. John of the Cross. The Obscure Night, Stanza viii ) 

THROUGH the dark night I wander on alone, 
And, as one blinded, grope my weary way, 
Without a lamp to shed its guiding ray ; 
I wander on unseen, and seeing none, 
And caring to behold but only One. 



AUGUSTA THEODOSIA DRANE 241 

I see not, yet my heart will give me light, 

And safer than the noonday sun will guide 

To where the Bridegroom waiteth for the Bride ; 

So walking on in faith and not by sight, 

I cannot fear but He will guide me right. . . . 

Forgotten 'mid the lilies ; for I feel 

Their gentle blossoms wave above my head ; 

I breathe the magic perfume which they shed, 

As though my bleeding wounds they fain would heal, 

And from my heart its aching sorrow steal. 

A sad, sweet lot I needs must call it sweet ; 
My cares, like withered buds, I cast aside, 
And reck but little what may next betide ; 
The days and years fly past on pinions fleet, 
Amid these lilies crushed beneath His feet. 

Forgotten and abandoned ; yet withal 
Leaning my heart upon my only Love : 
Nay, raise me not, I do not care to move ; 
Soon I shall hear His gentle footstep fall, 
And lift my eyes, and answer to His call. 

Till then among the lilies let me lie ; 
See, I have cast my idle cares away : 
Howe'er it be, I am content to stay 
Until once more the Bridegroom passes by, 
And. hither turns His gracious, pitying eye. 

Blame not my folly, for I know full well 
My words can nought but idle babbling seem, 
The madness of a fond and foolish dream : 
Bear with my folly, for the thoughts that swell 
This burning heart, I cannot, dare not tell. 



242 AUGUSTA THEODOSIA DRANE 

Know only this I suffer, yet I rest ; 
For all my cares and fears are cast away, 
And more than this I know not how to say ; 
Forgotten though I be, I own it best 
And 'mid the lilies lie in perfect rest. 



What the Soul Desires 

There Thou wilt show me what my soul desired ; 
There Thou wilt give at once, my Life, what Thou gavest 
me the other day ! 

(St. John of the Cross. Spiritual Canticle, Stanza xxxviii) 

THERE is a rapture that my soul desires, 
There is a something that I cannot name ; 
I know not after what my soul aspires, 
Nor guess from whence the restless longing came ; 
But ever from my childhood have I felt it, 
In all things beautiful and all things gay, 
And ever has its gentle, unseen presence 
Fallen, like a shadow-cloud, across my way. 

It is the melody of all sweet music, 
In all fair forms it is the hidden grace ; 
In all I love, a something that escapes me, 
Flies my pursuit, and ever veils its face. 
I see it in the woodland's summer beauty, 
I hear it in the breathing of the air ; 
I stretch my hands to feel for it, and grasp it, 
But ah ! too well I know, it is not there. 

In sunset-hours, when all the earth is golden, 
And rosy clouds are hastening to the west, 
I catch a waving gleam, and then 'tis vanished, 
And the old longing once more fills my breast. 



AUGUSTA THEODOSIA DRANE 243 

It is not pain, although the fire consumes me, 
Bound up with memories of my happiest years ; 
It steals into my deepest joys O mystery ! 
It mingles, too, with all my saddest tears. 

Once, only once, there rose the heavy curtain, 

The clouds rolled back, and for too brief a space 

I drank in joy as from a living fountain, 

And seemed to gaze upon it, face to face : 

But of that day and hour who shall venture 

With lips untouched by seraph's fire to tell ? 

I saw Thee, O my Life ! I heard, I touched Thee, 

Then o'er my soul once more the darkness fell. 

The darkness fell, and all the glory vanished ; 
I strove to call it back, but all in vain : 
O rapture ! to have seen it for a moment ! 
O anguish ! that it never came again ! 
That lightning-flash of joy that seemed eternal, 
Was it indeed but wandering fancy's dream ? 
Ah, surely no ! that day the heavens opened, 
And on my soul there fell a golden gleam. 

Thou, my Life, give me what then Thou gavest ! 
No angel vision do I ask to see, 

1 seek no ecstasy of mystic rapture, 

Naught, naught, my Lord, my Life, but only Thee ! 
That golden gleam hath purged my sight, revealing, 
In the fair ray reflected from above, 
Thyself, beyond all sight, beyond all feeling, 
The hidden Beauty, and the hidden Love. 

As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, 
And seeks the shades whence cooling fountains burst; 
Even so for Thee, O Lord, my spirit fainteth, 
Thyself alone hath power to quench its thirst. 



244 AUGUSTA THEODOSIA DRANE 

Give me what then Thou gavest, for I seek it 
No longer in Thy creatures, as of old ; 
I strive no more to grasp the empty shadow, 
The secret of my life is found and told ! 



GEORGE MAC DONALD 

1824-1905 

^ Prayer for the Past 

AVL sights and sounds of day and year, 
All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, 
Are thine, O God, nor will I fear 
To talk to Thee of them. 

Too great Thy heart is to despise, 
Whose day girds centuries about ; 
From things which we name small, Thine eyes 
See great things looking out. 

Therefore the prayerful song I sing 
May come to Thee in ordered words : 
Though lowly born, it needs not cling 
In terror to its chords. 

I think that nothing made is lost ; 
That not a moon has ever shone, 
That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed 
But to my soul is gone. 

That all the lost years garnered lie 
In this Thy casket, my dim soul ; 
And Thou wilt, ouce, the key apply, 
And show the shining whole. 



GEORGE MAC DONALD 245 

But were they dead in me, they live 
In Thee, Whose Parable is Time, 
And Worlds, and Forms all things that give 
Me thoughts, and this my rime. 



Father, in joy our knees we bow : 
This earth is not*a place of tombs : 
We are but in the nursery now j 
They in the upper rooms. 

For are we not at home in Thee, 
And all this world a visioned show ; 
That, knowing what Abroad is, we 
What Home is too may know ? 



w 



Approaches 

HEN thou turn'st away from ill, 
Christ is this side of thy hill. 



When thou turnest toward good, 
Christ is walking in thy wood. 

When thy heart says, ' Father, pardon ! ' 
Then the Lord is in thy garden. 

When stern Duty wakes to watch, 
Then His hand is on the latch. 

But when Hope thy song doth rouse, 
Then the Lord is in the house. 




246 GEORGE MAC DONALD 

When to love is all thy wit, 
Christ doth at thy table sit. 

When God's will is thy heart's pole, 
Then is Christ thy very soul. 



De Profundts 

WHEN I am dead unto myself, and let, 
O Father, Thee live on in me, 
Contented to do naught but pay my debt, 
And leave the house to Thee, 



Then shall I be Thy ransomed from the cark 
Of living, from the strain for breath, 

From tossing in my coffin strait and dark, 
At hourly strife with death ! 



Have mercy ! in my coffin ! and awake ! 

A buried temple of the Lord ! 
Grow, Temple, grow ! Heart, from thy cerements break ! 

Stream out, O living Sword ! 



When I am with Thee as thou art with me, 
Life will be self-forgetting power ; 

Love, ever conscious, buoyant, clear, and free, 
Will flame in darkest hour. 



GEORGE MAC DONALD 247 

Where now I sit alone, unmoving, calm, 

With windows open to Thy wind, 
Shall I not know Thee in the radiant psalm 

Soaring from heart and mind ? 



The body of this death will melt away, 
And I shall know as I am known ; 

Know Thee my Father, every hour and day, 
As Thou know'st me Thine Own ! 



Lost and Found 

I MISSED him when the sun began to bend ; 
I found him not when I had lost his rim ; 
With many tears I went in search of him, 
Climbing high mountains which did still ascend, 
And gave me echoes when I called my friend ; 
Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim, 
And high cathedrals where the light was dim, 
Through books and arts and works without an end, 
But found him not the friend whom I had lost. 
And yet I found him as I found the lark, 
A sound in fields I heard but could not mark ; 
I found him nearest when I missed him most ; 
I found him in my heart, a life in frost, 
A light I knew not till my soul was dark. 



2 4 8 



WILLIAM ALEXANDER 
ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH 

Sonnets 
Suggested by St. Augustine 



1824-1911 



WHAT love I when I love Thee, O my God ? 
Not corporal beauty, nor the limb of snow, 

Nor of loved light the white and pleasant flow, 
Nor manna showers, nor streams that flow abroad, 
Nor flowers of Heaven, nor small stars of the sod : 

Not these, my God, I love, who love Thee so ; 

Yet love I something better than I know : 
A certain light on a more golden road ; 
A sweetness, not of honey or the hive ; 

A beauty, not of summer or the spring ; 

A scent, a music, and a blossoming 
Eternal, timeless, placeless, without gyve, 

Fair, fadeless, undiminish'd, ever dim, 

This, this is what I love in loving Him. 



This, this is what I love, and what is this ? 

I ask'd the beautiful earth, who said * not I '. 

I ask'd the depths, and the immaculate sky 
And all the spaces said ' not He but His.' 
And so, like one who scales a precipice, 

Height after height, I scaled the flaming ball 

Of the great universe, yea, pass'd o'er all 
The world of thought, which so much higher is. 



WILLIAM ALEXANDER 249 

Then I exclaimed, ' To whom is mute all murmur 

Of phantasy, of nature, and of art, 
He, than articulate language hears a firmer 

And grander meaning in his own deep heart. 
No sound from cloud or angel.' Oh, to win 
That voiceless voice * My servant, enter in ' ! 



FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 

1825-1897 
The City of God 

'I5ou "ya/J, 17 fiarsiXiiu rov Qeov erros vfjiwv eari. 

OTHOU not made with hands, 
Not throned above the skies, 
Nor wall'd with shining walls, 
Nor framed with stones of price, 
More bright than gold or gem, 
God's own Jerusalem ! 

Where'er the gentle heart 
Finds courage from above ; 
Where'er the heart forsook 
Warms with the breath of love ; 

Where faith bids fear depart, 

City of God ! thou art. 

Thou art where'er the proud 
In humbleness melts down ; 
Where self itself yields up ; 
Where martyrs win their crown ; 

Where faithful souls possess 

Themselves in perfect peace 



250 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 

Where in life's common ways 
With cheerful feet we go ; 
When in His steps we tread 
Who trod the way of woe ; 
Where He is in the heart, 
City of God ! thou art. 

Not throned above the skies, 
Nor golden-wall'd afar, 
But where Christ's two or three 
In His name gather'd are, 

Be in the midst of them, 

God's own Jerusalem ! 



DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK 
The Human Temple 



1826-1887 



' Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the spirit 
of God dwelleth in you ?' 

The Temple in Darkness 

DARKNESS broods upon the temple, 
Glooms along the lonely aisles, 
Fills up all the orient window, 

Whence, like little children's wiles, 
Shadows purple, azure, golden 
Broke upon the floor in smiles. 

From the great heart of the organ 
Bursts no voice of chant or psalm ; 

All the air, by music-pulses 

Stirred no more, is deathly calm ; 

And no precious incense rising, 

Falls, like good men's prayer, in balm. 



DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK 251 

Not a sound of living footstep 

Echoes on the marble floor ; 
Not a sigh of stranger passing 

Pierces through the closed door ; 
Quenched the light upon the altar : 

Where the priest stood, none stands more. 

Lord, why hast Thou left Thy temple 
Scorned of man, disowned by Thee ? 

Rather let Thy right hand crush it, 
None its desolation see ! 

List ' He who the temple builded 

Doth His will there. Let it be ! ' 
\ 

A Light in the Temple 
Lo, a light within the temple ! 

Whence it cometh no man knows ; 
Barred the doors : the night-black windows 

Stand apart in solemn rows, 
All without seems gloom eternal, 

Yet the glimmer comes and goes 

As if silent-footed angels 

Through the dim aisles wandered fair, 
Only traced amid the darkness, 

By the glory in their hair, 
Till at the forsaken altar 

They all met, and praised God there. 

Now the light grows fuller, clearer ; 

Hark, the organ 'gins to sound, 
Faint, like broken spirit crying 

Unto Heaven from the ground ; 
While the chorus of the angels 

Mingles everywhere around. 



252 DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK 

See, the altar shines all radiant, 
Though no mortal priest there stands, 

And no earthly congregation 
Worships with uplifted hands : 

Yet they gather, slow and saintly, 
In innumerable bands. 

And the chant celestial rises 

Where the human prayers have ceased 

No tear-sacrifice is offered, 
For all anguish is appeased, 

Through its night of desolation, 
To His temple comes the Priest. 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

1828-1882 
The Sea-Limits 

CONSIDER the sea's listless chime : 
Time's self it is, made audible, 
The murmur of the earth's own shell. 
Secret continuance sublime 

Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 

No furlong farther. Since time was, 

This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet, which is death's, it hath 

The mournfulness of ancient life, 

Enduring always at dull strife. 
As the world's heart of rest and wrath, 

Its painful pulse is in the sands. 

Last utterly, the whole sky stands, 
Grey and not known, along its path. 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 253 

Listen alone beside the sea, 

Listen alone among the woods ; 

Those voices of twin solitudes 
Shall have one sound alike to thee : 

Hark where the murmurs of thronged men 

Surge and sink back and surge again, 
Still the one voice of wave and tree. 

Gather a shell from the strown beach 

And listen at its lips : they sigh 

The same desire and mystery, 
The echo of the whole sea's speech 

And all mankind is thus at heart 

Not anything but what thou art : 
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each". 



The Monochord 

IS it the moved air or the moving sound 
That is Life's self and draws my life from me, 
And by instinct ineffable decree 
Holds my breath quailing on the bitter bound ? 
Nay, is it Life or Death, thus thunder-crowned, 
That 'mid the tide of all emergency 
Now notes my separate wave, and to what sea 
Its difficult eddies labour in the ground ? 

Oh ! what is this that knows the road I came, 

The flame turned cloud, the cloud returned to flame, 

The lifted shifted steeps and all the way ? 
That draws round me at last this wind-warm space, 
And in regenerate rapture turns my face 

Upon the devious coverts of dismay ? 



254 



GEORGE MEREDITH 
Outer and Inner 

FROM twig to twig the spider weaves 
At noon his webbing fine. 
So near to mute the zephyrs flute 

That only leaflets dance. 
The sun draws out of hazel leaves 

A smell of woodland wine. 
I wake a swarm to sudden storm 
At any step's advance. 

Along my path is bugloss blue, 

The star with fruit in moss ; 
The foxgloves drop from throat to top 

A daily lesser bell. 
The blackest shadow, nurse of dew, 

Has orange skeins across ; 
And keenly red is one thin thread 

That flashing seems to swell. 

My world I note ere fancy comes, 

Minutest hushed observe : 
What busy bits of motioned wits 

Through antlered mosswork strive. 
But now so low the stillness hums, 

My springs of seeing swerve, 
For half a wink to thrill and think 

The woods with nymphs alive. 

I neighbour the invisible 

So close that my consent 
Is only asked for spirits masked 

To leap from trees and flowers. 



1828-1909 



GEORGE MEREDITH 255 

And this because with them I dwell 

In thought, while calmly bent 
To read the lines dear Earth designs 

Shall speak her life on ours. 

Accept, she says ; it is not hard 

In woods ; but she in towns 
Repeats, accept ; and have we wept, 

And have we quailed with fears, 
Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward 

We have whom knowledge crowns ; 
Who see in mould the rose unfold, 

The soul through blood and tears. 



HENRY NUTCOMBE OXENHAM 

1829-1888 
The Child-Christ on the Cross 

1 Dolor meus in conspectu meo semper.' 

VICTIM of love, in manhood's prime 
Thou wilt ascend the Cross to die : 
Why hangs the Child before His time 
Stretched on that bed of agony ? 

' No thorn -wreath crowns My boyish brow, 

No scourge has dealt its cruel smart, 
In hands and feet no nail-prints show, 

No spear is planted in My heart. 

' They have not set Me for a sign, 

Hung bare beneath the sunless sky ; 
Nor mixed the draught of gall and wine 

To mock My dying agony. 



256 HENRY NUTCOMBE OXENHAM 

( The livelong night, the livelong day, 
My child, I travail for thy good, 

And for thy sake I hang alway 
Self-crucified upon the Rood. 

' To witness to the living Truth, 
To keep thee pure from sin's alloy, 

I cloud the sunshine of My youth ; 
The Man must suffer in the Boy. 

4 Visions of unrepented sin, 

The forfeit crown, the eternal loss, 

Lie deep my sorrowing soul within, 
And nail My Body to the Cross. 

' The livelong night, the livelong day, 
A Child upon that Cross I rest ; 

All night I for My children pray, 
All day I woo them to My breast. 

* Long years of toil and pain are Mine, 

Ere I be lifted up to die, 
Where cold the Paschal moonbeams shine 

At noon on darkened Calvary. 

' Then will the thorn-wreath pierce My brow, 
The nails will fix Me to the tree ; 

But I shall hang as I do now, 
Self-crucified for love of thee ! ' 



257 



CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 

1830-1894 
Hymn, after Gabriele Rossetti 

MY Lord, my Love ! in pleasant pain 
How often have I said, 
' Blessed that John who on Thy breast 

Laid down his head.' 
It was that contact all divine 

Transformed him from above, 
And made him amongst men the man 
To show forth holy love. 

Yet shall I envy blessed John ? 

Nay not so verily, 
Now that Thou, Lord, both Man and God, 

Dost dwell in me : 
Upbuilding with Thy Manhood's might 

My frail humanity ; 
Yea, Thy Divinehood pouring forth, 

In fullness filling me. 

Me, Lord, Thy temple consecrate, 

Even me to Thee alone ; 
Lord, reign upon my willing heart 

Which is Thy throne : 
To Thee the Seraphim fall down 

Adoring round Thy house ; 
For which of them hath tasted Thee 

My Manna and my Spouse ? 

Now that Thy life lives in my soul 
And sways and warms it through, 

I scarce seem lesser than the world, 

Thy temple too. 
MYST- K 



258 CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 

O God, who dwellest in my heart, 

My God who fillest me, 
The broad immensity itself 

Hath not encompassed Thee. 

After Communion 

WHY should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God ? 
Why should I call Thee Friend,Who art my Love ? 

Or King, Who art my very Spouse above ? 
Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod ? 

Lo now Thy banner over me is love, 
All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod : 
For Thou hast lit Thy flame in me a clod, 

Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove. 

What wilt Thou call me in our home above, 
Who now hast called me friend ? how will it be 

When Thou for good wine settest forth the best ? 
Now Thou dost bid me come and sup with Thee, 

Now Thou dost make me lean upon Thy breast : 
How will it be with me in time of love ? 



THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 

1830-1897 
Pain 

HT'HE man that hath great griefs I pity not ; 
1 'Tis something to be great 

In any wise, and hint the larger state, 
Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot ! 

Moreover, while we wait the possible, 

This man has touched the fact, 

And probed till he has felt the core, where, packed 
In pulpy folds, resides the ironic ill. 



THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 259 

And while we others sip the obvious sweet 

Lip-licking after-taste 

Of glutinous rind, lo ! this man hath made haste, 
And pressed the sting that holds the central seat. 

For thus it is God stings us into life, 

Provoking actual souls 

From bodily systems, giving us the poles 
That are His own, not merely balanced strife. 

Nay, the great passions are His veriest thought, 

Which whoso can absorb, 

Nor, querulous halting, violate their orb, 
In him the mind of God is fullest wrought. 

Thrice happy such an one ! Far other he 

Who dallies on the edge 

Of the great vortex, clinging to a sedge 
Of patent good, a timorous Manichee ; 

Who takes the impact of a long-breathed force, 

And fritters it away 

In eddies of disgust, that else might stay 
His nerveless heart, and fix it to the course. 

For there is threefold oneness with the One ; 

And he is one, who keeps 

The homely laws of life ; who, if he sleeps, 
Or wakes, in his true flesh God's will is done. 

And he is one, who takes the deathless forms, 

Who schools himself to think 

With the All-thinking, holding fast the link, 
God-riveted, that bridges casual storms. 



200 



THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 



But tenfold one is he, who feels all pains 

Not partial, knowing them 

As ripples parted from the gold-beaked stem, 
Wherewith God's galley onward ever strains. 

To him the sorrows are the tension-thrills 

Of that serene endeavour, 

Which yields to God for ever and for ever 
The joy that is more ancient than the hills. 



My Garden 

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot ! 
Rose plot, 
Fringed pool, 
Ferned grot 
The veriest school 
Of peace ; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not 
Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool ? 
Nay, but I have a sign ; 
'Tis very sure God walks in mine. 



Disguises 

HIGH stretched upon the swinging yard, 
I gather in the sheet ; 
But it is hard 

And stiff, and one cries haste. 
Then He that is most dear in my regard 
Of all the crew gives aidance meet ; 
But from His hands, and from His feet, 
A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred : 



THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 261 

Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet 

With fragrance as of nard, 

And myrrh, and cassia spiced, 

He proffers me to taste. 

Then I to Him : ' Art Thou the Christ ? ' 

He saith < Thou say'st.' 

Like to an ox 

That staggers 'neath the mortal blow, 

She grinds upon the rocks : 

Then straight and low 

Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks. 

The cradle's rigged ; with swerving of the blast 

We go, 

Our Captain last 

Demands 

* Who fired that shot ? ' Each silent stands 

Ah, sweet perplexity ! 

This too was He. 

I have an arbour wherein came a toad 

Most hideous to see 

Immediate, seizing staff or goad, 

I smote it cruelly. 

Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed 

I looked, and it was He ! 



Land, Ho! 

I KNOW 'tis but a loom of land, 
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice, 
I know I cannot hear His voice 

Upon the shore, nor see Him stand ; 
Yet is it land, ho ! land. 



262 THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 

The land ! the land ! the lovely land ! 
4 Far off,' dost say ? Far of ah, blessed home ! 
Farewell ! farewell ! thou salt sea-foam ! 

Ah, keel upon the silver sand 

Land, ho ! land. 

You cannot see the land, my land, 
You cannot see, and yet the land is there 
My land, my land, through murky air 

I did not say 'twas close at hand 

But land, ho ! land. 

Dost hear the bells of my sweet land, 
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds ? 
No voice, 'tis true, no spoken words, 

No tongue that thou may'st understand 

Yet is it land, ho ! land. 

It 's clad in purple mist, my land, 
In regal robe it is apparelled, 
A crown is set upon its head, 

And on its breast a golden band 

Land, ho ! land. 

Dost wonder that I long for land f 
My land is not a land as others are 
Upon its crest there beams a star, 

And lilies grow upon the strand 

Land, ho ! land. 

Give me the helm ! there is the land ! 
Ha ! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze ! 
And what my spirit sees it sees 

Leap, bark, as leaps the thunder brand 

Land, ho ! land. 



THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 263 



Specula 

WHEN He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth- 
It matters not 
If south or north, 

Bleak waste or sunny plot. 
Nor think, if haply He thou seek'st be late, 

He does thee wrong. 
To stile or gate 

Lean thou thy head, and long ! 
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting 

Upon a tower, 
Or in thy counting 

Thou hast mista'en the hour. 
But, if He comes not, neither do thou go 

Till Vesper chime. 
Belike thou then shalt know 

He hath been with thee all the time. 



JEAN INGELOW 

x 1830-1897 

From ' Scholar and Carpenter ' 

GRAND is the leisure of the earth ; 
She gives her happy myriads birth, 
And after harvest fears not dearth, 

But goes to sleep in snow-wreaths dim. 
Dread is the leisure up above 
The while He sits whose name is Love, 
And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, 
To wit if she would fly to him. 



264 JEAN INGELOW 

' He waits for us, while, houseless things, 
We beat about with bruised wings 
On the dark floods and water-springs, 

The ruined world, the desolate sea ; 
With open windows from the prime 
All night, all day, He waits sublime, 
Until the fullness of the time 

Decreed from His eternity. 

' Where is OUR leisure ? Give us rest. 
Where is the quiet we possessed ? 
We must have had it once were blest 

With peace whose phantoms yet entice. 
Sorely the mother of mankind 
Longed for the garden left behind ; 
For we still prove some yearnings blind 

Inherited from Paradise.' 

' Hold, heart ! ' I cried ; * for trouble sleeps ; 
I hear no sound of aught that weeps ; 
I will not look into thy deeps 

I am afraid, I am afraid ! ' 
' Afraid ! ' she saith ; * and yet 'tis true 
That what man dreads he still should view 
Should do the thing he fears-to do, 

And storm the ghosts in ambuscade ! ' 

' What good ! ' I sigh. * Was reason meant 
To straighten branches that are bent, 
Or soothe an ancient discontent, 

The instinct of a race dethroned ? 
Ah ! doubly should that instinct go, 
Must the four rivers cease to flow, 
Nor yield those rumours sweet and low 

Wherewith man's life is undertoned.' 



JEAN INGELOW 265 

' Yet had I but the past,' she cries, 
* And it was lost, I would arise 
And comfort me some other wise. 

But more than loss about me clings : 
I am but restless with my race ; 
The whispers from a heavenly place, 
Once dropped among us, seem to chase 

Rest with their prophet-visitings. 

{ The race is like a child, as yet 
Too young for all things to be set 
Plainly before him, with no let 

Or hindrance meet for his degree ; 
But ne'ertheless by much too old 
Not to perceive that men withhold 
More of the story than is told, 

And so infer a mystery. 

4 If the Celestials daily fly 
With message? on missions high, 
And float, our nests and turrets nigh, 

Conversing on Heaven's great intents; 
What wonder hints of coming things, 
Whereto men's hope and yearning clings, 
Should drop like feathers from their wings 

And give us vague presentiments. 

' And as the waxing moon can take 

The tidal waters in her wake, 

And lead them round and round, to break 

Obedient to her drawings dim ; 
So may the movements of His mind, 
The first Great Father of mankind, 
Affect with answering movements blind, 

And draw the souls that breathe by Him. 



266 



JEAN INGELOW 



' We had a message long ago 
That like a river peace should flow, 
And Eden bloom again below. 

We heard, and we began to wait : 
Full soon that message men forgot ; 
Yet waiting is their destined lot, 
And, waiting for they know not what, 

They strive with yearnings passionate.' 



SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 
From ' The Light of Asia ' 



1832-1904 



OM, AMITAYA ! measure not with words 
Th' Immeasurable ; nor sink the string of thought 
Into the Fathomless. Who asks doth err, 
Who answers, errs. Say nought ! 

The Books teach Darkness was, at first of all, 

And Brahm, sole meditating in that Night : 

Look not for Brahm and the Beginning there ! 
Nor him, nor any light 

Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes, 

Or any searcher know by mortal mind ; 

Veil after veil will lift but there must be 
Veil upon veil behind. 

Stars sweep and question not. This is enough 
That life and death and joy and woe abide ; 

And cause and sequence, and the course of time, 
And Being's ceaseless tide, 



SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 267 

Which, ever changing, runs, linked like a river 
By ripples following ripples, fast or slow 

The same yet not the same from far-off fountain 
To where its waters flow 

Into the seas. These, steaming to the Sun, 
Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece 

To trickle down the hills, and glide again ; 
Having no pause or peace. 

This is enough to know, the phantasms are ; 

The Heavens, Earths, Worlds, and changes changing 

them, 
A mighty whirling wheel of strife and stress 

Which none can stay or stem. . . . 

If ye lay bound upon the wheel of change, 

And no way were of breaking from the chain, 

The Heart of boundless Being is a curse, 
The Soul of Things fell Pain. 

Ye are not bound ! the Soul of Things is sweet, 

The Heart of Being is celestial rest ; 
Stronger than woe is will : that which was Good 

Doth pass to Better Best. 

I, Buddh, who wept with all my brothers' tears, 

Whose heart was broken by a whole world's woe, 

Laugh and am glad, for there is Liberty ! 
Ho ! ye who suffer ! know 

Ye suffer from yourselves. None else compels, 
None other holds you that ye live and die, 

And whirl upon the wheel, and hug and kiss 
Its spokes of agony, 



268 



SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 



Its tire of tears, its nave of nothingness. 

Behold, I show you Truth ! Lower than hell, 
Higher than Heaven, outside the utmost stars, 

Farther than Brahm doth dwell, 

Before beginning, and without an end, 

As space eternal and as surety sure, 
Is fixed a Power divine which moves to good, 

Only its laws endure. . . . 

That which ye sow ye reap. See yonder fields ! 

The sesamum was sesamum, the corn 
Was corn. The Silence and the Darkness knew ! 

So is a man's fate born. . . . 

If he shall day by day dwell merciful, 

Holy and just and kind and true ; and rend 

Desire from where it clings with bleeding roots, 
Till love of life have end : 

He dying leaveth as the sum of him 

A life-count closed, whose ills are dead and quit, 
Whose good is quick and mighty, far and near, 

So that fruits follow it. 

No need hath such to live as ye name life : 
That which began in him when he began 

Is finished : he hath wrought the purpose through 
Of what did make him Man. 

Never shall yearnings torture him, nor sins 

Stain him, nor ache of earthly joys and woes 

Invade his safe eternal peace ; nor deaths 
And lives recur. He goes 



SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 269 

Unto NIRVANA. He is one with Life, 

Yet lives not. He is blest, ceasing to be. 

OM, MANI PADME, OM ! the Dewdrop slips 
Into the shining sea ! . . . 

AH ! BLESSED LORD ! OH, HIGH DELIVERER ! 
FORGIVE THIS FEEBLE SCRIPT, WHICH DOTH THEE WRONG, 
MEASURING WITH LITTLE WIT THY LOFTY LOVE. 
AH ! LOVER ! BROTHER ! GUIDE ! LAMP OF THE LAW ! 
I TAKE MY REFUGE IN THY NAME AND THEE ! 
I TAKE MY REFUGE IN THY LAW OF GOOD ! 

I TAKE MY REFUGE IN THY ORDER ! OM \ 

THE DEW is ON THE LOTUS ! RISE, GREAT SUN ! 

AND LIFT MY LEAF AND MIX ME WITH THE WAVE. 
OM MANI PADME HUM, THE SUNRISE COMES ! 

THE DEWDROP SLIPS INTO THE SHINING SEA ! 



SIR LEWIS MORRIS 

1833-1907 
A Heathen Hymn 

OLORD, the Giver of my days, 
My heart is ready, my heart is ready ; 
I dare not hold my peace, nor pause, 
For I am fain to sing Thy praise. 

I praise Thee 'not, with impious pride, 
For that Thy partial hand has given 
Bounties of wealth or form or brain, 
Good gifts to other men denied. 

Nor weary Thee with blind request, 
For fancied goods Thy hand withholds ; 
I know not what to fear or hope, 
Nor aught but that Thy will is best. 



270 SIR LEWIS MORRIS 

Not whence I come, nor whither I go, 
Nor wherefore I am here, I know ; 
Nor if my life's tale ends on earth, 
Or mounts to bliss, or sinks to woe. 

Nor know I aught of Thee, O Lord ; 
Behind the veil Thy face is hidden : 
We faint, and yet Thy face is hidden ; 
We cry, Thou answerest not a word. 

But this I know, O Lord, Thou art, 
And by Thee I too live and am ; 
We stand together, face to face, 
Thou the great whole, and I the part. 

We stand together, soul to soul, 
Alone amidst Thy waste of worlds ; 
Unchanged, though all creation fade, 
And Thy swift suns forget to roll. 

Wherefore, because my life is Thine, 
Because, without Thee I were not ; 
Because, as doth the sea, the sun, 
My nature gives back the Divine. 

Because my being with ceaseless flow 
Sets to Thee as the brook to the sea ; 
Turns to Thee, as the flower to the sun, 
And seeks what it may never know. 

Because, without me Thou hadst been 
For ever, seated midst Thy suns ; 
Marking the soulless cycles turn, 
Yet wert Thyself unknown, unseen. 



SIR LEWIS MORRIS 271 

I praise Thee, everlasting Lord, 
In life and death, in heaven and hell : 
What care I, since indeed Thou art, 
And I the creature of Thy word. 

Only if such a thing may be : 
When all Thy infinite will is done, 
Take back the soul Thy breath has given, 
And let me lose myself in Thee. 



A New Orphic Hymn 

THE peaks, and the starlit skies, the deeps of the 
fathomless seas, 
Immanent is He in all, yet higher and deeper than these. 

The heart, and the mind, and the soul, the thoughts and 

the yearnings of Man, 
Of His essence are one and all, and yet define it who can ? 

The love of the Right, tho' cast down, the hate of vic 
torious 111, 

All are sparks from the central fire of a boundless bene 
ficent Will. 

Oh, mystical secrets of Nature, great Universe undefined, 
Ye are part of the infinite work of a mighty ineffable Mind. 

Beyond your limitless Space, before your measureless Time, 
Ere Life or Death began was this changeless Essence 
sublime. 

In the core of eternal calm He dwelleth unmoved and 

alone 
'Mid the Universe He has made, as a monarch upon his 

throne. 



2 7 2 



SIR LEWIS MORRIS 



And the self-same inscrutable Power which' fashioned 

the sun and the star 
Is Lord of the feeble strength of the humblest creatures 

that are. 

The weak things that float or creep for their little life 

of a day, 
The weak souls that falter and faint, as feeble and futile 

as they ; 

The malefic invisible atoms unmarked by man's purblind 

eye 
That beleaguer our House of Life, and compass us till 

we die ; 

All these are parts of Him, the indivisible One, 
Who supports and illumines the many, Creation's Pillar 
and Sun ! 

Yea, and far in the depths of Being, too dark for a mortal 

brain, 
Lurk His secrets of Evil and Wrong, His creatures of 

Death and of Pain. 

A viewless Necessity binds, a determinate Impetus drives 
To a hidden invisible goal the freightage of numberlesslives. 

The waste, and the pain, and the wrong, the abysmal 

mysteries dim, 
Come not of themselves alone, but are seed and issue of Him. 

And Man's spirit that spends and is spent in mystical 

questionings, 
Oh, the depths of the fathomless deep, oh, the riddle and 

secret of things, 
And the voice through the darkness heard, and the rush 

of winnowing wings ! 



w 



m 



RICHARD WATSON DIXON 

1833-1900 
Rapture: sin Ode 

HAT is this ? 

The white and crumbling clouds leave bare the blue ; 
Shines out the central sun with golden hue ; 
And all the fruit-trees, rolling blossom-boughed, 
Are white and billowy as the rolling cloud. 
The warm beam bedded sleeps upon the trees, 
The springing thickets and the gorse-bound leas ; 
Sleeps where I lie at ease, 
Pulling the ruby orchis and the pale 
Half-withered cowslip from the hill-side grass, 
Midway the brow that overhangs the vale, 
Where the sleepy shadows pass, 
And the sunbeam sleeps till all is grown 
Into one burning sapphire stone, 
All air, all earth, each violet-deepened zone. 

,. 

It sleeps and broods upon the moss-mapped stone, 

The thready mosses and the plumy weeds ; 

Numbers the veined flowers one after one, 

Their colours and their leaves and ripening seeds : 

Above, around, its influence proceeds ; 

It tracks in gleams the stream through crowding bush, 

And beds of sworded flags and bearded rush, 

Where slow it creeps along the lower ground ; 

The ridges far above are all embrowned, 

The golden heavens over all are ploughed 

In furrows of fine tissue that abound, 

And melting fragments of the whitest cloud. 



274 RICHARD WATSON DIXON 

in 

Ah, what is this, that now with sated eyes 
And humming ears the soul no more descries ? 
Drawn back upon the spirit all the sense 
Becomes intelligence ; 
And to be doubly now unfolded feels 
That which itself reveals ; 
Double the world of all that may appear 
To eye or hand or ear ; 
Double the soul of that which apprehends 
By that which sense transcends. 

IV 

For deep the cave of human consciousness ; 

The thoughts, like light, upon its depths may press, 

Seeking and finding wonders numberless ; 

But never may they altogether pierce 

The hollow gloom so sensitive and fierce 

Of the deep bosom : far the light may reach, 

There is a depth unreached ; in clearest speech 

There is an echo from an unknown place : 

And in the dim, unknown, untrodden space 

Our life is hidden ; were we all self-known, 

No longer should we live ; a wonder shown 

Is wonderful no 'more ; and being flies 

For ever from its own self-scrutinies. 

Here is the very effort of the soul 

To keep itself unmingled, safe, and whole 

In changes and the flitting feints of sense : 

Here essence holds a calm and sure defence ; 

It is a guarded shrine and sacred grove, 

A fountain hidden where no foot may rove, 

A further depth within a sounded sea ; 

A mirror 'tis from hour to hour left free 



RICHARD WATSON DIXON 275 

By things reflected : and because 'tis so, 

Therefore the outer world and all its show 

Is as the music of the upper wave 

To the deep Ocean in his sunken cave ; 

A part of its own self, yet but its play, 

Which doth the sunbeam and the cloud convey 

To central deeps, where in awful shade 

The stormless heart receives the things conveyed, 

Knowing the cloud by darkness, and the light 

By splendours dying through the infinite. 



And being such the soul doth recognize 

The doubleness of nature, that there lies 

A soul occult in Nature, hidden deep 

As lies the soul of man in moveless sleep. 

And like a dream 

Broken in circumstance and foolish made, 

Through which howe'er the future world doth gleam, 

And floats a warning to the gathered thought, 

Like to a dream, 

Through sense and all by sense conveyed, 

Into our soul the shadow of that soul 

Doth float. 

Then are we lifted up erect and whole 

In vast confession to that universe 

Perceived by us : our soul itself transfers 

Thither by instinct sure ; it swiftly hails 

The mighty spirit similar ; it sails 

In the divine expansion ; it perceives 

Tendencies glorious, distant ; it enweaves 

Itself with excitations more than thought 

Unto that soul unveiled and yet unsought. 



276 RICHARD WATSON DIXON 



VI 

Ye winds and clouds of light, 
Ye lead the soul to God ; 

The new-born soul that height 

With rapturous foot hath trod, 

And is received of God : 

God doth the soul receive 

Which mounts toward Him, and alone would dwell 
With Him ; though finite with the Infinite, 
Though finite, rising with a might 
Like to infinitude. 

Gently receiving such He doth dispel 
All solitary horror with delight, 
Honouring the higher mood. 



VII 

For though the soul pants with fierce ecstasy 

The unattainable to grasp, to be 

For ever mingled with infinity ; 

And this in vain, since God Himself withdraws 

From human knowledge, e'en as its own laws 

Seclude the soul from sense ; 

Yet not from love He hies ; 

From love God never flies. 

Love is the soul's best sense, which God descries, 

Which bares the covert of intelligence : 

And, honouring in love the higher mood, 

With lovely joys He fills the solitude 

Of His own presence, whither trusting Him 

The soul hath mounted : lo, it might have found 

Utter destruction on this higher ground, 

Tenuity of air and swooning dim 



RICHARD WATSON DIXON 277 

For lack of breath ; but now it finds hereby 

A lovely vesture of infinity, 

And ecstasies that nourish ecstasy. 

God giveth love to love, and ministers 

Substance to substance ; life to life He bears. 



VIII 

Therefore, ye winds and ye 
High moving clouds of light, 

Ye rivers running free, 

Thou glory of the sea, 
Thou glory of the height, 

The gleam beside the bush, 

The tremble of the rush, 
To me made manifest, 

The beauty of the flower 

In summer's sunny power, 
Portions of entity supreme ye be, 
And motions massed upon eternal rest. 



IX 

Broad breezes, clouds of light, 
Thither ye lead the soul, 

To this most sacred height 
Above the sacred whole : 
The azure world is not so fair, 
The azure world and all the circling air, 
As that true spiritual kingdom known 
Unto the spirit only and alone ; 

Thither the soul ye bear, 

Oh winds and clouds of light. 



2/8 



RICHARD WATSON DIXON 



Ye winds and clouds of light, 
That bear the soul to God ; 

The new-born soul that height 
By ecstasy hath trod. 



RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 

1834-1894 
From 'Pan' 

A I ! Nature, would that I before I pass 
Might thrill with joy of thy communion 
One childlife only knowing thee from far ! 
Love we may well, for surely one were nought 
Without the other, intermarrying breath ; 
Nature the systole, thought the diastole 
Of one Divine forever-beating Heart. 
Feeding from her maternal breast we grow 
Full to our height of stately dominance, 
And yet create, yea dower as we grow 
Her with all colour, form and comeliness. 
Nature the heaving of a tender breast 
Revealing inspiration from within, 
Sweet rending of a calyx, telling clear 
Expansion of the spirit's folded flower, 
Nature the lake where looking long we fall 
With our own likeness tremulous in love. 



And shall we climb, ascension infinite, 
From star to star ? explore from world to world 
Gods reigning yonder in the tranquil stars ? 
Death ! what is Death ? a turning-point of Life 



RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 279 

Winding so sharp the way dips out of sight, 
Seeming to end, yet winding on for ever 
Through teeming glories of the Infinite. 
Look with bold eyes unquailing in the face 
Of that foul haunting phantom, it will fade, 
Melt to the face of some familiar friend. . . . l 

One selfsame Spirit breathing evermore 
Rouses in each the momentary wave, 
One water and one motion and one wind, 
Now feeble undulation myriadfold, 
Now headlong mountain thunder-clothed and crowned 
With foamy lightning ; such we name Zerduscht, 
Dante, Spinoza, or Napoleon 
The motion travels, and the wave subsides. . . . l 

May cold ascetic hard, ill-favoured, crude, 
Ever persuade me vision and fond play 
Of sense about fair fleshly loveliness 
Of youth in man or woman is accurst 
Since God hath made the spirit, but a fiend 
Hath mocked it with a syren phantom-flesh ? 
Nay, to mine ear 'tis rankest blasphemy ! 
For is not flesh the shadow of the soul, 
Her younger sister, both alike Divine ? 
Yea verily ! for when I love a friend 
How may I sunder body from the soul ? 
Few win my love, but they who win it seem 
Ever well-favoured to me, and I greet 
All comeliness of colour and of form, 
Mere side reverse of spiritual grace. 
Yea, limbs well turned and bodies almond-smooth 
Full fair and white in maiden or in youth, 
With what sense-thrillings may attend on these ; 

1 These dots are the author's, and do not mark omissions. 



280 RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 

All lusty might of supple athletic men ; 
Are surely worthy reverence like flowers, 
Or like the culminating heart and soul. 
Only to each one yield his very own : 
Yield to young sense his toy of fantasy, 
And never frown until he glides to steal 
The royal sceptre from Intelligence, 
Or crown of light from spiritual Love. 
Nor dare to maim lives infinite Divine 
Seeking to graft one pale monotonous flower ; 
For is not Being thirsting to exhaust 
His all exhaustless capability ? 
Evil mere vantage-ground for an advance, 
If not for thee, yet for the universe, 
And so for thee as member of the whole. 



From ' De Profundis'* 

THE spirit grows the form for self-expression, 
And for a hall where she may hold high session 
With sister souls, who, allied with her, create 
Her fair companion, her espoused mate. 
Ever the hidden Person will remould 
For all our lives fresh organs manifold, 
Gross for the earthly, for the heavenly fine, 
Ethereal woof, wherein their graces shine. 
And there be secret avenues, with doors 
Yielding access to inmost chamber floors 
Of the soul's privacy ; all varying frames, 
Responsive to the several spirit-flames. 
The vital form our lost now animate 
Is one with what in their low mortal state 
They made their own ; the corse mere ashes, waste, 



RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 281 

For all grand uses of the world replaced. 
A larva needs no more the unliving husk, 
When soaring winged he rends the dwelling dusk. 

A rabble rout of Sense light-headed pours 
Into the holy Spirit-temple doors, 
Where many a grave and stately minister 
His place and function doth on each confer. 
These Forms inhabiting the sacred gloom, 
Whose name is legion, Present, Past, To Come, 
One, Many, Same, or Different, evolve 
Sweet concord from confusion ; they resolve 
The Babel dissonance to a choral song, 
Till in divine societies a throng 
Sets with one will toward the inmost shrine, 
To feed there upon mystic Bread and Wine. 
The Bacchanals are sobered, and grow grave, 
In solemn silence treading the dim nave : 
On their light hearts bloom-pinioned angels lay 
Calm, hushful hands of married night and day. 

It is a changing scene within the pile : 
New shows arrive, and tarry for a while : 
But if one living Spirit-fane could fall, 
His ruin were the knell of doom for all. 
Their being blended each with every one, . . 

If any failed, the universe were gone. 
These conscious forms inhabit every mind ; 
All selves in one organic self they bind ; 
The bloomy beams, and all the shadowy blooms 
Are pure white Light eternal that illumes 
A universal conscious Spirit-whole, 
Fair modulated in each several soul 
To many-functioned organs of one Will, 
Whose sovran Being who prevails to kill ? 



282 RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 

We may expand our being to embrace, 

And mirror all therein of every race ; 

Each is himself by universal grace. 

Dying is self-fulfilment ; and we cherish 

His life, who, wanting ours, would wholly perish. 

The Father may not be without the Son ; 

No love, will, knowledge, were for Him alone. 

And change is naught 

Save at the bar of a sole personal thought, 

Enthroned for judgement, summoning past time 

With present, hearing now concordant rhyme, 

Now variance among voices vanishing, 

That so win semblance of substantial thing. 

But how conceive that there may ever be 

Change in the nerve of change, our known identity ? 

If we, poor worms, involved in our own cloud, 
Deem the wide world lies darkling in a shroud, 
Raving the earth holds no felicity, 
One child's clear laughter may rebuke the lie, 
A lark's light rapture soaring in the blue, 
Or rainbow radiant from a drop of dew ! 

Nor let a low-born Sense usurp the rule, 
Who is but handmaid in a loftier school, 
Where Love and Conscience a lore not of earth 
Impart to Wisdom, child of heavenly birth. 

Thou unknown, inscrutable Divine ! 

1 deem that I am Thine, and Thou art mine ; 
And though I may not gaze into Thy face, 

I feel that all are clasped in Thine embrace. 
The Christ is with us, and He points to Thee : 
When we have grown into Him we shall see ; 
Behold the Father in the perfect Son, 
And feel, with Him, Thy holy will be done ! 



RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 283 

Love may not compass her full harmony, 
Wanting the deep dread note of those who die. 
And as with master-hand He sweeps the grand awakening 

chords, 

Our wailing sighs leap winged, live talismanic words, 
Dull woes and errors tempered to seraphic swords, 
Love's colour-chorus flames with glorious morning-red, 
His alchemy transmuting the poured heart's blood of 

our dead, 
And lurid bale from murderous eyes of souls who inly 

bled! 

Whose mortal mind may sail around the ocean of Thy 

might, 

Billowing away in awful gloom to issues infinite ? 
Bind Thee with his poor girdle? Surveying all thy shore ! 
His daring sinks confounded, foundering evermore, 
In his dazed ear reverberating a tempestuous roar ! 
. . . Who sounds the abyss of Thine immense design ? We 

rest, 
Aware that Thou art better than our best. 



SIR ALFRED COMYN LYALL 

1835-1911 



i 



From ' Siva ' 

' Mors Janua Vitae.' 
AM the God of the sensuous fire 



That moulds all Nature in forms divine ; 
The symbols of death and of man's desire, 

The springs of change in the world, are mine ; 
The organs of birth and the circlet of bones, 
And the light loves carved on the temple stones. 



284 SIR ALFRED COMYN LYALL 

I am the lord of delights and pain, 

Of the pest that killeth, of fruitful joys ; 

I rule the currents of heart and vein ; 
A touch gives passion, a look destroys ; 

In the heat and cold of my lightest breath 

Is the might incarnate of Lust and Death. 

If a thousand altars stream with blood 

Of -the victims slain by the chanting priest, 

Is a great God lured by the savoury food ? 
I reck not of worship, or song, or feast ; 

But that millions perish, each hour that flies, 

Is the mystic sign of my sacrifice. 

Ye may plead and pray for the millions born ; 

They come like dew on the morning grass ; 
Your vows and vigils I hold in scorn, 

The soul stays never, the stages pass ; 
All life is the play of the power that stirs 
In the dance of my wanton worshippers. 

And the strong swift river my shrine below 
It runs, like man, its unending course 

To the boundless sea from eternal snow ; 
Mine is the Fountain and mine the Force 

That spurs all nature to ceaseless strife ; 

And my image is Death at the gates of Life. 

In many a legend and many a shape, 

In the solemn grove and the crowded street, 

I am the Slayer, whom none escape ; 
I am Death trod under a fair girl's feet ; 

I govern the tides of the sentient sea 

That ebbs and flows to eternitv. 



SIR ALFRED COMYN LYALL 285 

And the sum of the thought and the knowledge of man 
Is the secret tale that my emblems tell ; 

Do ye seek God's purpose, or trace his plan ? 
Ye may read your doom in my parable : 

For the circle of life in its flower and its fall 

Is the writing that runs on my temple wall. . . . 

Let my temples fall, they are dark with age, 
Let my idols break, they have stood their day ; 

On their deep hewn stones the primeval sage 
Has figured the spells that endure alway ; 

My presence may vanish from river and grove, 

But I rule for ever in Death and Love. 



FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL 

1836-1879 
From ' The Thoughts of God* 

THEY say there is a hollow, safe and still, 
A point of coolness and repose 

Within the centre of a flame, where life might dwell 
Unharmed and unconsumed, as in a luminous shell. 

Which the bright walls of fire enclose 
In breachless splendour, barrier that no foes 
Could pass at will. 

There is a point of rest 
At the great centre of the cyclone's force, 

A silence at its secret source ; 
A little child might slumber undistressed, 
Without the ruffle of one fairy curl, 
In that strange central calm amid the mighty whirl. 



286 FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL 

So in the centre of these thoughts of God, 
Cyclones of power, consuming glory-fire, 

As we fall o'erawed 
Upon our faces, and are lifted higher 
By His great gentleness, and carried nigher 
Than unredeemed angels, till we stand 

Even in the hollow of His hand, 

Nay more ! we lean upon His breast 
There, there we find a point of perfect rest 

And glorious safety. There we see 

His thoughts to us-ward, thoughts of peace 
That stoop to tenderest love ; that still increase 
With increase of our need ; that never change, 
That never fail, or falter, or forget. 
O pity infinite ! 
O royal mercy free ! 

O gentle climax of the depth and height 
Of God's most precious thoughts, most wonderful, most 
strange ! 

* For I am poor and needy, yet 
The Lord Himself, Jehovah, thinketh upon me I ' i 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

1837-1909 
Hertha 

1AM that which began ; 
Out of me the years roll ; 
Out of me God and man ; 
I am equal and whole ; 

God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily ; 
I am the soul. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 287 

Before ever land was, 
Before ever the sea, 
Or soft hair of the grass, 

Or fair limbs of the tree, 

Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and 
thy soul was in me. 

First life on my sources 

First drifted and swam ; 
Out of me are the forces 
That save it or damn ; 

Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird : 
before God was, I am. 

Beside or above me 

Naught is there to go ; 
Love or unlove me, 

Unknow me or know, 

I am that which unloves me and loves ; I am stricken, 
and I am the blow. 

I the mark that is missed 

And the arrows that miss, 
I the mouth that is kissed 

And the breath in the kiss, 

The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and 
the body that is. 

I am that thing which blesses 

My spirit elate ; 
That which caresses 

With hands uncreate 

My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the 
measure of fate. 



288 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

But what thing dost thou now, 

Looking Godward, to cry 
' I am I, thou art thou, 

I am low, thou art high ' ? 
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him ; find thou but 
thyself, thou art I. 

I the grain and the furrow, 

The plough-cloven clod 
And the ploughshare drawn thorough, 

The germ and the sod, 
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust 
which is God. 

Hast thou known how I fashioned thee, 

.Child, underground ? 
Fire that impassioned thee, 

Iron that bound, 

Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou 
known of or found ? 

Canst thou say in thine heart 

Thou hast seen with thine eyes 
With what cunning of art 

Thou wast wrought in what wise, 

By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown 
on my breast to the skies ? 

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, 

Knowledge of me ? 
Hath the wilderness told it thee ? 

Hast thou learnt of the sea ? 

Hast thou communed in spirit with night ? have the 
winds taken counsel with thee ? 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 289 

Have I set such a star 

To show light on thy brow 
That thou sawest from afar 

What I show to thee now ? 

Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the 
mountains and thou ? 

What is here, dost thou know it ? 

What was, hast thou known ? 
Prophet nor poet 

Nor tripod nor throne 

Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy 
mother^ alone. 

Mother, not maker, 

Born, and not made ; 
Though her children forsake her, 

Allured or afraid, 

Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not 
for all that have prayed. 

A creed is a rod, 

And a crown is of night ; 
But this thing is God, 

To be man with thy might, 

To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live 
out thy life as the light. 

I am in thee to save thee, 
As my soul in thee saith, 
Give thou as I gave thee, 

Thy life-blood and breath, 

Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, 
and red fruit of thy death. 



290 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

Be the ways of thy giving 

As mine were to thee ; 

The free life of thy living, 

Be the gift of it free ; 

Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou 
give thee to me. 

children of banishment, 
Souls overcast, 

Were the lights ye see vanish meant 

Alway to last, 

Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and 
stars overpast. 

1 that saw where ye trod 
The dim paths of the night 

Set the shadow called God 

In your skies to give light ; 

But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless 
soul is in sight. 

The tree many-rooted 

That swells to the sky 
With frondage red-fruited, 

The life-tree am I ; 

In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves : ye shall 
live and not die. 

But the Gods of your fashion 

That take and that give, 
In their pity and passion 

That scourge and forgive, 

They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off ; 
they shall die and not live. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 291 

My own blood is what stanches 

The wounds in my bark ; 
Stars caught in my branches 

Make day of the dark, 

And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out 
their fires as a spark. 

Where dead ages hide under 
The live roots of the tree, 
In my darkness the thunder 

Makes utterance of me ; 

In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the 
waves sound of the sea. 

That noise is of Time, 

As his feathers are spread 
And his feet set to climb 

Through the boughs overhead, 

And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches 
are bent with his tread. 

The storm-winds of ages 

Blow through me and cease, 
The war-wind that rages, 

The spring-wind of peace, 

Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of 
my blossoms increase. 

All sounds of all changes, 
All shadows and lights 
On the world's mountain-ranges 

And stream-riven heights, 

Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of 
storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights ; 



292 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

All forms of all faces, 

All works of all hands 
In unsearchable places 

Of time-stricken lands, 

All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop 
through me as sands. 

Though sore be my burden 
And more than ye know, 
And my growth have no guerdon 

But only to grow, 

Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or 
deathworms below. 

These too have their part in me, 

As I too in these ; 
Such fire is at heart in me, 

Such sap is this tree's, 

Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands 
and of seas. 

In the spring-coloured hours 

When my mind was as May's, 
There brake forth of me flowers 

By centuries of days, 

Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out 
from my spirit as rays. 

And the sound of them springing 

And smell of their shoots 
Were as warmth and sweet singing 

And strength to my roots ; 

And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom 
of soul were my fruits. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 293 

I bid you but be ; 

I have need not of prayer ; 
I have need of you free 

As your mouths of mine air ; 

That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the 
fruits of me fair. 

More fair than strange fruit is 

Of faiths ye espouse ; 
In me only the root is 

That blooms in your boughs ; 

Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him 
with faith of your vows. 

In the darkening and whitening 

Abysses adored, 
With dayspring and lightning 

For lamp and for sword, 

God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the 
wrath of the Lord. 

O my sons, O too dutiful 

Toward Gods not of me, 
Was not I enough beautiful ? 

Was it hard to be free ? 

For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you ; look 
forth now and see. 

Lo, winged with world's wonders, 

With miracles shod, 
With the fires of his thunders 

For raiment and rod, 

God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with 
the terror of God. 



294 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

For his twilight is come on him, 

His anguish is here ; 
And his spirits gaze dumb on him, 

Grown grey from his fear ; 

And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his 
infinite year. 

Thought made him and breaks him, 

Truth slays and forgives ; 
But to you, as time takes him, 

This new thing it gives, 

Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom 
and lives. 

For truth only is living, 
Truth only is whole, 
And the love of his giving 

Man's polestar and pole ; 

Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed 
of my soul. 

One birth of my bosom ; 

One beam of mine eye ; 
One topmost blossom 
That scales the sky ; 

Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, 
man that is I. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 295 



A Nympholept 

SUMMER, and noon, and a splendour of silence, felt, 
Seen, and heard of the spirit within the sense. 
Soft through the frondage the shades of the sunbeams 

melt, 
Sharp through the foliage the shafts of them, keen 

and dense, 
Cleave, as discharged from the string of the God's 

bow, tense 

As a war-steed's girth, and bright as a warrior's belt. 
Ah, why should an hour that is heaven for an hour pass 
hence ? 



I dare not sleep for delight of the perfect hour, 

Lest God be wroth that his gift should be scorned of 

man. 

The face of the warm bright world is the face of a flower, 
The word of the wind and the leaves that the light 

winds fan 

As the word that quickened at first into flame, and ran, 
Creative and subtle and fierce with invasive power, 
Through darkness and cloud, from the breath of the 
one God, Pan. 

The perfume of earth possessed by the sun pervades 
The chaster air that he soothes but with sense of sleep. 

Soft, imminent, strong as desire that prevails and fades, 
The passing noon that beholds not a cloudlet weep 
Imbues and impregnates life with delight more deep 

Than dawn or sunset or moonrise on lawns or glades 
Can shed from the skies that receive it and may not keep. 



296 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

The skies may hold not the splendour of sundown fast ; 

It wanes into twilight as dawn dies down into day. 
And the moon, triumphant when twilight is overpast, 

Takes pride but awhile in the hours of her stately sway. 

But the might of the noon, though the light of it pass 

away, 
Leaves earth fulfilled of desires and of dreams that last ; 

But if any there be that hath sense of them none can say. 

For if any there be that hath sight of them, sense, or trust 
Made strong by the might of a vision, the strength of 

a dream, 

His lips shall straiten and close as a dead man's must, 
His heart shall be sealed as the voice of a frost-bound 

stream. 

For the deep mid mystery of light and of heat that seem 
To clasp and pierce dark earth, and enkindle dust, 
Shall a man's faith say what it is ? or a man's guess deem ? 

Sleep lies not heavier on eyes that have watched all night 

Than hangs the heat of the noon on the hills and trees. 
Why now should the haze not open, and yield to sight 

A fairer secret than hope or than slumber sees ? 

I seek not heaven with submission of lips and knees, 
With worship and prayer for a sign till it leap to light : 

I gaze on the gods about me, and call on these. 

I call on the gods hard by, the divine dim powers 

Whose likeness is here at hand, in the breathless air, 
In the pulseless peace of the fervid and silent flowers, 

In the faint sweet speech of the waters that whisper there. 

Ah, what should darkness do in a world so fair ? 
The bent-grass heaves not, the couch-grass quails not or 
cowers ; 

The wind's kiss frets not the rowan's or aspen's hair. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 297 

But the silence trembles with passion of sound suppressed, 
And the twilight quivers and yearns to the sunward, 

wrung 
With love as with pain ; and the wide wood's motionless 

breast 
Is thrilled with a dumb desire that would fain find 

tongue 
And palpitates, tongueless as she whom a man-snake 

stung, 
Whose heart now heaves in the nightingale, never at 

rest 
Nor satiated ever with song till her last be sung. 

Is it rapture or terror that circles me round, and invades 

Each vein of my life with hope if it be not fear ? 
Each pulse that awakens my blood into rapture fades, 
Each pulse that subsides into dread of a strange thing 

near 
Requickens with sense of a terror less dread than 

dear. 

Is peace not one with light in the deep green glades 
Where summer at noonday slumbers ? Is peace not 
here ? 

The tall thin stems of the firs, and the roof sublime 
That screens from the sun the floor of the steep still 

wood, 

Deep, silent, splendid, and perfect and calm as time, 
Stand fast as ever in sight of the night they stood, 
When night gave all that moonlight and dewfall 

could. 
The dense ferns deepen, the moss glows warm as the 

thyme : 
The wild heath quivers about me : the world is good. 



298 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

Is it Pan's breath, fierce in the tremulous maidenhair, 
That bids fear creep as a snake through the woodlands, 

felt 

In the leaves that it stirs not yet, in the mute bright air, 
In the stress of the sun ? For here has the great God 

dwelt : 

For hence were the shafts of his love or his anger dealt. 
For here has his wrath been fierce as his love was fair, 
When each was as fire to the darkness its breath bade melt. 

Is it love, is it dread, that enkindles the trembling noon, 
That yearns, reluctant in rapture that fear has fed, 

As man for woman, as woman for man ? Full soon, 
If I live, and the life that may look on him drop not dead, 
Shall the ear that hears not a leaf quake hear his tread, 

The sense that knows not the sound of the deep day's tune 
Receive the God, be it love that he brings or dread. 

The naked noon is upon me : the fierce dumb spell, 
The fearful charm of the strong sun's imminent might, 

Unmerciful, steadfast, deeper than seas that swell, 
Pervades, invades, appals me with loveless light, 
With harsher awe than breathes in the breath of night. 

Have mercy, God who art all ! For I know thee well, 
How sharp is thine eye to lighten, thine hand to smite. 

The whole wood feels thee, the whole air fears thee : but fear 
So deep, so dim, so sacred, is wellnigh sweet. 

For the light that hangs and broods on the woodlands here, 
Intense, invasive, intolerant, imperious, and meet 
To lighten the works of thine hands and the ways of 
thy feet, 

Is hot with the fire of the breath of thy life, and dear 
As hope that shrivels or shrinks not for frost or heat. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 299 

Thee, thee the supreme dim godhead, approved afar, 

Perceived of the soul and conceived of the sense of man 
We scarce dare love, and we dare not fear : the star 
We call the sun, that lit us when life began 
To brood on the world that is thine by his grace for 

a span, 

Conceals and reveals in the semblance of things that are 
Thine immanent presence, the pulse of thy heart's life, 
Pan. 

The fierce mid noon that wakens and warms the snake 
Conceals thy mercy, reveals thy wrath : and again 

The dew-bright hour that assuages the twilight brake 
Conceals thy wrath and reveals thy mercy : then 
Thou art fearful only for evil souls of men 

That feel with nightfall the serpent within them wake, 
And hate the holy darkness on glade and glen. 

Yea, then we know not and dream not if ill things be, 
Or if aught of the work of the wrong of the world be thine. 

We hear not the footfall of terror that treads the sea, 
We hear not the moan of winds that assail the pine : 
We see not if shipwreck reign in the storm's dim shrine ; 

If death do service and doom bear witness to thee 
We see not, know not if blood for thy lips be wine. 

But in all things evil and fearful that fear may scan, 
As in all things good, as in all things fair that fall, 
We know thee present and latent, the lord of man ; 
In the murmuring of doves, in the clamouring of winds 

that call 

And wolves that howl for their prey ; in the mid 
night's pall, 

In the naked and nymph-like feet of the dawn, O Pan, 
And in each life living, O thou the God who art all. 



300 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

Smiling and singing, wailing and wringing of hands, 

Laughing and weeping, watching and sleeping, still 
Proclaim but and prove but thee, as the shifted sands 
Speak forth and show but the strength of the sea's 

wild will 

That sifts and grinds them as grain in the storm- 
wind's mill. 

In thee is the doom that falls and the doom that stands : 
The tempests utter thy word, and the stars fulfil. 

Where Etna shudders with passion and pain volcanic 
That rend her heart as with anguish that rends a man's, 

Where Typho labours, and finds not his thews Titanic, 
In breathless torment that ever the flame's breath fans, 
Men felt and feared thee of old, whose pastoral clans 

Were given to the charge of thy keeping ; and sou ndless panic 
Held fast the woodland whose depths and whose 
heights were Pan's. 

And here, though fear be less than delight, and awe 
Be one with desire and with worship of earth and thee, 

So mild seems now thy secret and speechless law, 
So fair and fearless and faithful and godlike she, 
So soft the spell of thy whisper on stream and sea, 

Yet man should fear lest he see what of old men saw 
And withered : yet shall I quail if thy breath smite me. 

Lord God of life and of light and of all things fair, 

Lord God of ravin and ruin and all things dim, 
Death seals up life, and darkness the sunbright air, 
And the stars that watch blind earth in the deep night 

swim 
Laugh, saying, * What God is your God, that ye call 

on him ? 
What is man, that the God who is guide of our way 

should care 
If day for a man be golden, or night be grim ? ' 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 301 

But thou, dost thou hear ? Stars too but abide for 

a span, 

Gods too but endure for a season ; but thou, if thou be 

God, more than shadows conceived and adored of man, 

Kind Gods and fierce, that bound him or made him free, 

The skies that scorn us are less in thy sight than we, 

Whose souls have strength to conceive and perceive thee, 

Pan, 
With sense more subtle than senses that hear and see. 

Yet may it not say, though it seek thee and think to find 
One soul of sense in the fire and the frost-bound clod, 

What heart is this, what spirit alive or blind, 

That moves thee : only we know that the ways we trod 
We tread, with hands unguided, with feet unshod, 

With eyes unlightened ; and yet, if with steadfast mind, 
Perchance may we find thee and know thee at last for 
God. 

Yet then should God be dark as the dawn is bright, 
And bright as the night is dark on the world no more. 

Light slays not darkness, and darkness absorbs not light ; 
And the labour of evil and good from the years of yore 
Is even as the labour of waves on a sunless shore. 

And he who is first and last, who is depth and height, 
Keeps silence now, as the sun when the woods wax hoar. 

The dark dumb godhead innate in the fair world's life 

Imbues the rapture of dawn and of noon with dread, 
Infects the peace of the star-shod night with strife, 

Informs with terror the sorrow that guards the dead. 

No service of bended knee or of humbled head 
May soothe or subdue the God who has change to wife : 

And life with death is as morning with evening wed 



302 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

And yet, if the light and the life in the light that here 
Seem soft and splendid and fervid as sleep may seem 
Be more than the shine of a smile or the flash of a tear, 
Sleep, change, and death are less than a spell-struck 

dream, 

And fear than the fall of a leaf on a starlit stream. 
And yet, if the hope that hath said it absorb not fear, 
What helps it man that the stars and the waters 
gleam ? 

What helps it man, that the noon be indeed intense, 

The night be indeed worth worship ? Fear and pain 
Were lords and masters yet of the secret sense, 

Which now dares deem not that light is as darkness, fain 
Though dark dreams be to declare it, crying in vain. 
For whence, thou God of the light and the darkness, 

whence 

Dawns now this vision that bids not the sunbeams 
wane ? 

What light, what shadow, diviner than dawn or night, 
Draws near, makes pause, and again or I dream 

draws near ? 
More soft than shadow, more strong than the strong 

sun's light, 
More pure than moonbeams yea, but the rays run 

sheer 
As fire from the sun through the dusk of the pinewood, 

clear 

And constant ; yea, but the shadow itself is bright 
That the light clothes round with love that is one 
with fear. 

Above and behind it the noon and the woodland lie, 
Terrible, radiant with mystery, superb and subdued, 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 303 

Triumphant in silence ; and hardly the sacred sky 
Seems free from the tyrannous weight of the dumb 

fierce mood 
Which rules as with fire and invasion of beams that brood 

The breathless rapture of earth till its hour pass by 
And leave her spirit released and her peace renewed. 

I sleep not : never in sleep has a man beholden 
This. From the shadow that trembles and yearns 

with light 

Suppressed and elate and reluctant obscure and golden 
As water kindled with presage of dawn or night 
A form, a face, a wonder to sense and sight, 
Grows great as the moon through the month ; and her 

eyes embolden 
Fear, till it change to desire, and desire to delight. 

I sleep not : sleep would die of a dream so strange ; 

A dream so sweet would die as a rainbow dies, 
As a sunbow laughs and is lost on the waves that range 
And reck not of light that flickers or spray that flies. 
But the sun withdraws not, the woodland shrinks not 

or sighs, 

No sweet thing sickens with sense or with fear of change ; 
Light wounds not, darkness blinds not, my steadfast 
eyes. 

Only the soul in my sense that receives the soul 

Whence now my spirit is kindled with breathless bliss 

Knows well if the light that wounds it with love makes 

whole, 

If hopes that carol be louder than fears that hiss, 
If truth be spoken of flowers and of waves that kiss,' 

Of clouds and stars that contend for a sunbright goal. 
And yet may I dream that I dream not indeed of this? 



304 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

An earth-born dreamer, constrained by the bonds of birth, 
Held fast by the flesh, compelled by his veins that beat 

And kindle to rapture or wrath, to desire or to mirth, 
May hear not surely the fall of immortal feet, 
May feel not surely if heaven upon earth be sweet ; 

And here is my sense fulfilled of the joys of earth, 

Light, silence, bloom, shade, murmur of leaves that meet. 

Bloom, fervour, and perfume of grasses and flowers aglow, 

Breathe and brighten about me : the darkness gleams, 
The sweet light shivers and laughs on the slopes below, 

Made soft by leaves that lighten and change like dreams ; 

The silence thrills with the whisper of secret streams 
That well from the heart of the woodland: these I know: 

Earth bore them, heaven sustained them with showers 
and beams. 

I lean my face to the heather, and drink the sun 

Whose flame-lit odour satiates the flowers : mine eyes 
Close, and the goal of delight and of life is one : 
No more I crave of earth or her kindred skies. 
No more ? But the joy that springs from them smiles 

and flies : 
The sweet work wrought of them surely, the good work 

done, 
If the mind and the face of the season be loveless, dies. 

Thee, therefore, thee would I come to, cleave to, cling, 
If haply thy heart be kind and thy gifts be good, 

Unknown sweet spirit, whose vesture is soft in spring, 
In summer splendid, in autumn pale as the wood 
That shudders and wanes and shrinks as a shamed thing 
should, 

In winter bright as the mail of a war-worn king 

Who stands where foes fled far from the face of him stood . 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 305 

My spirit or thine is it, breath of thy life or of mine, 

Which fills my sense with a rapture that casts out fear ? 
Pan's dim frown wanes, and his wild eyes brighten as thine, 

Transformed as night or as day by the kindling year. 

Earth-born, or mine eye were withered that sees, mine ear 
That hears were stricken to death by the sense divine, 

Earth-born I know thee : but heaven is about me here. 

The terror that whispers in darkness and flames in light, 
The doubt that speaks in the silence of earth and sea, 

The sense, more fearful at noon than in midmost night, 
Of wrath scarce hushed and of imminent ill to be, 
Where are they ? Heaven is as earth, and as heaven to me 

Earth : for the shadows that sundered them here take 

flight ; 
And naught is all, as am I, but a dream of thee. 

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 

1840-1893 

The Vanishing Point 

' I 'HERE are who, when the bat on wing transverse 
JL Skims the swart surface of some neighbouring mere, 
Catch that thin cry too fine for common ear : 
Thus the last joy-note of the universe 

Is borne to those few listeners who immerse 
Their intellectual hearing in no clear 
Paean, but pierce it with the thin-edged spear 
Of utmost beauty which contains a curse. 

Dead on their sense fall marches hymeneal, 
Triumphal odes, hymns, symphonies sonorous ; 
They crave one shrill vibration, tense, ideal, 

Transcending and surpassing the world's chorus ; 
Keen, fine, ethereal, exquisitely real, 
Intangible as star's light quivering o'er us. 



306 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 

The Prism of Life 

AjL that began with God, in God must end : 
All lives are garnered in His final bliss : 
All wills hereafter shall be one with His : 
When in the sea we sought, our spirits blend. 

Rays of pure light, which one frail prism may rend 
Into conflicting colours, meet and kiss 
With manifold attraction, yet still miss 
Contentment, while their kindred hues contend. 

Break but that three-edged glass : inviolate 
The sundered beams resume their primal tate, 
Weaving pure light in flawless harmony. 

Thus decomposed, subject to love and strife, 

God's thought, made conscious through man's mortal 

life, 
Resumes through death the eternal unity. 

Adventante Deo 

EFT up your heads, gates of my heart, unfold 
Your portals to salute the King of kings ! 
Behold Him come, borne on cherubic wings 
Engrained with crimson eyes and grail of gold ! 

Before His path the thunder-clouds withhold 
Their stormy pinions, and the desert sings : 
He from His lips divine and forehead flings 
Sunlight of peace unfathomed, bliss untold. 

O soul, faint soul, disquieted how long ! 
Lift up thine eyes, for lo, thy Lord is near, 
Lord of all loveliness and strength and song, 

The Lord who brings heart-sadness better cheer, 

Scattering those midnight dreams that dote on wrong, 
Purging with heaven's pure rays love's atmosphere ! 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 37 



An- Invocation 

nPO God, the everlasting, who abides, 

J. One Life within things infinite that die: 
To Him whose unity no thought divides : 
Whose breath is breathed through immensity. 

Him neither eye hath seen, nor ear hath heard ; 
Nor reason, seated in the souls of men, 
Though pondering oft on the mysterious word, 
Hath e'er revealed His Being to mortal ken. 

Earth changes, and the starry wheels roll round ; 
The seasons come and go, moons wax and wane ; 
The nations rise and fall, and fill the ground, 
Storing the sure results of joy and pain : 

Slow knowledge widens toward a perfect whole, 
From that first man who named the name of heaven, 
To him who weighs the planets as they roll, 
And knows what laws to every life are given. 

Yet He appears not. Round the extreme sphere 
Of science still thin ether floats unseen : 
Darkness still wraps Him round ; and ignorant fear 
Remains of what we are, and what have been. 

Only we feel Him ; and in aching dreams, 
Swift intuitions, pangs of keen delight, 
The sudden vision of His glory seems 
To sear our souls, dividing the dull night : 



308 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 

And we yearn toward Him. Beauty, Goodness, Truth ; 
These three are one ; one life, one thought, one being ; 
One source of still rejuvenescent youth ; 
One light for endless and unclouded seeing. 

Mere symbols we perceive the dying beauty, 
The partial truth that few can comprehend, 
The vacillating faith, the painful duty, 
The virtue labouring to a dubious end. 

O God, unknown, invisible, secure, 
Whose being by dim resemblances we guess, 
Who in man's fear and love abidest sure, 
Whose power we feel in darkness and confess ! 

Without Thee nothing is, and Thou art nought 
When on Thy substance we gaze curiously : 
By Thee impalpable, named Force and Thought, 
The solid world still ceases not to be. 

Lead Thou me God, Law, Reason, Duty, Life ! 
All names for Thee alike are vain and hollow 
Lead me, for I will follow without strife ; 
Or, if I strive, still must I blindly follow. 



309 

ELLEN MARY CLERKE 

1840-1906 

The Building and Pinnacle of the Temple 

NOT made with hands, its walls began to climb 
From roots in Life's foundations deeply set, 
Far down amid primaeval forms, where yet 

Creation's Finger seemed to grope in slime. 

Yet not in vain passed those first-born of Time, 
Since each some presage gave of structure met 
In higher types, lest these the bond forget 

That links Earth's latest to the fore-world's prime 
And living stone on living stone was laid, 
In scale ascending ever, grade on grade, 

To that which in its Maker's eyes seemed good 
The Human Form : and in that shrine of thought, 
By the long travail of the ages wrought, 

The Temple of the Incarnation stood. 

Through all the ages since the primal ray, 

Herald of life, first smote the abysmal night 

Of elemental Chaos, and the might 
Of the Creative Spark informed the clay, 
From worm to brute, from brute to man its way 

The Shaping Thought took upward, flight on flight, 

By stages which Earth's loftiest unite 
Unto her least, made kin to such as they. 

As living link, or prophecy, or type 

Of purpose for fulfilment yet unripe, 
Each has its niche in the supreme design ; 

Converging to one Pinnacle, whereat 

Sole stands Creation's Masterpiece and that 
Which was through her the Human made Divine. 



3io 



HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER 
From c Liber Amoris ' 



1840-1887 



OH, there are moments in man's mortal years 
When for an instant that which long has lain 
Beyond our reach is on a sudden found 
In things of smallest compass, and we hold 
The unbounded shut in one small minute's space, 
And worlds within the hollow of our hand, 
A world of music in one word of love, 
A world of love in one quick wordless look, 
A world of thought in one translucent phrase, 
A world of memory in one mournful chord, 
A world of sorrow in one little song. 
Such moments are man's holiest, the divine 
And first-sown seeds of Love's eternity. 
And such were those last moments when I sat 
Beside my long-lost friend, soft-laid again 
In what no longer was his lair of death, 
But now his bed of glory. Life, all life, 
Its terrors and its tumults and its tears, 
Its hopes, its agonies and its ecstasies, 
Its nights of sorrow and its dawns of joy, 
Its visionary raptures and its dull 
Death-darkened hours, its longings, losses, gains, 
Curses and cries and lamentations loud, 
Sins, frenzies, and despairs, the monstrous births 
Of thought and action groping for the light, 
The false, the true, the night's red underworld 
Of nadir darkness, and the zenith stars 
Lost in their spheral music beating time 
To every heart that hates or loves or mourns, 



HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER 311 

These now were one, and I was one with these, 
And these with me through Love's transfusing power 
That passed upon me then. There as we sat, 
My brother and I, my brother made anew, 
My brother thrice made mine, for ever mine, 
Made one and equal with me through Love's might, 
We felt all space was ours, all time was ours ; 
We were as those that reign above the worlds ; 
And in our souls we saw the light round which 
All multiformal things grow uniform, 
The many sing as one. And we were one, 
Calm-seated in the heaven that overflows 
With the world's music of perpetual peace. 



ii 

And then I thought that He whom we name God 

Was not perhaps some unit of cold thought 

Such as Greek sages gave to Christian saints, 

A primal number, lone, creationless ; 

But now He came to me, as oft before, 

The everlasting Twofold, ever one, 

The man and woman still inseparable. 

And as the absolute can never live 

Without its relative ; as silent space 

Knows nothing, never sees or hears itself 

Without time's measuring music ; as cold form 

Lies blind and blank till colour comes with kiss 

And warmth outpoured upon it, such as once 

Elisha poured upon the lifeless child, 

So God was now no longer unto me 

A lonely masculine might above the worlds, 

But as the man and woman, twofold life, 

Its married Law and Love, and these were one. 



312 HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER 

And from their wedded love sprang forth a child, 
Their first-begotten-son, whose name was Love, 
Love their great heir, the lord of life and death, 
The holder of the keys to all we know 
And all the secrets of the unsearchable, 
The chalice-bearer of the world's life-wine, 
Bringer of light and steersman of the stars. 

HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON-KING 

b. 1840 

The Bride Reluctant 

' I EAVE the romance before the end ; 

>i Leave the late roses to their fall ; 
Dismiss the nurselings thou dost tend ; 

I hear another, closer call. 
'Tis I, thy Guardian, give thee word, 

Thy Bridegroom seeketh thee, O sweet ! 
Thy Bridegroom comes, His step I heard 

Within thy chamber thee to meet.' 

' Another day, another time ! 

'Tis pleasant in the outer room ; 
I love the airy summer clime, 

And not the inner chamber's gloom. 
And this .year's roses will not come 

Again ; but betwixt us the bond 
Is fixed, and fast, and wearisome ; 

For one is fickle, one is fond.' 

1 Come to thy chamber, for He stands 

Tearful, and seeking only thee ; 
With ravished eyes, and outstretched hands, 

And He commands resistlessly. 



HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON-KING 313 

Come to thy chamber, though it be 

Narrow, and dark, and full of pain ; 
He paid a heavy price for thee, 

And can He let thee go again ? ' 

' My Bridegroom's bed is cold and hard, 

My Bridegroom's kiss is ice and fire, 
My Bridegroom's clasp is iron-barred, 

I am consumed in His desire : 
My Bridegroom's touch is as a sword 

That pierces every nerve and limb ; 
" Depart from me," I moan, " O Lord ! " 

All the night long I spend with Him.' 

' Oh ! heart of woman holdeth not 

The passion of His love for thee ; 
He sees thee perfect, without spot, 

Crowned with celestial jewelry. 
The doors of Heaven could not hold 

His feet from hasting to thy side ; 
The ardours of the Suns are cold 

To His for thee, His hard- won bride.' 

* Rather am I His bondmaiden, 

Compelled by law and not by love. 
Oh, would I were enfranchised ; then 

With wings of silver, like a dove 
Then would I flee, past heaven's far bound, 

The unendurable embrace ; 
Then would I hide in earth's profound 

From the strange terror of His Face ! ' 

4 Enter, to keep thy Bridegroom's tryst ! 

Liking or loth I thee have led : 
He is thine own, albeit He wist 

That thy half-hearted love was dead 



3H HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON-KING 

What though His Bride with Him must share 
A couch of thorns without repose ? 

Thousands this moment death would dare 
To know one word of all she knows.' 

' I pine, on haunted hills to muse, 

To face the open sunrise skies ; 
I pine for friends that I might choose ; 

I pine for little children's eyes ; 
For free and fearless limbs to move 

Breasting the wave, breasting the breeze : 
But jealous love is cruel love, 

And He denies me all of these.' 

* Child, take thy roses, take thy toys, 

Take back thy life and liberty ; 
Thy days shall flow in simple joys, 

And undisturbed thy nights shall be. 
Thy Bridegroom does thee no more wrong, 

Poor child, the victim of His Heart : 
Look but on Him once more, one long 

Last look, and then from Him depart. 

* Farewell one look. But oh ! this lone 

Bare desert, where I might be free ! 
Thy Face I see Thy Face, my own, * 

And naught in heaven or earth but Thee ! 
But O my Lord, my Life, my Love, 

Thou knowest all my weakness best ; 
Take back into the ark Thy dove, 

And comfort me upon Thy breast ! ' 



HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON-KING 315 
From ' The Disciples' 

WE suffer. Why we suffer, that is hid 
With God's foreknowledge in the clouds of Heaven. 
The first book written sends that human cry- 
Out of the clear Chaldean pasture-lands 
Down forty centuries ; and no answer yet 
Is found, nor will be found, while yet we live 
In limitations of Humanity. 
But yet one thought has often stayed by me 
In the night-watches, which has brought at least 
The patience for the hour, and made the pain 
No more a burden which I groaned to leave, 
But something precious which I feared to lose. 
How shall I show it, but by parables ? 

The sculptor, with his Psyche's wings half-hewn, 
May close his eyes in weariness, and wake 
To meet the white cold clay of his ideal 
Flushed into beating life, and singing down 
The ways of Paradise. The husbandman 
May leave the golden fruitage of his groves 
Un garnered, and upon the Tree of Life 
Will find a richer harvest waiting him. 
The soldier dying thinks upon his bride, 
And knows his arms shall never clasp her more, 
Until he first the face of his unborn child 
Behold in heaven : for each and all of life, 
In every phase of action, love, and joy, 
There is fulfilment only otherwhere. 

But if, impatient, thou let slip thy cross, 
Thou wilt not find it in this world again, 
Nor in another ; here, and here alone 
Is given thee to suffer for God's sake. 



3i6 HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON-KING 

In other worlds we shall more perfectly 

Serve Him and love Him, praise Him, work for Him, 

Grow near and nearer Him with all delight ; 

But then we shall not any more be called 

To suffer, which is our appointment here. 

Canst thou not suffer then one hour, or two ? 

If He should call thee from thy cross to-day, 

Saying, It is finished ! that hard cross of thine 

From which thou prayest for deliverance, 

Thinkest thou not some passion of regret 

Would overcome thee ? Thou wouldst say, * So soon ? 

Let me go back, and suffer yet awhile 

More patiently ; I have not yet praised God.' 

And He might answer to thee, ' Never more. 

All pain is done with.' Whensoever it comes, 

That summons that we look for, it will seem 

Soon, yea too soon. Let us take heed in time 

That God may now be glorified in us ; 

And while we suffer, let us set our souls 

To suffer perfectly : since this alone, 

The suffering, which is this world's special grace, 

May here be perfected and left behind. 

But in obedience and humility ; 
Waiting on God's hand, not forestalling it. 
Seek not to snatch presumptuously the palm 
By self-election ; poison not thy wine 
With bitter herbs if He has made it sweet ; 
Nor rob God's treasuries because the key 
Is easy to be turned by mortal hands. 
The gifts of birth, death, genius, suffering, 
Are all for His hand only to bestow. 
Receive thy portion, and be satisfied. 
Who crowns himself a king is not the more 



HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON-KING 317 

Royal ; nor he who mars himself with stripes 
The more partaker of the Cross of Christ. 

But if Himself He come to thee, and stand 
Beside thee, gazing down on thee with eyes 
That smile, and suffer ; that will smite thy heart, 
With their own pity, to a passionate peace ; 
And reach to thee Himself the Holy Cup 
(With all its wreathen stems of passion-flowers 
And quivering sparkles of the ruby stars), 
Pallid and royal, saying ' Drink with Me ' ; 
Wilt thou refuse ? Nay, not for Paradise ! 
The pale brow will compel thee, the pure hands 
Will minister unto thee ; thou shalt take 
Of that communion through the solemn depths 
Of the dark waters of thine agony, 
With heart that praises Him, that yearns to Him 
The closer through that hour. Hold fast His hand, 
Though the nails pierce thine too ! take only care 
Lest one drop of the sacramental wine 
Be spilled, of that which ever shall unite 
Thee, soul and body to thy living Lord ! 

Therefore gird up thyself, and come, to stand 
Unflinching under the unfaltering hand, 
That waits to prove thee to the uttermost. 
It were not hard to suffer by His hand, 
If thou couldst see His face ; but in the dark ! 
That is the one last trial : be it so. 
Christ was forsaken, so must thou be too : 
How couldst thou suffer but in seeming, else ? 
Thou wilt not see the face nor feel the hand, 
Only the cruel crushing of the feet, 
When through the bitter night the Lord comes down 
To tread the winepress. Not by sight, but faith, 
Endure, endure, be faithful to the end ! 



SARAH WILLIAMS 

1841-1868 
Deep-sea Soundings 

MARINER, what of the deep ? 
This of the deep : 

Twilight is there, and solemn, changeless calm ; 
Beauty is there, and tender healing balm 
Balm with no root in earth, or air, or sea, 
Poised by the finger of God, it floateth free, 
And, as it threads the waves, the sound doth rise, 
Hither shall come no further sacrifice ; 
Never again the anguished clutch at life, 
Never again great Love and Death in strife ; 
He who hath suffered all, need fear no more, 
Quiet his portion now, for evermore. 

Mariner, what of the deep ? 

This of the deep : 

Solitude dwells not there, though silence reign ; 
Mighty the brotherhood of loss and pain ; 
There is communion past the need of speech, 
There is a love no words of love can reach ; 
Heavy the waves that superincumbent press, 
But as we labour here with constant stress, 
Hand doth hold out to hand not help alone, 
But the deep bliss of being fully known. 
There are no kindred like the kin of sorrow, 
There is no hope like theirs who fear no morrow. 

Mariner, what of the deep ? 

This of the deep : 

Though we have travelled past the line of day, 
Glory of night doth light us on our way, 



SARAH WILLIAMS 319 

Radiance that comes we know not how nor whence, 

Rainbows without the rain, past duller sense, 

Music of hidden reefs and waves long past, 

Thunderous organ tones from far-off blast, 

Harmony, victrix, throned in state sublime, 

Couched on the wrecks be-gemmed with pearls of time ; 

Never a wreck but brings some beauty here ; 

Down where the waves are stilled the sea shines clear ; 

Deeper than life the plan of life doth lie, 

He who knows all, fears naught. Great Death shall die. 

ROBERT BUCHANAN 

1841-1901 
The Tree of Life 

THE Master said : 
* I have planted the Seed of a Tree, 
It shall be strangely fed 
With white dew and with red, 

And the Gardeners shall be three 
Regret, Hope, Memory ! ' 

The Master smiled : 

For the Seed that He had set 
Broke presently thro' the mould, 
With a glimmer of green and gold, 

And the Angels' eyes were wet 

Hope, Memory, Regret. 

The Master cried : 

' It liveth breatheth see ! 

Its soft lips open wide 

It looks from side to side 

How strange they gleam on me, 
The little dim eyes of the Tree ! ' 



320 ROBERT BUCHANAN 

The Master said : 

* After a million years, 
The Seed I set and fed 
To itself hath gathered 

All the world's smiles and tears 

How mighty it appears ! ' 

The Master said : 

' At last, at last, I see 
A Blossom, a Blossom o' red 
From the heart of the Tree is shed. 

'Tis fairer certainly 

Than the Tree, or the leaves of the Tree.' 

The Master cried : 

' O Angels, that guard the Tree, 
A Blossom, a Blossom divine 
Grows on this greenwood of mine : 

What may this Blossom be ? 

Name this Blossom to me ! ' 

The Master smiled ; 

For the Angels answered thus : 
' Our tears have nourish'd the same, 
We have given it a name 

That seemeth fit to us 

We have called it Spiritus? 

The Master said : 

' This Flower no Seed shall bear ; 
But hither on a day 
My beautiful Son shall stray, 

And shall snatch it unaware, 

And wreath it in his hair.' 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 321 

The Master smiled : 

' The Tree shall never bear 
Seedless shall perish the Tree, 
But th$ Flower my Son's shall be ; 

He will pluck the Flower and wear, 

Till it withers in his hair ! ' 



From ' The City of 'Dream 

THE Woof that I weave not 
Thou wearest and weavest, 
The Thought I conceive not 

Thou darkly conceivest ; 
The wind and the rain, 

The night and the morrow, 
The rapture of pain 

Fading slowly to sorrow, 
The dream and the deed, 

The calm and the storm, 
The flower and the seed, 

Are thy Thought and thy Form. 
I die, yet depart not, 

I am bound, yet soar free, 
Thou art and thou art not, 

And ever shalt be ! 



From ' The City of 'Dream ' 

The Man 
X/ONDER the veil'd Musician sits, His feet 

I Upon the pedals of dark formless suns, 
His fingers on the radiant spheric keys, 
His face, that it is death to look upon, 
MYST. M 



322 ROBERT BUCHANAN 

Misted with incense rising nebulous 
Out of abysmal chaos and cohering 
Into the golden flames of Life and Being ! 
And underneath his touch Music itself 
Grows living, heard as far as thought can creep 
Or dream can soar ; or that Creation stirs, 
And drinks the sound, and sings ! So far away 
He sits, the Mystery, wrapt for ever round 
With brightness and with awe and melody ; 
Yet even here, on these low-lying shores, 
Lower than is the footstool of His throne, 
We hear Him and adore Him, nay, can feel 
His breath as vapour round our mouths, inhaling 
That soul within the soul whereby we live 
From that divine for-ever-beating Heart 
Which thrills the universe with Light and Love ! 

The Pilgrim 

So far away He dwells, my soul indeed 
Scarcely discerns Him, and in sooth I seek 
A gentler presence and a nearer Friend. 

The Man 

So far ? O blind, He broods beside thee now 
Here in this silence, with His eyes on thine ! 

deaf, His voice is whispering in thine ears 
Soft as the breathing of the slumberous seas ! 

The Pilgrim 

1 see not and I hear not ; but I see 

Thine eyes burn dimly, like a corpse-light seen 
Flickering amidst the tempest ; ard I hear 
Only the elemental grief and pain 
Out of whose shadow I would creep for ever. 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 323 

The Man 
Thou canst not, brother ; for these, too, are God ! 

The Pilgrim 

How ? Is my God, then, as a homeless ghost 
Blown this way, that way, with the elements ? 

The Man 

He is without thee, and within thee too ; 
Thy living breath, and that which drinks thy breath : 
Thy being, and the bliss beyond thy being. 

The Pilgrim 

So near, so far ? He shapes the farthest sun 
New-glimmering on the farthest fringe of space, 
Yet stoops and with a leaf-light finger-touch 
Reaches my heart and makes it come and go ! 

The Man 

Yea ; and He is thy heart within thy heart, 
And thou a portion of His Heart Divine ! 



JAMES RHOADES 

b. 1841 
Soul of Mine! 

AjAIN that Voice, which on my listening ears 
Falls like star-music filtering through the spheres : 
* Know this, O Man, sole root of sin in thee 
Is not to know thine own divinity ! ' 

And the Voice said : 
' Awake, thou drunken and yet not with wine i 

Arise and shine ! 
Uplift thee from the dead ! 



324 JAMES RHOADES 

Cast off the clinging cerements of sin 
Fool-sense hath swathed thee in ! 

Though drugged and dulled 
With every evil anodyne 

From the rank soil of the world's waste-heap culled, 
Thou crown and pattern of the eternal Plan, 
Awake, O Soul of Man ! 

O Soul of Mine, 
Awake, I say, and know thyself divine ! 

Behold, behold ! 
Thou art not that thou deemest, 
Or to thy fellows seemest 

In death-bound body hearsed : 
But, like a silver summit 
Enshrouded 
And o'er-clouded 
With earth-born vapour vainest, 
So gross no eye may plumb it, 

E'en as of old 

From out My Heart all-seeing 
Ere yet in body dressed, 

Best of the best, 
And of most holy holiest 
Thou soared'st into being, 
So, godlike as at. first 
I made thee, thou remainest. 

' What look of wonder dawns within thine eyes, 

O soul of Mine ? 

Hast utterly forgot from whence art risen ? 
That essence rare can walls of space imprison, 
Or time with dull decrepitude surprise ? 



JAMES RHOADES 325 

Nay now 

From every chain thy self hath forged for thee 
Thy Self can set thee free : 

Let the sea burn, 
Let fire to water turn, 

But thou 
Cleave to thy birthright and thy Royal Line ! 

' For lo ! thou hast within thee to dispel 

This haunting hell 
Of error- teemed night 

That hides thy height, 
And the dread rumour and malefic breath 

Of thy doomed enemy, Death, 
Whose birth-lair, ignorance, like a stagnant pool, 

Of its accursed kind 

Breeds ague of unfaith, and terrors blind 
Hatched in the darkened hollows of the mind ; 

Whence too arise 
Hallucinations, lurid phantasies, 
And gross desires, with every vice that springs 

From false imaginings, 
And vain reliance upon visible things 

The mad misrule 

Of creeds and deeds idolatrous, whereof 
Love were sworn hater, an she were not Love. 

' These in their hidden dens 

Behoves thee with pure thoughts to cleave or cleanse. 
Aye, and unmask those counterfeits of bliss, 
Which to believe thy deep undoing is 
Joys which but lure to leave thee, 
And leave to grieve thee, 



326 JAMES RHOADES 

Not of the fine-spun stuff 
That from the eternal spool 
My Hands would weave thee ! 

Enough, enough ! 
How long shall they deceive thee, 

And thou still dote 
Importuning high Heaven 

That more be given 
With cries monotonous as the wry-neck's note ? 

' Such pleasures and such pain 

Alike are vain. 
Not while the chords of thought are keyed to these 

Shalt thou find rest or ease, 
Seeing that thyself art tuned eternally 
To That which only is without alloy 

Pure Life and Joy. 
Ah ! would thy throbbing shell 
Awake the Spirit's whispered harmonies, 

Bethink thee well 
That every trembling hidden string must be 

Vibrant of Me 

Who am the Truth, and at thy centre dwell 
The very Breath of God made visible ! 
For know the myriad miseries of mankind, 

And the long reign of sin, 
Came but of questing outward, for to find ' 
That which abides within. 

' But what hast thou to do with sinning, 

O Soul of Mine, 
Or what with dying, 

Sorrow and sighing, 
Who hast nor ending nor beginning, 



JAMES RHOADES 327 

Nor power from thy perfection to decline ? 

Who canst not guess 
From the gaunt shadow cast 
On folly's fog-belt, but shalt learn at last, 
Thine own inalienable loveliness ; 
Whom sinless, deathless, I created 

Of elements so fine, 
That with my Being sated, 
In glorious garments dight 

Of Life and Light, 
Lowly, yet unafraid, 
With an eternity of joy sufficed, 

The Spirit's Self might love thee 
And brood above thee, 

Pure Maid 
And Mother of the indwelling Christ ! 

' Hereby thou comest at last unto thine own, 

The Heaven of Heaven ! 

Self -wittingly at one 

With Him who hath the Universe for throne, 
Who wieldeth the stars seven ; 

Who only is 
The Mystery of Mysteries 

Ineffable, My Son, 
My sole-begotten ere the worlds began, 

Made manifest as Man. 

' And the grim Nothingness thou namest Death, 
With all his shadowy peers 
Angers, and lusts, and fears 
The which so long against thy peace did plot, 
Shall be remembered not, 
Or, shrivelling at a breath, 



328 JAMES RHOADES 

Be known as naught ; 
Yea, that they never were 
Save in the realm of things that but appear, 
Creations of thine unillumined thought. 

1 Then deem not Heaven a place, 
As though 'twere measurable in terms of sense 

Length, breadth, circumference, 
Or spread throughout illimitable space. 
It is the enthronization of the soul 

Upon the heights of Being ; it is to know ; 
It is the rapture that I AM is so, 
Whatever clouds of ignorance up-roll. 

It is the joy of joys, 
To thrill co-operant with the primal cause 

Of the unswerving laws 
Which hold in everlasting equipoise 

Those balances of God, 
The visible and invisible Universe ; 

Wherein, couldst thou but measure with His rod- 
With undistorted sight 

Couldst read aright 
Nor better is, nor worse, 

But only best ; 

'Tis from thy centre to thine utmost bound 
To feel that thou hast found 

That thou too art 
From all to all eternity a part 

Of that which never was in speech expressed, 
The unresting Order which is more than rest. 

* Who is he prateth of Original Sin ? 

I am thine Origin, 
And I thy Kingdom waiting thee within ! 



JAMES RHOADES 329 

Seek Me, and thou hast found it, 
My seas of Life surround it, 

My Love's o'er-arching splendour 
For canopy hath crowned it. 
All that nor eye nor ear 

Can hear or see 

Lies stored within its boundless empery. 
Not there, O Soul of Mine, 

Shalt thou surrender, 
Torn from thy tortured breast, 
Those whom thou heldest here 
In bonds so tender. 
Death cannot quell 
Their residue divine. 

Seek, then, within, but spurn the unhallowed spell : 
In light unutterable alive they shine, 
Leave thou to Me the rest ! 

Have I not said ? 
And shall not they that mourn be comforted ? 

' Yet these for whom thou pinest, 

Thy dearest and divinest, 

Are but rills from out the river 

Of the all-and-only Giver : 
Why tarry, then, thy thirst in Him to slake 
Who flowed through earthen channels for thy sake, 
From death-drought to deliver ? 

Hadst thou but eyes for seeing 

The wells of thine own being, 
What draughts of living water wouldst thou take ! 

' Ever, then, singly, and all aims above, 

For That I AM is thine, 
Think Oneness, and think Worship, and think Love ; 



330 



JAMES RHOADES 



The which, translated to thine outward need 
(Sith every thought must still creative prove), 
Shall limn their likeness with invisible hand 
As the sea-ripples write them on the sand 

In bodily form and deed. 
So shalt thou make for thine eternal Meed ; 
So shalt thou fashion thee. O Soul of Mine, 

A glorious shrine 

Wherein to house thee, and wherethrough to shine 
Or here, or in My Mansions crystalline 
Serenely changeless, dazzlingly divine ! ' 



From ' Out of the Silence ' 

E! in the vigils of the night, ere sped 
The first bright arrows from the Orient shed, 
The heart of Silence trembled into sound, 
And out of Vastness came a Voice, which said : 

I AM alone ; thou only art in Me : 

I am the stream of Life that flows through thee : 

I comprehend all substance, fill all space : 

I am pure Being, by whom all things be. 

I am thy Dawn, from darkness to release : 
I am the Deep, wherein thy sorrows cease : 
Be still ! be still ! and know that I am God : 
Acquaint thyself with Me, and be at peace ! 

I am the Silence that is more than sound : 
If therewi thin thou lose thee, thou art found : 
The stormless, shoreless Ocean, which is I 
Thou canst not breathe, but in its bosom drowned, 



JAMES RHOADES 331 

I am all Love : there is naught else but I : 
I am all Power : the rest is phantasy : 
Evil, and anguish, sorrow, death, and hell 
These are the fear-flung shadows of a lie. 

Arraign not Mine Omnipotence, to say 
That aught beside in earth or heaven hath sway ! 
The powers of darkness are not : that which is 
Abideth : these but vaunt them for a day. 

Know thou thyself : as thou hast learned of Me, 
I made thee three in one, and one in three 
Spirit and Mind and Form, immortal Whole, 
Divine and undivided Trinity. 

Seek not to break the triple bond assigned : 
Mind sees by Spirit : Body moves by Mind : 
Divorced from Spirit, both way-wildered fall 
Leader and led, the blindfold and the blind. 

Look not without thee : thou hast that within, 
Makes whole thy sickness, impotent thy sin : 
Survey thy forces, rally to thyself : 
That which thou would'st not hath no power to win. 

I, God, enfold thee like an atmosphere : 
Thou to thyself wert never yet more near : 
Think not to shun Me : whither would'st thou fly ? 
Nor go not hence to seek Me : I am here. 



332 



FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS 

1843-1901 
Sunrise 

I OOK, O blinded eyes and burning, 
JLiThink, O heart amazed with yearning, 
Is it yet beyond thine earning, 

That delight that was thine all ? 
Wilful eyes and un discerning, 
Heart ashamed of bitter learning, 
It is flown beyond returning, 

It is lost beyond recall. 

Who with prayers has overtaken 
Those glad hours when he would waken 
To the sound of branches shaken 

By an early song and wild, 
When the golden leaves would flicker, 
And the loving thoughts come thicker, 
And the thrill of life beat quicker 

In the sweet heart of the child ? 

Yet my soul, tho' thou forsake her, 
Shall adore thee, till thou take her, 
In the morning, O my Maker, 

For thine oriflamme unfurled : 
For the lambs beneath their mothers 
For the bliss that is another's, 
For the beauty of my brothers, 

For the wonder of the world. 



FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS 333 

From above us and from under, 
In the ocean and the thunder, 
Thou preludest to the wonder 

Of the Paradise to be : 
For a moment we may guess thee 
From thy creatures that confess thee 
When the morn and even bless thee, 

And thy smile is on the sea. 

Then from something seen or heard, 
Whether forests softly stirred, 



Or the speaking of a word, 
Or the singing of a bird, 

Cares and sorrows cease : 
For a moment on the soul 
Falls the rest that maketh whole, 

Falls the endless peace. 

O the hush from earth's annoys ! 

O the heaven, O the joys 

Such as priest and singing-boys 

Cannot sing or say ! 
There is no more pain and crying, 
There is no more death and dying, 
As for sorrow and for sighing, 

These shall flee away. 



334 FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS 



A Cosmic Outlook 

O ACKWARD ! beyond this momentary woe ! 
JDThine was the world's dim dawn, the prime emprize , 

Eternal aeons gaze thro' these sad eyes, 
And all the empyreal sphere hath shaped thee so. 
Nay ! all is living, all is plain to know ! 

This rock has drunk the ray from ancient skies ; 
Strike ! and the sheen of that remote sunrise 
Gleams in the marble's unforgetful glow. 
Thus hath the cosmic light endured the same 

Ere first that ray from Sun to Sirius flew ; 
Aye, and in heaven I heard the mystic Name 

Sound, and a breathing of the Spirit blew ; 
Lit the long Past, bade shine the slumbering flame 
And all the Cosmorama blaze anew. 



Onward ! thro' baffled hope, thro' bootless prayer, 

With strength that sinks, with high task half begun, 
Things great desired, things lamentable done, 
Vows writ in water, blows that beat the air. 
On ! I have guessed the end ; the end is fair. 

Not with these weak limbs is thy last race run ; 
Not all thy vision sets with this low sun ; 
Not all thy spirit swoons in this despair. 

Look how thine own soul, throned where all is well, 

Smiles to regard thy days disconsolate ; 
Yea ; since herself she wove the worldly spell, 
Doomed thee for lofty gain to low estate ; 
Sown with thy fall a seed of glory fell ; 
Thy heaven is in thee, and thy will thy fate. 



FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS 335 

Inward ! aye, deeper far than love or scorn, 
Deeper than bloom of virtue, stain of sin, 
Rend thou the veil and pass alone within, 
Stand naked there and feel thyself forlorn ! 
Nay ! in what world, then, Spirit, wast thou born ? 
Or to what World- Soul art thou entered in ? 
Feel the Self fade, feel the great life begin, 
With Love re-rising in the cosmic morn. 

The inward ardour yearns to the inmost goal ; 

The endless goal is one with the endless way ; 
From every gulf the tides of Being roll, 

From every zenith burns the indwelling day ; 
And life in Life has drowned thee and soul in Soul ; 
And these are God, and thou thyself art they. 



From ' Saint Paul' 

Eas some bard on isles of the Aegean 
Lovely and eager when the earth was young, 
Burning to hurl his heart into a paean, 

Praise of the hero from whose loins he sprung ; 

He, I suppose, with such a care to carry, 
Wandered disconsolate and waited long, 

Smiting his breast, wherein the notes would tarry, 
Chiding the slumber of the seed of song : 

Then in the sudden glory of a minute 

Airy and excellent the proem came, 
Rending his bosom, for a god was in it, 

Waking the seed, for it had burst in flame. 



336 FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS 

So even I athirst for his inspiring, 

I who have talked with Him forget again, 

Yes, many days with sobs and with desiring 
Offer to God a patience and a pain ; 

Then thro' the mid complaint of my confession, 
Then thro' the pang and passion of my prayer, 

Leaps with a start the shock of his possession, 
Thrills me and touches, and the Lord is there. 

Lo if some pen should write upon your rafter 
Mene and mene in the folds of flame, 

Think you could any memories thereafter 
Wholly retrace the couplet as it came ? 

Lo if some strange intelligible thunder 

Sang to the earth the secret of a star, 
Scarce could ye catch, for terror and for wonder, 

Shreds of the story that was pealed so far : 

Scarcely I catch the words of his revealing, 
Hardly I hear Him, dimly understand, 

Only the Power that is within me pealing 
Lives on my lips and beckons to my hand. 

Whoso has felt the Spirit of the Highest 

Cannot confound nor doubt Him nor deny : 

Yea with one voice, O world, tho' thou deniest, 
Stand thou on that side, for on this am I. 

Rather the earth shall doubt when her retrieving 
Pours in the rain and rushes from the sod, 

Rather than he for whom the great conceiving 
Stirs in his soul to quicken into God. 



FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS 337 

Aye, tho' thou then shouldst strike him frorh his glory- 
Blind and tormented, maddened and alone, 

Even on the cross would he maintain his story, 
Yes and in hell would whisper, I have known. 



A Last Appeal 

O SOMEWHERE, somewhere, God unknown, 
Exist and be ! 

I am dying ; I am all alone ; 
I must have Thee ! 

God ! God ! my sense, my soul, my all, 

Dies in the cry : 
Saw'st thou the faint star flame and falj ? 

Ah ! it was I. 



EDWARD DOWDEN 

1843-1913 
By the Window 

STILL deep into the West I gazed ; the light 
Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird 
Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps, 
Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen ? 
Whether from moon, or sun, or angel's face 
It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood, 
Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death 
Along the blind charm'd way to nothingness, 
Lull'd the last nerve that ached. It was a sky 
Made for a man to waste his will upon, 



338 EDWARD DOWDEN 

To be received as wiser than all toil. 



And much more fair. And what was strife of men ? 
And what was time ? 

Then came a certain thing. 
Are intimations for the elected soul 
Dubious, obscure, of unauthentic power 
Since ghostly to the intellectual eye, 
Shapeless to thinking ? Nay, but are not we 
Servile to words and an usurping brain, 
Infidels of our own high mysteries, 
Until the senses thicken and lose the world, 
Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see, 
And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day, 
Which once drank light, and fed on angels' food ? 

It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone. 

One standing on some aery balcony 
And looking down upon a swarming crowd 
Sees one man beckon to him with finger-tip 
While eyes meet eyes ; he turns and looks again 
The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms. 
Shall such an one say, ' Thus 'tis proved a dream, 
And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own ? ' 
Neither can I say this. There was a hint, 
A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute, 
Which ran across the West ; the sky was touch'd, 
And failed not to respond. Does a hand pass 
Lightly across your hair ? you feel it pass 
Not half so heavy as a cobweb's weight, 
Although you never stir ; so felt the sky 
Not unaware of the Presence, so my soul 
Scarce less aware. And if I cannot say 



EDWARD DOWDEN 339 

The meaning and monition, words are weak 
Which will not paint the small wing of a moth, 
Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain, 
And much less serve the soul in her large needs. 
I cannot tell the meaning, but a change 
Was wrought in me ; it was not the one man 
Who came to the luminous window to gaze forth, 
And who moved back into the darkened room 
With awe upon his heart and tender hope ; 
From some deep well of life tears rose ; the throng 
Of dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off, 
And from a sacred solitude I gazed 
Deep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life., 



Awakening 

WITH brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod, 
With eye so practised in each form around, 
And all forms mean, to glance above the ground 
Irks it, each day of many days we plod, 
Tongue-tied and deaf, along life's common road. 
But suddenly, we know not how, a sound 
Of living streams, an odour, a flower crowned 
With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod, 
And we awake. O joy and deep amaze ! 
Beneath the everlasting hills we stand, 
We hear the voices of the morning seas, 
And earnest prophesyings in the land, 
While from the open heaven leans forth at gaze 
The encompassing great cloud of witnesses. 



340 EDWARD DOWDEN 

Communion 

I ORD, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night, 
I i But Thy love came upon me like a sleep, 
And all desire died out ; upon the deep 
Of Thy mere love I lay, each thought in light 
Dissolving like the sunset clouds, at rest 
Each tremulous wish, and my strength weakness, sweet 
As a sick boy with soon o'erwearied feet 
Finds, yielding him unto his mother's breast 
To weep for weakness there. I could not pray, 
But with closed eyes I felt Thy bosom's love 
Beating toward mine, and then I would not move 
Till of itself the joy should pass away ; 
At last my heart found voice, ' Take me, O Lord, 
And do with me according to Thy word.' 



A JVew Hymn for Solitude 

{FOUND Thee in my heart, O Lord, 
As in some secret shrine ; 
I knelt, I waited for Thy word, 
I joyed to name Thee mine. 

I feared to give myself away 

To that or this ; beside 
Thy altar on my face I lay, 

And in strong need I cried. 

Those hours are past. Thou art not mine, 

And therefore I rejoice, 
I wait within no holy shrine, 

I faint not for the voice. 




i 



EDWARD DOWDEN 341 

In Thee we live ; and every wind 

Of heaven is Thine ; blown free 
To west, to east, the God unshrined 

Is still discovering me. 



The Secret of the Vniverse 

AN ODE 

(By a Western Spinning Dervish) 

SPIN, I spin, around, around, 

And close my eyes, 

And let the bile arise 

From the sacred region of the soul's Profound ; 
Then gaze upon the world ; how strange ! how new ! 

The earth and heaven are one, 

The horizon-line is gone, 

The sky how green ! the land how fair and blue ! 
Perplexing items fade from my large view, 
And thought which vexed me with its false and true 
Is swallowed up in Intuition ; this, 

This is the sole true mode 

Of reaching God, 

And gaining the universal synthesis * 
Which makes All One ; while fools with peering eyes 
Dissect, divide, and vainly analyse. 
So round, and round, and round again ,1 
How the whole globe swells within my brain, 
The stars inside my lids appear. 
The murmur of the spheres I hear 
Throbbing and beating in each ear ; 
Right in my navel I can feel 
The centre of the world's great wheel. 



342 



EDWARD DOWDEN 



Ah peace divine, bliss dear and deep, 

No stay, no stop, 

Like any top 

Whirling with swiftest speed, I sleep. 
O ye devout ones round me coming, 
Listen ! I think that I am humming ; 

No utterance of the servile mind 
With poor chop-logic rules agreeing 

Here shall ye find, 

But inarticulate burr of man's unsundered being. 
Ah, could we but devise some plan, 
Some patent jack by which a man 
Might hold himself ever in harmony 
With the great whole, and spin perpetually, 

As all things spin 

Without, within, 
As Time spins off into Eternity, 
And Space into the inane Immensity, 
And the Finite into God's Infinity, 

Spin-, spin, spin, spin. 



The Initiation 

UNDER the flaming wings of cherubim 
I moved toward that high altar. O, the hour ! 
And the light waxed intenser, and the dim 

Low edges of the hills and the grey sea 
Were caught and captur'd by the present Power, 
My sureties and my witnesses to be. 

Then the light drew me in. Ah, perfect pain ! 

Ah, infinite moment of accomplishment ! 
Thou terror of pure joy, with neither wane 

Nor waxing, but long silence and sharp air 



EDWARD DOWDEN 343 

As womb-forsaking babes breathe. Hush ! the event 
Let him who wrought Love's marvellous things declare. 

Shall I who fear'd not joy, fear grief at all ? 

I on whose mouth Life laid his sudden lips 
Tremble at Death's weak kiss, and not recall 

That sundering from the flesh, the flight from time, 
The judgements stern, the clear apocalypse, 

The lightnings, and the Presences sublime. 

How came I back to earth ? I know not how, 

Nor what hands led me, nor what words were said. 

Now all things are made mine, joy, sorrow ; now 
I know my purpose deep, and can refrain ; 

I walk among the living, not the dead ; 
My sight is purged ; I love and pity men. 



Loves Lord 

WHEN weight of all the garner'd years 
Bows me, and praise must find relief 
In harvest-song, and smiles and tears 
Twist in the band that binds my sheaf ; 

Thou known Unknown, dark, radiant sea 
In whom we live, in whom we move, 

My spirit must lose itself in Thee, 

Crying a name Life, Light, or Love. 



344 
FREDERICK WILLIAM ORDE WARD 

b. 1843 

The Beatific Vision 

BETWIXT the dawning and the day it came 
Upon me like a spell, 

While tolled a distant bell, 
A wondrous vision but without a name 
In pomp of shining mist and shadowed flame, 

Exceeding terrible ; 
Before me seemed to open awful Space, 

And sheeted tower and spire 

With forms of shrouded 'tire 
Arose and beckoned with unearthly grace,- 
I felt a Presence though I saw no face 

But the dark rolling fire. 

And then a Voice as sweet and soft as tears 

But yet of gladness part, 

Thrilled through my inmost heart, 
Which told the secret of the solemn years 
And swept away the clouds of gloomy fears, 

The riddles raised by art ; 
Till all my soul was bathed with trembling joy 

And lost in dreadful bliss, 

As at God's very kiss, 

While the earth shrivelled up its broken toy, 
And like a rose the heavens no longer coy 

Laid bare their blue abyss. 

The giant wheels and all the hidden springs 

Of this most beauteous globe, 

Which man may never probe, 
Burst on me with a blaze of angel wings 
And each bright orb that like a diamond clings 

To the veiled Father's robe ; 




FREDERICK WILLIAM ORDE WARD 345 

I saw with vision that was more than sight, 

The levers and the laws 

That fashion stars as straws 
And link with perfect loveliness of right, 
In the pure duty that is pure delight 

And to one Centre draws. 

I knew with sudden insight all was best, 

The passion and the pain, 

The searchings that seem vain 
But lead if by dim blood-stained steps to Rest, 
And only are the beatings of God's Breast 

Beneath the iron chain ; 
I knew each work was blessed in its place, 

The eagle and the dove, 

While Nature was the glove 
Of that dear Hand which everywhere we trace, 
I felt a Presence though I saw no face, 

And it was boundless Love. 

Redemption 

AX living creatures' pain, 
The sufferings of the lowliest thing that creeps 
Or flies a moment ere it sinks and sleeps, 
Are too Redemption's tears and not in vain 
For nothing idly weeps. 
Earth is through these fulfilling that it must 
As in Christ's own eternal Passion chain, 
And flowering from the dust. 

The driven and drudging ass 
Crushed by the bondage of its bitter round. 
Repeats the Gospel in that narrow bound; 
God is reflected in the blade of grass, 



346 FREDERICK WILLIAM ORDE WARD 

And there is Calvary's ground. 
O not an insect or on leaf or sod 
But in its measure is a looking-glass, 
And shows Salvation's God. 

All thus are carrying on, 

And do work out, the one Redemption's tale ; 

Each is a little Christ on hill or dale, 

The hell where Mercy's light has never shone 

Is with that Mercy pale, 

And though flesh turns from agony they dread, 

Even as they groan and travail it is gone 

Love riseth from the dead. 

ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY 

,. _ 1844-1881 

The Lover 

I WAS not with the rest at play ; 
My brothers laughed in joyous mood : 
But I I wandered far away 

Into the fair and silent wood ; 

And with the trees and flowers I stood, 
As dumb and full of dreams as they : 
For One it seemed my whole heart knew, 

Or One my heart had known long since, 
Was peeping at me through the dew ; 
And with bright laughter seemed to woo 

My beauty, like a Fairy prince. 

Oh, what a soft enchantment filled 
The lonely paths and places dim ! 

It was as though the whole wood thrilled, 
And a dumb joy, because of him, 
Weighed down the lilies tall and slim, 

And made the roses blush, and stilled 



ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 347 

The great wild voices in half fear : 

It was as though his smile did hold 

All things in trances manifold ; 
And in each place as he dre*w near 

The leaves were touched and turned to gold. . . . 

But more and more he seemed to seek 
My heart : till, dreaming of all this, 

I thought one day to hear him speak, 
Or feel, indeed, his sudden kiss 
Bind me to some great unknown bliss : 

Then there would stay upon my cheek 
Full many a light and honied stain, 
That told indeed how I had lain 

Deep in the flowery banks all day ; 
And round me too there would remain 

Some strange wood-blossom's scent alway. . . . 

O, the incomparable love 

Of him, my Lover ! O, to tell 
Its way and measure were above 

The throbbing chords of speech that swell 

Within me ! Doth it not excel 
All other, sung or written of ? 
Yea now, O all ye fair mankind 

Consider well the gracious line 
Of those your lovers ; call to mind 
Their love of you, and ye shall find 

Not one among them all like mine. 

It seems as though, from calm to calm, 

A whole fair age had passed me by, 
Since first this Lover, through a charm 

Of flowers, wooed so tenderly, 

I had no fear of drawing nigh, 
Nor knew, indeed, that with an arm 




348 ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 

Closed round and holding me he led 
My eager way from sight to sight 
Of all the summer magic right 

To where himself had surely spread 
Some pleasant snare for my delight. 

And now, in an eternal sphere, 
Beneath one flooding look of his 

Wherein, all beautiful and dear, 
That endless melting gold that is 
His love, with flawless memories 

Grows ever richer and more clear 
My life seems held, as some faint star 
Beneath its sun : and through the far 

Celestial distances for miles, 
To where vast mirage futures are, 

I trace the gilding of his smiles. . . . 

For, one by one, e'en as I rise, 

And feel the pure Ethereal 
Refining all before my eyes : 

Whole beauteous worlds material 

Are seen to enter gradual 
The great transparent paradise 
Of this my dream ; and,' all revealed, 

To break upon me more and more 
Their inward singing souls, and yield 
A wondrous secret half concealed 

In all their loveliness before. 

And so, when, through unmeasured days, 
The far effulgence of the sea 

Is holding me in long amaze, 
And stealing with strange ecstasy 
My heart all opened silently ; 

There reach me, from among the sprays, 



ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 349 

Ineffable faint words that sing 
Within me, how, for me alone, 

One who is lover who is King, 

Hath dropt, as 'twere a precious stone, 
That sea a symbol of his throne. . . . 

And, through the long charmed solitude 

Of throbbing moments, whose strong link 
Is one delicious hope pursued 

From trance to trance, the while I think 

And know myself upon the brink 
Of His eternal kiss, endued 
With part of him, the very wind 

Hath power to ravish me in sips 
Or long mad wooings that unbind 
My hair, wherein I truly find 

The magic of his unseen lips. 

And, so almighty is the thrill 

I feel at many a faintest breath 
Or stir of sound as 'twere a rill 

Of joy traversing me, or death 

Dissolving all that hindereth 
My thought from power to fulfil 
Some new embodiment of bliss, 

I do consume with the immense 
Delight as of some secret kiss, 

And am become like one whose sense 

Is used with raptures too intense ! . . . 

Yea, mystic consummation ! yea, 
O wondrous suitor, whosoe'er 

Thou art ; that in such mighty way, 
In distant realms, athwart the air 
And lands and seas, with all things fair 

Hast wooed me even till this day ; 



350 ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 

It seems thou drawest near to me ; 
Or I, indeed, so nigh to thee, 

I catch rare breaths of a delight 
From thy most glorious country, see 

Its distant glow upon some height. . . . 

O thou my Destiny ! O thou 

My own my very Love my Lord ! 

Whom from the first day until now 
My heart, divining, hath adored 
So perfectly it hath abhorred 

The tie of each frail human vow 

O I would whisper in thine ear 
Yea, may I not, once, in the clear 

Pure night, when, only, silver shod 
The angels walk ? thy name, I fear 

And love, and tremble saying GOD ! 



En Soph 

Prayer of the Soul on entering Human Life 

EN SOPH, uncomprehended in the thought 
Of man or angel, having all that is 
In one eternity of Being brought 

Into a moment : yet with purposes, 
Whence emanate those lower worlds of Time, 
And Force, and Form, where man, with one wing caught 
In clogging earth, angels in freer clime, 

From partial blindness into partial sight, 
Strive, yearn, and, with an inward hope sublime, 

Rise ever ; or, mastered by down-dragging might, 

And groping weakly with an ill-trimmed light, 
Sink, quenched ; 



ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 351 

En Soph was manifest, as dim 
And awful as upon Egyptian throne 

Osiris sits ; but splendour covered Him ; 
And circles of the Sephiroth tenfold, 
Vast and mysterious, intervening rolled. 

And lo ! from all the outward turning zones, 

Before Him came the endless stream of souls 
Unborn, whose destiny is to descend 

And enter by the lowest gate of being. 
And each one coming, saw, on written scrolls 

And semblances that he might comprehend, 
The things of Life and Death and Fate which seeing, 

Each little soul, as quivering like a flame 
It paled before that splendour, stood and prayed 

A piteous, fervent prayer against the shame 
And ill of living, and would so have stayed 

A flame-like emanation as before, 
Unsullied and untried. Then, as he ceased 

The tremulous supplication, full of sore 
Foreboding agony to be released 

From going -on the doubtful pilgrimage 
Of earthly hope and sorrow, for reply 

A mighty angel touched his sight, to close, 
Or nearly close, his spiritual eye, 

So he should look on luminous things like those 
No more till he had learned to live and die. 

And when the pure bright flame, my soul, at last 
Passed there in turn, it flickered like them all ; 

But oh ! with some surpassing sad forecast 

Of more than common pains that should befall 

The man whose all too human heart has bled 
With so much love and anguish until now, 



352 ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 

And has not broken yet, and is not dead, 

And shaken as a leaf in autumn late, 
Tormented by the wind, my soul somehow 

Found speech and prayed like this against my Fate : 

The pure flame pent within the fragile form 

Will writhe with inward torments ; blind desires, 
Seizing, will whirl me in their frenzied storm, 

Clutching at shreds of heaven and phantom fires. 
A voice, in broken ecstasies of song, 

Awakening mortal ears with its high pain, 
Will leave an echoing agony along 

The stony ways and o'er the sunless plain, 
While men stand listening in a silent throng. 

And all the silences of life and death, 

Like doors closed on the thing my spirit seeks, 
Importuning each in turn, will freeze the breath 

Upon my lips, appal the voice that speaks ; 
Until the silence of a human heart 

At length, when I have wept there all my tears, 
Poured out my passion, given my stainless part 

Of heaven to hear what maybe no man hears, 
Will work a woe that never can depart. 

Oh, let me not be parted from the light, 

Oh, send me not to where the outer stars 
Tread their uncertain orbits, growing less bright, 

Cycle by cycle ; where, through narrowing bars, 
The soul looks up and scarcely sees the throne 

It fell from ; where the stretched-out Hand that guides 
On to the end, in that dull slackening zone 

Reaches but feebly ; and where man abides, 
And finds out heaven with his heart alone. 



ARTHUR W. E. O'SHAUGHNESSY 353 

I fear to live the life that shall be mine 

Down in the half lights of that wandering world, 
Mid ruined angels' souls that cease to shine, 

Where fragments of the broken stars are hurled, 
Quenched to the ultimate dark. Shall I believe, 

Remembering, as of some exalted dream, 
The life of flame, the splendour that I leave ? 

For, between life and death, shall it not seem 
The fond false hope my shuddering soul would weave ?. . . 

So prayed I, feeling even as I prayed 

Torments and fever of a strange unrest 
Take hold upon my spirit, fain to have stayed 

In the eternal calm, and ne'er essayed 
The perilous strife, the all too bitter test 

Of earthly sorrows, fearing and ah ! too well 
To be quite ruined in some grief below, 

And ne'er regain the heaven from which I fell. 
But then the angel smote my sight 'twas so 

I woke into this world of love and woe. 



GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 

1844-1889 
The Habit of Perfection 

T7 LECTED Silence, sing to me 
LjAnd beat upon my whorled ear, 
Pipe me to pastures still and be 
The music that I care to hear. 

MYST. N 



354 GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 

Shape nothing, lips ; be lovely-dumb : 
It is the shut, the curfew sent 
From there where all surrenders come 
Which only makes you eloquent. 



Be shelled, eyes, with double dark 
And find the uncreated light : 
This ruck and reel which you remark 
Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight. 



Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, 
Desire not to be rinsed with wine : 
The can must be so sweet, the crust 
So fresh that come in fasts divine ! 



Nostrils, your careless breath that spend 
Upon the stir and keep of pride, 
What relish shall the censers send 
Along the sanctuary side ! 

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet 
That want the yield of plushy sward, 
But you shall walk the golden street, 
And you unhouse and house the Lord. 

And, Poverty, be thou the bride 
And now the marriage feast begun, 
And lily-coloured clothes provide 
Your spouse not laboured-at, nor spun. 



GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 355 

God's Grandeur 

TTHE world is charged with the grandeur of God. 
J. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil, 
It gathers to a greatness like the ooze of oil 
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck His rod ? 
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod ; 

And all is seared with trade ; bleared, smeared with 

toil ; 
And bears man's smudge, and shares man's smell ; the 

soil 

Is bare now, nor can foot feel being shod. 
And for all this, nature is never spent ; 

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things ; 
And though the last lights from the black west went, 

Oh, morning at the brown brink eastwards springs 
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent 

World broods with warm breast, and with, ah, bright 
wings. 



Mary Mother of Divine Grace, compared 
to the Atr we breathe 

WILD air, world-mothering air, 
Nestling me everywhere, 
That each eyelash or hair 
Girdles ; goes home betwixt 
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed 
Snow-flake ; that 's fairly mixed 
With riddles, and is rife 
In every least thing's life ; 
This needful, never spent 
And nursing element ; 



356 GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 

My more than meat and drink, 
My meal at every wink ; 
This air which by life's law 
My lung must draw and draw 
Now, but to breathe its praise, 
. Minds me in many ways 
Of her who not only 
Gave God's infinity, 
Dwindled to infancy, 
Welcome in womb and breast, 
Birth, milk, and all the rest, 
But mothers each new grace 
That does now reach our race, 
Mary Immaculate, 
Merely a woman, yet 
Whose presence, power is 
Great as no goddess's 
Was deemed, dreamed ; who 
This one work has to do 
Let all God's glory through, 
God's glory, which would go 
Thro' her and from her flow 
Off, and no way but so. 

I say that we are wound 
With mercy round and round 
As if with air : the same 
Is Mary, more by name, 
She, wild web, wondrous robe, 
Mantles the guilty globe. 
Since God has let dispense 
Her prayers His providence. 
Nay, more than almoner, 
The sweet alms' self is her 
And men are meant to share 
Her life as life does air. 



GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 357 

If I have understood, 
She holds high motherhood 
Towards all our ghostly good, 
And plays in grace her part 
About man's beating heart, 
Laying like air's fine flood 
The death-dance in his blood ; 
Yet no part but what will 
Be Christ our Saviour still. 
Of her flesh He took flesh : 
He does take, fresh and fresh, 
Though much the mystery how, 
Not flesh but spirit now, 
And wakes, O marvellous ! 
New Nazareths in us, 
Where she shall yet conceive 
Him, morning, noon, and eve ; 
New Bethlems, and He born 
There, evening, noon and morn. 
Bethlem or Nazareth, 
Men here may draw like breath 
More Christ, and baffle death ; 
Who, born so, comes to be 
New self, and nobler me 
In each one, and each one 
More makes, when all is done, 
Both God's and Mary's son. 

Again look overhead 
How air is azured. 
O how ! Nay do but stand 
Where you can lift your hand 
Skywards : rich, rich it laps 
Round the four finger-gaps. 
Yet such a sapphire-shot 



358 GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 

Charged, steeped sky will not 

Stain light. Yea, mark you this : 

It does no prejudice. 

The glass-blue days are those 

When every colour glows, 

Each shape and shadow shows. 

Blue be it : this blue heaven 

The seven or seven times seven 

Hued sunbeam will transmit 

Perfect, nor alter it. 

Or if there does some soft 

On things aloof, aloft, 

Bloom breathe, that one breath more 

Earth is the fairer for. 

Whereas did air not make 

This bath of blue and slake 

This fire, the sun would shake 

A blear and blinding ball 

With blackness bound, and all 

The thick stars round him roll, 

Flashing like flecks of coal, 

Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt 

In grimy vasty vault. 

So God was God of old ; 
A mother came to mould 
Those limbs like ours which are, 
What must make our daystar 
Much dearer to mankind : 
Whose glory bare would blind 
Or less would win man's mind. 
Through her we may see Him 
Made sweeter, not made dim, 
And her hand leaves His light 
Sifted to suit our sight. 




GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 359 

Be thou, then, O them dear 
Mother, my atmosphere ; 
My happier world wherein 
To wend and meet no sin ; 
Above me, round me lie 
Fronting my froward eye 
With sweet and scarless sky ; 
Stir in my ears, speak there 
Of God's love, O live air, 
Of patience, penance, prayer ; 
World-mothering air, air wild, 
Wound with thee, in thee isled, 
Fold home, fast fold thy child. 



EDWARD CARPENTER 

b. i8 44 
By the Shore 

AjL night by the shore. 
The obscure water, the long white lines of 
advancing foam, the rustle and thud, the panting 
sea-breaths, the pungent sea-smell, 
The great slow air moving from the distant horizon, 
the immense mystery of space, and the soft canopy 
of the clouds 1 

The swooning thuds go on the drowse of ocean goes 

on : 
The long inbreaths the short sharp outbreaths the 

silence between. 

I am a bit of the shore : the waves feed upon me, they 

come pasturing over me ; 
I am glad, O waves, that you come pasturing over me. 



360 EDWARD CARPENTER 

I am a little arm of the sea : the same tumbling 
swooning dream goes on I feel the waves all 
around me, I spread myself through them. 

How delicious ! I spread and spread. The waves 
tumble through and over me they dash through 
my face and hair. 

The night is dark overhead : I do not see them, but 
I touch them and hear their gurgling laughter. 

The play goes on ! 

The strange expanding indraughts go on ! 

Suddenly I am the Ocean itself : the great soft wind 

creeps over my face. 

I am in love with the wind I reach my lips to its kisses. 
How delicious ! all night and ages and ages long to 

spread myself to the gliding wind ! 
But now (and ever) it maddens me with its touch, 

I arise and whirl in my bed, and sweep my arms 

madly along the shores. 

I am not sure any more which my own particular bit 

of shore is ; 
All the bays and inlets know me : I glide along in and 

out under the sun by the beautiful coast-line ; 
My hair floats leagues behind me ; millions together 

my children dash against my face ; 
I hear what they say and am marvellously content. 

All night by the shore ; 
And the sea is a sea of faces. 

The long white lines come up face after face comes 

and falls past me 
Thud after thud. Is it pain or joy ? 
Face after face endless ! 




EDWARD CARPENTER 361 

I do not know ; my sense numbs ; a trance is on me 

I am becoming detached ! 
I am a bit of the shore : 
The waves feed upon me, they pasture all over me, my 

feeling is strangely concentrated at every point 

where they touch me ; 
I am glad O waves that you come pasturing over me. 

I am detached, I disentangle myself from the shore ; 

I have become free I float out and mingle with 

the rest. 
The pain, the acute clinging desire, is over I feel 

beings like myself all around me, I spread myself 

through and through them, I am merged in a sea 

of contact. 
Freedom and equality are a fact. Life and joy seem 

to have begun for me. 

The play goes on ! 

Suddenly I am the great living Ocean itself the awful 
Spirit of Immensity creeps over my face. 

I am in love with it. All night and ages and ages long 
and for ever I pour my soul out to it in love. 

I spread myself out broader and broader for ever, that 
I may touch it and be with it everywhere. 

There i? no end. But ever and anon it maddens me 
with its touch. I arise and sweep away my bounds. 

I know but I do not care any longer which my own 

particular body is all conditions and fortunes 

are mine. 
By the ever-beautiful coast-line of human life, by all 

shores, in all climates and countries, by every 

secluded nook and inlet, 
N3 



362 EDWARD CARPENTER 

Under the eye of my beloved Spirit I glide : 

joy ! for ever, ever, joy ! 

1 am not hurried the whole of eternity is mine ; 
With each one I delay, with each one I dwell with you 

I dwell. 

The warm breath of each life ascends past me ; 
I take the thread from the fingers that are weary, and 

go on with the work ; 
The secretest thoughts of all are mine, and mine are 

the secretest thoughts of all. 

All night by the shore ; 

And the fresh air comes blowing with the dawn. 

The mystic night fades but my joy fades not. 

I arise and cast a stone into the water (O sea of faces 

I cast this poem among you) and turn landward 

over the rustling beach. 

Love's Vision 

A! 1 night in each other's arms, 
Content, overjoyed, resting deep deep down in 
the darkness, 

Lo ! the heavens opened and He appeared 
Whom no mortal eye may see, 
Whom no eye clouded Xvith Care, 
Whom none who seeks after this or that, whom none 
who has not escaped from self. 

There in the region of Equality, in the world of 

Freedom no longer limited, 

Standing as a lofty peak in heaven above the clouds, 
From below hidden, yet to all who pass into that region 

most clearly visible 
He the Eternal appeared. 



EDWARD CARPENTER 363 

Over the Great City 

OVER the great city, 
Where the wind rustles through the parks and 

gardens, 

In the air, the high clouds brooding, 
In the lines of street perspective, the lamps, the traffic, 
The pavements and the innumerable feet upon them, 
I Am : make no mistake do not be deluded. 



Think not because I do not appear at the first glance 
because the centuries have gone by and there is 
no assured tidings of me that therefore I am not 
there. 

Think not because all goes its own way that therefore 
I do not go my own way through all. 

The fixed bent of hurrying faces in the street each 
turned towards its own light, seeing no other 
yet I am the Light towards which they all look. 

The toil of so many hands to such multifarious ends, 
yet my hand knows the touch and twining of them 
all. 

All come to me at last. 

There is no love like mine ; 

For all other love takes one and not another ; 

And other love is pain, but this is joy eternal. 



364 EDWARD CARPENTER 



So Thin a 

SO thin a veil divides 
Us from such joy, past words, 
Walking in daily life the business of the hour, each 

detail seen to ; 
Yet carried, rapt away, on what sweet floods of other 

Being : 
Swift streams of music flowing, light far back through 

all Creation shining, 
Loved faces looking 
Ah ! from the true, the mortal self 
So thin a veil divides ! 



The World- Spirit 

ECE soundless summer lightning seen afar. 
A halo o'er the grave of all mankind, 
O undefined dream-embosomed star, 

O charm of human love and sorrow twined : 

Far, far away beyond the world's bright streams, 

Over the ruined spaces of the lands, 
Thy beauty, floating slowly, ever seems 

To shine most glorious ; then from out our hands 

To fade and vanish, evermore to be 

Our sorrow, our sweet longing sadly borne, 

Our incommunicable mystery 

Shrined in the soul's long night before the morn. 

Ah ! in the far fled days, how fair the sun 
Fell sloping o'er the green flax by the Nile, 

Kissed the slow water's breast, and glancing shone 
Where laboured men and maidens, with a smile 




EDWARD CARPENTER 365 

Cheating the laggard hours ; o'er them the doves 
Sailed high in evening blue ; the river-wheel 

Sang, and was still ; and lamps of many loves 
Were lit in hearts, long dead to woe or weal. 

And, where a shady headland cleaves the light 
That like a silver swan floats o'er the deep 

Dark purple-stained Aegean, oft the height 
Felt from of old some poet-soul upleap, 

As in the womb a child before its birth, 
Foreboding higher life. Of old, as now, 

Smiling the calm sea slept, and woke with mirth 
To kiss the strand, and slept again below. 

So, from of old, o'er Athens' god-crowned steep 
Or round the shattered bases of great Rome, 

Fleeting and passing, as in dreamful sleep, 
The shadow-peopled ages go and come : 

Sounds of a far-awakened multitude, 
With cry of countless voices intertwined, 

Harsh strife and stormy roar of battle rude, 
Labour and peaceful arts and growth of mind. 

And yet, o'er all, the One through many seen, 
The phantom Presence moving without fail, 

Sweet sense of closelinked life and passion keen 
As of the grass waving before the gale. 

What art Thou, O that wast and art to be ? 

Ye forms that once through shady forest-glade 
Or golden light-flood wandered lovingly, 

What are ye ? Nay, though all the past do fade 



366 



EDWARD CARPENTER 



Ye are not therefore perished, ye whom erst 
The eternal Spirit struck with quick desire, 

And led and beckoned onward till the first 
Slow spark of life became a flaming fire. 

Ye are not therefore perished : for behold 
To-day ye move about us, and the same 

Dark murmur of the past is forward rolled 
Another age, and grows with louder fame 

Unto the morrow : newer ways are ours, 

New thoughts, new fancies, and we deem our lives 

New-fashioned in a mould of vaster powers ; 
But as of old with flesh the spirit strives, 

And we but head the strife. Soon shall the song 
That rolls all down the ages blend its voice 

With our weak utterance and make us strong ; 
That we, borne forward still, may still rejoice, 

Fronting the wave of change. Thou who alone 
Changeless remainest, O most mighty Soul, 

Hear us before we vanish ! O make known 
Thyself in us, us in Thy living whole. 



SAMUEL WADDINGTON 

b. 1844 
A Persian Apologue 

EVE came to crave sweet love, if love might be ; 
To the Beloved's door he came, and knocked : 

* And who art thou ? ' she asked, ' we know not thee ! ' 
Then shyly listened, nor the door unlocked. 

Love answered, ' It is I ! ' ' Nay, thee and me 
This house will never hold.' 'Twas thus she mocked 
His piteous quest ; and, weeping, home went he, 
While thro' the night the moaning plane-tree rocked. 

Three seasons sped, and lo, again Love came ; 
Again he knocked ; again in simple wise, 

* Pray, who is there ? ' she asked, ' What is thy name?' 
But Love had learnt the magic of replies, 

' It is Thyself ! ' he whispered, and behold, 
The door was opened, and love's mystery told. 

JOHN BANNISTER TABB 

1845-1909 
The Life-tide 

EACH wave that breaks upon the strand, 
How swift soe'er to spurn the sand 

And seek again the sea, 
Christ-like, within its lifted hand 
Must bear the stigma of the land 
For all eternity. 

Communion 

ONCE when my heart was passion-free 
To learn of things divine, 
The soul of nature suddenly 
Outpoured itself in mine. 



368 JOHN BANNISTER TABB 

I held the secrets of the deep, 
And of the heavens above ; 

I knew the harmonies of sleep, 
The mysteries of love. 

And for a moment's interval 
The earth, the sky, the sea 

My soul encompassed, each and all, 
As now they compass me. 

To one in all, to all in one 
Since Love the work began 

Life's ever widening circles run, 
Revealing God and man. 



Interpreter 

WHAT, O Eternity, 
Is Time to thee ? 
What to the boundless All 
My portion small ? 

Lift up thine eyes, my soul ! 
Against the tidal roll 

Stands many a stone, 

Whereon the breakers thrown 
Are dashed to spray 

Else were the Ocean dumb. 

So, in the way 

Of tides eternal, thou 

Abidest now ; 
And God Himself doth come 

A suppliant to thee, 

Love's prisoned thought to free. 



JOHN BANNISTER TABB 369 

Christ and the Pagan 

I HAD no God but these, 
The sacerdotal Trees, 
And they uplifted me. 
' / hung upon a Tree? 

The sun and moon I saw, 
And reverential awe 
Subdued me day and night. 

* / am the perfect Light* 

Within a lifeless Stone 
All other gods unknown 
I sought Divinity. 
( The Corner-Stone am /.' 

For sacrificial feast, 
I slaughtered man and beast, 
Red recompense to gain. 
' So /, a Lamb, was slain. 

* Tea ; such My hungering Grace 
That wheresoever My face 

Is hidden, none may grope 
Beyond eternal Hope.'' 



All in All 

WE know Thee, each in part 
A portion small ; 
But love Thee, as Thou art 

The All in all: ' 
For Reason and the rays thereof 
Are starlight to the noon of Love. 



37<> 

EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY 

b. 1845 

' The Greatest of these is Charity ' 

i 
'T'HERE came one day a leper to my door : 

1 I shrank from, him in loathing and in dread, 
But yet, remembering how old legends said 
That Jesus Christ so often heretofore 
Came in such guise to try His saints of yore, 
I brought him in, and clothed, and warmed, and fed ; 
Yea, brake my box of precious nard, to pour 
Its costly fragrancy upon his feet. 
And when the house was filled with odour sweet, 
I looked to see the loveliest face, but o'er 
The leper came no change divine to greet 
My eager soul, which did such change entreat. 
And then I bowed my head, and wept full sore 
Ah ! the times change ; such visions come no more ! 

ii 

With tear-dimmed eyes I went upon my way, 
Passed from the city to the April wood, 
Where the young trees in trembling gladness stood ; 
And once again my grieved heart grew gay. 
Then did I see a little child at play ; 
All the sweet April fountain of his blood 
Tossed out in joy, that brake in laughter-spray ; 
And all my heart it loved him ; so I bent 
To kiss his sunny mouth. Then through me went 
That which I may not tell, nor can, to-day. 
When was such healing with such wounding blent ? 
Such pain supreme with such supreme content ? 
The fires of God comfort as well as slay, 
Else had I surely died, who am but clay. 



GEORGE BARLOW 

b. 1847 

The Immortal and the Mortal 

OH where the immortal and the mortal meet 
In union than of wind and wave more sweet, 
Meet me, O God 
Where Thou hast trod 
I follow, along the blood-print of Thy feet. 

Oh, though the austere ensanguined road be hard 
And all the blue skies shine through casemates barred, 

I follow Thee 

Show Thou to me 
Thy face, the speechless face divinely marred. 

Lo ! who will love and follow to the end, 
Shall he not also to hell's depths descend ? 

Shall he not find 

The whole world blind, 
Searching among the lone stars for a friend ? 

Lo ! who will follow love throughout the way, 
From crimson morning flush till twilight grey ? 

Who fears not chains, 

Anguish and pains, 
If love wait at the ending of the day ? 

If at the ending of the day life's bride 
Be near our hearts in vision glorified : 

If at the end 

God's hand extend 
That far triumphant boon for which we sighed 



372 GEORGE BARLOW 

Oh, where the immortal to our mortal flows, 
Flushing our grey clay heart to its own rose, 

Spirit supreme 

Upon me gleam ; 
Make me Thine own ; I reckon not the throes. 

I would pour out my heart in one long sigh 

Of speechless yearning towards Thine home on high : 

I would be pure, 

Suffer, endure, 
Pervade with ceaseless wings the unfathomed sky. 

Oh, at the point where God and man are one, 
Meet me, Thou God ; flame on me like the sun ; 

I would be part 

Of Thine own heart, 
That by my hands Thy love-deeds may be done : 

That by my hands Thy love-truths may be shown 
And far lands know me for Thy very own ; 

That I may bring 

The dead world spring : 
The flowers awake, Lord, at Thy word alone. 

Oh, to the point where man and God unite, 

Raise me, Thou God ; transfuse me with Thy light ; 

Where I would go 

Thou, God, dost know ; 
For Thy sake I will face the starless night. 

The night is barren, black, devoid of bloom, 
Scentless and waste, a wide appalling tomb ; 

Dark foes surround 

The soul discrowned 

And strange shapes lower and threaten through the 
gloom. 



GEORGE BARLOW 373 

But where Thou art with me Thy mortal, one, 
God, mine immortal, my death-conquering sun, 

Meet me and show 

What path to go 
Till the last work of deathless love be done. 



DIGBY MACKWORTH DOLBEN 

1848-1867 
' Strange, all-absorbing Love ' 

STRANGE, all-absorbing Love, who gatherest 
Unto Thy glowing all my pleasant dew, 
Then delicately my garden waterest, 
Drawing the old, to pour it back anew : 

In the dim glitter of the dawning hours 
' Not so,' I said, * but still those drops of light, 
Heart-shrined among the petals of my flowers, 
Shall hold the memory of the starry night 

( So fresh, no need of showers shall there be.' 
Ah, senseless gardener ! must it come to pass 
That 'neath the glaring noon thou shouldest see 
Thine earth become as iron, His heavens as brass ? 

Nay rather, O my Sun, I will be wise, 

Believe in Love which may not yet be seen, 

Yield Thee my earth-drops, call Thee from the skies, 

In soft return, to keep my bedding green. 

So when the bells at Vesper-tide shall sound, 
And the dead ocean o'er my garden flows, 
Upon the Golden Altar may be found 
Some scarlet berries and a Christmas rose. 



374 DIGBY MACKWORTH DOLBEN 
Flowers for the Altar 



r "T'ELL us, tell us, holy shepherds, 
1 What at Bethlehem you saw. 
Very God of Very God 
Asleep amid the straw.' 

Tell us, tell us, all ye faithful, 

What this morning came to pass 
At the awful elevation 

In the Canon of the Mass. 
* Very God of Very God, 

By whom the worlds were made, 
In silence and in helplessness 

Upon the altar laid.' 

Tell us, tell us, wondrous Jesu, 
What has drawn Thee from above 

To the manger and the altar. 
All the silence answers Love. 



Through the roaring streets of London 
Thou art passing, hidden Lord, 

Uncreated, Consubstantial, 
In the seventh heaven adored. 

As of old the ever-Virgin 

Through unconscious Bethlehem 
Bore Thee, not in glad procession, 

Jewelled robe and diadem ; 



DIGBY MACKWORTH DOLBEN 375 

Not in pomp and not in power, 

Onward to Nativity, 
Shrined but in the tabernacle 

Of her sweet Virginity. 

Still Thou goest by in silence, 

Still the world cannot receive, 
Still the poor and weak and weary 

Only, worship and believe. 



CHRISTINA CATHERINE FRASER-TYTLER 
(MRS. EDWARD LIDDELL) 

b. 1848 

In Summer Fields 

SOMETIMES, as in the summer fields 
I walk abroad, there comes to me 
So strange a sense of mystery, 
My heart stands still, my feet must stay, 
I am in such strange company. 

I look on high the vasty deep 
Of blue outreaches all my mind ; 
And yet I think beyond to find 
Something more vast and at my feet 
The little bryony is twined. 

Clouds sailing as to God go by, 
Earth, sun, and stars are rushing on ; 
And faster than swift time, more strong 
Than rushing of the worlds, I feel 
A something Is, of name unknown. 



376 CHRISTINA CATHERINE FRASER-TYTLER 

And turning suddenly away, 
Grown sick and dizzy with the sense 
Of power, and mine own impotence, 
I see the gentle cattle feed 
In dumb unthinking innocence. 

The great Unknown above ; below, 
The cawing rooks, the milking-shed ; 
God's awful silence overhead ; 
Below, the muddy pool, the path 
The thirsty herds of cattle tread. 

Sometimes, as in the summer fields 
I walk abroad, there comes to me 
So wild a sense of mystery, 
My senses reel, my reason fails, 
I am in such strange company. 

Yet somewhere, dimly, I can feel 
The wild confusion dwells in me, 
And I, in no strange company, 
Am the lost link 'twixt Him and these, 
And touch Him through the mystery. 



WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 

1849-1903 
/ am the Reapet 

I AM the Reaper. 
All things with heedful hook 
Silent I gather. 

Pale roses touched with the spring, 
Tall corn in summer, 



WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 377 

Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms 
Reaping, still reaping 
All things with heedful hook 
Timely I gather. 

I am the Sower. 

All the unbodied life 

Runs through my seed-sheet. 

Atom with atom wed, 

Each quickening the other, 

Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless. 

Ceaselessly sowing, 

Life, incorruptible life, 

Flows from my seed-sheet. 

Maker and breaker, 

I am the ebb and the flood, 

Here and Hereafter, 

Sped through the tangle and coil 

Of infinite nature, 

Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. 

Taker and giver, 

I am the womb and the grave, 

The Now and the Ever. 



EDMUND GOSSE 

b. 1849 

The Tide of Love 

OVE, flooding all the creeks of my dry soul, 

* From which the warm tide ebbed when I was born, 

Following the moon of destiny, doth roll 

His slow rich wave along the shore forlorn, 
To make the ocean God and me, one whole. 



378 EDMUND GOSSE 

So, shuddering in its ecstasy, it lies, 

And, freed from mire and tangle of the ebb, 

Reflects the waxing and the waning skies, 
And bears upon its panting breast the web 

Of night and her innumerable eyes. 

Nor can conceive at all that it was blind, 

But trembling with the sharp approach of love, 

That, strenuous, moves without one breath of wind, 
Gasps, as the wakening maid, on whom the Dove 

With folded wings of deity declined. 

She in the virgin sweetness of her dream 
Thought nothing strange to find her vision true ; 

And I thus bathed in living rapture deem 
No moveless drought my channel ever knew, 

But rustled always with the murmuring stream. 



Old and New 

I. B.C. 

COME, Hesper, and ye Gods of mountain waters, 
Come, nymphs and Dryades, 
Come, silken choir of soft Pierian daughters, 

And girls of lakes and seas, 
Evoe ! and evoe lo ! crying, 
Fill all the earth and air ; 
Evoe ! till the quivering words, replying, 
Shout back the echo there ! 

All day in soundless swoon or heavy slumber, 

We lay among the flowers, 
But now the stars break forth in countless number 

To watch the dewy hours ; 






EDMUND GOSSE 379 

And now lacchus, beautiful and glowing, 

Adown the hill-side comes, 
Mid tabrets shaken high, and trumpets blowing, 

And resonance of drums. 

The leopard-skin is round his smooth white shoulders, 

The vine-branch round his hair, 
Those eyes that rouse desire in maid-beholders 

Are glittering, glowworm-fair ; 
Crowned king of all the provinces of pleasure, 

Lord" of a wide domain, 
He comes, and brings delight that knows no measure, 

A full Saturnian reign. 

Take me, too, Maenads, to your fox-skin chorus, 

Rose-lipped like volute-shells, 
For I would follow where your host canorous 

Roars down the forest-dells ; 
The sacred frenzy rends my throat and bosom ! 

I shout, and whirl where He, 
Our Vine-God, tosses like some pale blood-blossom 

Swept on a stormy sea. 

Around his car, with streaming hair, and frantic, 

The Maenads and wild gods 
And shaggy fauns and wood-girls corybantic 

Toss high the ivy-rods ; 
Brown limbs with white limbs madly intertwining 

Whirl in a fiery dance, 
Till, when at length Orion is declining, 

We glide into a trance. 

The satyr's heart is faintly, faintly beating, 

The choir of nymphs is mute ; 
lacchus up the western slope is fleeting, 

Uncheered by horn or flute ; 



380 EDMUND GOSSE 

Hushed, hushed are all the shouting and the singing, 

The frenzy, the delight, 
Since out into the cold grey air upspringing, 

The morning-star shines bright. 



II. A.D. 

Not with a choir of angels without number, 

And noise of lutes and lyres, 
But gently, with the woven veil of slumber 

Across Thine awful fires, 
We yearn to watch Thy face, serene and tender, 

Melt, smiling, calm and sweet, 
Where round the print of thorns, in thornlike splendour, 

Transcendent glories meet. 

We have no hopes if Thou art close beside us, 

And no profane despairs, 
Since all we need is Thy great hand to guide us, 

Thy heart to take our cares ; 
For us is no to-day, to-night, to-morrow, 

No past time nor to be, 
We have no joy but Thee, there is no sorrow, 

No life to live but Thee. 

The cross, like pilgrim-warriors, we follow, 

Led by our eastern star ; 
The wild crane greets us, and the wandering swallow 

Bound southward for Shinar ; 
All night that single star shines bright above us ; 

We go with weary feet, 
But in the end we know are they who love us, 

Whose pure embrace is sweet. 



EDMUND GOSSE 381 

Most sweet of all, when dark the way and moonless, 

To feel a touch, a breath, 
And know our weary spirits are not tuneless, 

Our unseen goal not Death ; 
To know that Thou, in all Thy old sweet fashion, 

Art near us to sustain ! 
We praise Thee, Lord, by all Thy tears and passion, 

By all Thy cross and pain ! 

For when this night of toil and tears is over, 

Across the hills of spice, 
Thyself wilt meet us, glowing like a lover 

Before Love's Paradise ; 
There are the saints, with palms and hymns and roses, 

And better still than all, 
The long, long day of bliss that never closes, 

Thy marriage festival ! 

EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 

b. 1850 

The Creed of My Heart 

AFLAME in my heart is kindled by the might of the 
morn's pure breath ; 

A passion beyond all passion ; a faith that eclipses faith ; 

A joy that is more than gladness ; a hope that outsoars 
desire ; 

A love that consumes and quickens ; a soul-transfiguring fire. 

My life is possessed and mastered : my heart is inspired 
and filled. 

All other visions have faded : all other voices are stilled. 

My doubts are vainer than shadows : my fears are idler 
than dreams : 

They vanish like breaking bubbles, those old soul- 
torturing themes. 



382 EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 

The riddles of life are cancelled, the problems that bred 

despair : 
I cannot guess them or solve them, but I know that they 

are not there. 
They are past, they are all forgotten, the breeze has blown 

them away ; 

For life's inscrutable meaning is clear as the dawn of day. 
It is there the secret of Nature there in the morning's 

glow; 
There in the speaking stillness ; there in the rose-flushed 

snow. 

It is here in the joy and rapture ; here in my pulsing breast : 
I feel what has ne'er been spoken : I know what has ne'er 

been guessed. 

The rose-lit clouds of morning ; the sun-kissed mountain 

heights ; 
The orient streaks and flushes ; the mingling shadows and 

lights ; 
The flow of the lonely river ; the voice of its distant 

stream ; 
The mists that rise from the meadows, lit up by the sun's 

first beam ; 
They mingle and melt as I watch them ; melt and mingle 

and die. 

The land is one with the water: the earth is one with the sky. 
The parts are as parts no longer : Nature is All and One : 
Her life is achieved, completed : her days of waiting are 

done. 

I breathe the breath of the morning. I am one with the 

one World-Soul. 
I live my own life no longer, but the life of the living 

Whole. 



EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 383 

I am more than self : I am selfless : I am more than self : 

I am I. 
I have found the springs of my being in the flush of the 

eastern sky. 
I the true self, the spirit, the self that is born of 

death 
I have found the flame of my being in the morn's ambrosial 

breath. 

I lose my life for a season : I lose it beyond recall : 
But I find it renewed, rekindled, in the life of the One, the 

All. 
I look not forward or backward : the abysses of time are 

nought. 
From pole to pole of the heavens I pass in a flash of 

thought. 
I clasp the world to my bosom : I feel its pulse in my 

breast, 
The pulse of measureless motion, the pulse of fathomless 

rest. 
Is it motion or rest that thrills me ? Is it lightning or 

moonlit peace ? 
Am I freer than waves of ether, or prisoned beyond 

release ? 
I know not ; but through my spirit, within me, around, 

above, 
The world-wide river is streaming, the river of life and 

love. 

Silent, serene, eternal, passionless, perfect, pure ; 
I may not measure its windings, but I know that its aim 

is sure. 
In its purity seethes all passion : in its silence resounds 

all song : 
Its strength is builded of weakness : its right is woven 

of wrong. 



384 EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 

I am borne afar on its bosom ; yet its source and its goal 

are mine, 
From the sacred springs of Creation to the ocean of love 

Divine. 
I have ceased to think or to reason : there is nothing to 

ponder or prove : 
I hope, I believe no longer ; I am lost in a dream of love. 



Nirvana 

COULD my heart but see Creation as God sees it, 
from within ; 
See His grace behind its beauty, see His will behind its 

force ; 
See the flame of life shoot upward when the April days 

begin ; 

See the wave of life rush outward from its pure eternal 
source ; 

Could I see the summer sunrise glow with God's tran 
scendent hope ; 
See His peace upon the waters in the moonlit summer 

night ; 
See Him nearer still when, blinded, in the depths of gloom 

I grope, 

See the darkness flash and quiver with the gladness of 
His light ; . 

Could I see the red-hot passion of His love resistless burn 
Through the dumb despair of winter, through the 

frozen lifeless clod ; 

Could I see what lies around me as God sees it, I should learn 
That its outward life is nothing, that its inward life 
is God. 



EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 385 

Vain the dream ! To spirit only is the spirit-life revealed : 
God alone can see God's glory : God alone can feel 

God's love. 

By myself the soul of Nature from myself is still concealed ; 
And the earth is still around me, and the skies are still 
above. 

Vain the dream ! I cannot mingle with the all-sustaining 

soul : 
I am prisoned in my senses ; I am pinioned by my 

pride ; 
I am severed by my selfhood from the world-life of the 

Whole ; 

And my world is near and narrow, and God's world is 
waste and wide. 

Vain the dream ! Yet in the morning, when the eastern 

skies are red, 
When the dew is on the meadows, when the lark soars 

up and sings, 
Leaps a sudden flame within me from its ashes pale and 

dead, 

And I see God's beauty burning through the veil of 
outward things. 

Brighter grows the veil and clearer, till, beyond all fear 

and doubt, 
I am ravished by God's splendour into oneness with 

His rest ; 
And I draw the world within me, and I send my soul 

without ; 
And God's pulse is in my bosom, and I lie upon God's 

breast. 
MYST. o 



386 EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 

Dies the beatific vision in the moment of its birth ; 

Dies, but in its death transfigures all the sequence of 

my days ; 
Dies, but dying crowns with triumph all the travail of 

the earth, 

Till its harsh discordant murmurs swell into a psalm 
of praise. 

Then a yearning comes upon me to be drawn at last by 

death, 
Drawn into the mystic circle in which all things live 

and move, 
Drawn into the mystic circle of the love which is God's 

breath, 

Love creative, love receptive, love of loving, love of 
love. 

God ! the One, the All of Being ! let me lose my life in 

Thine ; 
Let me be what Thou hast made me, be a quiver of 

Thy flame. 
Purge my self from self's pollution ; burn it into life 

divine ; 

Burn it till it dies triumphant in the firespring whence it 
came. 



EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 387 

L,a fie Profonde 

HEMMED in by petty thoughts and petty things, 
Intent on toys and trifles all my years, 
Pleased by life's gauds, pained by its pricks and stings, 

Swayed by ignoble hopes, ignoble fears ; 
Threading life's tangled maze without life's clue, 

Busy with means, yet heedless of their ends, 
Lost to all sense of what is real and true, 

Blind to the goal to which all Nature tends : 
Such is my surface self : but deep beneath, 

A mighty actor on a world-wide stage, 
Crowned with all knowledge, lord of life and death, 

Sure of my aim, sure of my heritage, 
I the true self live on, in self's despite, 
That * life profound ' whose darkness is God's light. 



The God Within 

I IFE of my life ! soul of my inmost soul ! 
LjPure central point of everlasting light ! 
Creative splendour ! Fountain-head and goal 
Of all the rays that make the darkness bright 

And pierce the gloom of nothing more and more 
And win new realms from the abyss of night ! 
O God, I veil my eyes and kneel before 
Thy shrine of love and tremble and adore. 

The unfathomable past is but the dawn 
Of thee triumphant rising from the tomb ; 

And could we deem thy lamp of light withdrawn, 
Back in an instant into primal gloom 



388 EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 

All things that are, all things that time has wrought, 
All that shall ever yet unseal the womb 
Of elemental Chaos, swift as thought 
Would melt away and leave a world of nought. 

We gaze in wonder on the starry face 

Of midnight skies, and worship and aspire, 
Yet all the kingdoms of abysmal space 

Are less than thy one point of inmost fire : 

We dare not think of time's unending way, 
Yet present, past, and future would expire, 
And all eternity would pass away 
In thy one moment of intensest day. 

Of old our fathers heard thee when the roll 

Of midnight thunder crashed across the sky : 
I hear thee in the silence of the soul 
Its very stillness is the majesty 

Of thy mysterious voice, that moves me more 
Than wrath of tempest as it rushes by, 
Or booming thunder, or the surging roar 
Of seas that storm a never-trodden shore. 

And they beheld thee when the lightning shone, 

And tore the leaden slumber of the storm 
With vivid flame that was and then was gone, 

Whose blaze made blind, whose very breath was warm : 

But I, if I would see thee, pray for grace 
To veil my eyes to every outward form, 
And in the darkness for a moment's space 
I see the splendour of thy cloudless face. 

In thought I climb to Being's utmost brink 

And pass beyond the last imagined star, 
And tremble and grow dizzy while I think 

But thou art yet more infinitely far, 



EDMOND GORE ALEXANDER HOLMES 389 

O God, from me who breathe the air of sin, 
And I am doomed to traverse worlds that are 
More fathomless to fancy ere I win 
The central altar of the soul within. 

How shall I worship thee ? With speechless awe 

Of guilt that shrinks when innocence is near 
And veils its face : with faith, that ever saw 
Most when its eyes were clouded with a tear : 
With hope, the breath of spirits that aspire : 
Lastly, with love the grave of every fear, 
The fount of faith, the triumph of desire, 
The burning brightness of thine own white fire. . . . 

O God that dwellest in transcendent light 

Beyond our dreams, who grope in darkness here, 
Beyond imagination's utmost flight, 

I bless thee most that sometimes when a tear 

Of tender yearning rises unrepressed, 
Lo ! for an instant thou art strangely near 
Nearer to my own heart than I who rest 
In speechless adoration on thy breast. 



FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON 

b. 1852 

The Chantry of the Cherubim 

O CHANTRY of the Cherubim, 
Down-looking on the stream ! 
Beneath thy boughs the day grows dim ; 

Through windows comes the gleam ; 
A thousand raptures fill the air, 
Beyond delight, beyond despair. 



390 FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON 

I will not name one flower that clings 

In cluster at my feet ! 
I will not hail one bird that sings 

Its anthem loud or sweet ! 
This is the floor of Heaven, and these 
The angels that God's ear do please. 

I walk as one unclothed of flesh, 

I wash my spirit clean ; 
I see old miracles afresh, 

And wonders yet unseen. 
I will not leave Thee till Thou give 
Some word whereby my soul may live ! 

I listened but no voice I heard ; 

I looked no likeness saw ; 
Slowly the joy of flower and bird 

Did like a tide withdraw ; 
And in the heaven a silent star 
Smiled on me, infinitely far. 

I buoyed me on the wings of dream, 

Above the world of sense ; 
I set my thought to sound the scheme, 

And fathom the Immense ; 
I tuned my spirit as a lute 
To catch wind-music wandering mute. 

Yet came there never voice nor sign ; 

But through my being stole 
Sense of a Universe divine, 

And knowledge of a soul 
Perfected in the joy of things, 
The star, the flower, the bird that sings. 



FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON 391 

Nor I am more, nor less, than these ; 

All are one brotherhood ; 
I and all creatures, plants, and trees, 

The living limbs of God ; 
And in an hour, as this, divine, 
I feel the vast pulse throb in mine. 



WILLIAM JAMES DAWSON 

b. 1854 
Inspirations 

O OMETIMES, I know not why, nor how, nor whence, 
k3 A change comes over me, and then the task 

Of common life slips from me. Would you ask 
What power is this which bids the world go hence ? 

Who knows ? I only feel a faint perfume 
Steal through the rooms of life ; a saddened sense 
Of something lost ; a music as of brooks 
That babble to the sea ; pathetic looks 

Of closing eyes that in a darkened room 

Once dwelt on mine : I feel the general doom 
Creep nearer, and" with God I stand alone. 

O mystic sense of sudden quickening ! 
Hope's lark-song rings, or life's deep undertone 

Wails through my heart and then I needs must sing. 



39 2 
EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 

b. 1854 

Patmos 

AjL around him Patmos lies, 
Who hath spirit-gifted eyes, 
Who his happy sight can suit 
To the great and the minute. 
Doubt not but he holds in view 
A new earth and heaven new ; 
Doubt not but his ear doth catch 
Strain nor voice nor reed can match : 
Many a silver, sphery note 
Shall within his hearing float. 

All around him Patmos lies, 
Who unto God's priestess flies : 
Thou, O Nature, bid him see, 
Through all guises worn by thee, 
A divine apocalypse. 
Manifold his fellowships : 
Now the rocks their archives ope ; 
Voiceless creatures tell their hope 
In a language symbol-wrought ; 
Groves to him sigh out their thought ; 
Musings of the flower and grass 
Through his quiet spirit pass. 
'Twixt new earth and heaven new 
He hath traced and holds the clue, 
Number his delights ye may not ; 
Fleets the year but these decay not. 
Now the freshets of the rain, 
Bounding on from hjll to plain, 
Show him earthly streams have rise 
In the bosom of the skies. 



EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 393 

Now he feels the morning thrill, 
As upmounts, unseen and still, 
Dew the wing of evening drops. 
Now the frost, that meets and stops 
Summer's feet in tender sward, 
Greets him, breathing heavenward. 
Hieroglyphics writes the snow, 
Through the silence falling slow ; 
Types of star and petaled bloom 
A white missal-page illume. 
By these floating symbols fine, 
Heaven-truth shall be divine. 

All around him Patmos lies, 
Who hath spirit-gifted eyes ; 
He need not afar remove, 
He need not the times reprove, 
Who would hold perpetual lease 
Of an isle in seas of peace. 

Spirit to Spirit 

DEAD ? Not to thee, thou keen watcher, not silent, 
not viewless, to thee, 
Immortal still wrapped in the mortal ! I, from the mortal 

set free, 

Greet thee by many clear tokens thou smilest to hear and 
to see. 

For I, when thou wakest at dawn, to thee am the 

entering morn ; 
And I, when thou walkest abroad, am the dew on the 

leaf and the thorn, 
The tremulous glow of the noon, the twilight on harvests 

of corn. 

3 



394 EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 

I am the flower by the wood-path, thou bendest to look 

in my eyes ; 
The bird in its nest in the thicket, thou heedest my 

love-laden cries ; 
The planet that leads the night legions, thou liftest thy 

gaze to the skies. 

And I am the soft-dropping rain, the snow with its flutter 
ing swarms ; 

The summer-day cloud on the hilltops, that showeth thee 
manifold forms ; 

The wind from the south and the west, the voice that 
sings courage in storms ! 

Sweet was the earth to thee ever, but sweeter by far to 

thee now : 
How hast thou room for tears, when all times marvelest 

thou, 
Beholding who dwells with God in the blossoming sward 

and the bough ! 

Once as a wall were the mountains, once darkened between 

us the sea ; 
No longer these thwart and baffle, forbidding my passage 

to thee : 
Immortal still wrapped in the mortal, I linger till thou 

art set free ! 



395 

OSCAR WILDE 

1856-1900 
E Tenebris 

COME down, O Christ, and help me ! reach thy hand. 
For I am drowning in a stormier sea 
Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee : 

The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, 

My heart is as some famine-murdered land 
Whence all good things have perished utterly, 
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie 

If I this night before God's throne should stand. 

' He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, 
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name 
From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.' 

Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, 

The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame, 
The wounded hands, the weary human face. 

From ' Panthea ' 

WE are resolved into the supreme air, 
We are made one with what we touch and see, 
With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair, 

With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree 
Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range 
The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change. 

With beat of systole and of diastole 

One grand great life throbs through earth's giant heart, 
And mighty waves of single Being roll 

From nerveless germ to man, for we are part 
Of every rock and bird and beast and hill, 
One with the things that prey on us, and one with what 
we kill. . 



396 OSCAR WILDE 

And we two lovers shall not sit afar, 

Critics of nature, but the joyous sea 
Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star 

Shoot arrows at our pleasure ! We shall be 
Parts of the mighty universal whole, 
And through all aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul ! 

We shall be notes in that great Symphony 
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres, 

And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be 
One with our heart ; the stealthy creeping years 

Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die, 

The Universe itself shall be our Immortality ! 

From ' Humamtad'* 

T^O make the Body and the Spirit one 

1 With all right things, till no thing live in vain 
From morn to noon, but in sweet unison 

With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain 
The Soul in flawless essence high enthroned, 
Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned, 

Mark with serene impartiality 

The strife of things, and yet be comforted, 
Knowing that by the chain causality 

All separate existences are wed 
Into one supreme whole, whose utterance 
Is joy, or holier praise ! ah ! surely this were governance 
Of Life in most august omnipresence, 

Through which the rational intellect would find 
In passion its expression, and mere sense, 

Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind, 
And being joined with it in harmony 
More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary, 



OSCAR WILDE 397 

Strike from their several tones one octave chord 
Whose cadence being measureless would fly 

Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord 
Return refreshed with its new empery 

And more exultant power, this indeed 

Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed. 

O smitten mouth ! O forehead crowned with thorn ! 

O chalice of all common miseries 1 
Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne 

An agony of endless centuries, 
And we were vain and ignorant nor knew 
That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real 
hearts we slew. 

Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds, 

The night that covers and the lights that fade, 

The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds, 
The lips betraying and the life betrayed ; 

The deep hath calm : the moon hath rest : but we 

Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy. 

Is this the end of all that primal force 

Which, in its changes being still the same, 

From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course, 

Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame, 

Till the suns met in heaven and began 

Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word 
was Man ! 

Nay, nay, we are but crucified, and though 

The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain, 

Loosen the nails we shall come down I know, 
Stanch the red wounds we shall be whole again, 

No need have we of hyssop-laden rod, 

That which is purely human, that is Godlike, that is God. 



398 

WILLIAM SHARP 

1856-1902 
The J^alley of Silence 

IN the secret Valley of Silence 
No breath doth fall ; 
No wind stirs in the branches ; 
No bird doth call : 
As on a white wall 

A breathless lizard is still, 
So silence lies on the valley 
Breathlessly still. 

In the dusk-grown heart of the valley 

An altar rises white : 
No rapt priest bends in awe 
Before its silent light : 
But sometimes a flight 

Of breathless words of prayer 
White-wing'd enclose the altar, 
Eddies of prayer. 

Desire 

THE desire of love, Joy : 
The desire of life, Peace : 
The desire of the soul, Heaven : 
The desire of God ... a flame-white secret for ever. 

The White Peace 

IT lies not on the sunlit hill 
Nor on the sunlit plain : 
Nor ever on any running stream 
Nor on the unclouded main 



WILLIAM SHARP 399 

But sometimes, through the Soul of Man, 

Slow moving o'er his pain, 
The moonlight of a perfect peace 

Floods heart and brain. 



The Rose of Flame 

OH, fair immaculate rose of the world, rose of my 
dream, my Rose ! 
Beyond the ultimate gates of dream I have heard thy 

mystical call : 
It is where the rainbow of hope suspends and the river 

of rapture flows 

And the cool sweet dews from the wells of peace for 
ever fall. 

And all my heart is aflame because of the rapture and 

peace, 
And I dream, in my waking dreams and deep in the dreams 

of sleep, 
Till the high sweet wonderful call that shall be the call 

of release 
Shall ring in my ears as I sink from gulf to gulf and from 

deep to deep 

Sink deep, sink deep beyond the ultimate dreams of all 

desire 
Beyond the uttermost limit of all that the craving spirit 

knows : 
Then, then, oh then I shall be as the inner flame of thy 

fire, 
O fair immaculate rose of the world, Rose of my dream, 

my Rose ! 



4 oo WILLIAM SHARP 

The Mystic's Prayer 

AY me to sleep in sheltering flame, 
I A O Master of the Hidden Fire ! 
Wash pure my heart, and cleanse for me 
My soul's desire. 

In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, 
O Master of the Hidden Fire, 

That, when I wake, clear-eyed may be 
My soul's desire. 



Triad 

FROM the Silence of Time, Time's Silence borrow. 
In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow. 
The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow. 



MARGARET DELAND 

b. 1857 

Life 

BY one great Heart the Universe is stirred : 
By Its strong pulse, stars climb the darkening blue; 
It throbs in each fresh sunset's changing hue, 
And thrills through low sweet song of every bird : 

By It, the plunging blood reds all men's veins ; 
Joy feels that heart against his rapturous own, 
And on It, Sorrow breathes her sharpest groan ; 

It bounds through gladnesses and deepest pains. 



. MARGARET DELAND 401 

Passionless beating through all Time and Space, 
Relentless, calm, majestic in Its march, 
Alike, though Nature shake heaven's endless arch, 

Or man's heart break, because of some dead face ! 

'Tis felt in sunshine greening the soft sod, 
In children's smiling, as in mother's tears ; 
And, for strange comfort, through the aching years, 

Men's hungry souls have named that great Heart, God ! 

AGNES MARY FRANCES DUCLAUX 
(ROBINSON-DARMESTETER) 

1857- 
Rhythm 

OBEAT and pause that count the life of man, 
Throb of the pulsing heart ! 
Ripple of tides and stars beyond our scan ! 
Rhythm o' the ray o' the sun and the red o' the rose ! 

Thrill of the lightning's dart ! 
All, all are one beyond this world of shows. 

Neither with eyes that see nor ears that hear 

May we discern thee here, 
Nor comprehend, O Life of life, thy laws, 
But all our idols praise the perfect whole ; 
And I have worshipped thee, O rhythmic soul, 

Chiefly in beat and pause. 

O beat and pause that count the life of man, 

Throb of the pulsing heart ! 
Ripple of tides and stars beyond our scan ! 
Rhythm o' the ray o' the sun and the red o' the rose ! 

Thrill of the lightning's dart ! 
Yea, all are one behind our world of shows. 



402 AGNES MARY FRANCES DUCLAUX 

The Idea 

BENEATH this world of stars and flowers 
That rolls in visible deity, 
I dream another world is ours 
And is the soul of all we see. 

It hath no form, it hath no spirit ; 

It is perchance the Eternal Mind ; 
Beyond the sense that we inherit 

I feel it dim and undefined. 

How far below the depth of being, 
How wide beyond the starry bound 

It rolls unconscious and unseeing, 
And is as Number or as Sound. 

And through the vast fantastic visions 

Of all this actual universe, 
It moves un swerved by our decisions, 

And is the play that we rehearse. 

Antiphon to the Holy Spirit 

Men and Women sing. 

Men. 
THOU that movest all, O Power 

That bringest life where'er Thou art, 
O Breath of God in star and flower, 

Mysterious aim of soul and heart ; 
Within the thought that cannot grasp Thee 

In its unfathomable hold, 
We worship Thee who may not clasp Thee, 
O God, unreckoned and untold ! 



o 



AGNES MARY FRANCES DUCLAUX 403 

Women. 
O Source and Sea of Love, O Spirit 

That makest every soul akin, 
O Comforter whom we inherit, 

We turn and worship Thee within ! 
To give beyond all dreams of giving, 

To lose ourselves as Thou in us, 
We long ; for Thou, O Fount of living, 

Art lost in Thy creation thus ! 

Men. 
The mass of unborn matter knew Thee, 

And lo ! the splendid silent sun 
Sprang out to be a witness to Thee 

Who art the All, who art the One ; 
The airy plants unseen that flourish 

Their floating strands of filmy rose, 
Too small for sight, are Thine to nourish ; 

For Thou art all that breathes and grows. 

Women. 
Thou art the ripening of the fallows, 

The swelling of the buds in rain ; 
Thou art the joy of birth that hallows 

The rending of the flesh in twain ; 
O Life, O Love, how undivided 

Thou broodest o'er this world of Thine, 
Obscure and strange, yet surely guided 

To reach a distant end divine 1 

Men. 
We know Thee in the doubt and terror 

That reels before the world we see ; 
We know Thee in the faiths of error ; 

We know Thee most who most are free. 



404 AGNES MARY FRANCES DUCLAUX 

This phantom of the world around Thee 
Is vast, divine, but not the whole : 

We worship Thee, and we have found Thee 
In all that satisfies the soul ! 

Men and Women. 
How shall we serve, how shall we own Thee, 

O breath of Love and Life and Thought ? 
How shall we praise, who are not shown Thee 

How shall we serve, who are as nought ? 
Yet, though Thy worlds maintain unbroken 

The silence of their awful round, 
A voice within our souls hath spoken, 

And we who seek have more than found. 

MAY PROBYN 
The Beloved 

WHEN the storm was in the sky, 
And the west was black with showers, 
My Beloved came by 

With His Hands full of flowers 
Red burning flowers, 
Like flame that pulsed and throbbed 

And beyond in the rain-smitten bowers 
The turtle-dove sobbed. 

(Sweet in the rough weather 

The voice of the turtle-dove 
' Beautiful altogether 

Is my Love. 

His Hands are open spread for love 
And full of jacinth stones 

As the apple-tree among trees of the grove 
Is He among the sons.' 



MAY PROBYN 405 

The voice of the turtle-dove 

Sweet in the wild weather 
' Until the daybreak dwells my Love 

Among the hills of Bether. 

Among the lilied lawns of Bether, 
As a young hart untired 

Chosen out of thousands, altogether 
To be desired.') 

When the night was in the sky, 
And heavily went the hours, 

My Beloved drew nigh 

With His Hands full of flowers- 
Burning red flowers 

Like cups of scented wine 

And He said, ' They are all ours, 

Thine and Mine. 

1 1 gathered them from the bitter Tree 

Why dost thou start ? 
I gathered the Five of them for thee, 

Child of My Heart. 

These are they that have wrung my Heart, 
And with fiercest pangs have moved Me 

I gathered them why dost thou shrink apart ? 
In the house of them that loved Me.' 

(Sweet through the rain-swept blast 

The moan of the turtle-dove 
' You, that see Him go past, 

Tell Him I languish with love. 

Thou hast wounded my heart, O my Love ! 
With but one look of Thine eyes, 

While yet the boughs are naked above 
And winter is in the skies.') 



4 o6 MAY PROBYN 

1 Honey-laden flowers 

For the children nursed on the knee, 
Who sow not bramble among their bowers 

But what ' He said ' for thee ? 

Not joys of June for thee, 
Not lily, no, nor rose 

For thee the blossom of the bitter Tree, 
More sweet than ought that blows.' 

(The voice of the turtle-dove 

* How shall my heart be fed 
With pleasant apples of love, 

When the winter time has fled. 

The rain and the winter fled, 
How all His gifts shall grace me, 

When His Left Hand is under my head, 
And His Right Hand doth embrace me.') 



B 



SIR JAMES RENNELL RODD 

b. 1858 

From ' In Excehis ' 

>Y those heights we dare to dare, 
By the greatness of our prayer, 
Ever growing, loftier reaching 
To a royaller beseeching, 
By the olden woes washed painless, white and stainless 

in the tears of bitter price, 
By the strength of our assurance to endurance of the need 

of sacrifice, 

Not by dreaming but by using, 
Not by claiming but refusing, 
Then shall dawn on eyes unsealing the revealing of a self 

that knows and grows, 

And the stream of thy devotion find the ocean when its 
meaning overflows. 



SIR JAMES RENNELL RODD 407 

So take the thread that seemed so frail, 
Have faith to hope and never quail, 
For all the weary woes of earth 
And all the hollowness of mirth, 
Accept but this divine in man 
Believe I ought to means I can, 
And comprehend the perfect plan. 

Lift thee o'er thy * here ' and t now ', 
Look beyond thine * I ' and ' thou ', 
Every effort points the next, 
And the way grows unperplexed 
To wider ranges, larger scope, 
All things possible to hope ! 
Till thou feel the breath of morning shadow scorning, 

and on spirit wings unfurled 
Win the way to realms of wonder, 
Rolling starward with the thunder, 
Flashing earthwards with the lightning to the brightening 

the dark edges of the world, 
Till the vastness shall absorb thee, 
And the light of lights enorb thee, 
And the wings on which thou soarest 

Thou wilt need to shade thine eyes, 
For the radiance thou adorest, 

For the nearness of sunrise ; 
Then thy strongest strength shall be 
In thine own humility, 
Wrapt into the holiest holy 

In thy worship vastly aisled, 
. Bend the knee and whisper lowly 

' Our Father ' with the child ! 



408 

VICTOR JAMES DALEY 

1858-1905 
The Foice of the Soul 

IN Youth, when through our veins runs fast 
The bright red stream of life, 
The Soul's Voice is a trumpet-blast 
That calls us to the strife. 

The Spirit spurns its prison-bars, 
f**And feels with force endued 
To scale the ramparts of the stars 
And storm Infinitude. 

Youth passes ; like a dungeon grows 

The Spirit's house of clay : 
The voice that once in music rose 

In murmurs dies away. 

But in the day when sickness sore 

Smites on the body's walls, 
The Soul's Voice through the breach once more 

Like to a trumpet calls. 

Well shall it be with him who heeds 

The mystic summons then ! 
His after-life with loving deeds 

Shall blossom amongst men. 

He shall have gifts the gift that feels 

The germ within the clod, 
And hears the whirring of the wheels 

That turn the mills of God ! 



VICTOR JAMES DALEY 409 

The gift that sees with glance profound 

The secret soul of things, 
And in the silence hears the sound 

Of vast and viewless wings ! 

The veil of Isis sevenfold 

To him as gauze shall be, 
Wherethrough, clear-eyed, he shall behold 

The Ancient Mystery. 

He shall do battle for the True, 

Defend till death the Right, 
With Shoes of Swiftness Wrong pursue, 

With Sword of Sharpness smite. 

And, dying, he shall haply hear, 

Like golden trumpets blown 
For joy, far voices sweet and clear 

Soul-voices like his own. 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 

1859-1907 
The Hound of Heaven 

I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days ; 
I fled Him, down the arches of the years ; 
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways 

Of my own mind ; and in the mist of tears 
I hid from Him, and under running laughter. 
Up vistaed hopes I sped ; 
And shot, precipitated, 
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears, 

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. 



4 io FRANCIS THOMPSON 

But with unhurrying chase, 

And unperturbed pace, . 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 

They beat and a Voice beat 

More instant than the Feet 
' All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.' 

I pleaded, outlaw-wise, 
By many a hearted casement, curtained red, 

Trellised with intertwining charities ; 
(For, though I knew His love Who followed, 

Yet was I sore adread 

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside). 
But, if one little casement parted wide, 

The gust of His approach would clash it to. 
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. 
Across the margent of the world I fled, 

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, 
Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars ; 

Fretted to dulcet jars 

And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon. 
I said to Dawn : Be sudden to Eve : Be soon ; 
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over 

From this tremendous Lover 
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see ! 
I tempted all His servitors, but to find 
My own betrayal in their constancy, 
In faith to Him their fickleness to me, 

Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit 
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue ; 

Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. 
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, 
The long savannahs of the blue ; 

Or whether, Thunder-driven, 
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven, 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 411 

Flashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their 

feet: 

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. 
Still with unhurrying chase, 
And unperturbed pace, 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, 
Came on the following Feet, 
And a Voice above their beat 
' Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.' 

I sought no more that after which I strayed 

In face of man or maid ; 
But still within the little children's eyes 

Seems something, something that replies, 
They at least are for me, surely for me ! 
I turned me to them very wistfully ; 
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair 

With dawning answers there, 
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. 
* Come then, ye other children, Nature's share 
With me ' (said I) ' your delicate fellowship ; 

Let me greet you lip to lip, 

Let me twine with you caresses, 
Wantoning 

With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, 
Banqueting 

With her in her wind- walled palace, 

Underneath her azured da'is, 

Quaffing, as your taintless way is, 

From a chalice 
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.' 

So it was done : 

I in their delicate fellowship was one 
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies. 

J knew all the swift importings 



4 i2 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

On the wilful face of skies ; 
I knew how the clouds arise 
Spumed of the wild sea-snortings ; 

All that 's born or dies 

Rose and drooped with ; made them shapers 
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine ; 
With them joyed and was bereaven. 
I was heavy with the even, 
When she lit her glimmering tapers 
Round the day's dead sanctities. 
I laughed in the morning's eyes. 
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, 

Heaven and I wept together, 
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine ; 
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart 
I laid my own to beat, 
And share commingling heat ; 

But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. 
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. 
For ah ! we know not what each other says, 

These things and I ; in sound / speak 
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. 
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth ; 

Let her, if she would owe me, 
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me 

The breasts o' her tenderness : 
Never did any milk of hers once bless 
My thirsting mouth. 
Nigh and nigh draws the chase, 
With unperturbed pace, 
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy ; 
And past those noised Feet 
A voice comes yet more fleet 
' Lo ! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me ! ' 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 413 

Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke ! 
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, 
And smitten me to my knee ; 

I am defenceless utterly. 

I slept, methinks, and woke, 
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. 
In the rash lustihead of my young powers, 

I shook the pillaring hours 

And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears, 
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years 
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. 
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, 
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. 

Yea, faileth now even dream 
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ; 
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist 
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, 
Are yielding ; cords of all too weak account 
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. 

Ah ! is Thy love indeed 
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, 
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount ? 

Ah ! must 

Designer infinite ! 
Ah ! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn 

with it ? 

My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust ; 
And now my heart is as a broken fount, 
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever 

From the dank thoughts that shiver 
Upon the sighful branches 'of my mind. 

Such is ; what is to be ? 
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ? 
I dimly guess what Time in. mists confounds ; 



4 i4 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds 

From the hid battlements of Eternity ; 

Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then 

Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again. 

But not ere him who summoneth 

I first have seen, enwound 

With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ; 
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. 
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields 

Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields 

Be dunged with rotten death ? 

Now of that long pursuit 
Comes on at hand the bruit ; 

That Voice is round me like a bursting sea : 
' And is thy earth so marred, 
Shattered in shard on shard ? 

Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me ! 

Strange, piteous, futile thing ! 
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ? 
Seeing none but I makes much of naught ' (He said), 
'And human love needs human meriting : 

How hast thou merited 
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ? 

Alack, thou knowest not 
How little worthy of any love thou art ! 
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, 

Save Me, save only Me ? 
All which I took from thee I did but take, 

Not for thy harms, 
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. 

All which thy child's mistake 
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home : 

Rise, clasp My hand, and come 1 ' 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 415 

Halts by me that footfall : 

Is my gloom, after all, 
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ? 

1 Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, 

I am He Whom thou seekest ! 
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.' 



From ' The Mistress of Vision ' 

WHERE is the land of Luthany, 
Where is the tract of Elenore ? 
I am bound therefor. 

' Pierce thy heart to find the key ; 
With thee take 

Only what none else would keep ; 
Learn to dream when thou dost wake, 
Learn to wake when thou dost sleep. 
Learn to water joy with tears, 
Learn from fears to vanquish fears ; 
To hope, for thou dar'st not despair, 
Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve ; 
Plough thou the rock until it bear ; 
Know, for thou else couldst not believe ; 
Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive ; 
Die, for none other way canst live. 
When earth and heaven lay down their veil, 
And that apocalypse turns thee pale ; 
When thy seeing blindeth thee 
To what thy fellow-mortals see ; 
When their sight to thee is sightless ; 
Their living, death ; their light, most lightless ; 
Search no more 
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore.' 



416 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

Where is the land of Luthany, 
And where the region Elenore ? 
I do faint therefor. 

1 When to the new eyes of thee 
All things by immortal power, 
Near or far, 
Hiddenly 

To each other linked are, 
That thou canst not stir a flower 
Without troubling of a star ; 
When thy song is shield and mirror 
To the fair snake-curled Pain, 
Where thou dar'st affront her terror 
That on her thou may'st attain 
Persean conquest ; seek no more, 
O seek no more ! 
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore.' 



Orient Ode 

I O, in the sanctuaried East, 

L^Day, a dedicated priest 

In all his robes pontifical exprest, 

Lifteth slowly, lifteth sweetly, 

From ou.t its Orient tabernacle drawn, 

Yon orbed sacrament confest 

Which sprinkles benediction through the dawn ; 

And when the grave procession's ceased, 

The earth with due illustrious rite 

Blessed, ere the frail fingers featly 

Of twilight, violet-cassocked acolyte, 

His sacerdotal stoles unvest 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 417 

Sets, for high close of the mysterious feast, 

The sun in august exposition meetly 

Within the flaming monstrance of the West. . . . 

To thine own shape 

Thou round'st the chrysolite of the grape, 

Bind'st thy gold lightnings in his veins ; 

Thou storest the white garners of the rains. 

Destroyer and preserver, thou 

Who medicinest sickness, and to health 

Art the unthanked marrow of its wealth ; 

To those apparent sovereignties we bow 

And bright appurtenances of thy brow ! 

Thy proper blood dost thou not give, 

That Earth, the gusty Maenad, drink and dance ? 

Art thou not life of them that live ? 

Yea, in glad twinkling advent, thou dost dwell 

Within our body as a tabernacle ! 

Thou bittest with thine ordinance 

The jaws of Time, and thou dost mete 

The unsustainable treading of his feet. 

Thou to thy spousal universe 

Art Husband, she thy Wife and Church ; 

Who in most dusk and vidual curch, 

Her Lord being hence, 

Keeps her cold sorrows by thy hearse. 

The heavens renew their innocence 

And morning state 

But by thy sacrament communicate ; 

Their weeping night the symbol of our prayers, 

Our darkened search, 

And sinful vigil desolate. 

Yea, biune in imploring dumb, 

Essential Heavens and corporal Earth await ; 

MYST. p 



4 i8 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

The Spirit and the Bride say : Come ! 

Lo, of thy Magians I the least 

Haste with my gold, my incenses and myrrhs, 

To thy desired epiphany, from the spiced 

Regions and odorous of Song's traded East. 

Thou, for the life of all that live 

The victim daily born and sacrificed ; 

To whom the pinion of this longing verse 

Beats but with fire which first thyself did give, 

To thee, O Sun or is't perchance, to Christ ? 

Ay, if men say that on all high heaven's face 

The saintly signs I trace 

Which round my stoled altars hold their solemn place, 

Amen, amen ! For oh, how could it be, 

When I with winged feet had run 

Through all the windy earth about, 

Quested its secret of the sun, 

And heard what thing the stars together shout, 

I should not heed thereout 

Consenting counsel won : 

' By this, O Singer, know we if thou see. 

When men shall say to thee : Lo ! Christ is here, 

When men shall say to thee : Lo ! Christ is there, 

Believe them : yea, and this then art thou seer, 

When all thy crying clear 

Is but : Lo here ! lo there ! ah me, lo everywhere ! ' 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 419 



jlssumpta Maria 

* IIJ'ORTALS, that behold a Woman 
J-vJ- Rising 'tzvixt the Moon and Sun ; 
Who am I the heavens assume ? an 
All am /, and I am one. 



' Multitudinous ascend I, 

Dreadful as a battle arrayed, 
For I bear you whither tend I ; 

Ye are I : be undismayed ! 

I, the Ark that for the graven 
Tables of the Law was made ; 

Man's own heart was one ; one, Heaven ; 
Both within my womb were laid. 
For there Anteros with Eros, 

Heaven with man, conjoined was, 
Twin-stone of the Law, Iscbyros, 
Agios Athanatos. 

I 1, the flesh-girt Paradises 
Gardenered by the Adam new, 

Daintied o'er with dear devices 

Which He loveth, for He grew. 
I, the boundless strict savannah 

Which God's leaping feet go through ; 
I, the heaven whence the Manna, 
Weary Israel, slid on you ! 
He the Anteros and Eros, 

I the body, He the Cross ; 
He upbeareth me, Iscbyros, 
Agios Athanatos ! 



420 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

' I am Daniel's mystic Mountain, 

Whence the mighty stone was rolled ; 
I am the four Rivers' Fountain, 

Watering Paradise of old ; 
Cloud down-raining the Just One am, 

Danae of the Shower of Gold ; 
I the Hostel of the Sun am ; 
He the Lamb, and I the Fold. 
He the Anteros and Eros, 

I the body, He the Cross ; 
He is fast to me, Ischyros, 
Agios Atbanatos ! 

f I, the presence-hall where Angels 
Do enwheel their placed King 
Even my thoughts which, without change else, 

Cyclic burn and cyclic sing. 
To the hollow of Heaven transplanted, 

I a breathing Eden spring, 
Where with venom all outpanted 
Lies the slimed Curse shrivelling. 
For the brazen Serpent clear on 

That old fanged knowledge shone ; 
I to Wisdom rise, Iscbyron, 
Agion Athanaton / 

' Then commanded and spake to me 

He who framed all things that be ; 
And my Maker entered through me, 

In my tent His rest took He. 
Lo ! He standeth, Spouse and Brother, 

I to Him, and He to me, 
Who upraised me where my mother 

Fell, beneath the apple-tree. 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 421 

Risen 'twixt Anteros and Eros, 

Blood and Water, Moon and Sun, 
He upbears me, He Isckyros, 

I bear Him, the Athanaton / ' 



Where is laid the Lord arisen ? 

In the light we walk in gloom ; 
Though the Sun has burst his prison, 

We know not his biding-room. 
Tell us where the Lord sojourneth, 

For we find an empty tomb. 
* Whence He sprung, there He returneth, 
Mystic Sun, the Virgin's Womb.' 
Hidden Sun, His beams so near us, 

Cloud enpillared as He was 

From of old, there He, Ischyros, 

Waits our search, Athanatos. 



' Who will give Him me for brother, 

Counted of my family, 
Sucking the sweet breasts of my Mother ? 

I His flesh, and mine is He ; 
To my Bread myself the bread is, 

And my Wine doth drink me : see, 
His left hand beneath my head is. 
His right hand embraceth me ! ' 
Sweetest Anteros and Eros,' 

Lo, her arms He learns across ; 
Dead that we die not, stooped to rear us, 
Thanatos Athanatos. 



422 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

Who is She, in candid vesture. 

Rushing up from out the brine ? 
Treading with resilient gesture 

Air, and with that Cup divine ? 
She in us and we in her are, 

Beating Godward ; all that pine, 
Lo, a wonder and a terror 
The Sun hath blushed the Sea to Wine ! 
He the Anteros and Eros, 

She the Bride and Spirit ; for 

Now the days of promise near us, 

And the Sea shall be no more. 

Open wide thy gates, O Virgin, 

That the King may enter thee ! 
At all gates the clangours gurge in, 
God's paludament lightens, see ! 
Camp of Angels ! Well we even 

Of this thing may doubtful be, 
If thou art assumed to Heaven, 
Or is Heaven assumed to thee ! 

Consummatum. Christ the promised, 

Thy maiden realm, is won, O Strong ! 
Since to such sweet Kingdom comest, 
Remember me, poor Thief of Song ! 

Cadent fails the stars along : 
Mortals, that behold a Woman 

Rising *twixt the Moon and Sun ; 
Who am I the heavens assume ? an 

All am /, and I am one. 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 423 



The Veteran of Heaven 

O CAPTAIN of the wars, whence won Ye so great 
scars ? 
In what fight did Ye smite, and what manner was the 

foe? 

Was it on a day of rout they compassed Thee about, 
Or gat Ye these adornings when Ye wrought their 
overthrow ? 



' 'Twas on a day of rout they girded Me about, 

They wounded all My brow, and they smote Me 

through the side : 

My hand held no sword when I met their armed horde, 
And the conqueror fell down, and the Conquered 
bruised his pride.' 

What is this, unheard before, that the Unarmed make 

war, 
And the Slain hath the gain, and the Victor hath the 

rout ? 
What wars, then, are these, and what the enemies, 

Strange Chief, with the scars of Thy conquest trenched 
about ? 

* The Prince I drave forth held the Mount of the 

North, 
Girt with the guards of flame that roll round the 

pole. 

L drave him with My wars from all his fortress-stars, 
And the sea of death divided that My march might 
strike its goal. 



424 FRANCIS THOMPSON 

1 In the keep of Northern Guard, many a great daemonian 

sword 

Burns as it turns round the Mount occult, apart : 
There is given him power and place still for some certain 

days, 

And his name would turn the Sun's blood back upon 
its heart.' 

What is Thy Name ? Oh, show ! ' My Name ye may 

not know ; 
'Tis a going forth with banners, and a baring of much 

swords : 

But My titles that are high, are they not upon My thigh ? 
" King of Kings ! " are the words, " Lord of Lords ! " 
It is written " King of Kings, Lord of Lords ".' 



Desiderium In desideratum 

OGAIN that lurk'st ungained in all gain ! 
O love we just fall short of in all love ! 
O height that in all heights art still above ! 

beauty that dost leave all beauty pain ! 
Thou unpossessed that mak'st possession vain, 

See these strained arms which fright the simple air, 
And say what ultimate fairness holds thee, Fair ! 
They girdle Heaven, and girdle Heaven in vain ; 
They shut, and lo ! but shut, in their unrest. 
Thereat a voice in me that voiceless was : 

1 Whom seekest thou through the unmarged arcane, 
And not discern'st to thine own bosom prest ? ' 

I looked. My clasped arms athwart my breast 
Framed the august embraces of the Cross. 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 425 



The Kingdom of God 

O WORLD invisible, we view thee, 
O world intangible, we touch thee, 
O world unknowable, we know thee. 
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee ! 

Does the fish soar to find the ocean, 
The eagle plunge to find the air 
That we ask of the stars in motion 
If they have rumour of thee there ? 

Not where the wheeling systems darken, 
And our benumbed conceiving soars ! 
The drift of pinions, would we hearken, 
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. 

The angels keep their ancient places ; 
Turn but a stone, and startfa wing ! 
'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces, 
That miss the many-splendoured thing. 

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) 
Cry ; and upon thy so sore loss 
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder 
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross. 

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, 
Cry, clinging Heaven by the hems ; 
And lo, Christ walking on the water 
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames ! 



426 
HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 

b. 1859 

The Tree of Life 

Recognition in four Seasons 

ARGUMENT 

A prophet, desiring to recover for men the fruit of the Tree of 
Life, seems to find Paradise by certain traditional signs of beauty 
in nature. He is further persuaded by observing the beauty 
and innocence of children. By and by he comes upon the Tree 
of Knowledge, whose fruit, now old, he discerns to be evil ; 
but from which, to his desire, new is brought forth, which is good. 
At each recognition one of the Guardian Angels of the Tree of 
Life is withdrawn, until there is left only the Angel of Death, in 
the light of whose sword he perceives it. The Angels' songs are 
not heard by the prophet. 

I. SPRING 
Prophet 

OTREE of life, blissful tree, 
Old as the world, still springing green, 
Planted, watered by God ; whose fruit 
Hath year by year fallen about the root, 

And century by century ; 
Grant me that I thy glory unseen 
At last attain to see ! 

Chorus of Angels 
The flame of our eyes still hideth 

The fatal tree : 
Which God in charge confideth 

That none may see, 
Till 'gainst our light advances 

A purer ray, 
And melts with fervid, glances 

Our swords of day. 



HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 



427 



Conside 
rate lilia 
agri 

quomodo 
crescunt. 



Prophet 

This garden I consider : if not the wise 
Repute it Paradise, 

The wise may err and ancient fame be lost ; 
As Ophir on the swart Arabian coast, 
Whence she, of Saba queen, 
In silk raiment and gold, 
Bearing spices manifold, 
Not unlike this lily's purer sheen, 
Came a weary way to salute Solomon, 
Fainting to see, and fainted having seen, 
Such wisdom dazzled from his throne, 

Now Ophir lies unknown ; 
Yet stumbling haply on gold, a man shall say 
Who feeds his flock by the well, 

' Lo Ophir ! ' what if I to-day 
A like token recover, and tell. 

Chorus of Angels 
The fire of our heart presages 

(And gins to dim,) 
That though through ageless ages 

We wait for him 
He comes ; our glory retires, 

And shrinks from strife, 
Folding in closer fires 

The Tree of Life. 

Prophet 

Goeth up a mist, 
To water the ground from the four streams at 

even ; 
Wrapt in a veil of amethyst 



428 HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 

The trees and thickets wait for Spring to appear, 

An angel out of heaven, 

Bringing apparel new for the new year ; 

In the soft light the birds 

Reset to the loved air the eternal words, 

And in the woods primroses peer. 

Angel of the Spring 
He hath seen me with eyes of wonder 

And named my name, 
My shield is riven in sunder, 

And quencht my Jlame : 
My task is done, and rewarded 

If faithfully ; 
By others now is guarded 

The mystic tree. 

II. SUMMER 

Prophet 

O tree of life, blessed tree, 
When shall I thy beauty attain to see ? 
New fledged ev'n now, new canopied with 

green, 
(Not darkening ever as these in brooding heat,) 

To beasts of the field a screen, 
A shadowy bower for weary eyes and feet : 
Tree by tree musing, I find not thee. 

Sinite See, in the rippling water the children at play, 
parvulos, F lashing hitlier and Cither, diamonded with 

spray ; 
Lithe and fair their limbs, their hearts light 

and gay 
As fair as they of Niobe : 



HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 429 

Divinely fair, but too divinely famed ; 

Not so now let it be. 

Children of Adam these by birth proclaimed, 
Clasping a mother's breast, a father's knee, 

By father's father named. 

Ay, but see, but see, 
Their mien how high, how free their spirit ! 

They are naked and not ashamed 
Of that translucent veil, that symmetry. 

How they shout for glee ! 
It is the primal joy, and not the curse, they 
inherit. 

A child of Adam, a child of God can he be ? 

O look, look and see ! 

The Angels of Children 
His ear through nature's noises, 

Where'er he trod, 
Could hear in the children's voices 

The praise of God. 
Our task is done, and rewarded 

If faithfully, 
By others now is guarded 

The mystic tree. 

III. AUTUMN 

Prophet 
Say who are ye upon this bank reclining 

At random laid, 
Where loaded boughs a diaper intertwining 

Of fragrant shade, 

Stretch down their fruits to cheer the heart's 
repining. 



430 HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 

Dicitenim They hear me not, asleep, or drunken, or (ah 1) 

lelhL dead ' 

est. O Tree of Knowledge, 'tis thou, tree divine 

Of good and ill : trembling, I view thee. 

To me, as them, thy golden apples incline, 

Able to slake my thirst, or else undo me. 

Which shall I pluck, which dread 

Of all their goodlihead ? 

If roots be twain, from which there flows 

To these elixir, poison to those, 

How can I track their currents through the 

stem 

Which bears and buries them ? 
Nay, but it cannot be the tree of good ; 
'Tis utter evil ; to nearer view 
The fruit dislustres, dull of hue, 
All its ripe vermilion vanished, 
Dead fruit, not human food ; 
And these riiistaking souls from life are banished. 
But see, a wonder, lo, on each branch swells 
A new fruit ruddy-rinded, that smells 
Freshly, and from their places in decay 
The old shrivel and drop away. 
The ripeness allures to taste, O what should 

stay me ? 
Ill was the old, but the new is goodly and 

sweet : 

A blessing is in it, desire to greet, 
Not a curse to slay me ;. 
(O divine the taste !) 
Of the blind to open the eyes, 
Deaf ears to unstop, make wise 
The feeble-hearted, and to-day (O haste !) 
For these poor dead the tree of life display ! 



HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 431 



Angel of the Tree of Divine Knowledge 

The old fruit which evil bringeth 

He hath eschewed ; 
I breathe, and a new fruit springeth ; 

He saw it good. 
My task is done, and rewarded 

If faithfully ; 
By others now is guarded 

The mystic tree. 



IV. WINTER 
Prophet 

I had thought ere this to have blest mine eyes 

With thy vision benign, immortal tree ; 

For since that fruit, more than with Euphrasy, 

My spirits are all alert, my sense more keen. 

Nor is the north that chides with the stript boughs 

An enemy, if it shows 
All these but mortal, though in Paradise. 

But thou, O still unseen, 
Come into sight ; not yet I faint, but abide 
And ever abide, yearning thee to behold. 
Thee following, this girdling forest wide, 
My heart by hope made bold, 

I have laboured through, and now emerge at length 
Torn by the briers, spent my strength ; 
But branches wintry-bare deny the sheen 
Of the amaranthine leaves and fruit of gold. 
Till now at last the light 
Fails from my hope as from the heaven, 



432 HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 

Where marshal the clouds, blown up with 

boisterous breath ; 

The trees strain from the blast of death 
Shrieking convulsed, so fierce the hail is driven 

Across the vault of night. 
And now the waving brand 
Of a cherub lightens down 
And rends the air with crashing din ; 
Ah, if it be by God's command 
To show light in the darkness of nature's frown 
Qui per- That I my purpose win ! 

animam Tt flashes and sti11 flashes > and now l see 
suam Beyond the blaze glooming a tree, a tree, 

inveniet. Stately and large, (O light deceive not, 
O weary eyes not now believe not !) 
Unseen before ; to that I press, 
Despite the tempest and limbs' tardiness. 
Lighten, O sword divine, to clear my way, 
And thou, O happy heart, upstay 
Steps that falter and swerve, since few 
Remain ; come light again, I shall win through. 

Angel of Death 

My flame he hath not abhorred, 

Nor nature's strife, 
But lightened through my sword, 

Hath passed to Life. 
My task is done, and rewarded 

If faithfully; 
Henceforth no more is guarded 

'The mystic tree. 



433 
ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 

v b. 1860 

At the End of Things 

THE world uprose as a man to find Him 
Ten thousand methods, ten thousand ends 
Some bent on treasure ; the more on pleasure ; 

And some on the chaplet which fame attends : 
But the great deep's voice in the distance dim 
Said : Peace, it is well ; they are seeking Him. 

When I heard that all the world was questing, 

I look'd for a palmer's staff and found, 
By a reed-fringed pond, a fork'd hazel-wand 

On a twisted tree, in a bann'd waste-ground ; 
But I knew not then what the sounding strings 
Of the sea-harps say at the end of things. 

They told me, world, you were keen on seeking ; 

I cast around for a scrip to hold 
Such meagre needs as the roots of weeds 

All weeds, but one with a root of gold ; 
Yet I knew not then how the clangs ascend 
When the sea-horns peal and the searchings end. 

An old worn wallet was that they gave me, 
With twelve old signs on its seven old skins ; 

And a star I stole for the good of my soul, 
Lest the darkness came down on my sins ; 

For I knew not who in their life had heard 

Of the sea-pipes shrilling a secret word. 



434 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 

I join'd the quest that the world was making, 
Which follow'd the false ways far and wide, 

While a thousand cheats in the lanes and streets 
Offer'd that wavering crowd to guide ; 

But what did they know of the sea-reed's speech 

When the peace-words breathe at the end for each ? 

The fools fell down in the swamps and marshes ; 

The fools died hard on the crags and hills ; 
The lies which cheated, so long repeated, 

Deceived, in spite of their evil wills, 
Some knaves themselves at the end of all 
Though how should they hearken when sea-flutes call ? 

But me the scrip and the staff had strengthen'd ; 

I carried the star ; that star led me : 
The paths I've taken, of most forsaken, 

Do surely lead to an open sea : 
As a clamour of voices heard in sleep, 
Come shouts through the dark on the shrouded deep. 

Now it is noon ; in the hush prevailing 

Pipes, harps and horns into flute-notes fall ; 
The sea, conceding my star's true leading, 

In tongues sublime at the end of all 
Gives resonant utterance far and near : 
' Cast away fear ; 
Be of good cheer ; 
He is here, 
Is here ! ' 

And now I know that I sought Him only 
Even as child, when for flowers I sought ; 

In the sins of youth, as in search for truth, 
To find Him, hold Him alone I wrought. 



ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 435 

The knaves too seek Him, and fools beguiled 
So speak to them also, sea-voices mild ! 

Which then was wisdom and which was folly ? 

Did my star more than the cozening guide f 
The fool, as I think, at the chasm's brink, 

Prone by the swamp or the marsh's side, 
Did, even as I, in the end rejoice, 
Since the voice of death must be His true voice. 



A Ladder of Life 

FROM age to age in the public place, 
With the under steps in view, 
The stairway stands, having earth for base, 
But the heavens it passes through. 

O height and, deep, 

And the quests, in sleep, 

Tet the Word of the King says well, 

That the heart of the King is unsearchable. 

Of the utmost steps there are legends grand, 

And far stars shine as they roll ; 
But, of child or man in the wonderful land, 

Is there one who has scaled the whole ? 

Tet the great hope stirs, 

Though His thoughts as yours 

Are not, since the first man fell ; 

For the heart of the King is unsearchable. 



436 ARTHUR EDWARD WA1TE 

A pulsing song of the stairway strange 

Sing, lark, dissolved in the sky ! 
But no, for it passes beyond the range 

Of thy song and thy soaring high. 

The star is kin 

To our soul within 

God orders His World so Well : 

Yet the heart of the King is unsearchable. 

They say that the angels thereby come down, 

Thereby do the saints ascend, 
And that God's light shining from God's own Town 

May be seen at the stairway's end : 

For good and ill 

May be mixed at will, 

The false shew true by a spell, 

But the heart of the King is unsearchable. 

Now, the stairway stands by the noisy mart 

And the stairway stands by the sea ; 
About it pulses the world's great heart 

And the heart of yourself and me. 

We may read, amiss 

Both in that and this. 

And the truth we read in a well ; 

Since the heart of the King is unsearchable 

For a few steps here and a few steps there 

It is fill'd with our voices loud, 
But above these slumbers the silent air 

And the hush of a dreaming cloud. 



ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 437 

In the strain and stress 

Of that silentness, 

Our hearts for the height may swell ; 

But the heart of the King is unsearchable. 

Some few of us, fill'd with a holy fire, 

The Cross and the Christ have kiss'd ; 
We have sworn to achieve our soul's desire 

By mass and evangelist : 

Of step the third 

I can bring down Word, 

And you on the ffth may dwell ; 

Tet the heart of the King is unsearchable. 



As each of us stands at his place assign'd 

And ponders the things we love, 
It is meet and right we should call to mind 

That some must have pass'd above : 

Tes, some there are 

Who have passed so far, 

They have never returned to tell ; 

And the heart of the King is unsearchable. 

Some glimpse at least of the end we glean, 

Of the spiral curve and plan ; 
For stretch as it may through the worlds unseen, 

They are ever the worlds of man ; 

And with all spaces 

His mind embraces 

The way of the stairs as Well 

For his heart, like the Kings, is unsearchable. 



43 8 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 



Restoration 

I CAME into the world for love of Thee, 
I left Thee at Thy bidding ; 
I put off my white robes and shining crown 
And came into this world for love of Thee. 



I have lived in the grey light for love of Thee, 

In mean and darken'd houses : 
The scarlet fruits of knowledge and of sin 
Have stain'd me with their juice for love of Thee 

I could not choose but sin for love of Thee, 

From Thee so sadly parted ; 
I could not choose but put away my sin 
And purge and scourge those stains for love of Thee. 

My soul is sick with life for love of Thee, 

Nothing can ease or fill me : 
Restore me, past the frozen baths of death, 
My crown and robes, desired for love of Thee : 

And take me to Thyself for love of Thee ; 

My loss or gain counts little, 
But Thou must need me since I need Thee so, 
Crying through day and night for love of Thee ! 



ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 439 

How I came to the Sea 
i 

A^OICE in the dark imploring, 
A sweet flute play'd in the light, 
An organ pealing and pouring 

Through the world's cathedral height 
And again the charge and the flight, 
The clash and hurtle of fight. 
O thou art grand, thou art lonely, 

In thy melody, in thy moan, 

With the sense of a world unknown 
Filling 'the known world only ! 

Great voice, which invokes and urges 

The strenuous souls to strive, 
Gather thy waves, thy surges ; 

Thy breakers heap and drive, 

Thy long tides marshal and lead. 

The little ripple shall plead 
In little whispers on golden sand ; 
And further out on the rocky strand, 
Where white crests crumble and white spume scourges, 

Thy drums and tocsins and horns shall blow. 

Thy long reverberant beats shall come and go, 
From where thy surf-line in sky-line merges 

To where, by sounding buffet and blow 
Blare of paeans and mufHe of dirges 

Capes which crumble and torn cliffs know 

The strength and stress of thine ebb and flow 
Waste and know thee and thee confess. 

We do not know thee, we own, we know ; 
But our soul's might in thy might rejoices, 
Our hearts respond to thy wild vast voices ! 
Thought with its fleetness swift wings from the course 
of thee ; 



440 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 

Tongues in the speech of thee ; 

Hope at the source of thee ; 

Fire from the gleams of thee, strength from the force 
of thee ; 

Width through the reach of thee :1 
Depth from thy deepness, unfathom'd by plummet, 
And height from thy night-sky's impervious summit 

Omen and sign ! 

These have we drawn from thee, these do we bring to thee ; 
Nature's great sacraments rise from and spring to thee. 

All other ministries sun, when 'tis shrouded, 

Moon in the morning light meagre and pallid, 
Stars overclouded 
All are invalid 

For spaces and seasons ; but thou, 
Thy greatest ministry is always now. 
O sacramental sea, terrible sea, 
Thine are the words of the mystery 
Grand-word and Pass-Word and Number thine, 

Grades and Degrees to the height advancing, 

And the golden dawn and the glory glancing 
Far and away to the secret shrine ! 

ii 

There shall be no more sea, they say, 
On Nature's great coronation day, 

When the Bridegroom comes to the Bride. 
Shall earth then lose her sacraments of tide 
Motion, measures tremendous, echoing far and long 
Glister, sparkle and glow, ring of an endless song ? 
O words prophetic, ye princes and priests attend ; 
This is the Quest's end promised, the marvellous end 
Of all our voyage and venture since time began. 
To the Quest for ever the sea's voice calleth man ; 



ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 441 

And this in a mystery-world, by only the side-light 

broken 
That a Quest there is and an end is the single secret 

spoken 

All over that vibrant main : 
Of the Quest for ever it tells, of the ends and dooms to gain. 

I rise in the half-light early, I vest myself in haste ; 

I pass over highway and byway, the fielded land and the 

waste ; 

As much as a man may prosper, all eager I climb and go down, 
For this day surely meseems that the Quest may receive 

a crown. 
To and fro in the search I hurry, and some men bid me 

narrate 
What means this fever, and why so eager, and whether 

their help I wait ; 
Not as yet they know of the Quest, although they are 

questing early and late. 

And others, my brothers, the same great end pursuing, 
Stop me and ask, What news ? Fellow Craft, is there any 
thing doing ? 
Is there light in the East anywhere, some sign set forth 

in a star, 

Or a louder watchword utter'd from over the harbour bar ? 
And above the light swift music of all its fleeting joys 
The world spreads daily through length and breadth, the 

great Quest's rumour and noise. 
Who sought it first, who longest, and who has attain'd 

almost ? 

All this in town and in village its heralds proclaim and post ; 
But the sun goes down and the night comes on for a space 

to quench endeavour, 
While star after star through the spaces far shew the track 

of the Quest for ever ! 



442 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 



But still, in the hush and the haunting, I stand, even I, 

by the shore, 
And the sea in the sunshine crooning pervades me with 

deep unrest, 

For it speaks of the Quest, of the Quest 
With a torrent of tongues in a thousand tones 
And a far-off murmur of viewless zones, 
Old and new, new and old, of the Quest ; 

Amen, it speaks evermore ! 

The whole wide world of voice and of rushing sound 
You may seek through vainly, 

But never a voice is found 
To search the soul with such deep unrest, 
Or to speak of the Quest 
So plainly. 

Then surely thither the Quest's way lies 

And a man shall not err therein ; 
Yet not on the surface surely seen with eyes, 
For thence the swallow has come and thereon the sea-mew 

flies; 

And the haunting ships with tremulous sails, we learn, 
For ever about it hover, pass to their place and return ; 
And over the wastes thereof the tempests ravage and burn, 
Or the sea-spouts spin. 

But not of these is the Quest ; 
In the deep, in the deep it lies 
Ah, let me plunge therein ! 

But the caves of the deep are silent, and the halls of the 

deep are still ; 

Not there is the clarion bird 
Or the wind's loud organ heard ; 
No blythe voice cries on the hill. 



ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 443 

A sail, a sail for the seaman, sailing East and West ; 
And a horse for the rover when he goeth over the dappled 

down and road ! 

But a man may better remain in his own abode 
Who is vow'd to the wonderful end which crowns the 

Quest ; 

For sail and compass, and coach and steed and the rest, 
The king's highway, and the beaten track, and the great 

sea-road 
Are these the way of the Quest ? 

Travel, travel and search, eyes that are eager glisten 

(To-day is perchance too late), 
I stand on the marge and listen 
(To-morrow is stored with fate) ; 
I stand on the marge and wait. 
I know that the deep, with its secret, is a sacramental 

hymn. 
Enough that it speaks to me vaguely with meanings 

reserved and dim, 
Saga and rune, of eld ; 
Enough that its volume and grandeur hint the great tale 

withheld ; 
While, far through the depth and the darkness, the echoing 

halls of the soul 
Reply to the roar and the roll, 

Themselves in the mystery-tongue, 
All the world over sung, 
As the sibyl awaking from dream 
In oracles hints at the theme 
That has never been spoken or spell'd. 



444 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 

Of Consummation 

WISE, O heart, is the heart which loves ; but what 
of the heart which refrains 
Not as if counting the cost, and preferring the ease to the 

pains, 
But knowing how treasures of all are neither received nor 

given, 

The aching void that is under love and above it the aching 
heaven ? 

Wise are the lips which have learn'd how long may linger 

the lips' caress, 
But wiser they who the hungering lips can chasten and 

repress, 
For that which our fain mouths burn to kiss and loving 

arms to embrace 
Has never been given to lips or arms in the world of time 

and space. 

Wise, therefore, and wise above all, is he who does not 

swerve aside, 
But knows to his greatest need on earth is service of earth 

denied ; 
Who, least things asking of flesh and blood, and less than 

the least of rest, 
Goes on demanding the perfect good and disdaining the 

second best. 

After much conquest and toil no doubt, but high in his 

starry tracks, 
Shall the greater ministers come to him burning the 

sacred flax, 
Saying : So passes the world and so the glory and light 

expend ; 
But the High Term, follow'd unflinching, cries : I can 

repay at the end. 



ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE 445 



The Morality of the Lost Word 

WITH a measure of light and a measure of shade, 
The world of old by the Word was made ; 
By the shade and light was the Word conceal'd, 
And the Word in flesh to the world reveal'd 
Is by outward sense and its forms obscured ; 
The spirit within is the long lost Word, 
Besought by the world of the soul in pain 
Through a world of words which are void and vain. 
O never while shadow and light are blended 
Shall the world's Word-Quest or its woe be ended, 
And never the world of its wounds made whole 
Till the Word made flesh be the Word made soul ! 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN 

1861-1899 
The Clearer Self 

BEFORE me grew the human soul, 
And after I am dead and gone, 
Through grades of effort and control 
The marvellous work shall still go on. 

Each mortal in his little span 

Hath only lived, if he have shown 
What greatness there can be in man 

Above the measured and the known ; 

How through the ancient layers of night, 

In gradual victory secure, 
Grows ever with increasing light 

The Energy serene and pure : 



446 ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN 

The Soul that from a monstrous past, 
From age to age, from hour to hour, 

Feels upward to some height at last 
Of unimagined grace and power. 

Though yet the sacred fire be dull, 
In folds of thwarting matter furled, 

Ere death be nigh, while life is full, 
O Master Spirit of the world, 

Grant me to know, to seek, to find, 
In some small measure though it be, 

Emerging from the waste and blind, 
The clearer self, the grander me ! 



Peccavi, Domine 

O POWER to whom this earthly clime 
Is but an atom in the whole, 
O Poet-heart of Space and Time, 

O Maker and immortal Soul, 
Within whose glowing rings are bound, 
Out of whose sleepless heart had birth 
The cloudy blue, the starry round, 
And this small miracle of earth : 

Who liv'st in every living thing, 

And all things are thy script and chart, 
Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing, 

And yearnest in the human heart ; 
O Riddle with a single clue, 

Love, deathless, protean, secure, 
The ever old, the ever new, 

O Energy, serene and pure. 



ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN 44? 

Thou, who -art also part of me, 

Whose glory I have sometime seen, 

Vision of the Ought-to-be, 

O Memory of the Might-have-been, 

1 have had glimpses of thy way, 

And moved with winds and walked with stars, 
But, weary, I have fallen astray, 
And, wounded, who shall count my scars ? 

Master, all my strength is gone ; 
Unto the very earth I bow ; 

1 have no light to lead me on ; 

With aching heart and- burning brow, 
I lie as one that travaileth 

In sorrow more than he can bear ; 
I sit in darkness as of death, 

And scatter dust upon my hair. 

The God within my soul hath slept, 
And I have shamed the nobler rule ; 

Master, I have whined and crept ; 
O Spirit, I have played the fool. 

Like him of old upon whose head 
His follies hung in dark arrears, 

1 groan and travail in my bed, 

And water it with bitter tears. 

I stand upon thy mountain-heads, 

And gaze until mine eyes are dim ; 
The golden morning glows and spreads ; 

The hoary vapours break and swim. 
I see thy blossoming fields, divine, 

Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees 
And then that broken soul of mine 

How much less beautiful than these 1 



448 ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN 

O Spirit, passionless, but kind, 
Is there in all the world, I cry, 

Another one so base and blind, 
Another one so weak as I ? 

Power, unchangeable, but just, 
Impute this, one good thing to me, 

1 sink my spirit to the dust 

In utter dumb humility. 



MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE 

1861-1907 

' He came unto His own, and His own 
received Him not* 

AS Christ the Lord was passing by, 
JL\. He came, one night, to a cottage door. 

He came, a poor man, to the poor ; 
He had no bed whereon to lie. 

He asked in vain for a crust of bread, 

Standing there in the frozen blast. 

The door was locked and bolted fast. 
' Only a beggar ! ' the poor man said. 

Christ the Lord went further on, 

Until He came to a palace gate. 

There a king was keeping his state, 
In every window the candles shone. 

The king beheld Him out in the cold. 

He left his guests in the banquet-hall. 

He bade his servants tend them all. 
' I wait on a Guest I know of old.' 



MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE 449 

' 'Tis only a beggar-man ! ' they said. 

* Yes,' he said ; ' it is Christ the Lord.' 

He spoke to Him a kindly word, 
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread. 

Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell, 
And all the words of Christ are true. 
He touched the cottage, and it grew ; 

He touched the palace, and it fell. 

The poor man is become a king. 

Never was man so sad as he. 

Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three, 
He has no joy in mortal thing. 

But the sun streams in at the cottage door 
That stands where once the palace stood, 
And the workman, toiling to earn his food, 

Was never a king before. 

Good Friday in my Heart 

GOOD FRIDAY in my heart ! Fear and affright ! 
My thoughts are the Disciples when they fled, 
My words the words that priest and soldier said, 
My deed the spear to desecrate the dead. 
And day, Thy death therein, is changed to night. 

Then Easter in my heart sends up the sun. 
My thoughts are Mary, when she turned to see. 
My words are Peter, answering, ( Lov'st thou Me ? ' 
My deeds are all Thine own drawn close to Thee, 
And night and day, since Thou dost rise, are one. 
MYST. o 



450 MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE 

After St. Augustine 

SUNSHINE let it be or frost, 
Storm or calm, as Thou shalt choose ; 
Though Thine every gift were lost, 
Thee Thyself we could not lose. 



BLISS CARMAN 

b. 1861 

P^eni Creator 

HvevfJia Kvpiov lir' 4/i 
I 

ERD of the grass and hill, 
Lord of the rain. 
White Overlord of will, 
Master of pain, 

I who am dust and air 
Blown through the halls of death, 
Like a pale ghost of prayer,' 
I am thy breath. 

Lord of the blade and leaf, 
Lord of the bloom, 
Sheer Overlord of grief, 
Master of doom, 

Lonely as wind or snow, 
Through the vague world and dim, 
Vagrant and glad I go ; 
I am thy whim. 



BLISS CARMAN 451 

Lord of the storm and lull, 
Lord of the sea, 
I am thy broken gull, 
Blown far alee. 

Lord of the harvest dew, 
Lord of the dawn, 
Star of the paling blue 
Darkling and gone, 

Lost on the mountain height 
Where the first winds are stirred, 
Out of the wells of night 
I am thy word. 

Lord of the haunted hush, 
Where raptures throng, 
I am thy hermit thrush, 
Ending no song. 

Lord of the frost and cold, 
Lord of the North, 
When the red sun grows old 
And day goes forth, 

I shall put off this girth, 
Go glad and free, 
Earth to my mother earth, 
Spirit to thee. 



ii 

Lord of my heart's elation, 
Spirit of things unseen, 
Be thou my aspiration 
Consuming and serene I 



452 



BLISS CARMAN 

Bear up, bear out, bear onward 
This mortal soul alone, 
To selfhood or oblivion, 
Incredibly thine own, 

As the foamheads are loosened 
And blown along the sea, 
Or sink and merge forever 
In that which bids them be. 

I, too, must climb in wonder, 
Uplift at thy command, 
Be one with my frail fellows 
Beneath the wind's strong hand, 

A fleet and shadowy column 
Of dust or mountain rain, 
To walk the earth a moment 
And be dissolved again. 

Be thou my exaltation 
Or fortitude of mien, 
Lord of the world's elation 
Thou breath of things unseen ! 



A Creature Catechism 



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the sea 

ERD, said a fly ing fish, 
Below the foundations of storm 
We feel the primal wish 
Of the earth take form. 



BLISS CARMAN 453 

Through the dim green water-fire 
We see the red sun loom, 
And the quake of a new desire 
Takes hold on us down in the gloom. 

No more can the filmy drift 
Nor draughty currents buoy 
Our whim to its bent, nor lift 
Our heart to the height of its joy. 

When sheering down to the Line 
Come polar tides from the North, 
Thy silver folk of the brine 
Must glimmer and forth. 

Down in the crumbling mill 
Grinding eternally, 
We are the type of thy will 
To the tribes of the sea. 



Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the air ? 

Lord, said a butterfly, 
Out of a creeping thing, 
For days in the dust put by, 
The spread of a wing 

Emerges with pulvil of gold 
On a tissue of green and blue, 
And there is thy purpose of old 
Unspoiled and fashioned anew. 






454 BLISS CARMAN 

Ephemera, ravellings of sky 
And shreds of the Northern light, 
We age in a heart-beat and die 
Under the eaves of night. 

What if the small breath quail, 
Or cease at a touch of the frost ? 
Not a tremor of joy shall fail, 
Nor a pulse be lost. 

This fluttering life, never still, 
Survives to oblivion's despair. 
We are the type of thy will 
To the tribes of the air. 



in 

Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the field ? 

Lord, said a maple seed, 

Though well we are wrapped and bound, 

We are the first to give heed, 

When thy bugles give sound. 

We banner thy House of the Hills 
With green and vermilion and gold, 
When the floor of April thrills 
With the myriad stir of the mould, 

And her hosts for migration prepare. 
We too have the veined twin-wings, 
Vans for the journey of air. 
With the urge of a thousand springs 



BLISS CARMAN 455 

Pent for a germ in our side, 
We perish of joy, being dumb, 
That our race may be and abide 
For aeons to come. 

When rivulet answers to rill 
In snow-blue valleys unsealed, 
We are the type of thy will 
To the tribes of the field. 



IV 

Soul, what art thou in the tribes of the ground ? 

Lord, when the time is ripe, 
Said a frog through the quiet rain, 
We take up the silver pipe 
For the pageant again. 

When the melting wind of the South 
Is over meadow and pond, 
We draw the breath of thy mouth, 
Reviving the ancient bond. 

Then must we fife and declare 
The unquenchable joy of earth, 
Testify hearts still dare, 
Signalize beauty's worth. 

Then must we rouse and blow 
On the magic reed once more, 
Till the glad earth-children know 
Not a thing to deplore. 



456 BLISS CARMAN 

When rises the marshy trill 

To the soft spring night's profound, 

We are the type of thy will 

To the tribes of the ground. 



Soul, what art tbou in the tribes of the earth ? 

Lord, said an artist born, 
We leave the city behind 
For the hills of open morn, 
For fear of our kind. 

Our brother they nailed to a tree 
For sedition ; they bully and curse 
All those whom love makes free. 
Yet the very winds disperse 

Rapture of birds and brooks, 
Colours of sea and cloud, 
Beauty not learned of books, 
Truth that is never loud. 

We model our joy into clay, 
Or help it with line and hue, 
Or hark for its breath in stray 
Wild chords and new. 

For to-morrow can only fulfil 
Dreams which to-day have birth ; 
We are the type of thy will 
To the tribes of the earth. 



BLISS CARMAN 457 

On Love 

TO the assembled folk 
At great St. Kavin's spoke 
Young Brother Amiel on Christmas Eve ; 
I give you joy, my friends, 
That as the round year ends, 
We meet once more for gladness by God's leave. 

On other festal days 

For penitence or praise 

Or prayer we meet, or fullness of thanksgiving ; 

To-night we calendar 

The rising of that star 

Which lit the old world with new joy of living. 

Ah, we disparage still 

The Tidings of Good Will, 

Discrediting Love's gospel now as then ! 

And with the verbal creed 

That God is love indeed, 

Who dares make Love his god before all men ? 

Shall we not, therefore, friends, 

Resolve to make amends 

To that glad inspiration of the heart ; 

To grudge not, to cast out 

Selfishness, malice, doubt, 

Anger and fear ; and for the better part, 

To love so much, so well, 
The spirit cannot tell 

The range and sweep of her own boundary ! 
There is no period 
Between the soul and God ; 
Love is the tide, God the eternal sea. ... 
Q3 






458 BLISS CARMAN 

To-day we walk by love ; 

To strive is not enough, 

Save against greed and ignorance and might. 

We apprehend peace comes 

Not with the roll of drums, 

But in the still processions of the night. 

. 

And we perceive, not awe 
But love is the great law 

That binds the world together safe and whole. 
The splendid planets run 
Their courses in the sun ; 
Love is the gravitation of the soul. 

In the profound unknown, 

Illumined, fair, and lone, 

Each star is set to shimmer in its place. 

In the profound divine 

Each soul is set to shine, 

And its unique appointed orbit trace. 

There is no near nor far, 

Where glorious Algebar 

Swings round his mighty circuit through the night, 

Yet where without- a sound 

The winged seed comes to ground, 

And the red leaf seems hardly to alight. 

One force, one lore, one need 

For satellite and seed, 

In the serene benignity for all. 

Letting her time-glass run 

With star-dust, sun by sun, 

In Nature's thought there is no great nor small. 



BLISS CARMAN 459 

There is no far nor near 

Within the spirit's sphere. 

The summer sunset's scarlet-yellow wings 

Are tinged with the same dye 

That paints the tulip's ply. 

And what is colour but the soul of things ? 

(The earth was without form ; 

God moulded it with storm, 

Ice, flood, and tempest, gleaming tint and hue ; 

Lest it should come to ill 

For lack of spirit still, 

He gave it colour, let the love shine through.) . . , 

Of old, men said, ' Sin not ; 

By every line and jot 

Ye shall abide ; man's heart is false and vile.' 

Christ said, ' By love alone 

In man's heart is God known ; 

Obey the word no falsehood can defile.' . . . 

And since that day we prove 

Only how great is love, 

Nor to this hour its greatness half believe. 

For to what other power 

Will life give equal dower, 

Or chaos grant one moment of reprieve ! 

Look down the ages' line, 

Where slowly the divine 

Evinces energy, puts forth control ; 

See mighty love alone 

Transmuting stock and stone, 

Infusing being, helping sense and soul. 



460 BLISS CARMAN 

And what is energy, 

In-working, which bids be 

The starry pageant and the life of earth ? 

What is the genesis 

Of every joy and bliss, 

Each action dared, each beauty brought to birth ? 

What hangs the sun on high ? 

What swells the growing rye ? 

What bids the loons cry on the Northern lake ? 

What stirs in swamp and swale, 

When April winds prevail, 

And all the dwellers of the ground awake ? . . . 

What lurks in the deep gaze 

Of the old wolf ? Amaze, 

Hope, recognition, gladness, anger, fear. 

But deeper than all these 

Love muses, yearns, and sees, 

And is the self that does not change nor veer. 

Not love of self alone, 

Struggle for lair and bone, 

But self-denying love of mate and young, 

Love that is kind and wise, 

Knows trust and sacrifice, 

And croons the old dark universal tongue. . . . 

And who has understood 

Our brothers of the wood, 

Save he who puts off guile and every guise 

Of violence, made truce 

With panther, bear, and moose, 

As beings like ourselves whom love makes wise ? 



BLISS CARMAN 461 

For they, too, do love's will, 

Our lesser clansmen still ; 

The House of Many Mansions holds us all ; 

Courageous, glad and hale, 

They go forth on the trail, 

Hearing the message, hearkening to the call. . . . 

Open the door to-night 

Within your heart, and light 

The lantern of love there to shine afar. 

On a tumultuous sea 

Some straining craft, maybe, 

With bearings lost, shall sight love's silver star. 



ALICE MEYNELL 

To a Daisy 

SLIGHT as thou art, thou art enough to hide, 
Like all created things, secrets from me, 
And stand a barrier to eternity. 
And I, how can I praise thee well and wide 

From where I dwell upon the hither side ? 
Thou little veil for so great mystery, 
When shall I penetrate all things and thee, 

And then look back ? For this I must abide, 

Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled 
Literally between me and the world. 

Then shall I drink from in beneath a spring, 

And from a poet's side shall read his book. 
O daisy mine, what will it be to look 

From God's side even of such a simple thing ? 



4 6z 



ALICE MEYNELL 



et Feritas^ et 

' 'V/'OU never attained to Him.' ' If to attain 

1 Be to abide, then that may be.' 
Endless the way, followed with how much pain ! ' 
4 The way was He.' 



The Unknown God 

ONE of the crowd went up, 
And knelt before the Paten and the Cup, 
Received the Lord, returned in peace, and prayed 
Close to my side ; then in my heart I said : 

4 O Christ, in this man's life 

This stranger who is Thine in all his strife, 

All his felicity, his good and ill, 

In the assaulted stronghold of his will, 

* I do confess Thee here, 

Alive within this life ; I know Thee near 
Within this lonely conscience, closed away 
Within this brother's solitary day. 

4 Christ in his unknown heart, 
His intellect unknown this love, this art, 
This battle and this peace, this destiny 
That I shall never know, look upon me ! 

* Christ in his numbered breath, 

Christ in his beating heart and in his death, 
Christ in his mystery ! From that secret place 
And from that separate dwelling, give me grace.' 



ALICE MEYNELL 463 

In Portugal, 1912 

A^D will they cast the altars down, 
Scatter the chalice, crush the bread ? 
In field, in village, and in town 
He hides an unregarded head ; 

Waits in the corn-lands far and near, 

Bright in His sun, dark in His frost, 
Sweet in the vine, ripe in the ear 

Lonely unconsecrated Host. 

In ambush at the merry board 

The Victim lurks unsacrificed ; 
The mill conceals the harvest's Lord, 

The wine-press holds the unbidden Christ. 



Christ in the Universe 

WITH this ambiguous earth 
His dealings have been told us. These abide 
The signal to a maid, the human birth, 
The lesson, and the young Man crucified. 

But not a star of all 

The innumerable host of stars has heard 
How He administered this terrestrial ball. 
Our race have kept their Lord's entrusted Word. 

Of His earth-visiting feet 
None knows the secret, cherished, perilous, 
The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet, 
Heart-shattering secret of His way with us. 



464 ALICE MEYNELL 

No planet knows that this 
Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave, 
Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss, 
Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave. 

Nor, in our little day, 

May His devices with the heavens be guessed, 
His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way 
Or His bestowals there be manifest. 



But in the eternities, 

Doubtless we shall compare together, hear 
A million alien Gospels, in what guise 
He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear. 

O, be prepared, my soul ! 
To read the inconceivable, to scan 
The myriad forms of God those stars unroll 
When, in our turn, we show to them a Man. 



KATHERINE TYNAN HINKSON 
The Beloved 

BLOW gently over my garden, 
Wind of the Southern sea, 
In the hour that my Love cometh 

And calleth me ! 
My Love shall entreat me sweetly, 

With voice like the wood-pigeon ; 
* I am here at the gate of thy garden, 
Here in the dawn.' 



KATHERINE TYNAN HINKSON 465 

Then I shall rise up swiftly 

All in the rose and grey, 
And open the gate to my Lover 

At dawning of day. 
He hath crowns of pain on His forehead, 

And wounds in His hands and feet ; 
But here mid the dews of my garden 

His rest shall be sweet. 

Then blow not out of your forests, 

Wind of the icy North ; 
But Wind of the South that is healing 

Rise and come forth! 
And shed your musk and your honey, 

And spill your odours of spice, 
For one who forsook for my garden 

His Paradise ! 



The Flying Wheel 

WHEN I was young the days were long, 
Oh, long the days when I was young : 
So long from morn to evenfall 
As they would never end at all. 

Now I grow old Time flies, alas ! 
I watch the years and seasons pass. 
Time turns him with his fingers thin 
A wheel that whirls while it doth spin. 

There is no time to take one's ease, 
For to sit still and be at peace : 
Oh, whirling wheel of Time, be still, 
Let me be quiet if you will ! 



466 KATHERINE TYNAN HINKSON 

Yet still it turns so giddily, 
So fast the years and seasons fly, 
Dazed with the noise and speed I run 
And stay me on the Changeless One. 

I stay myself on Him who stays 
Ever the same through nights and days : 
The One Unchangeable for aye, 
That was and will be : the one Stay, 

O'er whom Eternity will pass 

But as an image in a glass ; 

To whom a million years are nought, 

I stay myself on a great Thought. 

I stay myself on the great Quiet 
After the noises and the riot ; 
As in a garnished chamber sit 
Far from the tumult of the street. 

Oh, wheel of Time, turn round apace ! 
But I have found a resting-place. 
You will not trouble me again 
In the great peace where I attain. 



SIR HENRY NEWBOLT 

b. 1862 

The Final Mystery 

This myth, of Egyptian origin, formed part of the instruction 
given to those initiated in the Orphic mysteries, and written 
versions of it were buried with the dead. 

HEAR now, O Soul, the last command of ail- 
When thou hast left thine every mortal mark, 
And by the road that lies beyond recall 
Won through the desert of the Burning Dark, 



SIR HENRY NEWBOLT 467 

Thou shalt behold within a garden bright 
A well, beside a cypress ivory-white. 

Still is that well, and in its waters cool 

White, white and windless, sleeps that cypress tree : 

Who drinks but once from out her shadowy pool 

Shall thirst no more to all eternity. 

Forgetting all, by all forgotten clean, 

His soul shall be with that which hath not been. 

But thou, though thou be trembling with thy dread, 
And parched with thy desire more fierce than flame, 
Think on the stream wherefrom thy life was fed, 
And that diviner fountain whence it came. 
Turn thee and cry behold, it is not far 
Unto the hills where living waters are. 

' Lord, though I lived on earth, the child of earth, 
Yet was I fathered by the starry sky : 
Thou knowest I came not of the shadows' birth, 
Let me not die the death that shadows die. 
Give me to drink of the sweet spring that leaps 
From Memory's fount, wherein no cypress sleeps.' 

Then shalt thou drink, O Soul, and therewith slake 

The immortal longing of thy mortal thirst ; 

So of thy Father's life shalt thou partake, 

And be for ever that thou wert at first. 

Lost in remembered loves, yet thou more thou 

With them shalt reign in never-ending Now. 



468 



ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON 

b. 1862 
Prayer 

MY sorrow had pierced me through ; it throbbed in 
my heart like a thorn ; 
This way and that I stared, as a bird with a broken 

limb 
Hearing the hound's strong feet thrust imminent through 

the corn, 
So to my God I turned : and I had forgotten Him. 

Into the night I breathed a prayer like a soaring 

fire;- 
So to the windswept cliff the resonant rocket 

streams, 
And it struck its mark, I know ; for I felt my flying 

desire 

Strain, like a rope drawn home, and catch in the land 
of dreams. 



What was the answer ? This the horrible depth of 

night, 
And deeper, as ever I peer, the huge cliff's mountainous 

shade, 
While the frail boat cracks and grinds, and never a star 

in sight, 

And the seething waves smite fiercer ; and yet I am 
not afraid. 



4 6 9 

GEORGE SANTAYANA 

b. 1863 
' World, thou choose st not y 

O WORLD, thou choosest not the better part ! 
It is not wisdom to be only wise, 
And on the inward vision close the eyes, 
But it is wisdom to believe the heart. 
Columbus found a world, and had no chart, 
Save one that faith deciphered in the skies ; 
To trust the soul's invincible surmise 
Was all his science and his only art. 
Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine 
That lights the pathway but one step ahead 
Across a void of mystery and dread. 
Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine 
By which alone the mortal heart is led 
Unto the thinking of the thought divine. 

' Martyred Spirit * 

O MARTYRED Spirit of this helpless Whole, 
Who dost by pain for tyranny atone, 
And in the star, the atom, and the stone, 
Purgest the primal guilt, and in the soul ; 
Rich but in grief, thou dost thy wealth unroll, 
And givest of thy substance to thine own, 
Mingling the love, the laughter, and the groan 
In the large hollow of the heaven's bowl. 
Fill full my cup ; the dregs and honeyed brim 
I take from thy just hand, more worthy love 
For sweetening not the draught for me or him. 
What in myself I am, that let me prove ; 
Relent not for my feeble prayer, nor dim 
The burning of thine altar for my hymn. 



470 



HERBERT TRENCH 
Lindisfame 

seer, the net-mender, 
e day that he died 
Looked out to the seaward 
At ebb of the tide ; 
Gulls drove like the snow 
Over bight, over barn, 
As he sang to the ebb 
On the rock Lindisfarne : 
' Hail, thou blue ebbing ! 
The breakers are gone 
From the stormy coast-islet 
Bethundered and lone ! 
Hail, thou wide shrinking 
Of foam and of bubble 
The reefs are laid bare 
And far off is the trouble ! 
For through this retreating 
As soft as a smile, 
The isle of the flood 
Is no longer an isle. . . . 

By the silvery isthmus 

Of sands that uncover, 

Now feet as of angels 

Come delicate over 

The fluttering children 

Flee happily over ! 

To the beach of the mainland 

Return is now clear, 

The old travel thither 

Dry-shod, without fear. . . . 



b. 1865 



HERBERT TRENCH 471 

And now, at the wane, 
When foundations expand, 
Doth the isle of the soul, 
Lindisfarne, understand 
She stretcheth to vastness 
Made one with the land ! ' 



I Seek Thee in the Heart Alone 

KUNTAIN of Fire whom all divide, 
r e haste asunder like the spray 
But waneless doth Thy flame abide 
Whom every torch can take away ! 

L 

I seek Thee in the heart alone, 
I shall not find in hill or plain ; 
Our rushing star must keep its moan, 
Our nightly soul its homeward pain. 

Song out of thought, Light out of power, 
Even the consumings of this breast 
Advance the clearness of that hour 
When all shall poise, and be at rest. 

It cracks at last the glowing sheath, 
The illusion, Personality ; 
Absorbed and interwound with death 
The myriads are dissolved in Thee. 



472 

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 

b. 1865 
The Rose of Battle 

ROSE of all Roses, Rose of all the World ! 
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled 
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air, 
And God's bell buoyed to be the water's care ; 
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band 
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand. 
Turn if you may from battles never done, 
I call, as they go by me one by one, 
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace. 
For him who hears love sing and never cease, 
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade : 
But gather all for whom no love hath made 
A woven silence, or but came to cast 
A song into the air, and singing past 
To smile on the pale dawn ; and gather you 
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew 
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth, 
Or sighs amid the wandering starry mirth, 
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips ; 
And wage God's battles in the long grey ships. 
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, 
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell ; 
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry 
Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die. 

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World ! 
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled 
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring 
The bell that calls us on ; the sweet far thing. 



WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 473 

Beauty grown sad with its eternity 

Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. 

Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, 

For God has bid them share an equal fate ; 

And when at last defeated in His wars, 

They have gone down under the same white stars, 

We shall no longer hear the little cry 

Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die. 



To the Secret Rose 

FAR off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, 
Enfold me in my hour of hours ; where those 
Who sought thee at the Holy Sepulchre, 
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir 
And tumult of defeated dreams ; and deep 
Among pale eyelids heavy with the sleep 
Men have named beauty. Your great leaves enfold 
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold 
Of the crowned Magi ; and the king whose eyes 
Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of Elder rise 
In druid vapour and make the torches dim ; 
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died ; and him 
Who met Fand walking among naming dew, 
By a grey shore where the wind never blew, 
And lost the world and Emir for a kiss ; 
And him who drove the gods out of their liss 
And till a hundred morns had flowered red 
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead ; 
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown 
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown 
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods; 
And him who sold tillage and house and goods, 



474 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 

And sought through lands and islands numberless years 

Until he found with laughter and with tears 

A woman of so shining loveliness, 

That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress, 

A little stolen tress. I too await 

The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. 

When shall the stars be blown about the sky, 

Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die ? 

Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows, 

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose ? 



ARTHUR SYMONS 

b. 1865 
The Ecstasy 

\ V THAT is this reverence in extreme delight 
W That waits upon my kisses as they storm, 
Vehemently, this height 
Of steep and inaccessible delight ; 
And seems with newer ecstasy to warm 
Their slackening ardour, and invite, 
From nearer heaven, the swarm 
Of hiving stars with mortal sweetness down ? 
Never before 

Have I endured an exaltation 
So exquisite in anguish, and so sore 
In promise and possession of full peace. 
Cease not, O nevermore 
Cease, 

To lift my joy, as upon windy wings, 
Into that infinite ascension, where, 
In baths of glittering air, 
It finds a heaven and like an angel sings. 



ARTHUR SYMONS 475 

Heaven waits above, 

There where the clouds and fastnesses of love 

Lift earth into the skies ; 

And I have seen the glimmer of the gates, 

And twice or thrice 

Climbed half the difficult way, 

Only to say 

Heaven waits, 

Only to fall away from paradise. 

But now, O what is this 

Mysterious and uncapturable bliss 

That I have known, yet seems to be 

Simple as breath, and easy as a smile, 

And older than the earth ? 

Now but a little while 

This ultimate ecstasy 

Has parted from its birth, 

Now but a little while been wholly mine, 

Yet am I utterly possessed 

By the delicious tyrant and divine 

Child, this importunate guest. 



Indian Meditation 

WHERE shall this self at last find happiness ? 
O Soul, only in nothingness. 
Does not the Earth suffice to its own needs ? 
And what am I but one of the Earth's weeds ? 
All things have been and all things shall go on 
Before me and when I am gone ; 
This self that cries out for eternity 
Is what shall pass in me : 
The tree remains, the leaf falls from the tree. 



476 ARTHUR SYMONS 

I would be as the leaf, I would be lost 

In the identity and death of frost, 

Rather than draw the sap of the tree's strength 

And for the tree's sake be cast off at length. 

To be is homage unto being ; cease 

To be, and be at peace, 

If it be peace for self to have forgot 

Even that it is not. 



The Turning Dervish 

STARS in the heavens turn, 
I worship like a star, 
And in its footsteps learn 
Where peace and wisdom are. 

Man crawls as a worm crawls ; 
Till dust with dust he lies, 
A crooked line he scrawls 
Between the earth and skies. 

Yet God, having ordained 
The course of star and sun, 
No creature hath constrained 
A meaner course to run. 

I, by his lesson taught, 
Imaging his design, 
Have diligently wrought 
Motion to be divine. 

I turn until my sense, 
Dizzied with waves of air, 
Spins to a point intense, 
And spires and centres there. 



ARTHUR SYMONS 477 

There, motionless in speed, 
I drink that flaming peace, 
Which in the heavens doth feed 
The stars with bright increase. 

Some spirit in me doth move 
Through ways of light untrod, 
Till, with excessive love, 
I drown, and am in God. 



MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 

1865-1914 
Sibylline 

THERE is a glory in the apple boughs 
Of silver moonlight ; like a torch of myrrh, 
Burning upon an altar of sweet vows, 

Dropped from the hand of some wan worshipper : 
And there is life among the apple blooms 

Of whisp'ring winds ; as if a god addressed 
The flamen from the sanctuary glooms 

With secrets of the bourne that hope hath guessed, 
Saying : ' Behold ! a darkness which illumes, 
A waking which is rest.' 

There is a blackness in the apple trees 

Of tempest ; like the ashes of an urn 
Hurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees, 

With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn : 
And there is death among the blooms, that fill 

The night with breathless scent, as when, above 
The priest, the vision of his faith doth will 

Forth from his soul the beautiful form thereof, 
Saying : ' Behold ! a silence never still ; 
The other form of love.' 



478 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 

The Watcher on the Tower 

i 
The Voice of a Man 

WHAT of the Night, O Watcher ? 
The Voice of a Woman 

Yea, what of it ? 
The Watcher 
A star has risen ; and a wind blows strong. 

Voice of the Man 
The Night is dark. 

The Watcher 

But God is there above it. 
Voice of the Woman 
The Night is dark ; the Night is dark and long. 

ii 

Voice of the Man 
What of the Night, O Watcher ? 

Voice of the Woman 

Night of sorrow ! 
The Watcher 
Out of the East there comes a sound, like song. 

Voice of the Man 
The Night is dark. 

The Watcher 

Have courage ! There 's To-morrow ! 
Voice of the Woman 
The Night is dark ; the Night is dark and long. 



MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 479 

in 

Voice of the Man 
What of the Night, O Watcher ? 

Voice of the Woman 

Is it other ? 

The Watcher 
I see a gleam ; a thorn of light ; a thong. 

Voice of the Man 
The Night is dark. 

The Watcher 
The Morning comes, my Brother. 

Voice of the Woman 
The Night is dark ; the Night is dark and long. 

IV 

Voice of the Man 
What now, what now, O Watcher ? 

The Watcher 

Red as slaughter 
The Darkness dies. The Light comes swift and strong. 

Voice of the Man 
The Night was long. What sayest thou, my Daughter ? 

Voice of the Woman 
The Night was dark ; the Night was dark and long. 



480 MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 



Attainment 

ON the Heights of Great Endeavour,- 
Where Attainment looms forever, 
Toiling upward, ceasing never, 
Climb the fateful Centuries : 
Up the difficult, dark places, 
Joy and anguish in their faces, 
On they strive, the living races, 
And the dead, that no one sees. 

Shape by shape, with brow uplifted, 
One by one, where night is rifted, 
Pass the victors, many gifted, 
Where the heaven opens wide : 
While below them, fallen or seated, 
Mummy-like, or shadow-sheeted, 
Stretch the lines of the defeated, 
Scattered on the mountainside. 

And each victor, passing wanly, 
Gazes on that Presence lonely, 
With unmoving eyes where only 
Grow the dreams for which men die : 
Grow the dreams, the far, ethereal, 
That on earth assume material 
Attributes, and, vast, imperial, 
Rear their battlements on high. 

Kingdoms, marble-templed, towered, 
Where the Arts, the many-dowered, 
That for centuries have flowered, 
Trampled under War's wild heel, 



MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN 481 

Lift immortal heads and golden, 
Blossoms of the times called olden, 
Soul-alluring, earth-withholden, 
Universal in appeal. 

As they enter, high and lowly, 
On the hush these words fall slowly : 
' Ye who kept your purpose holy, 
Never dreamed your cause was vain, 
Look ! Behold, through time abating, 
How the long, sad days of waiting, 
Striving, starving, hoping, hating, 
Helped your spirit to attain. 

* For to all who dream, aspire, 

Marry effort to desire, 

On the cosmic heights, in fire 

Beaconing, my form appears : 

I am marvel, I am morning ! 

Beauty in man's heart and warning ! 

On my face none looks with scorning, 

And no soul attains who fears.' 



WALTER LESLIE WILMSHURST 

b. 1866 

Anima Naturae 

"* WIRL of the river aflow to the sea, 
3 Aspen a-quiver all tremulously, 
Skylark that shivereth song o'er the lea, 

Shaft of the sun ; 

Snowflakes that sprinkle the wind-bitten wold, 
Fireflies that twinkle with shimmer of gold, 
Wavelets that wrinkle the sands where ye rolled, 

Rivulet's ripple and run ; 
MYST. R 



482 WALTER LESLIE WILMSHURST 

Lone mountain-meres that are silently dreaming 

Of far-flashing spheres that enmirrored are beaming, 

Clouds' crystal tears when the rainbow is gleaming, 

I, also a son 

Of the Mother, inherit the soul of her infinite throng, 
See it and hear it my paths all about and among, 
Throb with your spirit and sing with the manifold song 

Of the infinite, manifold One. 



Nox Nivosa 

O NOWFLAKES downfloating from the void 

O Upon my face, 

Spilth of the silent alchemy employed 

In deeps of space 

Where viewless everlasting fingers ply 
The power whose secret is the mystery 

That doth my world encase ; 

Power that with equal ease outshakes 

Yon architrave 
Of massy stars in heaven and these frail flakes 

Earth's floor that pave ; 

Swings the flamed orbs with infinite time for dower 
And strews these velvet jewels not an hour 

Of sunshine that will brave ; 

Yet of whose clustered crystals none 

But speaks the act 
Of the hand that steers each ceaseless-wheeling sun 

And to whose tact 

Fire-wreath and spangled ice alike respond ; 
Thoughts from the void frozen to flower and frond, 

Divinely all compact ; 



WALTER LESLIE WILMSHURST 483 

Snowflakes, of pureness unalloyed, 

That in dark space 
Are built, and spilt from out the teeming void 

With prodigal grace, 

Air-quarried temples though you fall scarce-felt 
And all your delicate architecture melt 

To tears upon my face, 

I too am such encrystalled breath 

In the void planned 
And bodied forth to surge of life and death ; 

And as I stand 

Beneath this sacramental spilth of snow, 
Crumbling, you whisper : ' Fear thou not to go 

Back to the viewless hand; 

* Thence to be moulded forth again 

Through time and space 
Till thy imperishable self attain 

Such strength and grace 
Through endless infinite refinement passed 
By the eternal Alchemist that at last 

Thou see Him face to face.' 



The Mystery of Light 

SOULS there be to whom 'tis given 
Easily to enter heaven ; 
Scarce an effort on their part, 
Without struggle, prayer, or art ; 
Sometimes utterly unknowing 
Why such glory should be showing ; 
Wondering what the reason is 
Of the inflaming ecstasies 
That Christ giveth unto His. 



484 WALTER LESLIE WILMSHURST 

Often they, not understanding, 
Catch a rarer light expanding ; 
Doing but their daily task, 
Falls away some filmy mask, 
And before their eyes extended 
Heaven with earth is interblended ; 
And beyond this outward strife 
They see what hidden peace is rife 
In God's great reservoirs of life. 

Some in that rapt state elysian 
Are accorded richer vision ; 
Watch the thronging angels pass 
To a high celestial Mass ; 
See a veiled, flaming Centre, 
See a Great High Priest there enter, 
Whence a Host he lifteth up 
And a crimson-brimming Cup, 
Which He bids all eat and sup. 

Or a day falls, past relating, 
When a Dove, divinely mating, 
Stirs the sheltering leaves apart 
O'er some deeply-nested heart ; 
And, Himself within interning, 
Lo ! the very bush is burning 
With the blazonry of love 
Of that far-descended Dove 
In His bridal-mate's alcove. 

Such things simple souls and holy 
Often know, whilst men less lowly 
Beat the breast and bend the brain 
In their labour to attain ; 



WALTER LESLIE WILMSHURST 485 

Till from heaven, tired of crying, 
They will turn, all heaven denying ; 
Seeking ways of lesser bliss 
Which, in His large Mysteries, 
Christ denieth not to His. 

Let not me, who have no mission 
Yet to see the shining Vision, 
E'er forget that night and day 
Are His strange vicarious way ; 
He by one prepares the other, 
Glooming me to light my brother. 
May I ever blinded be 
If my disability 
Help my fellow-man to see. 

In this night of my unknowing 

His symbol-light shall be my showing. 

I'll know that at the rise of sun 

High Mass, for all, in heaven 's begun ; 

That when at noon-tide height it lingers 

Christ lifts the Host in His pierc'd fingers ; 

And at its setting it shall tell 

How He descendeth, loving well, 

Even to me, His child in hell. 



RICHARD LE GALLIENNE 

b. 1866 

The Second Crucifixion 

I OUD mockers in the roaring street 
I -j Say, Christ is crucified again : 
Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet, 
Twice broken His great heart in vain. 



486 RICHARD LE GALLIENNE 

I hear, and to myself I smile, 

For Christ talks with me all the while. 

No angel now to roll the stone 
From off His unawaking sleep, 

In vain shall Mary watch alone, 
In vain the soldiers vigil keep. 

Yet while they deem my Lord is dead 
My eyes are on His shining head. 

Ah ! never more shall Mary hear 
That voice exceeding sweet and low 

Within the garden calling clear : 
Her Lord is gone, and she must go. 

Yet all the while my Lord I meet 
In every London lane and street. 

Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, 
And Bartimaeus still go blind ; 

The healing hem shall ne'er again 
Be touched by suffering humankind. 

Yet all the while I see them rest, 
The poor and outcast, in His breast. 

No more unto the stubborn heart 
With gentle knocking shall He plead, 

No more the mystic pity start, 

For Christ twice dead is dead indeed. 

So in the street I hear men say, 
Yet Christ is with me all the day. 



487 
LAURENCE HOUSMAN 

b. 1865 

The Continuing City 

GOD, who made man out of dust, 
Willed him to be 
Not to known ends, but t^ trust 
His decree. 

This is our city, a soul 
Walled within clay ; 
Separate hearts of one whole, 
Bound we obey. 

All that He meant us to be, 
Could we discern, 
Life had no meaning, or we 
Had not to learn. 

Thou, beloved, doubt not the truth 
Eyesight makes dim ! 
All life, to age from youth, 
Brings us to Him : 

Him Whom thou hast not seen, 
Canst not yet know : 
Human hearts stand between, 
His to foreshow. 

Couldst thou possess thine own, 
That were the key ; 
He, to Whom hearts are known, 
Keeps it from thee. 



4 88 LAURENCE HOUSMAN 

Thou all thy days must live, 
Thyself the quest ; 
Plucking the heart to give 
From thine own breast. 

Till thou, from other eyes, 
At kindred calls, 
Seest thine own towers arise, 
And thine own walls, 

Where, conquering the wide air, 
Peopling its waste, 
Citadels everywhere 
Like stars stand based : 

Losing thy soul, thy soul 
Again to find ; 
Rendering toward that goal 
Thy separate mind. 



The Mystery of the incarnation 

A DISPUTATION BETWEEN CHRIST AND THE HUMAN FORM 
(For the Feast of the Nativity) 

COMEST Thou peaceably, O Lord ? 
' Yea, I am Peace ! 
Be not so fearful to afford 
Thy Maker room ! for I am the Reward 
To which all generations of increase 
Looking did never cease. 



LAURENCE HOUSMAN 489 

' Down from amid dark wings of storm 
I set My Feet 

To earth. Will not My earth grow warm 

To feel her Maker take the form 

He made, when now, Creation's purpose meet, 
Man's body is to be God's Mercy-seat ? ' 

Lord, I am foul : there is no whole 

Fair part in me 

Where Thou canst deign to be ! 
This form is not Thy making, since it stole 

Fruit from the bitter Tree. 

* Yet still thou hast the griefs to give in toll 
That I may test the sickness of man's soul.' 

O Lord, my work is without worth 1 

I am afraid, 

Lest I should mar the blissful Birth. 
Quoth Christ, ' Ere seas had shores, or earth 

Foundations laid, 

My Cross was made ! ' 

* Naught canst thou do that was not willed 

By Love to be, 

To bring the Work to pass through Me. 

No knee 

Stiffens, or bends before My Sov'reignty, 
But from the world's beginning hath fulfilled 
Its choice betwixt the valleyed and the hilled. 

For both, at one decree, 
My Blood was jspilled.' 

Yet canst Thou use these sin-stained hands ? 

' These hands,' quoth Christ, 

' Of them I make My need : 
Since they sufficed to forge the bands 



490 LAURENCE HOUSMAN 

Wherein I hunger, they shall sow the seed ! 
And with bread daily they shall feed 
My Flesh till, bought and bound, It stands 
A Sacrifice to bleed.' 

Lord, let this house be swept and garnished first ! 

For fear lest sin 

Do there look in, 

Let me shut fast the windows : lest Thou thirst, 
Make some pure inner well of waters burst : 

For no sweet water can man's delving win 
Earth is so curst. 

Also bar up the door : Thou wilt do well 
To dwell, whilst with us, anchorite in Thy cell. 

Christ said ' Let be : leave wide 

All ports to grief ! 

Here when I knock I will not be denied 
The common lot of all that here abide ; 
Were I so blinded, I were blind in chief : 
How should I see to bring the blind relief ? ' 

Wilt Thou so make Thy dwelling ? Then I fear 
Man, after this, shall dread to enter here : 
For all the inner courts will be so bright, 
He shall be dazzled with excess of light, 

And turn, and flee ! 

' But from his birth I will array him right, 
And lay the temple open for his sight, 

And say to help him, as I bid him see : 

" This is for thee ! " ' 



LAURENCE HOUSMAN 491 

Love, the Tempter 

(Season of Lent) 

OH, tempt me not i I love too well this snare 
Of silken cords. 
Nay, Love, the flesh is fair ; 

So tempt me not ! This earth affords 
Too much delight ; 
Withdraw Thee from my sight, 
Lest my weak soul break free 
And throw me back to Thee ! 

Thy Face is all too marred. Nay, Love, not I 

/ did not that I Doubtless Thou hadst to die : 
Others did faint for Thee ; but I faint not. 
Only a little while hath sorrow got 

The better of me now ; for Thou art grieved, 

Thinking I need Thee. Oh, Christ, lest I fall 
Weeping between Thy Feet, and give Thee all : 

Oh, Christ, lest love condemn me unreprieved 

Into Thy bondage, be it not believed 
That Thou hast need of me ! 

Dost Thou not know 

I never turned aside to mock Thy Woe ? 
I had respect to Thy great love for men : 
Why wilt Thou, then, 

Question of each new lust 

' Are these not ashes, and is this not dust ? ' 
Ah, Love, Thou hast not eyes 

To see how sweet it is ! 
Each for himself be wise : 

Mock not my bliss ! 



492 LAURENCE HOUSMAN 

Ere Thou cam'st troubling, was I not content ? 
Because I pity Thee, and would be glad 
To go mine own way, and not leave Thee sad, 

Is all my comfort spent ? 

Go Thine own ways, nor dream Thou needest me ! 

Yet if, again, Thou on the bitter Tree 

Wert hanging now, with none to succour Thee 

Or run to quench Thy sudden cry of thirst, 

Would not I be the first 
Ah, Love, the prize ! 
To lift one cloud of suffering from Thine Eyes ? 

Oh, Christ, let be ! 

Stretch not Thine ever-pleading Hands thus wide, 
Nor with imperious 'gesture touch Thy Side ! 
Past is Thy Calvary. By the Life that died, 
Oh, tempt not me ! 

Nay, if Thou weepest, then must I weep too, 
Sweet Tempter, Christ ! Yet what can 7 undo, 

I, the undone, the undone, 

To comfort Thee, God's Son ? 
Oh, draw me near, and, for some lowest use, 

That I may be 

Lost and undone in Thee, 
Me from mine own self loose ! 



LAURENCE HOUSMAN 493 

A Prayer f 01 the Healing of the Wounds 
of Christ 

(For Advent) 

IS not the work done ? Nay, for still the Scars 
Are open ; still Earth's Pain stands deified, 
With Arms spread wide : 
And still, like falling stars, 

Its Blood-drops strike the doorposts, where abide 
The watchers with the Bride, 
To wait the final coming of their kin, 
And hear the sound of kingdoms gathering In. 

While Earth wears wounds, still must Christ's Wounds 

remain, 
Whom Love made Life, and of Whom Life made Pain, 

And of Whom Pain made Death. 

No breath, 
Without Him, sorrow draws ; no feet 

Wax weary, and no hands hard labour bear, 

But He doth wear 
The travail and the heat : 
Also, for all things perishing, He saith, 
' My grief, My pain, My death.' 

O kindred Constellation of bright stars, 

Ye shall not last for aye 1 

Far off there dawns a comfortable day 
Of healing for those Scars : 

When, faint in glory, shall be wiped away 

Each planetary fire, 
Now, all the aching way the balm of Earth's desire ! 



494 LAURENCE HOUSMAN 

For from the healed nations there shall come 

The healing touch : the blind, the lamed, the dumb, 

With sight, and speed, and speech, 

And ardent reach 

Of yearning hands shall cover up from sight 
Those Imprints of a night 
Forever past. And all the Morians' lands 
Shall stretch out hands of healing to His Hands. 

While to His Feet 

The timid, sweet 

Four-footed ones of earth shall come and lay, 
Forever by, the sadness of their day : 
And, they being healed, healing spring from them. 
So for the Stem 

And Rod of Jesse, roots and trees and flowers, 
Touched with compassionate powers, 

Shall cause the thorny Crown 

To blossom down 
Laurel and bay. 

So lastly to His Side, 

Stricken when, from the Body that had died, ( 
Going down He saw sad souls being purified, 

Shall rise, out of the deeps no man 

Can sound or scan, 

The morning star of Heaven that once fell 
And fashioned Hell : 

Now, star to star 

Mingling to melt where shadeless glories are. 

O Earth, seek deep, and gather up thy soul, 
And come from high and low, and near and far, 
And make Christ whole ! 



495 



GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (' A. E.') 

b. 1867 

Stat Teachers 

EVEN as a bird sprays many-coloured fires, 
The plumes of paradise, the dying light 
Rays through the fevered air in misty spires 
That vanish in the height. 

These myriad eyes that look on me are mine ; 
Wandering beneath them I have found again 
The ancient ample moment, the divine, 
The God-root within men. 

For this, for this the lights innumerable 
As symbols shine that we the true light win : 
For every star and every deep they fill 
Are stars and deeps within. 



Desire 

WITH Thee a moment ! Then what dreams have 
play! 

Traditions of eternal toil arise, 
Search for the high, austere and lonely way 
The Spirit moves in through eternities. 
Ah, in the soul what memories arise ! 

And with what yearning inexpressible, 
Rising from long forgetfulness I turn 
To Thee, invisible, unrumoured, still : 
White for Thy whiteness all desires burn. 
Ah, with what longing once again I turn ! 



496 GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (' A. E ') 
The City 

Full of Zeus the cities : full of Zeus the harbours : full of Zeus 
are all the ways of men. 

WHAT domination of what darkness dies this hour, 
And through what new, rejoicing, winged, ethereal 

power 
O'erthrown, the cells opened, the heart released from 

fear ? 

Gay twilight and grave twilight pass. The stars appear 
O'er the prodigious, smouldering, dusky, city flare. 
The hanging gardens of Babylon were not more fair 
Than these blue flickering glades, where childhood in its 

glee 

Re-echoes with fresh voice the heaven-lit ecstasy. 
Yon girl whirls like an eastern dervish. Her dance is 
No less a god-intoxicated dance than his, 
Though all unknowing the arcane fire that lights her feet, 
What motions of what starry tribes her limbs repeat. 
I, too, firesmitten, cannot linger : I know there lies 
Open somewhere this hour a gate to Paradise, 
Its blazing battlements with watchers thronged, O where ? 
I know not, but my flame-winged feet shall lead me 

there. 

O, hurry, hurry, unknown shepherd of desires, 
And with thy flock of bright imperishable fires 
Pen me within the starry fold, ere the night falls 
And I am left alone below immutable walls, 
Or am I there already, and is it Paradise 
To look on mortal things with an immortal's eyes ? 
Above the misty brilliance the streets assume 
A night-dilated blue magnificence of gloom 
Like many- templed Nineveh tower beyond tower ; 
And I am hurried on in this immortal hour. 



GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (' A. E.') 497 

Mine eyes beget new majesties : my spirit greets 
The trams, the high^built glittering galleons of the streets 
That float through twilight rivers from galaxies of light. 
Nay, in the Fount of Days they rise, they take their flight, 
And wend to the great deep, the Holy Sepulchre. 
Those dark misshapen folk to be made lovely there 
Hurry with me, not all ignoble as we seem, 
Lured by some inexpressible and gorgeous dream. 
The earth melts in my blood. The air that I inhale 
Is like enchanted wine poured from the Holy Grail. 
What was that glimmer then ? Was it the flash of wings 
As through the blinded mart rode on the King of Kings ? 
O stay, departing glory, stay with us but a day, 
And burning seraphim shall leap from out our clay, 
And plumed and crested hosts shall shine where men have 

been, 

Heaven hold no lordlier court than earth at College Green. 
Ah, no, the wizardy is over ; the magic flame 
That might have melted all in beauty fades as it came. 
The stars are far and faint and strange. The night draws 

down. 

Exiled from light, forlorn, I walk in Dublin Town. 
Yet had I might to lift the veil, the will to dare, 
The fiery rushing chariots of the Lord are there, 
The whirlwind path, the blazing gates, the trumpets 

blown, 

The halls of heaven, the majesty of throne by throne, 
Enraptured faces, hands uplifted, welcome sung 
By the thronged gods, tall, golden-coloured, joyful, young 



498 GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (' A. E.') 

Krishna 

1 PAUSED beside the cabin door and saw the King 
of Kings at play, 
Tumbled upon the grass I spied the little heavenly 

runaway. 
The mother laughed upon the child made gay by its 

ecstatic morn, 
And yet the sages spake of It as of the Ancient and 

Unborn. 
I heard the passion breathed amid the honeysuckle 

scented glade, 
And saw the King pass lightly from the beauty that he had 

betrayed. 
I saw him pass from love to love ; and yet the pure 

allowed His claim 
To be the purest of the pure, thrice holy, stainless, 

without blame. 
I saw the open tavern door flash on the dusk a ruddy 

glare, 
And saw the King of Kings outcast reel brawling through 

the starlit air. 
And yet He is the Prince of Peace of whom the ancient 

wisdom tells, 
And by their silence men adore the lovely silence where 

He dwells. 
I saw the King of Kings again, a thing to shudder at and 

fear, 
A form so darkened and so marred that childhood fled 

if it drew near. 
And yet He is the Light of Lights whose blossoming is 

Paradise, 
That Beauty of the King which dawns upon the seers' 

enraptured eyes. 



GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL ( A. E.') 499 

I saw the King of Kings again, a miser with a heart 

grown cold, 

And yet He is the Prodigal, the Spendthrift of the Heavenly- 
Gold, 
The largesse of whose glory crowns the blazing brows 

of cherubim, 
And sun and moon and stars and flowers are jewels 

scattered forth by Him 
I saw the King of Kings descend the narrow doorway to 

the dust 
With all his fires of morning still, the beauty, bravery, 

and lust. 

And yet He is the life within the Ever-living Living Ones, 
The ancient with eternal youth, the cradle of the infant 

suns, 
The fiery fountain of the stars, and He the golden urn 

where all 
The glittering spray of planets in their myriad beauty fall. 

Unity 

ONE thing in all things have I seen : 
One thought has haunted earth and air : 
Clangour and silence both have been 
Its palace chambers. Everywhere 

I saw the mystic vision flow 

And live in men and woods and streams, 

Until I could no longer know 

The stream of life from my own dreams. 

Sometimes it rose like fire in me 
Within the depths of my own mind, 
And spreading to infinity, 
It took the voices of the wind : 



500 GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (' A. E.') 

It scrawled the human mystery 
Dim heraldry on light and air ; 
Wavering along the starry sea 
I saw the flying vision there. 

Each fire that in God's temple lit 
Burns fierce before the inner shrine, 
Dimmed as my fire grew near to it 
And darkened at the light of mine. 

At last, at last, the meaning caught 
The spirit wears its diadem ; 
It shakes its wondrous plumes of thought 
And trails the stars along with them. 



jReconcilia tion 

I BEGIN through the grass once again to be bound to 
the Lord ; 
I can see, through a face that has faded, the face full 

of rest 
Of the earth, of the mother, my heart with her heart 

in accord, 
As I lie 'mid the cool green tresses that mantle her 

breast 
I begin with the grass once again to be bound to the Lord. 

By the hand of a child I am led to the throne of the King 
For a touch that now fevers me not is forgotten and far, 

And His infinite sceptred hands that sway us can bring 
Me in dreams from the laugh of a child to the song of 
a star. 

On the laugh of a child I am borne to the joy of the King. 



5oi 
CHARLES WEEKES 

b. 1867 

That 

. . . alone 
From all eternity 

WHAT is that beyond thy life, 
And beyond all life around, 
Which, when thy quick brain is still, 
Nods to thee from the stars ? 
Lo, it says, thou hast found 
Me, the lonely, lonely one. 

DORA SIGERSON SHORTER 

/ am the IVorld 

I AM the song, that rests upon the cloud ; 
I am the sun ; 

I am the dawn, the day, the hiding shroud, 
When dusk is done. 

I am the changing colours of the tree ; 

The flower uncurled ; 
I am the melancholy of the sea ; 

I am the world. 

The other souls that, passing in their place, 

Each in his groove ; 
Outstretching hands that chain me and embrace, 

Speak and reprove. 

' O atom of that law, by which the earth 

Is poised and whirled ; 
Behold ! you hurrying with the crowd assert 

You are the world.' 



502 DORA SIGERSON SHORTER 

Am I not one with all the things that be 

Warm in the sun ? 
All that my ears can hear, or eyes can see, 

Till all be done. 

Of song and shine, of changing leaf apart, 

Of bud uncurled : 
With all the senses pulsing at my heart, 

I am the world. 

One day the song that drifts upon the wind 

I shall not hear : 
Nor shall the rosy shoots to eyes grown blind 

Again appear. 

Deaf, in the dark, I shall arise and throw 

From off my soul 
The withered world with all its joy and woe, 

That was my goal. 

I shall arise, and like a shooting star 

Slip from my place ; 
So lingering see the old world from afar 

Revolve in space. 

And know more things than all the wise may know 

Till all be done ; 
Till One shall come who, breathing on the stars, 

Blows out the sun. 



JANE BARLOW 
Beyond all Shores and Seas 



ES yet a well of wonder 
All shores and seas beyond, 
Where shines that dimness under, 
More deep than in a dream, 
Full many a diamond 
With elfin gleam, 

Glows up the glimmering water 
Full many a ruby's fire : 
If ever an earth-born daughter 
Their wizard light beholcl, 
She may no more desire 
Our gems and gold. 

Nay, some in sooth, who only 
Adream thereon did gaze, 
Thenceforth fare wandering lonely, 
And seek with sorrow vain 
The glory of such rays 
To find again. 

Oft, oft, high-heavenward turning 
The quivering Svtars have conned, 
Or watched the wide west burning 
Nor shall their hearts appease, 
Whose hope lies hid beyond 
All shores and seas. 



504 JANE BARLOW 

One and All 

O'ER boundless fields of night, lo, near and far 
Light, dewdrop's blink, and Light, Aeonian star. 
Wan wraiths that flickering roam by marish ways ; 
Fierce surge of levin-bright foam where oceans blaze 
Fly's spark and flame gulfs dire, your fount is one, 
Deep in the worlds' arch-fire of all suns' Sun. 

A burning seed of strife Fate strews, and so 
Life, men's grudged dole, and Life, gods' feast aglow. 
Clod's captive, senses' thrall, oft grieved, soon slain ; 
Immortal, glad o'er all to range and reign 
Frail breath, and spirit eterne, beyond thought's seeing 
Ye touch for one sole bourne all being's Being. 

JAMES STEPHENS 
The Seeker 

I SAT me down and looked around 
The little lamp-lit room, and saw 
Where many pictures gloomed and frowned 
In sad, still life, nor made a sound 
A many for one to draw : 

Shadow and sea and ground 
Held by the artist's law, 
Beauty without a flaw, 
All with a sense profound. 

One teeming brain was wood and hill, 
And sloping pastures wide and green, 
And cool, deep seas where rivers spill 
The snows of mountains far and chill, 
Sad pools where the shadows lean. 



JAMES STEPHENS 505 

Old trees that hang so still. 
Fields which the reapers glean. 
Plains where the wind is keen. 
Each with a nerve to thrill. 

Elusive figures swayed and yearned 
By lake and misty greenwood dim, 
Seeking in sorrow : they had learned 
In one night's dream might be discerned, 
A pace from the world's rim, 

Wages their woe had earned, 

Rest from the labour grim, 

God and the peace of Him 

These in a frame interned, 

On through the forest, one step on, 
One step, O Powers, let me attain 
This hard, dead step, let me be gone 
Back where I and the morning shone, 
Back ere the dream shall wa*ne 

When I and a star were one. 

Seen through the veils of pain 

Glory shall shine again : 

God, has the vision gone ? 



The Fullness of Time 

ON a rusty iron throne 
Past the furthest star of space 
I saw Satan sit alone, 
Old and haggard was his face ; 
For his work was done and he 
Rested in eternity. 



5 o6 JAMES STEPHENS 

And to him from out the sun 
Came his father and his friend 
Saying, now the work is done 
Enmity is at an end : 
And he guided Satan to 
Paradises that he knew. 

Gabriel without a frown, 
Uriel without a spear, 
Raphael came singing down 
Welcoming their ancient peer, 
And they seated him beside 
One who had been crucified. 

The Breath of Life 

AJD while they talked and talked, and while they sat 
Changing their base minds into baser coin ; 
And telling they ! how truth and beauty join, 
And how a certain this was good, but that 
Was baser than the viper or the toad, 
Or the blind beggar glaring down the road. 

I turned from them in fury, and I ran 
To where the moon shone out upon the height, 
Down the long reaches of a summer night, 
Stretching slim fingers, and the starry clan 
Grew thicker than the flowers that we see 
Clustered in quiet fields of greenery. 

Around me was the night-time sane and cold, 
The clouds that knew no care and no restraint 
Swung through the silences, or drifted faint 
To pale horizons, wreathing fold on fold, 
The moon's sharp edge, each rolling cloud a sea, 
A foam of silver shining gloriously. 



JAMES STEPHENS 507 

t 

The quietudes that sunder star from star, 
The hazy distances of loneliness, 
Where never eagle's wing or timid press 
Of lark or wren could venture, and the far 
Profundities untravelled and unstirred 
By any act of man or thought or word. 

These held me with amazement and delight : 
I yearned up through the spaces of the sky, 
Beyond the rolling clouds, beyond the high 
And delicate white moon, and up the height, 
And past the rocking stars, and out to where 
The ether failed in spaces sharp and bare. 

The breath that is the very breath of life 

Throbbed close to me : I heard the pulses beat, 

That lift the universes into heat : 

The slow withdrawal, and the deeper strife 

Of His wide respiration, like a sea 

It ebbed and flooded through immensity. 

His breath alone in wave on mighty wave ! 
O moon and stars swell to a raptured song ! 
Ye mountains toss the harmony along ! 
O little men with little souls to save 
Swing up glad chantings, ring the skies above, 
With boundless gratitude for boundless love ! 

Probing the ocean to its steepest drop ; 
Rejoicing in the viper and the toad, 
And the blind beggar glaring down the road ; 
And they who talk and talk and never stop 
Equally quickening ; with a care to bend 
The gnat's slant wing into a swifter end. 



5 o8 JAMES STEPHENS 

Searching the quarries of all life, the deep 
Low crannies and shy places of the world, 
To warm the smallest insect that is curled 
In a deep root, or on the sun to heap 
Fiercer combustion, spending love on all 
In equal share, the mighty and the small. 

The silence clung about me like a gift, 

The tender night-time folded me around 

Protectingly, and in a peace profound 

The clouds drooped slowly backward drift on drift 

Into the darkness, and the moon was gone, 

And soon the stars had vanished every one. 

But on the sky, a handsbreadth in the west, 

A faint cold brightness crept and soared and spread, 

Until the rustling heavens overhead, 

And the grey trees and grass were manifest : 

Then through the chill a golden spear was hurled, 

And the big sun tossed laughter on the world. 



JOHN CHARLES EARLE 

Onward and Upward 

I PASS the vale. I breast the steep. 
I bear the cross : the cross bears me. 
Light leads me on to light. I weep 

For joy at what I hope to see 
When, scaled at last the arduous height, 

For every painful step I trod, 
I traverse worlds on worlds of light, 
And pierce some deeper depth of God. 



JOHN CHARLES EARLE 509 



' L,o^ I am 'with you always' 

WIDE fields of corn along the valleys spread ; 
The rain and dews mature the swelling vine ; 
I see the Lord is multiplying bread ; 

I see Him turning water into wine ; 

I see Him working all the works divine 
He wrought when Salemward His steps were led ; 

The selfsame miracles around Him shine ; 
He feeds the famished ; He revives the dead ; 

He pours the flood of light on darkened eyes- ; 
He chases tears, diseases, fiends away ; 

His throne is raised upon these orient skies ; 
His footstool is the pave whereon we pray. 

Ah, tell me not of Christ in Paradise, 
For He is all around us here to-day. 

' Found of them that sought Him not * 

I WILL arise and to my Father go ; 
This very hour the journey is begun. 
I start to reach the blissful goal, and, lo, 

My spirit at one bound her race has run. 

For seeking God and finding Him are one. 
He feeds the rillets that towards Him flow. 

It is the Father Who first seeks the son, 
And moves all heavenward movement, swift or slow. 
I dare not pride myself on finding Him. 

I dare not dream a single step was mine. 
His was the vigour in the palsied limb 

His the electric fire along the line 
When drowning, His the untaught power to swim 

Float o'er the surge, and grasp the rock divine. 



510 JOHN CHARLES EARLE 

Bodily Extension 

r T"'HE body is not bounded by its skin ; 
1 Its effluence, like a gentle cloud of scent, 

Is wide into the air diffused, and, blent 
With elements unseen, its way doth win 
To ether frontiers, where take origin 

Far subtler systems, nobler regions meant 

To be the area and the instrument 
Of operations ever to begin 
Anew and never end. Thus every man 

Wears as his robe the garment of the sky 
So close his union with the cosmic plan, 

So perfectly he pierces low and high 
Reaching as far in space as creature can, 

And co-extending with immensity. 

ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 

b. 1869 

Missa F'iatoris 

(In dread, of Famine) 

HERE, Pan, on grey rock slab we set for Thee 
Thy Feast the White Cake and the Red in Cup- 
Shepherd and Lamb, we, lost goats, offer up 
In pastoral wise Thine own Divinity. 

The scared moon dips, the hardy sun comes up 
To spy our Secret from yon cloudy hill : 
O Pan that Thou by cloud and sun mayst fill 
Our hills with food, we lift Thy Cake and Cup. 

Heart of all good in men and beasts and earth, 
Here on the hill our hearts, we lift them up : 
Life-Blood and Flesh White Cake and Red in Cup 
We break and pour Thee for our drought and dearth ! 



ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 511 

An Raster Hymn 

(Easter in South Africa falls in Autumn) 

HIS wide Hands fashioned us white grains and red, 
His Eyes weep rains to swell them in their bed, 
Whereby the dust-grains of our lives are fed. 

Alleluia ! 

In Earth our mother's bosom undecayed 
The Seed-corn of the Flesh He took, He laid 
One white small Grain beneath a sealed rock's shade. 

Alleluia ! 

How blind that Seed lay till this autumn morn 
When forth it sprouted blade and flower and corn, 
And with Its lifted Head the seal was torn ! 

Alleluia ! 

Hope of men's bodies' grains both red and white 
Shrivelled and sere and void of speech and sight, 
Is that blind Seed Who burst His way to light. 

Alleluia ! 

We, God's red millet grains, men hold so cheap, 
Innumerable beneath our grey rocks sleep, 
Yet He that cared to sow us cares to reap. 

Alleluia ! 

The Black Christ 
(At Easter in South Africa) 

PILATE and Caiaphas 
They have brought this thing to pass 
That a Christ the Father gave, 
Should be guest within a grave. 



512 ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 

Church and State have willed to last 

This tyranny not over-past ; 

His dark southern Brows around 

They a wreath of briars have bound, 

In His dark despised Hands 

Writ in sores their writing stands. 

By strait starlit ways I creep, 
Caring while the careless sleep, 
Bearing balms, and flow'rs to crown 
That poor Head the stone holds down, 
Through some crack or crevice dim 
I would reach my sweets to Him. 

Easter suns they rise and set, 

But that stone is steadfast yet : 

Past my lifting 'tis bu t I 

When 'tis lifted would be nigh. 

I believe, whate'er they say, 

The sun shall dance an Easter Day, 

And I that through thick twilight grope 

With balms of faith, and flow'rs of hope, 

Shall lift mine eyes and see that stone 

Stir and shake, if not be gone. 



From 'The Death of St. Francis' 

WHAT art Thou, dearest Lord, and what am I, 
Vile worm and worthless dust ? ' 

He answered me. 

On Holy Cross Day to my prayer there came 
An Angel bearing in his rainbow wings 
Nailed Hands and Feet, the Image of my Lord. 



ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 513 

How can I tell it ? The thing is sacred, dear, 

brothers mine, I give you all I can, 
And yet I leave you but the husk of it, 
The heart of it I selfish take away. 

How can I tell ? The thing is sacred, dear, 
Hands grew to hands, feet seemed to grow to feet, 
His Hands to my hands, Feet of His to mine ; 
Exalted and extended on His cross, 

1 seemed in one great stab of eager pain 
To feel His heart beating within my heart. 

Brethren, this thing so sacred, and so dear, 
I would that I could tell you, for it seems 
Surely a sin to give God's poor my all, 
And yet to keep Love's purest ingot back, 
That fever-throb of His within my heart, 
That moment's gold refined in sharpest fire, 
And anguish of a crucifying world. 

' What art Thou, dearest Lord, and what am I. 
Vile worm and worthless servant ? ' 

Answer came. 

I felt His Heart to beat within my heart. 
It seemed He lent His Sacred Heart to me : 
One moment did I know His wish, His work, 
As if mine own they were, and knew with them 
The worm-like weakness of my wasted life, 
My service worthless to win back His world. 
(Sharp Sister Faintness knits dark brows at me, 
And o'er her shoulder looks sweet Sister Death, 
Holding a glass my last hour's sands run down.) 

I cannot tell the half of it, yet hear 
What rush of feeling still comes back to me, 
MYST. s 



5 i4 ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 

From that proud torture hanging on His Cross, 
From that gold rapture of His Heart in mine. 

I knew in blissful anguish what it means 

To be a part of Christ, and feel as mine 

The dark distresses of my brother limbs, 

To feel it bodily and simply true, 

To feel as mine the starving of His poor. 

To feel as mine the shadow of curse on all, 

Hard words, hard looks, and savage misery, 

And struggling deaths, unpitied and unwept. 

To feel rich brothers' sad satieties, 

The weary manner of their lives and deaths, 

That want in love, and lacking love lack all. 

To feel the heavy sorrow of the world 

Thicken and thicken on to future hell, 

To mighty cities with their miles of streets, 

Where men seek work for days, and walk and starve. 

Freezing on river-banks on winter nights, 

And come at last to cord or stream or steel. 

The horror of the things our brothers bear ! 

It was but naught to that which after came, 

The woe of things we make our brothers bear, 

Our brothers and our sisters ! In my heart 

Christ's Heart seemed beating, and the world's whole sin,- 

Its crimson malice and grey negligence, 

Rose up and blackening hid the Face of God. 

I that in Christ had tasted to the full 
The nails and knotted scourges of the world, 
Now felt the contrary and greater woe, 
The utmost ache of God's atoning grief, 
Their bitterness who scourge and drive the nails, 



ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 515 

And bring upon themselves a darker pain 

Than any felt by scourged or crucified. 

Upon my heart gnawed, worse than sorrow of death; 

Sorrow of selfishness, and cursed my Cross 

With black forsaking of the Face of Love. 

My God, my God, Thou wast forsaking me ! ... 

Ah ! brothers mine, how any words are cold 

To tell the agony of being part 

Of every schism in the Crucified, 

Of feeling hand smite out at fellow hand, 

And foot spurn fellow foot, and breasts refuse 

The milk of mercy to the lips that were 

Flesh of their own flesh. The sucked and empty names 

Of * brother ' and of ' sister ' how they hissed, 

Hissed through the savage teeth that tore the flesh, 

Withered in mouths that kissed to endless shame. 

No sob of Love but echoing fell away 

In earthquake thunders of unthankfulness. 

Vile worm and worthless servant, how I knew 
My work, our work, as nothing in that tide 
Of a vast world's refusal of the Cross 
Setting toward that world's appointed doom ! 

The thing is very sacred, very dear, 

Sweet Jesu, help me tell them, how my heart 

Swelled near to breaking with the Love of Thine, 

That felt it all and Loved and Loved and Loved. 

I felt the Sacred Heart within my own, 

And knew one pulse therein of purest strength, 

That drove a cry of passion to my lips, 

' Father, forgive, they know not what they do.' 



516 ARTHUR SHEARLY CRIPPS 

Could I but tell you how that cry seemed truth 
The truest prayer my lips had ever made 
I had told you almost all ! It may not be. 

Heart of Jesus, Sacred, Passionate, 
Anguish it was, yet anguish that was bliss, 

To love them heart to heart, each selfish heart, 
To clasp them close, and pray in utter truth 
' Father, forgive, they know not what they do.' 
One was the heart of him that ground the poor, 
Poor weary heart, so blinded and misled ! 
One was the heart of her that reeked in shame, 
Poor weary heart, so blinded and misled ! 
One was my heart that wasted half its years, 
And knew so little how to use the rest 
To God's sole glory, and the love of men, 
Poor weary heart, so blinded and misled ! 

But O ! that Sacred Heart rushed out to them 
In veriest anguish and in veriest bliss, 
Demanding, craving, in sure hope of them, 
' Father, forgive, they know not what they do.' 

And O ! that Sacred Heart burnt up in Flame 
Against that harsh misleader of our world, 
And O ! I felt an awful thrill of Love 
As with one heart-beat of wild ecstasy 

1 set my heel upon that Serpent's head 

In resolute anguish, watching how the fangs 

Snapped at my heel, and gored it into blood, 

My heel that yet shall grind his head to dust. 

Was it I that did it ? Nay, the Christ in me, 

But when I woke His Prints were in my hands, 

And in my feet, while in my side there showed 

As it were the Heart- Wound from the soldier's lance. 



ROBERT HUGH BENSON 

1871-1914 
The T ere si an Contemplative 

SHE moves in tumult ; round her lies 
The silence of the world of grace ; 
The twilight of our mysteries 

Shines like high noonday on her face ; 
Our piteous guesses, dim with fears, 
She touches, handles, sees, and hears. 

In her all longings mix and meet ; 

Dumb souls through her are eloquent ; 
She feels the world beneath her feet 

Thrill in a passionate intent ; 
Through her our tides of feeling roll 
And find their God within her soul. 

Her faith the awful Face of God 

Brightens and blinds with utter light ; 

Her footsteps fall where late He trod ; 
She sinks in roaring voids of night ; 

Cries to her Lord in black despair, 

And knows, yet knows not, He is there. 

A willing sacrifice she takes 

The burden of our fall within ; 
Holy she stands ; while on her breaks 

The lightning of the wcath of sin ; 
She drinks her Saviour's cup of pain, 
And, one with Jesus, thirsts again. 



5 i 8 ROBERT HUGH BENSON 

From ' Christian Evidences ' 

X TOW God forbid that Faith be blind assent, 

1 \| Grasping what others know ; else Faith were nought 

But learning, as of some far continent 

Which others sought, 

And carried thence, better the tale to teach, 
Pebbles and shells, poor fragments of the beach. 

Now God forbid that Faith be built on dates, 

Cursive or uncial letters, scribe or gloss, 
What one conjectures, proves, or demonstrates : 

This were the loss 

Of all to which God bids that man aspire, 
This were the death of life, quenching of fire. 

Nay, but with Faith I see. Not even Hope, 
Her glorious sister, stands so high as she. 
For this but stands expectant on the slope 

That leads where He 

Her source and consummation sets His seat, 
Where Faith dwells always to caress His Feet. 

Nay, but with Faith I saw my Lord and God 

Walk in the fragrant garden yesterday. 
Ah ! how the thrushes sang ; and, where He trod 

Like spikenard lay 

Jewels of dew, fresh-fallen from the sky, 
While all the lawn rang round with melody. 

Nay, but with Faith I marked my Saviour go, 

One August noonday, down the stifling street 
That reeked with filth and man ; marked from Him flow 

Radiance so sweet, 

The man ceased cursing, laughter lit the child, 
The woman hoped again, as Jesus smiled. 



ROBERT HUGH BENSON 519 

Nay, but with Faith I sought my Lord last night, 

And found Him shining, where the lamp was dim ; 
The shadowy altar glimmered, height on height, 

A throne for Him : 

Seen as through lattice work His gracious Face 
Looked forth on me and filled the dark with grace. 

Nay then, if proof and tortured argument 

Content thee teach thee that the Lord is there, 
Or risen again ; I pray thee be content, 

But leave me here 

With eye unsealed by any proof of thine, 
With eye unsealed to know the Lord is mine. 



GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON 

b. 1873 

The Holy of Holies 

ELDER father, though thine eyes 
Shine with hoary mysteries, 
Canst thou tell what in the heart 
Of a cowslip blossom lies ? 

* Smaller than all lives that be, 
Secret as the deepest sea, 
Stands a little house of seeds, 
Like an elfin's granary. 

* Speller of the stones and weeds, 
Skilled in Nature's Drafts and creeds. 
Tell me what is in the heart 

Of the smallest of the seeds.' 



520 GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON 

* God Almighty, and with Him 
Cherubim and Seraphim, 
Filling all eternity 
Adonai Elohim.' 



ALEISTER CROWLEY 

b. 1875 
The Quest 

APART, immutable, unseen, 
Being, before itself had been, 
Became. Like dew a triple queen 

Shone as the void uncovered : 
The silence of deep height was drawn 
A veil across the silver dawn 
On holy wings that hovered. 1 

The music of three thoughts became 
The beauty, that is one white flame, 
The justice that surpasses shame, 

The victory, the splendour, 
The sacred fountain that is whirled 
From depths beyond that older world 

A new world to engender. 2 

The kingdom is extended. 3 Night 
Dwells, and I contemplate the sight 
That is not seeing, but the light 
That secretly is kindled, 

1 A qabalistic description of Macroprosopus. 'Dew/ 'Deep 
Height,' &c., are his titles. 

2 Microprosopus. 

3 Malkuth, the Bride. In its darkness the Light may yet be 
found. 



ALEISTER CROWLEY 521 

Though oft -time its most holy fire 
Lacks oil, whene'er my own Desire 
Before desire has dwindled. 

I see the thin web binding me 
With thirteen cords of unity * 
Toward the calm centre of the sea. 

(O thou supernal mother ! 2 ) 
The triple light my path divides 
To twain and fifty sudden sides 3 

Each perfect as each other. 

Now backwards, inwards still my mind 
Must track the intangible and blind, 
And seeking, shall securely find 

Hidden in secret places 
Fresh feasts for every soul that strives, 
New life for many mystic lives, 

And strange new forms and faces. 

My mind still searches, and attains 

By many days and many pains 

To That which Is and Was and reigns 

Shadowed in four and ten ; 4 
And loses self in sacred lands, 
And cries and quickens, and understands 

Beyond the first Amen. 5 

1 The Hebrew characters composing the name Achd, Unity, 
add up to 13. 

2 Binah, the Great Deep : the offended Mother who shall be 
reconciled to her daughter by Bn, the Son. 

3 Bn adds to 52. 

4 Jehovah, the name of 4 letters, 1 + 2+3+4 = 10. 

5 The first Amen is = 91 or 7 X 13. The second is the Inscrutable 
Arnoun. 

53 



522 ALEISTER CROWLEY 

The Neophyte^ 

TO-NIGHT I tread the unsubstantial way 
That looms before me, as the thundering night 
Falls on the ocean : I must stop, and pray 
One little prayer, and then what bitter fight 
Flames at the end beyond the darkling goal ? 
These are my passions that my feet must tread ; 
This is my sword, the fervour of my soul ; 
This is my Will, the crown upon my head. 
For see ! the darkness beckons : I have gone, 
Before this terrible hour, towards the gloom, 
Braved the wild dragon, called the tiger on 
With whirling cries of pride, sought out the tomb 
Where lurking vampires battened, and my steel 
Has wrought its splendour through the gates of death. 
My courage did not falter : now I feel 
My heart beat wave-wise, and my throat catch breath 
As if I choked ; some horror creeps between 
The spirit of my will and its desire, 
Some just reluctance to the Great Unseen 
That coils its nameless terrors, and its dire 
Fear round my heart ; a devil cold as ice 
Breathes somewhere, for I feel his shudder take 
My veins : some deadlier asp or cockatrice 
Slimes in my senses : I am half awake, 
Half automatic, as I move along 
Wrapped in a cloud of blackness deep as hell, 
Hearing afar some half-forgotten song 
As of disruption ; yet strange glories dwell 
Above my head, as if a sword of light, 
Rayed of the very Dawn, would strike within 
The limitations of this deadly night 
That folds me for the sign of death and sin 

1 This poem describes the Initiation of the true ' Hermetic 
Order of the Golden Dawn ' in its spiritual aspect. 



ALEISTER CROWLEY 523 

Light ! descend ! My feet move vaguely on 
In this amazing darkness, in the gloom 

That I can touch with trembling sense. There shone 

Once, in my misty memory, in the womb 

Of some unformulated thought, the flame 

And smoke of mighty pillars ; yet my mind 

Is clouded with the horror of this same 

Path of the wise men : for my soul is blind 

Yet : and the foemen I have never feared 

1 could not see (if such should cross the way), 
And therefore I am strange : my soul is seared 
With desolation of the blinding day 

I have come out from : yes, that fearful light 

Was not the Sun : my life has been the death, 

This death may be the life : my spirit sight 

Knows that at last, at least. My doubtful breath 

Is breathing in a nobler air ; I know, 

I know it in my soul, despite of this, 

The clinging darkness of the Long Ago, 

Cruel as death, and closer than a kiss, 

This horror of great darkness. I am come 

Into this darkness to attain the light : 

To gain my voice I make myself as dumb : 

That I may see I close my outer sight : 

So, I am here. My brows are bent in prayer : 

I kneel already in the Gates of Dawn ; 

And I am come, albeit unaware, 

To the deep sanctuary : my hope is drawn 

From wells profounder than the very sea. 

Yea, I am come, where least I guessed it so, 

Into the very Presence of the Three 

That Are beyond all Gods. And now I know 

What spiritual Light is drawing me 

Up to its stooping splendour. In my soul 



524 ALEISTER CROWLEY 

I feel the Spring, the all-devouring Dawn, 
Rush with my Rising. There, beyond the goal, 
The Veil is rent ! 

Yes : let the veil be drawn. 



The Rose and the Cross 

OUT of the seething cauldron of my woes, 
Where sweets and salt and bitterness I flung ; 
Where charmed music gathered from my tongue, 
And where I chained strange archipelagoes 
Of fallen stars ; where fiery passion flows 
A curious bitumen ; where among 
The glowing medley moved the tune unsung 
Of perfect love : thence grew the Mystic Rose 

Its myriad petals of divided light ; 

Its leaves of the most radiant emerald ; 
Its heart of fire like rubies. At the sight 

I lifted up my heart to God and called : 
How shall I pluck this dream of my desire ? 
And lo ! there shaped itself the Cross of Fire ! 



EVELYN UNDERBILL (MRS. STUART MOORE) 

b. 1875 

Immanence 

I COME in the little things, 
Saith the Lord : 
Not borne on morning wings 
Of majesty, but I have set My Feet 
Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat 
That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod. 



EVELYN UNDERBILL 525 

There do I dwell, in weakness and in power ; 

Not broken or divided, saith our God ! 

In your strait garden plot I come to flower : 

About your porch My Vine 

Meek, fruitful, doth entwine ; 

Waits, at the threshold, Love's appointed hour. 

I come in the little things, 

Saith the Lord : 

Yea ! on the glancing wings 

Of eager birds, the softly pattering feet 

Of furred and gentle beasts, I come to meet 

Your hard and wayward heart. In brown bright eyes 

That peep from out the brake, I stand confest. 

On every nest 

Where feathery Patience is content to brood 

And leaves her pleasure for the high emprize 

Of motherhood 

There doth My Godhead rest. 

I come in the little things, 

Saith the Lord : 

My starry wings 

I do forsake, 

Love's highway of humility to take : 

Meekly I fit My stature to your need. 

In beggar's part 

About your gates I shall not cease to plead 

As man, to speak with man 

Till by such art 

I shall achieve My Immemorial Plan, 

Pass the low lintel of the human heart. 



526 EVELYN UNDERHILL 

Introversion 

WHAT do you seek within, O Soul, my Brother ? 
What do you seek within ? 
I seek a Life that shall never die, 
Some haven to win 
From mortality. 

What do you find within, O Soul, my Brother ? 

What do you find within ? 
I find great quiet where no noises come. 

Without, the world's din : 

Silence in my home. 

Whom do you find within, O Soul, my Brother ? 

Whom do you find within ? 
I find a friend that in secret came : 

His scarred hands within 

He shields a faint flame.. 

What would you do within, O Soul, my Brother ? 

What would you do within ? 
Bar door and window that none may see : 
That alone we may be 
(Alone ! face to face, 
In that flame-lit place !) 
When first we begin 
To speak one with another. 



EVELYN UNDERBILL 527 

Uxbridge Road 

THE Western Road goes streaming out to seek the 
cleanly wild, 

It pours the city's dim desires towards the undefiled, 
It sweeps betwixt the huddled homes about its eddies 

grown 

To smear the little space between the city and the sown : 
The torments of that seething tide who is there that can 

see ? 
There 's one who walked with starry feet the western road 

by me ! 

He is the Drover of the soul ; he leads the flock of men 
All wistful on that weary track, and brings them back again. 
The dreaming few, the slaving crew, the motley caste of 

life 

The wastrel and artificer, the harlot and the wife 
They may not rest, for ever pressed by one they cannot 

see : 
The one who walked with starry feet the western road 

by me. 

He drives them east, he drives them west, between the 

dark and light; 
He pastures them in city pens, he leads them home at 

night. 
The towery trams, the threaded trains, like shuttles to 

and fro 

To weave the web of working days in ceaseless travel go. 
How harsh the woof, how long the weft ! who shall the 

fabric see ? 
The one who walked with starry feet the western road 

by me ! 



528 EVELYN UNDERBILL 

Throughout the living joyful year at lifeless tasks to strive, 
And scarcely at the end to save gentility alive ; 
The villa plot to sow and reap, to act the villa lie, 
Beset by villa fears to live, midst villa dreams to die ; 
Ah, who can know the dreary woe ? and who the splendour 



see 



The one who walked with starry feet the western road 
by me. 

Behold ! he lent me as we went the vision of the seer ; 
Behold ! I saw the life of men, the life of God shine 

clear. 

T saw the hidden Spirit's thrust ; I saw the race fulfil 
The spiral of its steep ascent, predestined of the Will. 
Yet not unled, but shepherded by one they may not see 
The one who walked with starry feet the western road 

by me ! 



Regnum Caelorum Fim Patitur 

WHEN our five-angled spears, that pierced the world 
And drew its life-blood, faint before the wall 
Which hems its secret splendour when we fall, 
Lance broken, banner furled, 
Before that calm invincible defence 
Whereon our folly hurled 
The piteous armies of intelligence 
Then, often-times, we know 
How conquering mercy to the battle field 
Comes through the darkness, freely to bestow 
The prize for which we fought 
Not knowing what we sought, 
And salve the wounds of those who would not yield. 



EVELYN UNDERBILL 529 

He loves the valiant foe ; he comes not out to meet 

The craven soul made captive of its fear : 

Not these the victories that to him are sweet 1 

But the impetuous soldiery of truth, 

And knighthood of the intellectual quest, 

Who ask not for his ruth 

Nor would desire his rest : 

These are to him most dear, 

And shall in their surrender yet prevail. 

Yea ! at the end of unrewarded days, 

By swift and secret ways 

As on a sudden moonbeam shining clear, 

Soft through the night shall slide upon their gaze 

The thrice-defended vision of the Grail : 

And when his peace hath triumphed, these shall be 

The flower of his celestial chivalry. 

And did you think, he saith 

As to and fro he goes the trenches through, 

My heart impregnable, that you must bring 

The ballisters of faith 

Their burning bolts to fling, 

And all the cunning intricate device 

Of human wit, 

One little breach to make 

That so you might attain to enter it ? 

Nay, on the other side 

Love's undefended postern is set wide : 

But thus it is I woo 

My dearest sons, that an ignoble ease 

Shall never please, 

Nor any smooth and open way entice. 

Armed would I have them come 

Against the mighty bastions of their home ; 



530 EVELYN UNDERHILL 

Out of high failure win 

Their way within, 

And from my conquering hand their birthright take. 

Corpus Christi 

COME, dear Heart ! 
The fields are white to harvest : come and see 
As in a glass the timeless mystery 
Of love, whereby we feed 
On God, our bread indeed. 
Torn by the sickles, see him share the smart 
Of travailing Creation : maimed, despised, 
Yet by his lovers the more dearly prized 
Because for us he lays his beauty down 
Last toll paid by Perfection for our loss ! 
Trace on these fields his everlasting Cross, 
And o'er the stricken sheaves the Immortal Victim's crown. 

From far horizons came a Voice that said, 

' Lo ! from the hand of Death take thou thy daily bread.' 

Then I, awakening, saw 

A splendour burning in the heart of things : 

The flame of living love which lights the law 

Of mystic death that works the mystic birth. 

I knew the patient passion of the earth, 

Maternal, everlasting, whence there springs 

The Bread of Angels and the life of man. 

Now in each blade 

I, blind no longer, see 

The glory of God's growth : know it to be 

An earnest of the Immemorial Plan. 

Yea, I have understood 



EVELYN UNDERBILL 531 

How all things are one great oblation made : 

He on our altars, we on the world's rood. 

Even as this corn, 

Earth-born, 

We are snatched from the sod ; 

Reaped, ground to grist, 

Crushed and tormented in the Mills of God, 

And offered at Life's hands, a living Eucharist. 



ELLA DIETZ 

Emanation 

OUT of the depths of the Infinite Being eternal, 
Out of the cloud more bright than the brightness 

of sun, 

Out of the inmost the essence of spirit supernal, 
We issued as one. 

First essence electric, concentric, revolving, subduing, 
We throbbed through the ether, a part of the infinite germ, 
Dissolving, resolving, absorbing, reforming, renewing, 
The endless in term. 

Through forms multifarious onward and ever advancing, 
Progressing through ether from molecule to planet and star, 
Forms infinitesimal revealed by the sunbeam while dancing, 
Controlled from afar. 

Then part of the elements swayed by invisible forces, 
The spirit of flame interchangeably water and air, 
And matter more gross, still moulded by stars in their 
courses, 

To forms new and rare. 



532 ELLA DIETZ 

Part of the salt of the sea of the fathomless ocean 
Part of the growth of the earth, and the light hid within, 
The Boundless and Endless revealed in each varying motion 
Unknown yet to sin. 

The breath of all life, harmonious, ductile, complying, 
Obedient lapsed in the force of the Infinite Will, 
Untiring, unresting, incessant, unknowing, undying, 
Love's law we fulfil. 

Spirit of growth in the rocks, and the ferns, and the mosses, 
Spirit of growth in the trees, and the grasses, and flowers, 
Rejoicing in life, unconscious of changes or losses, 
Of days or of hours. 

Spirit of growth in the bird and the bee, ever tending 
To form more complex its beauty and use thus combined, 
Adapted perfection, the finite and infinite blending, 
One gleam from One Mind. 

Thus spirally upward we come from the depths of creation, 
The man and the woman the garden of Eden have found, 
And joined by the Lord in an endless and holy relation 
Ensphered and made round. 

The innermost law of their being fulfilling, obeying, 
The King and the Queen, perfected, companioned, are 

crowned, 

The Incomprehensible thus in expression conveying 
Its ultimate bound. 

Obedience still is the law of each fresh emanation, 

The prayer to the Father, ' Not my will, but Thy will be 

done,' 
Then deathless, immortal, we pass through all forms of 

creation, 

The twain lost in One. 



ELLA DIETZ 533 

The King 's Daughter 

The Word, the Redeemed is such as needs to be washed, and 

cleansed, and clothed upon. 

In her lives the Imrah, the Word which is distilled and purified. 
The feminine Imrah, or seven times purified words of El6hah and 

of Jehovah. 
It is a quickening Word, which comforts in affliction, and is the 

reward of all who keep Jehovah's precepts. 

MRS. BREWSTER MACPHERSON. 

I AM beloved of the Prince of the garden of pleasure, 
I am beloved ; 
I am his pearl, and his dove, and his heart's hidden treasure, 

I am approved ; 

To-day he has given his love, oh ! his love without 
measure, 

Which can never be moved. 

He has called me ' Beloved of my soul ', and my heart 
beats, repeating 

' Beloved of my soul ', 

And my blood dances swift through my veins in a musical 
beating ; 

The twin currents roll, 

Pouring forth their wild love, then again to their centre 
retreating 

Under righteous control. 

O king of my life's hidden spring ! O lord of my being ! 

Beloved of my heart ; 

Our lips breathed one prayer, and our souls, in a sudden, 
agreeing, 

Knit, joining each part 

Of the long-severed Word that the prophets beheld in 
their seeing 

Beloved thou art. 



534 ELLA DIETZ 

The long-severed name of the Lord we are loving and 
fearing ; 

Our Sabbaths of rest 

Do welcome the Son; the Redeemed hail the Bride 
groom's appearing 

His Name ever blest ; 

The Word in our hearts spoken now, in soft accents 
endearing, 

With joy is confest. 

Yea ! Imrah the Word, the Redeemed, the Bride of the 
Morning, 

The joy of the earth ; 

O Imrah, beloved, whom the world had outcast in its 
scorning, 

Rejoice in thy birth; 

Ten thousands shall bless thee and bring thee thy gems 
of adorning, 

And comfort thy dearth. 



HAROLD MONRO 

b. 1879 

God 

ONCE, long before the birth of time, a storm ' 
Of white desire, by its own ardour hurled, 
Flashed out of infinite Desire, took form. 
Strove, won, survived : and God became the world. 

Next, some internal force began to move ' 

Within the bosom of that latest earth : 

The spirit of an elemental love 

Stirred outward from itself, and God was birth. 



HAROLD MONRO 535 

Then outward, upward, with heroic thew, 

Savage from young and bursting blood of life, 

Desire took form, and conquered, and anew 

Strove, conquered, and took form : and God was strife. 

Thus, like a comet, fiery flight on flight ; 
Flash upon flash, and purple morn on morn : 
But always out of agony delight ; 
And out of death God evermore reborn, 

Till, waxing fair and subtle and supreme, 
Desiring his own spirit to possess, 
Man of the bright eyes and the ardent dream 
Saw paradise, and God was consciousness. 

He is that one Desire, that life, that breath, ' 
That Soul which, with infinity of pain, 
Passes through revelation and through death 
Onward and upward to itself again. 

Out of the lives of heroes and their deeds, 
Out of the miracle of human thought, 
Out of the songs of singers, God proceeds ; 
And of the soul of them his Soul is wrought. 

Nothing is lost : all that is dreamed or done 
Passes unaltered the eternal way, 
Immerging in the everlasting One, 
Who was the dayspring and who is the, day. 



536 

^ ALFRED NOYES 

b. 1880 
The Loom of Years 

IN the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling 
sea, 
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower 

and tree, 

Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears, 
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of 
Years. 

The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest 

mould 
To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and 

gold: 

Light and scent and music die and are born again 
In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world 

of pain. 

The hound, the fawn, and the hawk, and the doves that 

croon and coo, 
We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp 

threads us through, 
One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes 

and fears 
As it goes thro' the Loom of the Weaver that weaves 

the Web of Years. 

The green uncrumpling fern and the rustling dew- 
drenched rose 

Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of 
music close, 

Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars, 

Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars. 



ALFRED NOYES 537 

Has the soul gone out in the Darkness ? Is the dust sealed 

from sight ? 
Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro' the warp 

of the night ! 

Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears, 
As it comes thro' the Loom of the Weaver that weaves 

the Web of Years. 

O, woven in one wide Loom thro' the throbbing weft of 

the whole, 

One in spirit and flesh, one in body and soul, 
Tho' the leaf were alone in its falling, the bird in its hour 

to die, 
The heart in its muffled anguish, the sea in its mournful 

cry, 

One with the flower of a day, one with the withered moon, 
One with the granite mountains that melt into the noon, 
One with the dream that triumphs beyond the light of 

the spheres, 
We come from the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the 

Web of Years. 



Art, the Herald 

1 The voice of one crying in the wilderness ' 

BEYOND ; beyond ; and yet again beyond ! 
What 'went ye out to seek, oh foolish-fond? 
Is not the heart of all things here and now ? 
Is not the circle infinite, and the centre 
Everywhere, if ye would but hear and enter ? 
Come; the porch bends and the great pillars bow 



538 ALFRED NOYES 

Come ; come and see the secret of the sun ; 
The sorrow that holds the warring worlds in one ; 

The pain that holds Eternity in an hour ; 
One God in every seed self-sacrificed, 
One star-eyed, star-crowned universal Christ, 

Re-crucified in every wayside flower. 

The Paradox 

' I Am that I Am ' 
I 

AjL that is broken shall be mended ; 
All that is lost shall be found ; 
I will bind up every wound 
When that which is begun shall be ended. 
Not peace I brought among you but a sword 

To divide the night from the day, 
When I sent My worlds forth in their battle-array 
To die and to live, 
To give and to receive, 
Saith the Lord. 

ii 

Of old time they said none is good save our God ; 
But ye that have seen how the ages have shrunk from my 

rod, 
And how red is the wine-press wherein at my bidding 

they trod, 
Have answered and said that with Eden I fashioned the 

snake, 
That I mould you of clay for a moment, then mar you 

and break, 

And there is none evil but I, the supreme Evil, God. 
Lo, I say unto both, I am neither ; 
But greater than either : 



ALFRED NOYES 539 

For meeting and mingling in Me they become neither 

evil nor good ; 
Their cycle is rounded, they know neither hunger nor 

food, 
They need neither sickle nor seed-time, nor root nor fruit, 

They are ultimate, infinite, absolute. 
Therefore I say unto all that have sinned, 
East and West and South and North 
The wings of my measureless love go forth 
To cover you all : they are free as the wings of the wind. 

in 
Consider the troubled waters of the sea 

Which never rest ; 
As the wandering waves are ye ; 

Yet assuaged and appeased and forgiven, 

As the seas are gathered together under the infinite 

glory of heaven, 
I gather you all to my breast. 

But the sins and the creeds and the sorrows that trouble 
the sea 

Relapse and subside, 
Chiming like chords in a world-wide symphony 

As they cease to chide ; 

For they break and they are broken of sound and hue, 
And they meet and they murmur and they mingle anew, 
Interweaving, intervolving, like waves : they have no stay : 
They are all made as one with the deep, when they sink 
and are vanished away ; 

Yea, all is toned at a turn of the tide 
To a calm and golden harmony ; 
But I shall I wonder or greatly care, 

For their depth or their height ? 
Shall it be more than a song in my sight 
How many wandering waves there were 



540 ALFRED NOYES 

Or how many colours and changes of light ? 

It is your eyes that see 

And take heed of these things : they were fashioned 
for you, not for Me. 

IV 

With the stars and the clouds I have clothed Myself here 

for your eyes 
To behold That which Is. I have set forth the strength 

of the skies 
As one draweth a picture before you to make your hearts 

wise ; 

That the infinite souls I have fashioned may know as I 
know, 

Visibly revealed 
In the flowers of the field, 
Yea, declared by the stars in their courses, the tides in 

their flow, 

And the clash of the world's wide battle as it sways to 
and fro, 

Flashing forth as a flame 
The unnameable Name, 
The ineffable Word, 
I am the Lord. 

v 
I am the End to which the whole world strives : 

Therefore are ye girdled with a wild desire and shod 
With sorrow ; for among you all no soul 
Shall ever cease or sleep or reach its goal 
Of union and communion with the Whole, 

Or rest content with less than being God. 
Still, as unending asymptotes, your lives 
In all their myriad wandering ways 
Approach Me with the progress of the golden days ; 
Approach Me ; for my love contrives 



ALFRED NOYES 541 

That ye should have the glory of this 

For ever ; yea, that life should blend 

With life and only vanish away 

From day to wider wealthier day, 
Like still increasing spheres of light that melt and merge 

in wider spheres 

Even as the infinite years of the past melt in the infinite 
future years. 

Each new delight of sense, 

Each hope, each love, each fear, 

Widens, relumes and recreates each sphere, 
From a new ring and nimbus of pre-eminence. 
I am the Sphere without circumference : 
I only and for ever comprehend 
All others that within me meet and blend. 

Death is but the blinding kiss 

Of two finite infinities ; 

Two finite infinite orbs 

The splendour of the greater of which absorbs 
The less, though both like Love have no beginning and 
no end. 

VI 

Therefore is Love's own breath 
Like Knowledge, a continual death ; 
And all his laughter and kisses and tears, 

And woven wiles of peace and strife, 
That ever widen thus your temporal spheres, 
Are making of the memory of your former years 

A very death in life. 

VII 

I am that I am ; 
Ye are evil and good ; 

With colour and glory and story and song ye are fed as 
with food : 



542 ALFRED NOYES 

The cold and the heat, 

The bitter and the sweet, 
The calm and the tempest fulfil my Word ; 
Yet will ye complain of my two-edged sword 
That has fashioned the finite and mortal and given you 
the sweetness of strife, 

The blackness and whiteness, 

The darkness and brightness, 

Which sever your souls from the formless and void and 
hold you fast-fettered to life ? 

VIII 

Behold now, is Life not good ? 
Yea, is it not also much more than the food, 
More than the raiment, more than the breath ? 

Yet Strife is its name ! 
Say, which will ye cast out first from the furnace, the fuel 

or the flame ? 
Would ye all be as I am ; and know neither evil nor good ; 

neither life ; neither death ; 

Or mix with the void and the formless till all were as one 
and the same ? 

IX 

I am that I am ; the Container of all things : kneel, lift 

up your hands 
To the high Consummation of good and of evil which 

none understands ; 
The divine Paradox, the ineffable Word, in whose light 

the poor souls that ye trod 

Underfoot as too vile for their fellows are at terrible 
union with God ! 

Am I not over both evil and good, 
The righteous man and the shedder of blood ? 
Shall I save or slay ? 



ALFRED NOYES 543 

I am neither the night nor the day, 

Saith the Lord. 

Judge not, oh ye that are round my footstool judge not, 
ere the hour be born 

That shall laugh you also to scorn. 

x 

Ah, yet I say unto all that have sinned, 
East and West and South and North 
The wings of my measureless love go forth 
To cover you all : they are free as the wings of the 
wind. 

XI 

But one thing is needful ; and ye shall be true 

To yourselves and the goal and the God that ye seek ; 

Yea, the day and the night shall requite it to you 
If ye love one another, if your love be not weak. 

XII 

Since I sent out my worlds in their battle-array 

To die and to live, 

To give and to receive, 

Not peace, not peace, I have brought among you but 
a sword, 

To divide the night from the day, 

Saith the Lord ; 
Yet all that is broken shall be mended, 

And all that is lost shall be found, 

I will bind up every wound, 
When that which is begun shall be ended. 



544 ALFRED NOYES 

Song 

From ' The Forest of Wild Thyme ' 

WHAT is there hid in the heart of a rose, 
Mother-mine ? 

Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows ? 
A man that died on a lonely hill 
Mav tell you, perhaps, but none other will, 
Little child. 

What does it take to make a rose, 

Mother-mine ? 

The God that died to make it knows 
It takes the world's eternal wars, 
It takes the moon and all the stars, 
It takes the might of heaven and hell 
And the everlasting Love as well, 

Little child. 



The Two Worlds 

'"THHIS outer world is but the pictured scroll 

JL Of worlds within the soul, 
A coloured chart, a blazoned missal-book 

Whereon who rightly look 
May spell the splendours with their mortal eyes 

And steer to Paradise. 

O, well for him that knows and early knows 

In his own soul the rose 
Secretly burgeons, of this earthly flower 

The heavenly paramour : 



ALFRED NOYES 545 

And all these fairy dreams of green-wood fern, 

These waves that break and yearn, 
Shadows and hieroglyphs, hills, clouds and seas, 

Faces and flowers and trees, 
Terrestrial picture-parables, relate 

Each to its heavenly mate. 

O, well for him that finds in sky and sea 

This two-fold mystery, 
And loses not (as painfully he spells 

The fine-spun syllables) 
The cadences, the burning inner gleam, 

The poet's heavenly dream. 

Well for the poet if this earthly chart 

Be printed in his heart, 
When to his world of spirit woods and seas 

With eager face he flees 
And treads the untrodden fields of unknown flowers 

And threads the angelic bowers, 
And hears that unheard nightingale whose moan 

Trembles within his own, 
And lovers murmuring in the leafy lanes 

Of his own joys and pains. 

For though he voyages further than the flight 

Of earthly day and night, 
Traversing to the sky's remotest ends 

A world that he transcends, 
Safe, he shall hear the hidden breakers roar 

Against the mystic shore ; 
Shall roam the yellow sands where sirens bare 

Their breasts and wind their hair ; 
Shall with their perfumed tresses blind his eyes, 

And still possess the skies. 

MYST. T 



546 ALFRED NOYES 

He, where the deep unearthly jungles are, 

Beneath his Eastern star 
Shall pass the tawny lion in his den 

And cross the quaking fen. 
He learnt his path (and treads it undefiled) 

When, as a little child, 
He bent his head with long and loving looks 

O'er earthly picture-books. 
His earthly love nestles against his side, 

His young celestial guide. 



RACHEL ANNAND TAYLOR 
The Immortal Hour 

STILL as great waters lying in the West, 
So is my spirit still. 
I lay my folded hands within Thy bre'ast, 

My will within Thy will. 
O Fortune, idle pedlar, pass me by. 
O Death, keep far from me who cannot die. 
The passion-flowers are lacing o'er the sill 
Of my low door. As dews their sweetness fill, 

So do I rest in Thee. 

It is mine hour. Let none set foot therein. 
It is mine hour unflawed of pain or sin. 
'Tis laid and steeped in silence, till it be 
A solemn dazzling crystal, to outlast 
And storm the eyes of poets when long-past 
Is all the changing dream of Thee and Me. 



RACHEL ANNAND TAYLOR 547 

The Night Obscure of the Soul 

WHEN the Soul travails in her Night Obscure, 
The nadir of her desperate defeat, 
What heavenly dream shall help her to endure, 

What naming Wisdom be her Paraclete ? 
No curious Metaphysic can withhold 

The heart from that mandragora she craves : 
Unreasonable, old as Earth is old, 

The blind ecstatic miracle that saves. 
Far off the pagan trumpeters of Pride 

Call to the blood. Love moans. Some fiery fashion 
Of rapture like the anguish of the bride 

Leaps from the dark perfection of the Passion, 
Crying : ' O beautiful God, still torture me, 
For if thou slay me, I will trust in Thee.' 



The Question 

I SAW the Son of God go by 
Crowned with the crown of Thorn. 
* Was It not finished, Lord ? ' I said, 

* And all the anguish borne ? ' 

He turned on me His awful eyes : 

* Hast thou not understood ? 
Lo ! Every soul is Calvary, 

And every sin a Rood.' 



54 8 

ANONYMOUS 
At the Feet of Ists 

HER feet are set in darkness at Her feet 
We kneel, for She is Mother of us all 
A mighty Mother, with all love replete ; 
We, groping 'midst the shadow's dusky pall, 
Ask not to see the upper vision bright, 
Enough for us Her feet shine clear all virgin white 

Her wings are tipped with golden light, but we 

Ken but the shadow at Her pinions' base 

We kneel before Her feet, we cannot see 

The glory that illuminates Her face, 

For he who t'wards the vision gazeth up 

Finds first the stricken breast the sacrificial cup ! 

Her feet gleam in the darkness at Her feet 
We lay the price of those twin pearls of Heav'n 
All that man hath an offering incomplete 
Is his who yet his best would leave ungiv'n ; 
And as She stoops Her guerdon to bestow, 
His life's blood in Her cup, outstretched there, needs 
must flow ! 

Her wings are in the shadow Lo ! they cast 

That shadow e'en o'er Heav'n's own light, we cry, 

For in the darkness, terrible and vast, 

She spreads the wing to which the soul must hie ; 

But, to that shelter led, our upward gaze 

Beholds Her pinions formed of Light's celestial rays ! 



ANONYMOUS 549 

Her feet are in the darkness, but Her face 
Is in high Heav'n all Truth inhabits there ; 
All Knowledge and all Peace, and perfect grace, 
And in the wonder of Her joy they share 
Who, blindly clinging to Her feet erstwhile, 
Obtained the priceless gift the vision of Her smile. 



A Ballade of the Centre 

WHEN all the shores of knowledge fade 
Beyond the realms of night and day, 
When the quick stir of thought is stayed 
And, as a dream of yesterday, 
The bonds of striving fall away : 
There dawns sometimes a point of fire 

Burning the utter dark, that may 
Fulfil our desperate desire. 

Into the darkness, unafraid, 

Wherein soft hands of silence lay 
Their veil of peace upon the blade 

Of too bright thought, we take our way. 

In changing of desire we pay 
Whatever price the gods require, 

Knowing the end is theirs and they 
Fulfil our desperate desire. 

Upon the stillness we have made 
Between our working and our play 

A deeper stillness yet is laid. 

Like some white bird above the sway 



550 ANONYMOUS 

Of summer waves within the bay 
Peace lights upon us ere we tire, 

And does (yet how, we cannot say) 
Fulfil our desperate desire. 

Envoi 
God of the world, to Whom we pray, 

Thou Inmost God to Whom aspire 
All hopes that Thou wilt not betray 

Fulfil our desperate desire ! 



JOHN MASEFIELD 

The Ballad of Sir Bon 

WOULD I could win some quiet and rest, and a little 
ease, 
In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place 

of the trees, 

Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloud 
The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the 
seas. 



Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to 

fail, 
And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the 

mail ; 
The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the 

Christ, 
In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy 

Grail. 



JOHN MASEFIELD 551 

The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims 

the West, 

The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest ; 
But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits, 
That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends 

the Quest. 

My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come 

through his hide, 
My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and 

ride, 
For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose 

have called, 
And never a township now is a town where I can bide. 

It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the 

fell, 

A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell, 
And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul 

to Christ, 
And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the 

years of hell. 

The Seekers 

TJ'RIENDS and loves we have none, nor wealth nor 
1 blessed abode, 

But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the 
road. 

Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind, 
For we go seeking a city that we shall never find. 

There is no solace on earth for us for such as we 
Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see. 



552 JOHN MASEFIELD 

Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the 

rain, 
And the watch-fire under stars, and sleep, and the road 

again. 

We seek the City of God, and the haunt where beauty 

dwells, 
And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells. 

Never the golden city, where radiant people meet, 
But the dolorous town where mourners are going about 
the street. 

We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim, 
And sunset shows us spires away on the world's rim. 

We travel from dawn to dusk, till the day is past and by, 
Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky. 

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blest 

abode, 
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the 

road. 



From 'The Everlasting Mercy' 

I DID not think, I did not strive, 
The deep peace burnt my me alive ; 
The bolted door had broken in, 
I knew that I had done with sin. 
I knew that Christ had given me birth 
To brother all the souls on earth, 
And every bird and every beast 
Should share the crumbs broke at the feast. 



JOHN MASEFIELD 553 

glory of the lighted mind. 

How dead I'd been, how dumb, how blind. 
The station brook, to my new eyes, 
Was babbling out of Paradise, 
The waters rushing from the rain 
Were singing Christ has risen again. 

1 thought all earthly creatures knelt 
From rapture of the joy I felt. 

The narrow station-wall's brick ledge, 
The wild hop withering in the hedge, 
The lights in huntsman's upper story 
Were parts of an eternal glory, 
Were God's eternal garden flowers. 
I stood in bliss at this for hours. 

O glory of the lighted soul. 
The dawn came up on Bradlow Knoll, 
The dawn with glittering on the grasses, 
The dawn which pass and never passes. 

4 It 's dawn,' I said, ' And chimney 's smoking, 
And all the blessed fields are soaking. 
It 's dawn, and there 's an engine shunting ; 
And hounds, for huntsman's going hunting. 
It 's dawn, and I must wander north 
Along the road Christ led me forth.' . . . 

O wet red swathe of earth laid bare, 
O truth, O strength, O gleaming share, 
O patient eyes that watch the goal, 
O ploughman of the sinner's soul. 
O Jesus, drive the coulter deep 
To plough my living man from sleep. 

T3 



554 J HN MASEFIELD 

Slow up the hill the plough team plod, 

Old Callow at the task of God, 

Helped by man's wit, helped by the brute 

Turning a stubborn clay to fruit, 

Hid eyes for ever on some sign 

To help him plough a perfect line. 

At top of rise the plough team stopped, 

The fore-horse bent his head and cropped ; 

Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle, 

The lean reins gather through the cringle, 

The figures move against the sky, 

The clay wave breaks as they go by. 

I kneeled there in the muddy fallow, 

I knew that Christ was there with Callow, 

That Christ was standing there with me, 

That Christ had taught me what to be, 

That I should plough, and as I ploughed 

My Saviour Christ would sing aloud, 

And as I drove the clods apart 

Christ would be ploughing in my heart, 

Through rest-harrow and bitter roots, 

Through all my bad life's rotten fruits. 

O Christ who holds the open gate, 

O Christ who drives the furrow straight, 

O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter 

Of holy white birds flying after, 

Lo, all my heart's field red and torn, 

And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, 

The young green corn divinely springing, 

The young green corn forever singing ; 

And when the field is fresh and fair 

Thy blessed feet shall glitter there, 

And we will walk the weeded field, 

And tell the golden harvest's yield, 



B 



JOHN MASEFIELD 555 

The corn that makes the holy bread 
By which the soul of man is fed, 
The holy bread, the food unpriced, 
Thy everlasting mercy, Christ. 

MICHAEL FIELD 
Midsummer Night's Dream 

UT so deep the wild-bee hummeth, 

And so still the glow-worm glows, 
That we know a Saviour cometh, 
And we lay our hearts with those 

All the mysteries earth strives with through the June 
nights and the rose. 

Strange the joy that sets us weeping 
Holy John, thy Feast is come ! 
Yea, we feel a Babe is leaping 
In the womb where he is dumb 

To the song that God's own Mother sings so loud to 
Christendom. 

High that singing, high and humble ! 

Lo, our Queen is taking rule : 

Faint midsummer thunders rumble, 

And gold lilies light the pool, 

While the generations whisper that a Queen is taking rule. 

'Where the Blessed Feet Have Trod' 

NOT alone in Palestine those blessed Feet have trod, 
For I catch their print, 
I have seen their dint 
On a plot of chalky ground, 

Little villas dotted round ; 



556 MICHAEL FIELD 

On a sea-worn waste, 

Where a priest, in haste, 

Passeth with the Blessed Sacrament to one dying, frail, 

Through the yarrow, past the tamarisk, and the plaited 

snail : 
Bright upon the grass I see 

Bleeding Feet of Calvary 
And I worship, and I clasp them round ! 
On this bit of chalky, English ground, 
Jesu, Thou art found : my God I hail, 

My Lord, my God ! 



LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 

b. 1881 

Emblems of Love 

She 

ONLY to be twin elements of joy 
In this extravagance of Being, Love, 
Were our divided natures shaped in twain ; 
And to this hour the whole world must consent. 
Is it not very marvellous, our lives 
Can only come to this out of a long 
Strange sundering, with the years of the world between us ? 

He 

Shall life do more than God ? for hath not God 
Striven with himself, when into known delight 
His unaccomplisht joy he would put forth, 
This mystery of a world sign of his striving ? 
Else wherefore this, a thing to break the mind 
With labouring in the wonder of it, that here 
Being the world and we is suffered to be ! 



LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 557 

But, lying on thy breast one notable day, 

Sudden exceeding agony of love 

Made my mind a trance of infinite knowledge. 

I was not : yet I saw the will of God 

As light unfashion'd, unendurable flame, 

Interminable, not to be supposed ; 

And there was no more creature except light, 

The dreadful burning of the lonely God's 

Unutter'd joy. And then, past telling, came 

Shuddering and division in the light : 

Therein, like trembling, was desire to know 

Its own perfect beauty ; and it became 

A cloven fire, a double flaming, each 

Adorable to each ; against itself 

Waging a burning love, which was the world ; 

A moment satisfied in that love-strife 

I knew the world ! And when I fell from there, 

Then knew I also what this life would do 

In being twain, in being man and woman ! 

For it would do even as its endless Master, 

Making the world, had done ; yea, with itself 

Would strive, and for the strife would into sex 

Be cloven, double burning, made thereby 

Desirable to itself. Contrived joy 

Is sex in life ; and by no other thing 

Than by a perfect sundering, could life 

Change the dark stream of unappointed joy 

To perfect praise of itself, the glee that loves 

And worships its own Being. This is ours ! 

Yet only for that we have been so long 

Sundered desire : thence is our life all praise. 

But we, well knowing by our strength of joy 

There is no sundering more, how far we love 

From those sad lives that know a half-love only, 



558 LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 

Alone thereby knowing themselves for ever 
Sealed in division of love, and therefore made 
To pour their strength always into their love's 
Fierceness, as green wood bleeds its hissing sap 
Into red heat of a fire ! Not so do we : 
The cloven anger, life, hath left to wage 
Its flame against itself, here turned to one 
Self-adoration. Ah, what comes of this ? 
The joy falters a moment, with closed wings 
Wearying in its upward journey, ere 
Again it goes on high, bearing its song, 
Its delight breathing and its vigour beating 
The highest .height of the air above the world. 

She 

What hast thou done to me ! I would have soul, 
Before I knew thee, Love, a captive held 
By flesh. Now, inly delighted with desire, 
My body knows itself to be nought else 
But thy heart's worship of me ; and my soul 
Therein is sunlight held by warm gold air. 
Nay, all my body is become a song 
Upon the breath of spirit, a love-song. 

He 

And mine is all like one rapt faculty, 
As it were listening to the love in thee, 
My whole mortality trembling to take 
Thy body like heard singing of thy spirit. 

She 

Surely by this, Beloved, we must know 
Our love is perfect here, that not as holds 
The common dullard thought, we are things lost 



LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 559 

In an amazement that is all unware ; 
But wonderfully knowing what we are ! 
Lo, now that body is the song whereof 
Spirit is mood, knoweth not our delight ? 
Knoweth not beautifully now our love, 
That Life, here to this festival bid come 
Clad in his splendour of worldly day and night, 
Filled and empower'd by heavenly lust, is all 
The glad imagination of the Spirit ? 

He 

Were it not so, Love could not be at all : 
Nought could be, but a yearning to fulfil 
Desire of beauty, by vain reaching forth 
Of sense to hold and understand the vision 
Made by impassion'd body, vision of thee ! 
But music mixt with music are, in love, 
Bodily senses ; and as flame hath light, 
Spirit this nature hath imagined round it, 
No way concealed therein, when love conies near, 
Nor in the perfect wedding of desires 
Suffering any hindrance. 

She 

Ah, but now, 

Now am I given love's eternal secret ! 
Yea, thou and I who speak, are but the joy 
Of our for ever mated spirits ; but now 
The wisdom of my gladness even through Spirit 
Looks, divinely elate. Who hath for joy 
Our Spirits ? Who hath imagined them 
Round him in fashion'd radiance of desire, 
As into light of these exulting bodies 
Flaming Spirit is uttered ? 



560 LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE 

He 

Yea, here the end 

Of love's astonishment ! Now know we Spirit, 
And Who, for ease of joy, contriveth Spirit. 
Now all life's loveliness and power we have 
Dissolved in this one moment^ and our burning 
Carries all shining upward, till in us 
Life is not life, but the desire of God, 
Himself desiring and himself accepting. 
Now what was prophecy in us is made 
Fulfilment : we are the hour and we are the joy, 
We in our marvellousness of single knowledge, 
Of Spirit breaking down the room of fate 
And drawing into his light the greeting fire 
Of God, God known in ecstasy of love 
Wedding himself to utterance of himself. 

JOSEPH MARY PLUNKETT 

1887-1916 

/ saw the Sun at Midnight, rising red 

I SAW the Sun at midnight, rising red, 
Deep-hued yet glowing, heavy with the stain 
Of blood-compassion, and I saw It gain 
Swiftly in size and growing till It spread 
Over the stars ; the heavens bowed their head 
As from Its heart slow dripped a crimson rain, 
Then a great tremor shook It, as of pain 
The night fell, moaning, as It hung there dead. 

O Sun, O Christ, O bleeding Heart of flame ! 
Thou giv'st Thine agony as our life's worth, 
And mak'st it infinite, lest we have dearth 
Of rights wherewith to call upon thy Name ; 
Thou pawnest Heaven as a pledge for Earth, 
And for our glory sufferest all shame. 



JOSEPH MARY PLUNKETT 561 

/ see His Blood upon the Rose 

I SEE his blood upon the rose 
And in the stars the glory of his eyes, 
His body gleams amid eternal snows, 
His tears fall from the skies. 

I see his face in every flower ; 
The thunder and the singing of the birds 
Are but his voice and carven by his power 
Rocks are his written words. 

All pathways by his feet are worn, 
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea, 
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn, 
His cross is every tree. 



DAVID ATWOOD WASSON 

1823-1887 
The Mystic 

i. Knowledge 

HPHE Secret of the World is lowly, 
A Self-sung nigh my pleading ear ; 
It presses close, enchanting, holy, 

Murmuring, what, I cannot hear : 
A dream embosoming all my waking, 
Solace shaming all my fear. 

In hours serenest and profoundest, 

List I 'yond the breadth of time : 
Over the sea of calm Thou soundest ; 

Now I catch the tune, the rhyme, 
And now shall know ! Alas ! the silence 

Ripples, broken ; dies the chime. 



562 DAVID ATWOOD WASSON 

Partial, the universal Mother 

Tells her secret to the stars : 
And they intone it each to other, 

Trooping in their silver cars. 
Winging and witching comes the echo, 

But mine ear the meaning bars. 

When the sunlight, aether flooding, 
Rains its richness down the sky, 

The Fact on every beam is brooding, 
And on every leaf an eye 

Implanteth, where the dauntless, dimless, 
Godlike vision I espy. 

The psalmist pine-tree, sounding, sweeping 
One great chord forevermore ; 

Deep-chested Ocean's chant, as, keeping 
Time upon the throbbing shore, 

His billowy palm still falls and rises, 
Both recount that wondrous lore. 

The World is rich, it hath possession ; 

Joy of wealth fills land and sea ; 
The fields in bloom, the stars in session, 

Birds and blades on bough and lea, 
All know the truth, the joy, the wonder, 

Not revealed to man, to me. 

Nature, be just in thy bestowing ! 

Best to best shouldst thou confide. 
Oh ! why from him, whose bliss is knowing, 

Knowledge, cruel, dost thou hide ? 
Since, that withholden, naught is given ; 

Given, naught withheld beside. 



DAVID ATWOOD WASSON 563 

ii. Life 

A goblet drained is all my knowing, 
Cup whence I have quaffed the wine : 

From out the Unknown comes the flowing 
And exhaustless juice divine, 

That lends the blood its priceless crimson, 
And the eye its living shine. 

Embrace me, Mystery of Being ; 

Fill my arteries, flood my brain, 
And through me pour thy heart, till seeing, 

Thought, are drowned, like dew in rain, 
In powerful, pure participation : 

Separate life is separate pain. 

Temple unseen of Truth immortal, 

Thought hath brought me to thy door ; 

Never passes he the portal, 

I am drawn the threshold o'er ; 

And lo ! I am a leaf that quivers 
In God's joy-wind evermore ! 

Now are the light-waves round me rolling, 

Now the love-tides through me run, 
Body and soul anew ensouling : 

Seeing and being melt in one. 
The ear is self-same with the music, 

Beam with vision, eye with sun. 



5 6 4 

CLARENCE A. WALWORTH 

Musa Extatica 
altar tiles are under her feet, 
Buff and blue ; 

The tiles lie smooth beneath her feet, 
But touch not her sandal shoe. 
Her eyes entranced might seem to gaze 
Where arches concentrate and meet 
In a maze ; 

But the arches are not in view. 
Where does the vision lie ? 
What fixes the maiden's eye ? 
What makes her smile ? 
Is it far, or is it near ? 
What makes her garments float so clear 
Above the bed of tile ? 
They are not lifted by the air. 
Why hold her hands behind her head, 
Dipped in that foam of golden hair, 
As if she heard some distant tread, 
And stood prepared to call ? 
Why does her bosom rise and fall ? 
Its even swell of deep emotion 
Is like the roll on a placid ocean 
Of billows from afar. 
Who can tell what these billows are ? 
Is it joy coming, or desire outgoing ? 
Does she command, or is she wooing ? 
Why does she smile ? why bend her brow ? 
Why nod ? why beckon now, 
Whiles censuring, and whiles approving, 
Is she conveying her desire 
To some viewless choir, 
Or a crowd of spirits moving ? 



CLARENCE A. WALWORTH 565 

Wait ! wait ! Now she is still. 
If thou hast a poet's ear 
For sacred song, come near ! 
The beating of her heart will tell. 

' Lo ! me on holy ground, 

With burning bushes all around. 

Oh ! whither shall I turn ? 

I burn ! I burn ! 

Electric currents come and go. 

They thread my spirit through and through : 

And a crowding tide of thought 

Holds my spirit overwrought, 

And urges love to fond despair. 

Oh ! give me air ! 

I die ! I die ! 

Blow on me from the upper sky, 

Or joy that has no breath, 

Unsung must end in death. 

Oh ! give me air divine ! 

Brace me with the breath of wine ! 

Give me such milk as flows from the breast 

Of the all-hallowing Eucharist, 

That I may troll 

Sweet carols to the Oversoul. 

Either fill me 

With blood of song, or kill me. 

' Oh ! I am drunk, but not with drink ; 

Wild, but not all beyond command. 

How could imagination think 

To gauge, by law of plumb and line, 

A vision reared by heavenly wand, 

A beauty all entrancing and divine, 

Which makes thought reel as if with wine ? 



566 CLARENCE A. WALWORTH 

It steals my reason, yet I own it ; 
It steals my thought to crown it. 
My heart in sweet delirium 
Lies safe at home. 
It gives me more than it can take, 
Though I leave all for its dear sake ; 
A mighty vision haunts me, 
Enchants and disenchants me, 
Heals my wounds, yet makes me bleed. 
Not for the world would I dispel it. 
Oh ! could I, as I see it, tell it, 
I were a bard indeed. 

' Oh ! I am mad, but not with folly, 

Sad am I without melancholy, 

Glad, but with sober merriment ; 

Fond am I, without detriment 

To reason. Bonded to higher will 

That may not be denied, 

My own I seek to kill, 

All fearless of the suicide. 

Oh ! I am calm, 

I know where I am. 

Yea, when most overwrought 

I still am mistress of my thought ; 

Though oft to others I may seem 

A vessel driving to the coast 

On the foam of a dream, 

And utterly lost, 

There 's method in my madness, 

There 's measure in my gladness ; 

And into rhythmic rule I bring 

True anthems to my Lord and King. 

Of loVe, all ruling love, I sing. 



CLARENCE A. WALWORTH 567 

By love inspired, by love oppressed, 

Within my breast 

Electric forces gathering 

Leap into buds ; 

Thoughts crystallize into thick geodes ; 

The grasses wave their myriad flags ; 

Hills helmeted with lofty crags 

Rein up like warriors ; 

The hemlocks bending low, ' , 

Like water carriers, 

Beneath their yokes of snow, 

Keep measure with their feet 

To the time I beat ; 

Pines, crowding to look o'er 

The common score, 

Bend eagerly down till their bonnets meet ; 

Clouds march in groups ; 

Waves march in columns over the sea ; 

Stars gallop in troops ; 

Nights and days keep time ; 

The fuguing seasons chime 

With nature and with me ; 

All praise the Lord together. 

To the last cliffs of space I shout, 

My choristers to gather. 

Sing out ! sing out ! 

Keep tune, keep time, 

To the pitch and motion of my rhyme ! 

Faster ! faster ! faster ! 

Look at me ! 

One ! two ! three ! 

'Tis the measure of the mighty Master. 

So beats revolving life in Trinity. 

'Tis the secret of infinity 



568 CLARENCE A. WAL WORTH 

Who keeps true time shall time outlast ; 

Who loses, stubbornly slow, 

From heaven shall be outcast, 

And its music shall never know. 

Sing all ! sing out ! 

Prolong the chant with joyous shout. 

Faith praises with untiring tongue. 

The hearts that weary die unblest, 

Harps must not be unstrung, 

Love may repose but never rest.' 

ALFRED GURNEY 
The New World 

'That new world which is the old.' TENNYSON. 

ANEW world did Columbus find ? 
Ah ! 'tis not so that world is found ; 
God's golden harvest-sheaves who bind 
Are tillers of another ground. 

No new world like the old we need ; 

One thing suffices one alone, 
A garnered world-harvest from seed 

The wounded Hands of Christ have sown. 

No earthly Paradise avails, 

No Eldorado in the West ; 
The Spirit's Breath must fill their sails 

Who seek the Highlands of the Blest. 

By stripes is healing wrought, and stars 

Point ever to a central Sun ; 
He flies the conquering flag, whose scars, 

Transfigured, speak of Victory won. 



ALFRED GURNEY 569 

O Royal Heart, Thy Kingdom come ! 

All else may change ; all else may go : 
Not eastward, westward, is our Home, 

But onward, upward : even so ! 

One Sign alone is love-designed, 
God's Evergreen, the Eternal Rood ; 

Happy the home-seekers who find 
Its meaning plain a world renewed ! 



EDWIN J. ELLIS 

Preface to 'Fate in Arcadia' 

HERE kneels my word, that may not say 
Even to the inward ear of night 
More than the laughter of the day 
Or the soft weeping of twilight. 

No waking hours, no sleep shall find 
The world's continual dream revealed. 

The Living Word is silent mind, 
And every book is closed and sealed. 

Our Mother Earth for daily things 
Has given the daily mother-tongue ; 

But the mute wonder that she brings, 
All lips have kissed ; no voice has sung. 

And even now the usual word 

Spread like an empty couch and cold 

Measures the sound our fathers heard, 
But holds no more the hint untold. 



570 EDWIN J. ELLIS 

For He is risen whom we seek : 

The linen clothes without the form 

Are folded, lest too clear they speak 
The Divine Body, buried warm. 

Then every song is free from blame, 
Though silence veil her inmost part 

Like the dark centre of the flame, 
Or the hot patience of the heart. 

The Wanderer 

A'\ Christ, it were enough to know 
That brooding on the unborn things 
Thou gatherest up the years that go 
Like a hen's brood beneath her wings. 

It were enough to know that those, 
More evil than the years that fall, 

Who heard Thee mocked Thy safe repose 
And would not trust Thee at Thy call. 

It were enough that Thou hast died, 
Because Thyself Thou couldst not save, 

Unless by losing from Thy side 

Thy sons that drove Thee to Thy grave. 

Yet more arid more we know and see, 
For Golgotha the shade retains 

Of Him who died, the Form of Thee, 
Of Him who bore Thy fleshly pains. 

Nor there alone, this Form shall be 
Still seen within us, Thou dost say 

Until there shine on earth and sea 
Light of the unforeboded Day. 



EDWIN J. ELLIS 571 

O Christ the Wanderer, marked as Cain, 

We know the sign upon Thy brow ; 
We know the trailing cross, the stain ; 

The passing footstep whispers now. 

It was Thy hand, we learn at last, 

That nailed Thee in that far-off year ; 

Thy hand as now Thou wanderest past, 
Drives deep within Thy side the spear. 

While evil holds the world in grip 

And men revile the eternal powers, 
This vision holds Thee lip to lip 

Close to our love and makes Thee ours. 



JOHN GRAY 
The Tree of Knowledge 

FROM what meek jewel seed 
Did this tree spring ? 
How first beat its new life in bleak abode 
Of virgin rock, strange metals for its food, 
Towards its last hewn mould, the bitter rood r 
First did it sprout, indeed, 
A double wing. 

Earth hung with its gross weight 

Its loins unto : 

The tender wings, with hope in every vein, 
Beat feebly upward, saying : ' Is this the pain 
The Sooth spake of ; to lift to God again 
This blackness' dark estate 
Reformed anew ? 



572 JOHN GRAY 

' Mine 'tis, of fruit mine own, 

To work this deed : 

Earnest of promise absolute, these green 
Sweet wings ; a million engines pulse therein. 
Yet can I leave not for a space, to lean 
Upon a fulcrum known, 
To know my need.' 



With which, the seed upthrust 

To God a scale ; 

Wondering at its fibre and tough growth ; 
Saying, the while it purposed : ' For He knoweth 
My sore extremity, how I am loth 
To cleave unto the dust 
Which makes me hale.' 



Long while the scale increased 

In height and girth ; 

Cast many branches forth and many wings ; 
Wherein and under, formed and fashioned things 
Had great content and speech and twitterings : 
Insect and fowl and beast 
And sons of earth. 



Stern, netherward did grope 

Each resolute root 

Of the tree, making question in the deep 
Of spirits, where the mighty metals sleep, 
How long ere from its base the rock should leap ; 
Saying : Yet have I hope 
Of that my fruit.' 



JOHN GRAY 573 

Sprang from its topmost bough 

The hope at length 

Fearsome and fierce and passionate. The sire 
Warmed his son's vitals with celestial fire, 
Feeding him with sweet gum of strong desire, 
Lest be not stanch enow 
His godly strength. 



Until the gardener came 

With his white spouse, 
Wounding the tree, and ravishing the son, 
(Whence curses fallen and a world undone.) 
For that rape, wrathfully a shining one 
Drave them with fearful flame 
Without their house. 



Race upon savage race, 

Rough brood on brood, 

Defiled before it, whiles the tree scanned each ; 
Leaned leaf and branch to grapple and beseech ; 
Till, on a certain day, requiring speech 
Of the tree, at its base 

The whole world stood : 



1 What hast thou given us, 

Thou barren tree ? 

" Knowledge," thou answerest ? Thou hast set agape 
The door of Knowledge only. Thy limbs ape 
Some truth. We love thee not, nor love thy shape. 
Imposture, thus and thus 
We fashion thee.' 



574 JOHN GRAY 

Sorely then handled it 

The gardener's sons. 

Strangely they built it newly, having cleft 
Its being all asunder ; stem bereft 
Of quivering limbs, save one to right and left, 
Urging the self-same wit 
It gave them once. 



' Lo ! all my glories fall. 

Of these my woes, 

What know those wrathful men, save, in yon place, 
Perhaps, yon athlete, stripped for my embrace ? 
If longing cheat me not, writ in his face. 
He knows about it all, 
He knows, he knows. 

' Sorrow ! What sin they now, 

Those wrathful men ? 

Passion ! thou'rt come to me again too soon : 
Too hot thou givst me back the fiery boon 
I gave thee ; love consumes me, that I swoon ; 
Thou, on my topmost bough, 
My fruit again.' 



On the Holy Trinity 

ERE aught began, 
Beyond the span 
Of sense, the Word 
(O priceless hoard !) 
Was, which God fashioned in his youth, 



JOHN GRAY 575 

O Fatherbreast, 

Wherefrom, with zest, 

The Word did bloom ! 

Yet did the womb 
Retain the Word in very truth. 

Of twain a fount, 

Love paramount, 

The double troth, 

Known unto both, 
The ever gentle Spirit flows. 

Equal, and none 

Can make but one ; 

One are the three ; 

Yet what it be 
That triple spirit only knows. 

The triple crown 

Hath deep renown ; 

Ring without clasp 

No sense can grasp, 
It is a depth without a floor. 

Is rest, is grace, 

Shape, form and space ; 

The source, the ring 

Of everything ; 
A point which never moveth more. 

To its abode 

There is no road ; 

Curiously 

It beareth thee 
Into a desert strangely strange. 

Is wide, is broad, 

Unmeasured road ; 

The desert has 

Nor time nor space, 
Its way is wonderfully strange. 



576 JOHN GRAY 

That desert plot 

No foot hath trod ; 

Created wit 

Ne'er came to it ; 
It is, and no man knoweth what. 

Is there, is here, 

Is far, is near, 

Is deep, is high, 

And none reply 
Whether this thing be this or that. 

Is light, is pure, 

Is most obscure, 

Nameless, alone, 

It is unknown, 
Free both of end and origin. 

It standeth dark, 
Is bare and stark ; 
Reveal his face 
Who knows its place, 
And say what fashion it is in. 
Become a child, 
Deaf, blind and mild ; 
Be eye and thought 
Reduced to naught, 
Self and negation driven back. 
Space, time resign, 
And every sign, 
No leader hath 
The narrow path, 
So com'st thou to the desert track. 
O soul, abroad, 
Go in to God ; 
Sink as a yes 
In nothingness, 
Sink in unfathomable flood. 



JOHN GRAY 577 

I fly from thee, 
Thou greatest me ; 
Self left behind, 
If I but find 
Thee, O thou good of every good ! 



EUGENE MASON 

i). 1862 

Apparition 

HOW shall I find Him, who can be my guide ? 
Wears He a human form, a tear-marred face, 
By blood-red raiment may He be descried, 

Or broods He far withdrawn through stellar space ? 
Perchance, informing all, His coils entwine 

And bind the monstrous fabric cell to cell, 
Or, veiled in service, 'neath this Bread and Wine 

A homely God, He deigns with men to dwell. 
Lo ! just beyond the skyline He may stand, 

Speak just without the waftage of mine ear, 
I all but touch Him with my outstretched hand, 

Clear to my senses He may straight appear. 

I hush my drumming heart, I stay my breath 
To catch His step, to hearken what He saith. 

FRED. G. BOWLES 
Resurrection 

AS the slow Evening gather'd in her grey, 
ji\ And one clear star its ancient pathway trod 
With long, low cadences of dear delay 

The lark, descending, left his song with God ! 
MYST. u 



578 FRED. G. BOWLES 

And Peace came, like a reverential soul, 

With far-off tremors of a further world, 
And thro' the silver mist of twilight stole 

Unto the heart of all. And upward curl'd 
The April moon, resurgent of the sun, 

To the blue dusk of the exalted dome 
Of heav'n ; and the white wind-flowers, one by one, 

Shook in light slumber on their hilly home. 
It was so sweet to stoop and feel around ! 

Each blade of grass a breathing lyre of life 
Whereon the wind, in arias of sound, 

Told subtle music ; how the great World, rife 
With scent of violet, and primrose-strewn, 

Strain'd tender fingers from each dewy sod 
To the dear Christ of chrysalis and moon 

And, dusk descending, left her soul with God ! 



An Insurgent of Art 

IKE a tired lover I rest on her bosom, 

I, the Insurgent of Art . . . Thou, the Glory, 
Worshipped of Cherubim, leaning toward me ; 
Now through the yellowing clouds of the rushes, 
Now o'er the music of waters melodic, 
Now from the wavering blue fields of heaven, 
Or from the daffodil's soundless pale trumpet, 
Drawing my soul with miraculous ardours ! 
What is thy purpose ? Ah ! What is thy doing ? 
White stars are water-blooms set in the ocean, 
Young lives are petals from one burning Blossom, 
Fallen from altitudes starry and primal 
Welcome the wind that shall blow them to shelter, 
Breathe on their circumstance, shape the Soul's eddy, 



FRED. G. BOWLES 579 

Separately fire and transform all this wonder. 
I, thy lost lover, long-waiting, have found Thee, 
I, who had seen Thy sheathed colours, descending, 
Melt into violets, flow into pansies, 
Know that the Master hath need of the artist ! 
Out of the force of His Being, atomic, 
Came I, and go I, ripe seed of His sowing ; 
Reticent, mutinous, still have I found Thee, 
Steadfast I worship, for Thou art so near me 
Set in a Soul, my one Holy of Holies ! 



NORA CHESSON 
Hertha 

I AM the spirit of all that lives, 
Labours and loses and forgives. 
My breath's the wind among the reeds ; 
I'm wounded when a birch-tree bleeds. 
I am the clay nest 'neath the eaves 
And the young life wherewith it brims. 
The silver minnow where it swims 
Under a roof of lily-leaves 
Beats with my pulses ; from my eyes 
The violet gathered amethyst. 
I am the rose of winter skies, 
The moonlight conquering the mist. 

I am the bird the falcon strikes ; 
My strength is in the kestrel's wing, 
My cruelty is in the shrikes. 
My pity bids the dock-leaves grow 
Large, that a little child may know 



580 NORA CHESSON 

Where he shall heal the nettle's sting. 
I am the snowdrop and the snow, 
Dead amber, and the living fir 
The corn-sheaf and the harvester. 

My craft is breathed into the fox 
When, a red cub, he snarls and plays 
With his red vixen. Yea, I am 
The wolf, the hunter, and the lamb ; 
I am the slayer and the slain, 
The thought new-shapen in the brain. 
I am the ageless strength of rocks, 
The weakness that is all a grace, 
Being the weakness of a flower. 

The secret on the dead man's face 

Written in his last living hour, 

The endless trouble of the seas 

That fret and struggle with the shore, 

Strive and are striven with evermore 

The changeless beauty that they wear 

Through all their changes all of these 

Are mine. The brazen streets of hell 

I know, and heaven's gold ways as well. 

Mortality, eternity, 

Change, death, and life are mine are me. 



5 8i 

EVA GORE-BOOTH 

The Quest 

FOR years I sought the Many in the One, 
I thought to find lost waves and broken rays, 
The rainbow's faded colours in the sun 
The dawns and twilights of forgotten days. 

But now I seek the One in every form, 
Scorning no vision that a dewdrop holds, 
The gentle Light that shines behind the storm, 
The Dream that many a twilight hour enfolds. 

ffarvest 

THOUGH the long seasons seem to separate 
Sower and reaper or deeds dreamed and done, 
Yet when a man reaches the Ivory Gate 
Labour and life and seed and corn are one. 

Because thou art the doer and the deed, 
Because thou art the thinker and the thought, 
Because thou art the helper and the need, 
And the cold doubt that brings all things to nought. 

Therefore in every gracious form and shape 
The world's dear open secret shalt thou find, 
From the One Beauty there is no escape 
Nor from the sunshine of the Eternal mind. 

The patient labourer, with guesses dim, 
Follows this wisdom to its secret goal. 
He knows all deeds and dreams exist in him, 
And all men's God in every human soul. 



582 EVA GORE-BOOTH 

Form 

THE buried statue through the marble gleams, 
Praying for freedom, an unwilling guest, 
Yet flooding with the light of her strange dreams 
The hard stone folded round her uncarved breast. 

Founded in granite, wrapped in serpentine, 
Light of all life and heart of every storm, 
Doth the uncarven image, the Divine, 
Deep in the heart of each man, wait for form. 

SUSAN MITCHELL 
The Living Chalice 

PHE Mother sent me on the holy quest, 
1 Timid and proud and curiously dressed 
In vestures by her hand wrought wondrously ; 
An eager burning heart she gave to me. 
The Bridegroom's Feast was set and I drew nigh- 
Master of Life, Thy Cup has passed me by. 

Before new-dressed I from the Mother came, 
In dreams I saw the wondrous Cup of Flame. 
Ah, Divine Chalice, how my heart drank deep, 
Waking I sought the Love I knew asleep. 
The Feast of Life was set and I drew nigh 
Master of Life, Thy Cup has passed me by. 

Eye of the Soul, awake, awake and see 
Growing within the Ruby Radiant Tree, 
Sharp pain hath wrung the Clusters of my Vine ; 
My heart is rose-red with its brimmed wine. 
Thou hast new-set the Feast and I draw nigh 
Master of Life, take me, Thy Cup am I. 



SUSAN MITCHELL 583 

Immortality 

AjE cannot reach me where the veils of God 
Have shut me in, 
For me the myriad births of stars and suns 

Do but begin, 
And here how fragrantly there blows to me 

The holy breath, 

Sweet from the flowers and stars and hearts of men, 
From life and death. 

We are not old, O heart, we are not old, 

The breath that blows 
The soul aflame is still a wandering wind 

That comes and goes ; 
And the stirred heart with sudden raptured life 

A moment glows. 

A moment here a bulrush's brown head 

In the grey rain, 
A moment there a child drowned and a heart 

Quickened with pain ; 
The name of Death, the blue deep heaven, the scent 

Of the salt sea, 
The spicy grass, the honey robbed 

From the wild feee. 

Awhile we walk the world on its wide roads 

And narrow ways, 
And they pass by, the countless shadowy troops 

Of nights and days ; 
We know them not, O happy heart, 

For you and I 
Watch where within a slow dawn lightens up 

Another sky. 



584 SUSAN MITCHELL 

Love' s Mendicant 

WHAT do I want of thee ? 
No gift of smile or tear 
Nor casual company, 
But in still speech to me 
Only thy heart to he r. 

Others contentedly 
Go lonely here and there ; 
I cannot pass thee by, 
Love's Mendicant am I 
Who meet thee everywhere. 

No merchandise I make ; 
Thou mayst not give to me 
The counterfeits they take. 
I claim Him for Love's sake, 
The Hidden One in thee. 



JAMES H. COUSINS 
The Quest 

HT'HEY said : ' She dwelleth in some place apart, 
JL Immortal Truth, within whose eyes 

Who looks may find the secret of the skies 
And healing for life's smart ! ' 

I sought Her in loud caverns underground, 
On heights where lightnings flashed and fell ; 
I scaled high Heaven ; I stormed the gates of Hell, 

But Her I never found 



JAMES H. COUSINS 585 

Till thro' the tumults of my Quest I caught 
A whisper : ' Here, within thy heart, 
I dwell ; for I am thou : behold, thou art 

The Seeker and the Sought.' 

Vision 

[EN I from life's unrest had earned the grace 
-Of utter ease beside a quiet stream ; 
When all that was had mingled in a dream 
To eyes awakened out of time and place ; 
Then in the cup of one great moment's space 
Was crushed the living wine from things that seem ; 
I drank the joy of very Beauty's gleam, 
And saw God's glory face to shining face. 

Almost my brow was chastened to the ground, 

But for an inner Voice that said : ' Arise ! 

Wisdom is wisdom only to the wise : 

Thou art thyself the Royal thou hast crowned : 

In Beauty thine own beauty thou hast found, 

And thou hast looked on God with God's own eyes.' 



ALICE MARY BUCKTON 

The Great Response 

I ET me come nearer Thee, 

LiO Perfect Soul ! 

Down-looking on me, whereso'er I tread, 
With earnest gaze from cliff, and sky o'erhead, 
From clustered leaves and buds and bowers of green- 
Let me come nearer Thee ! 



5 86 ALICE MARY BUCKTON 

Seeking Thine intercourse 

I wander wide 

O'er hills and valleys, under moon and stars, 
Rapt in a secret tumult of delight 
At every passing cloud, and changing light 

On stream and mountain side. 

I kiss thy cheek, fair rose ! 

Its pearly hue 

Reflects the darker passion blood of mine : 
Thy tender breath, responding to the lips, 
Is sweeter to the soul than new-mixt wine. 

Young veined 'leaf uncurled, 

And tendril green, 
Clinging about my finger slenderly, 
Thou seest not : what wouldst thou have of me ? 
What happy sense hast thou, to know the touch 

Of the unseen ? 

Blue dome of heaven that guards 

The living world 

Like a green gem within a casket rare, 
Fretted with brooks, and set in silver seas, 
What Breast contains ye both, the moving Earth 

And the free Air ? 

And lo.! within my soul 

Some happy Thing 

Betrayed the secret sigh of heart's content : 
And, from the hollows of the breathless hills 
There came a quiet Voice : Look round on Me, 
The Presence, the Desire that moves and fills, 

The whole the part ! 



ALICE MARY BUCKTON 587 

I rise upon the winds : 

I draw the stars 

Thro' realms of night, on paths of trackless dawn ! 
Mine Eye contains the light of Day : mine Arm 
Unfurls the cloud, and flings the grateful shade 

On hill and lawn ! 

In glimmering regions, yet unfound, 

I penetrate 

The Abyss of Being, and the Springs of Thought : 
I order things that be : and blamelessly 
Divide the heavens and earth, reproved of nought, 
Of Joy and Power, insatiate ! 

I linger in the twilight land of grief : 

With health divine 

Breathing on frozen hearts that know me not ; 
They lift their marred and chilly lips to me, 
Swooning into my bosom dreamlessly, 

For Grief and Death are mine ! 

I gather up the fleeting Souls that seem 

All day to die : 

Their beauty, melting, passeth not away ! 
Woven into the golden mist of Life 
They 'merge again upon the teeming Strife 

That worketh endlessly ! 

And Man, the fairest of my children ! Thou 
That battiest darkly with thy Destiny, 
Whom I have made for god-like liberty, 
And fain had lifted up to be with Me 
My son and fellow-worker ! know 



588 ALICE MARY BUCKTON 

I only Am : unhasting, uncontrolled, 

My Perfect Will 

Fulfils it's perfect Self, around, above ! 
My HIDDEN NAME is Joy ! O mortal, yield 
Unto the Breath that would thy being fill, 
The Breath of Love ! 



Before the Dawn 

nPHOU, for whom words have exhausted their sweet- 

JL ness 

Thou, the All-End of all human desire 
Thou, in whose Presence the ages are hourless, 
Gather me nigher ! 

Husht in the chambers where Reason lies sleeping, 
Ere the Day claim us, to which we are told, 
Wrapped in the veil of Thy slumbering Beauty, 
Fold me, oh fold ! 

Fill me afresh with the wonder of wakening 
Draw me again with Thy splendour and might 
Open my lids but a moment, and grant me 
Sight of Thy sight ! 

Out of the furthest high Throne of Thy Dwelling. 
A motionless Flame on the Bosom of Thought, 
Deign to uncover Thyself, O Eternal 
Seeker and Sought ! 

Pure in the Body that offers Thee homage, 
Blest in the Thought that embraces Thee far, 
Next to Thy secret and innermost Breathing 
Thy worshippers are ! 



ALICE MARY BUCKTON 589 

Forth to the Day that I know not awaiting, 
Out to the highway Thy glory hath trod, 
Glad as a child, and as passionless, fearless, 
Lead me, O God ! 

ANNA BUNSTON (MRS. DE BARY) 

Basque Peasant retumiri g from Church 
LITTLE lark, you need not fly 



o 



To seek your Master in the sky, 

He treads our native sod; 
Why should you sing aloft, apart ? 
Sing to the heaven of my heart ; 

In me, in me, in me is God ! 

O strangers passing in your car, 
You pity me who come so far 

On dusty feet, ill shod ; 
You cannot guess, you cannot know 
Upon what wings of joy I go 

Who travel home with God. 

From far-off lands they bring your fare, 
Earth's choicest morsels are your share, 

And prize of gun and rod ; 
At richer boards I take my seat, 
Have dainties angels may not eat : 

In me, in me, in me is God ! 

O little lark, sing loud and long 

To Him who gave you flight and song, 

And me a heart aflame. 
He loveth them of low degree, 
And He hath magnified me, 

And holy, holy, holy is His Name ! 



590 



ANNA BUNSTON 



A Great Mystery 

Shall I, the gnat which dances in Thy ray, 
Dare to be reverent ? COVENTRY PATMORE 

STRANGELY, strangely, Lord, this morning 
Camest Thou beneath my roof, 
Shorn of all Thy royal adorning, 

Stripp'd of judgement and reproof, 
The King of kings yet gladly scorning, 

Every plea but love's behoof. 
' Can this be God ? ' I said, ' who enters, 

This be God who climbs my stair ? 
God sits high in heavenly centres, 

And though He hath us in His care, 
'Tis as His adopted children, 

Slaves redeemed from Satan's snare. 
God is mightier than the mountains, 

Far more majesty would wear, 
This One comes like summer fountains, 

Hath no snow upon His hair. 
With eagle pinions God will cover 

Those who seek for refuge there, 
But these are dove-like wings that hover, 

God was never half so fair.' 
Then with voice like falling water 

Viewless angels sang to me, 
Fear not thou, O virgin daughter, 

Thy King desires thy poverty. 

At that ' Ave Maria' 

I arose and I obeyed ; 
O my King Cophetua, 

I, Thy blessed beggar-maid, 



ANNA BUNSTON 591 

Who once lay among the potsherds 

Stand in silver plumes arrayed ; 
I, who lonely in the vineyards 

Morn and noon and evening strayed, 
Now am wrapt in Thine embraces, 

'Neath Thy banner * Love ' am laid, 
Made partaker of Thy graces, 

I, the outcast beggar-maid. 

No excuse and no invention 

Makes me less unworthy Thee, 
No prostration, no pretension 

Of unique humility, 
But Thy glorious condescension 

Blazes through my misery, 
And Thy love finds full extension 

In the nothingness of me. 
Dark my soul, yet Thou hast sought her, 

My night allows Thy day to shine, 
Thou the grape art, I the water 

Both together make the wine. 
I the clay and Thou the craftsman, 

I the boat and Thou the strand, 
I the pencil, Thou the draughtsman, 

I the harp and Thou the hand. 

But the world with envy raging 

Fain would snatch me, Lord, from Thee, 
And Death and Hell their war are waging, 

Therefore go not far from me. 
By the mystery of this housel, 

By this momentary truth, 
By the love of this espousal, 

By this kindness of my youth, 



592 ANNA BUNSTON 

By Thy promise of remembrance, 

By that sweet perversity 
That makes my dark uncomely semblance 

Seem desirable to Thee 
Leave me not lest faith should falter, 

O ! secure my fealty, 
I the victim on Thine altar, 

Thou the fire consuming me. 



' Sovereign Lord^ Thou Lover of Men s 
Souls! 3 

'"pHOU hope of all Humanity, 
1 What of all this that meets the sight, 

The blood, the tears, the misery ? 

Raiment of needlework outspread 
Wrought curiously with golden thread, 

That my bride may "be fitly adorned to-night. 

But, oh thou Bridegroom of the Soul, 

What of the sounds, the sounds of fear, 

The groans of men, the bells that toll ? 

Thou hearest the minstrels tune their lutes, 
Thou hearest the young men try their flutes 

For the feast of the marriage that draweth near. 

Yet, oh thou Bridegroom of the Soul, 
What of the mind's captivity ? 
What of the spirit's doubt and dole ? 

Out of the ebony halls of night, 

Aloes, cassia, myrrh, delight, 
The bride in her palace of ivory. 



ANNA BUNSTON 593 

Then, oh thou Bridegroom of the Soul, 
What of the songs from woods new-clothed, 
The laughing flowers, the sunlit knoll ? 

My footsteps that follow along the shore, 

My fingers about the latch and door, 
My face at the window of my betrothed. 



Under a Wiltshire Apple Ttee 

SOME folk as can afford, 
So Pve heard say, 
Set up a sort of cross 
Right in the garden way 
To mind 'em of the Lord. 



But I, when I do see 

Thik apple tree 

An' stoopin' limb 

All spread wi' moss, 

I think of Him 

And how He talks wi' me. 

I think of God 

And how He trod 

That garden long ago ; 

He walked, I reckon, to and fro 

And then sat down 

Upon the groun' 

Or some low limb 

What suited Him 

Such as you see 



594 ANNA BUNSTON 

On many a tree, 
And on thik very one 
Where I at set o' sun 
Do sit and talk wi' He. 

And, mornings too, I rise and come 
An' sit down where the branch be low ; 
A bird do sing, a bee do hum, 
The flowers in the border blow, 
And all my heart 's so glad and clear 
As pools when mists do disappear : 
As pools a-laughing in the light 
When mornin' air is swep' an' bright, 
As pools what got all Heaven in sight 
So's my heart's cheer 
When He be near. 

He never pushed the garden door, 
He left no footmark on the floor ; 
I never heard 'Un stir nor tread 
And yet His Hand do bless my head, 
And when 'tis time for work to start 
I takes Him with me in my heart. 

And when I die, pray God I see 
At very last thik apple tree 
An' stoopin' limb, 
And think of Him 
And all He been to me. 



595 

DARRELL FIGGIS 
Slaibh Mor 

1 STOOD among the ancient hills, 
While all the dusk eve's blue array 
Swept round with softly rustling wings 
To still the glamour of the day. 
The murmur of persistent rills, 
A lone thrush with his communings 
Of music, folded in some trees, 
A piping robin ere he flew, 
And the soft touch of a calm breeze 
Sighing across the heavenly view, 
Were the sole voices whispering round 
The slope hills with reflective sound, 
So still the whole earth was : 
So very still it was. 
The solemn conclave of the hills, 
In an erect fraternity, 
Expectant of the hour to be, 
Were trembling in the calm that fills 
The house of Being with its peace. 
A measured rhythm flowed abroad 
From old Earth of the heart so strong, 
That was itself a manner of song, 
Bidding the day's tame tumults cease 
Before the coming of her lord. 
The throstle, as he communed low, 
Enchanted seemed, and tranced, and spelled, 
To catch the measure of that flow 
That from the mighty heart upwelled, 
That his own song thereby should be 
Lost in the inner immensity. 



596 DARRELL FIGGIS 

The trickling music of the rills 
Along the bosom of the hills 
Was to that larger rhythm bent, 
And in that larger silence played. 
The very winds that came and went 
Were in their courses stayed, 
Hushed in a mute expectancy. 
The silent Earth was bent in prayer. 
And I, as I stood there, 
Scarce witting what my body knew, 
Was hushed to adoration too. 

Like a charmed cadence throbbing low 

Along her scarred, mute visage so, 

Flowed the Earth's spirit thro' the air 

Emerging from its ancient lair, 

Flowed round the dusk and glooming hills 

That stood in solemn peacefulness, 

Flowed thro' the shimmer of air that fills 

The valleys with a shadowy tress, 

Flowed up where stars began to peep, 

Flowed where the hushed winds lay asleep, 

And sank again while peace profound 

Wrapped all the ancient hills around. 

Not a breath stirred ; 

No voice or song was heard. 

It was a silence vaster than the dead ; 

It was a silence where in all its power 

Being raised up its mighty head an hour. 

And I, tho' I scarce knew what chanced, 

Caught in the measured rhythm, and tranced, 

Was yet raised to a terrible dread 

Of the great hush that wrapped the hills : 

That spell upon the standing hills. 



DARRELL FIGGIS 597 

I could have fled, but that the awe 
Of an unfurling and strange might 
Had me transfigured in its law. 
And yet the fear that stirred in me 
Was mingled with a wild delight 
That thrilled with very ecstasy 
Thro' every nerve and vein and mesh 
Building my quivering house of flesh. 

Then a strange shudder shook the hills. 

Some movement swayed them in eclipse, 

As tho' a dread apocalypse 

Were waiting till they were unfurled 

With all the travail of the world. 

They were transformed, and shadowy-high 

They stood there, and yet floated by ; 

While from some inner place of flame 

A boom of distant music came 

Suddenly thro' the air, 

And huge and silent chords of sound 

Soared o'er the quivering hills around, 

As I hung trembling there. 

My house of flesh could scarce contain 

The rolling chords that swept abroad 

And undissolved remain, 

My joy stirred in me with such pain. 

Loosed on the silence that had been, 

Obeying its symphonic lord, 

The music rolled thro' time and space, 

Booming in changing chord on chord 

Amidst a silence that seemed still 

Upon the old Earth's brooding face. 

It rolled round each reverberate hill ; 

It crashed its high symphonic will 



598 DARRELL FIGGIS 

And floated all the vales between, 
In clouds of colour mounting high, 
In waves of music sweeping by, 
Booming above the ancient peace 
Betwixt the ancient silences. 

What chanced I do not know. 
How is it I should know ? 
Like rolling clouds before the day 
The booming music rolled away ; 
And, like a storm of splendour past, 
The silence seemed yet to outlast 
The music it had ushered so. 
Then slowly the wise thrush arose 
And mused away the evening's close. 



CLIFFORD BAX 
The Meaning of Man 

Take courage ; for the race of man is divine. 

The Golden Verses. 

DEAR and fair as Earth may be 
Not from out her womb are we, 
Like an elder sister only, like a foster-mother, she, 
For we come of heavenly lineage, of a pure undying race, 
We who took the poppied potion of our life, and quaffing 

deep 
Move enchanted now forever in the shadow world of 

sleep, 

In the vast and lovely vision that is wrought of time and 
space. 



CLIFFORD BAX 599 

Overhead the sun and moon 

Shining at the gates of birth 
Give to each a common boon, 

All the joy of earth ; 
Mountains lit with moving light, 
Forest, cavern, cloud and river, 
Ebb and flow of day and night 

Around the world forever. 

These and all the works of man may he who will behold, 
Mighty shapes of bygone beauty, songs of beaten gold, 
Starlike thoughts that once, in ages gone, were found by 

seer-sages, 
All the throng'd and murmuring Past, the life men loved 

of old. 
Yet sometimes at the birth of night when hours of heat 

and splendour 

Melt away in darkness, and the flaming sun has set 
Across the brooding soul will sweep, like music sad and 

tender, 

Sudden waves of almost passionate regret, 
For then the hills and meadowlands, the trees and flowerf ul 

grasses, 

All the world of wonder that our eyes have gazed upon, 
Seems remote and mournful, as a rainbow when it 

passes 
Leaves the heart lamenting for the beauty come and 

gone, 

And in the deep that is the soul there surges up a cry 
' Whence are all the starry legions traversing the sky ? 
Whence the olden planets and the sun and moon and 

earth ? 

Out of what came all of these and out of what came I ? ' 
And far away within the same unfathomable deep 
Comes an answer rolling ' Earth and moon and sun, 



600 CLIFFORD BAX 

All that is, that has been, or that ever time shall reap, 
Is but moving home again, with mighty labours done, 
The Many to the Everlasting One.' 

And this is the meaning of man, 

The task of the soul, 
The labour of worlds, and the plan 

That is set for the whole, 
For the spark of the spirit imprisoned within it, 

In all things one and the same, 
Aeon by aeon and minute by minute, 

Is longing to leap into flame, 
To shatter the limits of life and be lost in a glory intense 

and profound 

As the soul with a cry goes out into music and seeks to be 
one with the sound. 

For as those that are sunken deep 
In the green dim ocean of sleep, 

In a thousand shapes for a thousand ages the one great 
Spirit is bound. 
The air we inhale and the sea, 

The warm brown earth and the sun, 
Came forth at the Word of the One 
From the same First Mother as we, 
And now, as of old when the world began 
The stars of the night are the kindred of man, 
For all things move to a single goal, 
The giant sun or the thinking soul. 
Ah what though the Tree whose rise and fall 
Of sap is fed from the Spirit of All, 
With suns for blossoms and planets for leaves, 
Be vaster yet than the mind conceives ? 
Earth is a leaf on the boundless Tree, 
And the unborn soul of the earth are we. 



CLIFFORD BAX 601 

O man is a hungering exiled people, a host in an unknown 

land, 
A wandering mass in the vast with only a black horizon 

to face, 
Yet still, though we toil for a time in the heat over 

measureless deserts of sand 

The longing for beauty that shines in the soul is the 
guiding-star of the race. 

It is this that alone may redeem 

A world ignoble with strife, 
This only bring all that we dream 
From the shattered chaos of life. 
And this that forever shall spur us and lead us from peak 

unto peak on the way 
Till body and spirit be welded in one and -the long Night 

fall on the Day, 
And all the sonorous music of time, the hills and the woods 

and the wind and the sea, 
The one great song of the whole creation, of all that is 

and that yet shall be, 
Chanted aloud as a paean of joy by the Being whose home 

is the vast 

Shall tremble away in silence, and all be gone at the last, 
Save only afar in the Heart of the Singer of whom it was 

chanted and heard 
Remembrance left of the music as a sunset-fire in the 

west, 
Remembrance left of the mighty Enchanted Palace that 

rose at His Word, 
This, and a joy everlasting, an immense inviolate rest. 



ELSA BARKER 
He 'who knows Love 

HE who knows Love becomes Love, and his eyes 
Behold Love in the heart of everyone, 
Even the loveless : as the light of the sun 
Is one with all it touches. He is wise 
With undivided wisdom, for he lies 

In Wisdom's arms. His wanderings are done, 
For he has found the Source whence all things run 
The guerdon of the quest, that satisfies. 

He who knows Love becomes Love, and he knows 
All beings are himself, twin-born of Love. 

Melted in Love's own fire, his spirit flows 
Into all earthly forms, below, above ; 

He is the breath and glamour of the rose, 
He is the benediction of the dove. 



The Slumberer 

OTHOU mysterious One, lying asleep 
Within the lonely chamber of my soul ! 
Thou art my life's true goal, 
Thine is the only altar that I keep. 
Rapt in the contemplation of thy repose, 
I see in thy still face that Mystic Rose 
Whose perfume is my soul's imaginings, 
And Beauty at whose awesomeness I weep 
With over-plenitude of ecstasy. 
Thy slumber is the great world-mystery 



ELSA BARKER 603 

The paradigm of all the latent things 

That in their destined hour Time magnifies : 

Its emblems are the intimate hush that lies 

Over the moonlit lake ; 

The wonder and the ache 

Of unborn love that trembles in its sleep ; 

The hope that thrills the heavy earth 

With presage of becoming, and vast birth ; 

The secret of the caverns of the deep. 



The Mystic Rose 

I, WOMAN, am that wonder-breathing rose 
That blossoms in the garden of the King. 
In all the world there is no lovelier thing, 
And the learned stars no secret can disclose 
Deeper than mine that almost no one knows. 
The perfume of my petals in the spring 
Is inspiration to all bards that sing 
Of love, the spirit's lyric unrepose. 

Under my veil is hid the mystery 

Of unaccomplished aeons, and my breath 
The Master-Lover's life replenisheth. 
The mortal garment that is worn by me 
The loom of Time renews continually ; 

And when I die the universe knows death. 



604 ELSA BARKER 



Microprosopos 

BEHIND the orient darkness of thine eyes, 
The eyes of God interrogate my soul 
With whelming love. The luminous waves that roll 
Over thy body are His dream. It lies 
On thee as the moon-glamour on the skies ; 
And all around the yearning aureole 
Of His effulgent being broods the whole 
Rapt universe, that our love magnifies. 

O thou, through whom for me Infinity 
Is manifest ! Bitter and salt, thy tears 
Are the heart-water of the passionate spheres, 

With all their pain. I drink them thirstily ! 

While in thy smile is realized for me 
The flaming joys of archangelic years. 



PAUL HOOKHAM 

A Meditation 

Self is Peace ; that Self am I. 
J. The Self is Strength ; that Self am I.' 
What needs this trembling strife 
With phantom threats of Form and Time and Space ? 

Could once my Life 
Be shorn of their illusion, and efface 
From its clear heaven that stormful imagery, 

My Self were seen 
An Essence free, unchanging, strong, serene. 



PAUL HOOKHAM 605 

The Self is Peace. How placid dawns 

The Summer's parent hour 
Over the dewy maze that drapes the fields, 

Each drooped wild flower, 
Or where the lordship of the garden shields 
Select Court beauties and exclusive lawns ! 

'Tis but the show 
And fitful dream of Peace the Self can know. 

The Self is Strength. Let Nature rave, 

And tear her maddened breast, 
Now doom the drifting ship, with blackest frown, 

Or now, possessed 

With rarer frenzy, wreck the quaking town, 
And bury quick beneath her earthy wave 

She cannot break 
One fibre of that Strength, one atom shake. 

The Self is one with the Supreme 

Father in fashioning, 
Though clothed in perishable weeds that feel 

Pain's mortal sting, 

The unlifting care, the wound that will not heal ; 
Yet these are not the Self they only seem. 

From faintest jar 
Of whirring worlds the true Self broods afar. 

Afar he whispers to the mind 
To rest on the Good Law, 
To know that naught can fall without its range, 

Nor any flaw 

Of Chance disturb its reign, or shadow of Change ; 
That what can bind the life the Law must bind 

Whatever hand 
Dispose the lot, it is by that Command ; 



6o6 PAUL HOOKHAM 

To know no suffering can beset 

Our lives, that is not due. 
That is not forged by our own act and will ; 

Calmly to view 

Whate'er betide of seeming good or ill. 
The worst we can conceive but pays some debt, 

Or breaks some seal, 
To free us from the bondage of the Wheel. 



WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE 

Foreword 

A Song of the Little City 

Ar intervals of tunes 
And under lonely towers, 
Where silences of noons 
Cover their secret flowers, 
In places no one knows, 
Where winding ways go down, 
In the dim heart of a rose, 
I find the Little Town. 

When my soul wearieth 
Of cities proud and great, 
Whose skies are dark as death, 
But gold is in their gate : 
When my soul sorry is 
For ships of great renown, 
And rich men's palaces, 
I seek the Little Town. 



WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE 607 

Upon a hill it stands, 
Built up with quiet walls, 
Guarding inviolate lands, 
A place of festivals, 
A place of happy bells, 
Where comes no earthly one, 
Beyond the heavens and hells, 
Between the moon and sun. 

Between the moon and sun, 
Far, far beyond the stars, 
Where comes not any one, 
Nor roll the great world's cars. 
With an angel all day through, 
That wears a golden crown, 
And is robed in red and blue, 
I find the Little Town. 

Fountains are playing there, 
And children dance all day, 
Who are far lovelier 
Than any fabled fay, 
And in their festivals 
Far, far away behold, 
From the high carven walls, 
Dim mountains made of gold 

And high above it all, 
With arches rich and fine, 
A minster towering tall 
Proclaims the place divine : 
Where none to veil Him be, 
And the birds of Eden sing, 
I find the lord of me, 
The Little City's King. 



608 WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE 



Turris Rburnea 

A Song of God's Fool the Mystic 

MY soul is like a fenced tower, 
And holds a secret room : 
I hide me in it many an hour 
Amid its dim perfume : 
I have my holy bloom, 
The Rose of Heaven in flower : 
I hold my inner bower 
In strait and dreaming gloom, 
My soul my fenced tower. 

The Rose of soil angelical, 
That shines not over earth, 
I have its buds and petals all, 
Inestimable of worth, 
Its blood-red calyces 
Dyed with the wine of God, 
Roots earthy from that sod, 
Which dews in Syon bless, 
And leaves of loveliness. 

Its radiant heart unfolds to me, 
Its starry soul is plain 
In glimmering felicity, 
Dyed deep with love and pain : 
And while my glad eyes gaze 
Upon its petalled crown, 
I hear a song come down 
With thanksgiving and praise 
Of the celestial town. 



WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE 609 

The moon, that torch Dianian, 
Dreams ever paganly : 
But I am only a simple man 
In a white tower by the sea : 
There comes a liturgy, 
Even for a little span, 
Great voices Christian, 
Songs of my Lord to me, 
To me, a simple man. 

A tower of ivory it is 
Beside a shoreless sea : 
I look out of my lattices 
And the saints appear to me, 
A singing company 
From heaven's high palaces, 
Chaunting their litanies : 
White luting Cecily 
Their first choir-maiden is. 

The sea-wave crashes in my ears ; 
Again their viols cease : 
I have been here for endless years, 
And the room is full of peace. 
Dim-sliding harmonies 
And dreaming voice of seers 
Come past all barriers : 
With God I have no fears, 
And round me roll His seas. 



MYST. 



6io 

SAROJINI NAYADU 

The Soul's Prayer 

IN childhood's pride I said to Thee : 
* O Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath, 
Speak, Master, and reveal to me 
Thine inmost laws of life and death. 

* Give me to drink each joy and pain 
Which Thine eternal hand can mete, 
For my insatiate soul would drain 
Earth's utmost bitter, utmost sweet. 

* Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife, 
Withhold no gift or grief I crave, 
The intricate lore of love and life 
And mystic knowledge of the grave.' 

Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low : 
' Child, I will hearken to thy prayer, 
And thy unconquered soul shall know 
All passionate rapture and despair. 

' Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame, 
And love shall burn thee like a fire, 
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame, 
To purge the dross from thy desire. 

' So shall thy chastened spirit yearn 
To seek from its blind prayer release, 
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn 
The simple secret of My peace. 

* I, bending from my sevenfold height, 
Will teach thee of My quickening grace, 
Life is a prism of My light, 

And Death the shadow of My face? 






SAROJINI NAYADU 61 

In Salutation to the Eternal 'Peace 

MEN say the world is full of fear and hate, 
And all life's ripening harvest-fields await 
The restless sickle of relentless fate. 

But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, 
When from the climbing terraces of corn 
I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn. 

What care I for the world's desire and pride, 
Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, 
The homing pigeons of Thine eventide ? 

What care I for the world's loud weariness, 
Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless 
With delicate sheaves of mellow silences ? 

Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom, 

Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom, 

The mute and mythic terror of the tomb ? 

For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee, 
O inmost wine of living ecstasy ! 
O intimate essence of eternity 1 

To a Buddha seated on a Lotus 

ERD BUDDHA, on thy lotus-throne, 
With praying eyes and hands elate, 
What mystic rapture dost thou own, 
Immutable and ultimate ? 
What peace, unravished of our ken, 
Annihilate from the world of men ? 

X 2 



612 SAROJINI NAYADU 

The wind of change for ever blows 

Across the tumult of our way, 

To-morrow's unborn griefs depose 

The sorrows of our yesterday. 

Dream yields to dream, strife follows strife, 

And Death unweaves the webs of Life. 

For us the travail and the heat, 
The broken secrets of our pride, 
The strenuous lessons of defeat, 
The flower deferred, the fruit denied ; 
But not the peace, supremely won, 
Lord Buddha, of thy Lotus-throne. 

With futile hands we seek to gain 

Our inaccessible desire, 

Diviner summits to attain, 

With faith that sinks and feet that tire 

But nought shall conquer or control 

The heavenward hunger of our soul. 

The end, elusive and afar, 

Still lures us with its beckoning flight, 

And all our mortal moments are 

A session of the Infinite. 

How shall we reach the great, unknown 

Nirvana of thy Lotus-throne ? 



R. A. ERIC SHEPHERD 

Intimations 

I THINK that in the savour of some flowers 
God hides the loveliness we fain would know ; 
And that He makes it poignant with His showers 
To lure us on toward what He longs to show. 
I know He seeks in tiny wistful airs 
To give my soul bright gleams of what shall be, 
And that in plainsong endings quick despairs 
Glitter like angels o'er a shadowed sea. 
There is no thing God may not make His own 
That smelleth sweet and is of good report. . . . 
The leastest thing that we have longest known 
May truth reveal beyond the range of thought. 
And so each tiniest act and merest ploy 
May grow instinct with sacramental joy 1 

C. M. VERSCHOYLE 
Crucifixion on the Mountain 

The soul would endure splendid martyrdoms, but her Lord lays 
upon her the ultimate reward of failure and of death. 

I FOUND full many a hindrance on the road 
That led up to the summit of desire, 
Sharp rocks and Wounding thorns ; and in the mire 
I fell, and soiled the garment I had care 
To keep so fair 

For the great rites awaiting me in Love's abode. 
Yet on I pressed, 
Dreaming of rest 
That should be sweeter for toil undergone, 

When on my Saviour's breast 
Divine and human should be one. 



6i 4 C. M. VERSCHOYLE 

Deep ran the chasms across the way, 

Chasms my wilfulness had made, 
But Love had cast a bridge above the spray 
Flung by the roaring waters far below ; 
And with the cross my strength, the cross my guide, 
My worser self for ever crucified, 

I climbed toward the line of snow 

That Love had laid 
Far up, to mark the final stage 

Of chill forlorn desertion, that should close 
My pilgrimage. 

High on the summit shone the mystic cross 
Beside which life is death, and riches dross ; 

Not such the cross that companies my way, 

A harsh rude copy meet for every day, 
Beauty it lacks, untrimmed and harsh the wood, 
And bitter as Christ's rood ; 
Heavy as death, no staff to life is this, 

But such a weight 

As leaves the soul unsoothed, disconsolate, 
And drags the body down to the abyss. 

Upward I crawl, the dream of joy is past, 
I, that would share the sorrow of my Lord 
And feel the piercing sword 

Divide my flesh and spirit, now at last, 
Discern the failure I am forced to share, 
And see the garment I would keep so fair, 

Foul from the dirt of many a foolish fall 

The world might mock at. When I set my feet 

Upon the path I said 
A martyrdom were sweet ; 

Come sword, come fire, 



C. M. VERSCHOYLE 615 

All tortures are less sharp than my desire. 

Let me have flints for bed, 

And thorns, such as once wove my Master's crown, 
Spurring me on to share in His renown. 

And lo ! I faint 

Beneath a common cross I cannot raise. 
Mankind might jeer, but on celestial praise 

Free from all envious taint 
I counted ; wherefore then this loneliness 

Weighted with death ? 
Give me the nails, the spear, oppress 

My soul with every pang till my last breath, 

And then, the victor's wreath. 

Yet I climbed still, the bitter words I spoke 
Fell into silence and no echoes woke ; 

But in my heart a small voice murmuring 

Whispered, thy King 
Humbly exchanged celestial gain for loss, 

Requiring no place to lay Him down, 

No victor's crown, 
But only wood enough to make a cross. 

I bowed my head in shame, and upward went 
Slowly, beneath my burden bent ; 

Deep in the snow my bleeding feet 

Sank at each step, and on the sheet 
Of dazzling white left scarlet stains. 
My eyes grew blind, my trembling knees gave way, 
My body was a mass of fiery pains : 
And still I rose and fell, 

And struggled on a space, 
Half dreaming broken words from far away, 



616 C. M. VERSCHOYLE 

The heavenward way, 
The pains of hell, 

And murmuring, weeping, falling, 

Upon my Master calling, 
Unconscious now of all save agony, 
I still endured, until I lay 

On the appointed place 
Upon the summit, faint and like to die. 

So, I thought, heaven is won, 

Gone is the burden that so long I carried ; 

Yet still the summoning angels tarried. 
I lay alone, 
Almost desiring back the fardel gone, 

That was my bliss and bale ; 
And so methought a thousand years 

Of silence passed. 

At last 

I raised my eyes to see 
Some angel that should bind my wounds and wipe my 

tears, 

But there was Calvary, 
And black and gaunt three crosses rose 
Untenanted, among the snows. 

Then, deep within, the silence spoke, 

Now thou hast left Gethsemane, 

Stretch thy rebellious limbs upon the tree, 

Giving thy body up for Me. 
And I obeyed, 
And laid 

My feet and hands to bear the stroke 
Of piercing nails. 

And so I hung another thousand years. 



C. M. VERSCHOYLE 617 

The wind arose, and far below me tossed 

A sea of sombre-crested pines ; the cloudy skies 

Burst with the gale, and showed an orange rent, 

And heavy clouds, like boats with tattered sails, 

Flapped low, and dipped and raced about the height 
Until they sank in mist that swathed my sight. 

Then I closed my eyes, 

And tore my way from the poor earthly tent, 
And free, I knew my labours all well spent, 

And no pang lost. 

Abandoned hung the earthly form 

While round it swayed and shrieked the storm ; 

But my soul, being free, 

Rejoiced most thankfully, 
Until a voice cried, nay, 
Still must thou lay 

Thy soul upon the rood. 
So my stripped soul was fastened there, 

And that cross stood 

Beside the centre, towering gaunt and bare 
While other thousand years went by ; 
Till my purged spirit burst its sheath, 
And free of soul and body knelt beneath 
The triple emblem of a conquered death. 

Now let my spirit rise to God who gave 
Not through the grave, 

But upward into light. 
Aye, chanted seraphs with their dulcimers, 
The ladder it prefers 

Is the great midmost cross. 
My spirit trembled, but I clomb 

Ah, then fell night ; 
This, this is not my home. 



618 C. M. VERSCHOYLE 

And in a horror far too deep to tell 

I knew the pains of hell, 

And for a thousand years I drank this bitter cup, 
Until my spirit yielded itself up, 

And hands of love 

Stretched from above 
Upraised me in a most delicious rest, 

Upon that cross and ladder of delight, 
Which now I knew was but my Master's breast. 



The Deliverer 

THE city quakes, the earth is filled with blood 
I, I that love Thee raised Thee on this Rood !) 

Lord, 7 am least of all Thy followers, 
Yet greatest in my love : devotion spurs 

Me on to strange deep thoughts and stranger deeds 
My roughness planned not erst, 
For all unversed 

In ways of love I would content Thy needs, 
Delight Thee with a flower, a word, a song, 
Striving to make Thy toilsome way less long, 

Its stones less bitter, its rebuffs less rude, 

To guard Thee 'gainst the sharp ingratitude 
Of those who beg Time and Eternity, 
Both worlds at once, abusing clemency. 

Dazzle them, Master, with a word 
Such as the universe has never heard ; 

Whisper it till the earth's foundations quake, 

And fiery worlds awake 

And shake 



C. M. VERSCHOYLE 619 

Their burning pinions, and ring out the cry 

That shrilly echoes 

Where between whirling planets flows 
The ardent stream of palpitating light. 

Destroy the worlds, Oh Lord, 

With the one whispered word, 
And with consuming flame illume the sight 

Of all those muddy souls who love Thee not : 
Or bid the flying circles cease 
And a great peace 

Thunder across immensity, 
Enwrapping heaven and earth and sky. 

Bid the air cease to hum 

And all the murmuring orbs be dumb, 
Suddenly, utterly, 

And shatter them with silence 

Yea, Master, I have borne to see Thee weep, 
More deep 

The iron scarce could pierce my suffering soul ; 
Have seen Thee fast and pray, 

Struggle and sweat. 
While the eleven slept the night away 

My brow was wet, 
My heart beat high, 

For, lo, I read 

The scroll of Heaven emblazoned, 
And knew Thy triumph nigh 

(The city quakes, the air is full of blood 

I, I that love Thee raised Thee on this Rood !) 

Scourged, spit upon, denied, 

I suffered all with Thee ; 
Raising Thee high that all should bend the knee. 



620 C. M. VERSCHOYLE 

That very royal crown of thorns 

That crimsoneth Thy brow 
So might gleam rubies set on snow, 

I offered it ; dear Master, look on me, 

Say, have I not done well ? 

How my poor heart would swell 
At praise from Thee 

For see, without my deed, 
Thy deed had not been done ; 
This be my meed 

Thy battle won 
And that down future ages, lighted by the torch 

That Thou dost kindle, men shall say 

(The city quaked, the air was full of blood, 
Judas that loved Him raised Him on the Rood !) 

Peter in the porch 

Warmed his chilled hands as he denied, 
While Judas' teeth did chatter before Caiaphas ; 
My darkness seemed a heavy monstrous mass 

With but one quivering light Thy tortured death 

Ay, for it pierced beneath 
My heart into my spirit yet I knew 
Before the worlds that task I had to do ; 

God set it me, let me fulfil 

His very bitter will 

Master, my voice is harsh, mine eyes are dim, 

I should rejoice and hymn 

Thy great uplifting, high above all towers 
Follow the circle round, there Judas cowers, 

Lonely, forsaken, outcast, anguish-swayed ; 

Yet we are one, betrayer and Betrayed ; 



C. M. VERSCHOYLE 621 

Thou drinkest of my cup, I drink of Thine, 

Thou art immortal, I shall be divine ; 
Dreaming, Thou risest from Thy painful Throne, 
Waking, Thou drawest to Thee me, Thine own. 

I kissed Thee gently Thou hast understood ? 
Out on the silly cowards who deserted Thee, 

Whom men call good. 
Thou and I are free, 
We see not as the others see, 

We dream 
And that is times away. 

Far down the stream 
Of heavenly ways we see our paths unite 

Where the veils fall, and day 
For me replaces night 

(The city quakes, the earth is full of blood 
I, I that love Thee raised Thee on this Rood !) 

Farewell, my Love, my Master, I have dared 

For Thee that lesser men had left undone, 
Be my love hereby proved, I have not spared 

To give my God where God but gave His Son. 
I bear such pains, my body was not formed 

To see the struggles of a dying God, 
Or hold the terror of a prisoned soul 

Striving for freedom : I am fain 

Of silence, and the peace of night again. 
Night brooding over Galilee, 
And our small company 
Each with his portioned dole 

Quietly laid about Thee on the sod, 
Beneath which, now, there is no peace for me, 

For Thou and I have work to do Oh God ! 



622 C. M. VERSCHOYLE 

Forsaken, helpless, therefore doubly to be loved 
See how I yearn o'er Thee ! 

Yet are Thy throes soon past, 

And mine, aeonial, scarce begun, 
For where Thy name is honoured, I am cursed ; 

Outcast, reviled, I down the ages go, 
Death but delivers me to greater woe. 

But where Thy passion is rehearsed 
Our names are linked still, 
And Thine shall such a heavenly dew distil 

That mine shall be washed pure and sweet some day, 
And children's lips sing ' Judas ', like a kiss, 

But in no softer way 

Than fell that kiss with which I did betray 
Thy sad humanity, 
Freeing the Godhead for eternity 

(The city quakes, the air is full of blood, 
Judas that loves Thee raised Thee on this Rood !) 

These triumphs are too keen, we die, 

So sharp the sacrifice, the agony. 

Keep Thou the hapless Judas in Thy heart, 

Nor fail me on that far-off day 

When all that erred in my sad deed is purged away. 
My lowly part 

Was just to make the sacrifice complete, 

Adding to heavenly stature earthly feet : 
Thou art uplifted, I shall be cast down, 
Master, farewell, until my destined crown 

Is won, and all Thou strivest for fulfilled. 

I am not worthy that my blood be spilled 
Like Thine : in grosser pangs be spirit torn 
From my gross body, let the wide world scorn 



C. M. VERSCHOYLE 623 

So I but join Thee aeons after 
Where the soft laughter 

Of the redeemed echoes about the heavenly space ; 

And find, crouched at Thy feet, a little quiet place. 
Then, when my courage grows, after awhile, 
Murmur to me, with Thy celestial smile 

Judas ! for the great love I bear to Thee 
I grant thee to be crucified with Me ! 



AMY K. CLARKE 

' Vision of Him 3 

THROUGH the Uncreated, 
Uncleft, Untrod, 
Breathed for a moment 
Sorrow of God. 

And lo ! it fell starlike 

Trembling to cease 
In His Infinite gladness 

Infinite peace. 

Out of that tremor 

Time was made, 
Worlds crept into being 

Young and afraid. 

Slowly, by beauty, 

His creatures grew wise, 
Slow dawned its wonder 

On opening eyes. 



624 AMY K. CLARKE 

Men watched adoring 

His waters roll, 
Deep flowed His colours 

Through sense and soul. 

Moan of creation 
Rapture that stirs 

Blindly they learned it, 
Years upon years. 

Till clearly one spirit 
Cried on His Name 

From all her lovely 
And earthly frame. 

Light could not veil it, 
Nor darkness dim, 

Flesh but receive it 
Vision of Him. 

Deep sunk His answer, 

The Word that sufficed 

Out of her Body 
Cometh His Christ. 



RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY 
The Hunters 

' The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he 
may devour.' 

"'HE Lion, he prowleth far and near, 
L Nor swerves for pain or rue ; 
He heedeth nought of sloth nor fear, 
He prowleth prowleth through 



RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY 625 

The silent glade and the weary street, 

In the empty dark and the full noon heat ; 

And a little Lamb with aching Feet 
He prowleth too. 

The Lion croucheth alert, apart 

With patience doth he woo ; 
He waiteth long by the shuttered heart, 

And the Lamb He waiteth too. 
Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill, 

Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue, 
The Lion followeth the fainting will 

And the Lamb He followeth too. 

From the thickets dim of the hidden way 

Where the debts of Hell accrue, 
The Lion leapeth upon his prey : 

But the Lamb He leapeth too. 
Ah ! loose the leash of the sins that damn, 

Mark Devil and God as goals, 
In the panting love of a famished Lamb, 

Gone mad with the need of souls. 

The Lion, he strayeth near and far ; 

What heights hath he left untrod ? 
He crawleth nigh to the purest star, 

On the trail of the saints of God. 
And throughout the darkness of things unclean, 

In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood, 
There prowleth ever with yearning mien 

A Lamb as white as Blood 1 



HORACE HOLLEY 
The Stricken King 

OWHAT am I that the cold wind affrays, 
O What am I the ocean could confound 
A fort so open to the rebel days 
And nature's mutiny and human wound ? 

What am I so weak against the world, 

Yea, weaker in my heart that should be strong, 
On whom this double warfare is unfurled, 
Of outer violence first, then inward wrong ? 

1 am a fair, a fleeting glimpse of God 
One moment visible in mortal state, 

A bit of heaven caught i' the prison-clod, 

That I nor nature's self may violate ; 

Ev'n as a jewel lost from kingly crown 

That 's royal still, though fingered by a clown. 



We of the world who shuffle to our doom, 
Who dull with common lead the gold of time, 
Despoiling where we may the tender bloom 
Of all unworldly souls that rise sublime ; 
Still scourging wisdom nobler than our use 
And scorning pity bent on our despair, 
Fouling earth's seldom beauty by abuse 
In rage at strength too strong, at fair too fair ; 
Nathless we suffer pain with them we slay, 
And more than they, as we their death survive. 
Weep not for them so glorious in decay, 
Weep thou for us, inglorious and alive : 

Stricken ourselves in their destruction, till 
That inward Saviour come we cannot kill. . . . 



HORACE HOLLEY 627 

Yet, longer dwelling in that ruined court 
Where man, the stricken king, so ill does reign 
I find his folly wiser than report 
And his defilement daughter of his pain. 
He 's like a king who never knew repose 
But lives in constant dread to be o'erthrown, 
Buying a half-obedience from his foes 
And half-a-king to them who would have none. 
And so his robe is stained, his front dismayed, 
His court a mock, himself but half a king ; 
And so his magnanimity 's arrayed, 
So foully gowned, a self-impeaching thing. 
'Tis so his royalty would be a scorn 
If it were not too piteous and forlorn. 

Himself his foe and bitter regicide, 

Himself the faction risen in his state, 

Himself his spy and minister, to chide 

Himself to wrath, and nourish his own hate ; 

Himself his fool that can himself beguile, 

Himself his scullion, foul to that degree, 

Himself his beggar, skilled in cunning wile 

Himself to plead in his necessity ; 

Yet king withal, and proved by future act 

When all that baser self he may resign, 

Leagued with himself and firm in his own pact 

To live a monarch, noble in his line ! 

A king withal, and nowise made more clear : 
His knavish self his lordly self does fear. 



K 



628 

JOHN OXENHAM 
Everymaid 

ING'S Daughter! 
Would'st thou be all fair, 



Without within 
Peerless and beautiful, 
A very Queen ? 

Know then : 

Not as men build unto the Silent One, 

With clang and clamour, 

Traffic of rude voices, 

Clink of steel on stone, 

And din of hammer ; 

Not so the temple of thy grace is reared. 

But, in the inmost shrine 

Must thou begin, 

And build with care 

A Holy Place, 

A place unseen, 

Each stone a prayer. 

Then, having built, 

Thy shrine sweep bare 

Of self and sin, 

And all that might demean ; 

And, with endeavour, 

Watching ever, praying ever, 

Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean : 

So, by God's grace, it be fit place, 

His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein. 

Not as in earthly fane where chase 

Of steel on stone may strive to win 

Some outward grace, 

Thy temple face is chiselled from within. 



629 



JOHN SPENCER MUIRHEAD 

Quiet 

THERE is a flame within me that has stood 
Unmoved, untroubled through a mist of years, 

Knowing nor love nor laughter, hope nor fears, 
Nor foolish throb of ill, nor wine of good. 
I feel no shadow of the winds that brood, 

I hear no whisper of a tide that veers, 

I weave no thought of passion, nor of tears, 
Unfettered I of time, of habitude. 
I know no birth, I know no death that chills ; 

I fear no fate nor fashion, cause nor creed, 
I shall outdream the slumber of the hills, 

I am the bud, the flower, I the seed : 

For I do know that in whate'er I see 

I am the part and it the soul of me. 



GERTRUDE M. HORT 
The Paradox 



\ V /HEN I have gained the Hill 
VV Where beats the clear and rigid light of God 
Full on the path by fearless comrades trod ; 
When I have tuned to theirs my will and word, 
And by my prompting voice their ranks are stirred 
To hail each height with ' Higher ! Higher still ! ' 
That luring glow which from the Valley streams 
Warns me / am not what my spirit seems. 



630 GERTRUDE M. HORT 



But when my life descends 

Into the Hollow, where no wild thoughts reach, 

And all that lawful yearning can beseech 

Sits at my hearth, or in my garden grows ; 

When I need match no more with noble foes, 

Nor share the yoke with unrelenting friends, 

That strange veiled star which o'er the Hill-top beams, 

Shows me / am not what my body dreams ! 



Thanksgiving 



SOME thank Thee that they ne'er were so forsaken 
In dust of death, in whirling gulfs of shame, 
But by one kindred soul their part was taken, 
One far-off prayer vibrated with their name ! 
I thank Thee too for times no man can number, 
When I went down the rayless stairs of Hell, 
And to my comrades, at their feast or slumber, 
The echoes cried : All's well ! ' 



Some thank Thee for the stern and splendid vision, 
Of truth, that never let them shrink or swerve ! 
Till on their dearest dream they poured derision, 
And broke the idols they had sworn to serve ! 
I thank Thee that, for me, some mystic terror 
Still haunts the accustomed shrine, the accustomed way,- 
So, though Truth calls me with the mouth of error, 
I need not disobey ! 



GERTRUDE M. HORT 631 

in 

Some thank Thee for the Voice that sounds unbidden, 
Above the altar of their sacrifice ; 
For that great Light wherein they stood unchidden, 
And watched, reflected, in each other's eyes. 
I too for whom came never word or token, 
Whose prayer into a seeming Void descends, 
I praise Thee for the trustful hush unbroken, 
The right of perfect friends ! 



HAROLD E. GOAD 
Spring's Sacrament 

' 1 1 FT up your hearts ! ' The holy dews 

1 * Asperge the woodland throng ; 
Dawn after dawn the lark renews 

His miracle of song ; 
While taper-like the crocus pricks 

Athwart the yearning sod ; 
The primrose lifts his golden pyx, 

And God looks forth to God. 

The symbols blind, the visions fail, 

Our souls strain out to Thee ; 
Within the leaf, the light, the veil, 

Is Thy Felicity. 
O Heart of all the world's desire, 

Breathe from around, above, 
The mystic kiss of Fire to fire 

That Love will yield to love ! 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Abercrombie, Lascelles, 556. 
A. E., 495- 

Alexander, William, 248. 
Anonymous, i, 6, 548, 549. 
Arnold, Sir Edwin, 266. 
Arnold, Matthew, 228. 

Bailey, Philip James, 209. 

Barker, Elsa, 602. 

Barlow, George, 371. 

Barlow; Jane, 503. 

Bax, Clifford, 598. 

Beeching, Henry Charles, 426. 

Benson, Arthur Christopher, 

468. 

Benson, Robert Hugh, 517. 
Blackie, John Stuart, 169. 
Blake, William, 89. 
Bourdillon, Francis William, 

Bowles, Fred. G., 577. 
Bronte, Emily, 214. 
Brown, Thomas Edward, 258. 
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 

146. 

Browning, Robert, 171. 
Buchanan, Robert, 319. 
Buckton, Alice Mary, 585. 
Bunston, Anna, 589. 
Byrom, John, 84. 

Carman, Bliss, 450. 
Carpenter, Edward, 359. 
Carpenter, Henry Bernard, 310. 
Caswall, Edward, 207. 
Cawein, Madison Julius, 477. 
Chesson, Nora, 579. 
Chesterton, Gilbert Keith, 519. 



Childe, Wilfred Rowland, 606. 
Clarke, Amy K., 623. 
Clerke, Ellen Mary, 309. 
Coleridge, Mary Elizabeth, 448. 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 126. 
Constable, Henry, 13. 
Cousins, James H.,'584. 
Cowper, William, 87. 
Craik, Dinah Maria (Mulock), 

250. 
Cranch, Christopher Pearse, 

203. 

Crashaw, Richard, 32. 
Cripps, Arthur Shear ly, 510. 
Crowley, Aleister, 520. 

Daley, Victor James, 408. 

Dawson, William James, 391. 

Deland, Margaret, 400. 

De Vere, Aubrey Thomas, 208. 

Dietz, Ella, 531. 

Dixon, Richard Watson, 273. 

Dolben, Digby Mackworth, 373. 

Donne, John, 15. 

Dowden, Edward, 337. 

Drane, Augusta Theodosia, 

240. 
Duclaux, Agnes Mary Frances, 

401. 

E., A., 495- 

Earle, John Charles, 508. 
Ellis, Edwin J., 569. 
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 137. 

Faber, Frederick William, 205. 
Field, Michael, 555. 
Figgis, Darrell, 595. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



633 



Fletcher, Phineas, 19. 
Fraser-Tytler, Christina Cather 
ine, 375. 

Goad, Harold E., 631. 
Gore-Booth, Eva, 581. 
Gosse, Edmund, 377. 
Gray, John, 571. 
Greenwell, Dora, 228. 
Gurney, Alfred, 568. 

Harvey, Christopher, 31. 

Havergal, Francis Ridley, 285. 

Hawker, Robert Stephen, 143. 

Henley, William Ernest, 376. 

Herbert, George, 23. 

Herrick, Robert, 20. 

Hickey, Emily Henrietta, 370. 

Hinkson, Katherine Tynan, 
464. 

Holley, Horace, 626. 

Holmes, Edmund Gore Alex 
ander, 381. 

Hookham, Paul, 604. 

Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 353. 

Hort, Gertrude M., 629. 

Hough ton, Lord, 154. 

Housman, Laurence, 487. 

Ingelow, Jean, 263. 

King,Harriet Eleanor Hamilton, 
312. 

Lampman, Archibald, 445. 
Le Gallienne, Richard, 485. 
Lindsay, Ruth Temple, 624. 
Lyall, Sir Alfred Comyn, 283. 

MacDonald, George, 244. 
Mangan, James Clarence, 136. 
Marvell, Andrew, 54. 
Masefield, John, 550. 
Mason, Eugene, 577. 
Meredith, George, 254. 



Meynell, Alice, 461. 

Milnes, Richard Monckton, 

154- 

Mitchell, Susan, 582. 
Monro, Harold, 534. 
Morris, Sir Lewis, 269. 
Muirhead, John Spencer, 629. 
Myers, Frederick William 

Henry, 332. 

Nayadu, Sarojini, 610- 
Newbolt, Sir Henry, 466. 
Newman, John Henry, 133. 
Noel,Roden Berkeley Wriothes- 

ley, 278. 
Noyes, Alfred, 536. 

O'Shaughnessy, Arthur William 

Edgar, 346. 
Oxenham, Henry Nutcombe, 

255- 
Oxenham, John, 628. 

Palgrave, Francis Turner, 

249. 

Patmore, Coventry, 236. 
Plunkett, Joseph Mary, 560. 
Poe, Edgar Allan, 153. 
Pope, Alexander, 84. 
Probyn, May, 404. 

Quarles, Francis, 21. 

Rhoades, James, 323. 
Rodd, Sir James Rennell, 406. 
Rolle, Richard, i. 
Rossetti, Christina, 257. 
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 252. 
Russell, George William ('A. 
E.'), 495- 

Santayana, George, 469. 
Scott, William Bell, 201. 
Sharp, William, 398. 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 128. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Shepherd, R. A. Eric, 613. 
Shorter, Dora Sigerson, 501. 
Southwell, Robert, n. 
Stephens, James, 504. 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 

286. 

Sylvester, Joshua, 13. 
Symonds, John Addington, 

305- 
Symons, Arthur, 474. 

Tabb, John Bannister, 367. 
Taylor, Rachel Annand, 546. 
Tennyson, Alfred, 157. 
Thomas, Edith Matilda, 392. 
Thompson, Francis, 409. 
Traherne, Thomas, 63. 
Trench, Herbert, 470. 
Trench, Richard Chenevix, 

152. 
Tynan (Hinkson), Katherine, 

464. 



Underbill, Evelyn, 524. 

Vaughan, Henry, 56. 
Verschoyle, C. M., 613. 

Waddington, Samuel, 367. 
Waite, Arthur Edward, 433. 
Walworth, Clarence A., 564. 
Ward, Frederick William Orde, 

344- 

Wasson, David Atwood, 561. 
Watts, Isaac, 83. 
Weekes, Charles, 501. 
Whitman, Walt, 216. 
Wilde, Oscar, 395. 
Williams, Sarah, 318. 
Wilmshurst, Walter Leslie, 

481. 
Wordsworth, William, 109. 

Yeats, William Butler, 472. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

A double debt he has to pay 133 

A flame in my heart is kindled by the might of the morn's 

pure breath . . . . . 7 381 

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! . . " . . 260 
A new world did Columbus find ..... 568 

A pious friend one day of Rabia asked . . . 154 

A shape, like folded light, embodied air . . . . 143 

A voice in the dark imploring ...... 439 

Again that Voice, which on my listening ears . . .323 
Age cannot reach me where the veils of God . . . 583 
Ah, Christ, it were enough to know ..... 570 

Ah ! Nature, would that I before I pass .. . . .278 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole . . . . 84 

All around him Patmos lies . . . . . . 392 

All living creatures' pain ...... 345 

All night by the shore . . . ... -359 

All parts away for the progress of souls . . . .218 

All sights and sounds of day and year . * . 244 

All that began with God, in God must end . . . 306 
All that is broken shall be mended . . . . -538 

All things are full of God. Thus spoke . . ,. . 169 
All things once are things for ever . . . . .156 

Alpha and Omega, God alone . . . . . -13 

Amid the eternal silences ...... 205 

And did those feet in ancient time . . . . .108 

And none can truly worship but who have . . .213 
And then I thought that He whom we name God . . 31 1 
And while they talked and talked, and while they sat . 506 

And will they cast the altars down 463 

Apart, immutable, unseen ...... 520 

As Christ the Lord was passing by 448 

As the slow Evening gather'd in her grey .... 577 

At intervals of tunes ....... 606 

At night in each other's arms ...... 362 

Backward ! beyond this momentary woe . . . 334 
Batter my heart, three person'd God ; for, you . . -15 
Before me grew the human soul ..... 445 
Behind the orient darkness of thine eyes .... 604 
Beneath this world of stars and flowers . . . .402 



636 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Betwixt the dawning and the day it came . . . 344 

Beyond ; beyond ; and yet again beyond ! 537 

Blow gently over my garden ...... 464 

Bright Queen of Heaven ! Gods Virgin Spouse . . 61 
But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away . . .164 

But so deep the wild-bee hummeth ..... 555 

By one great Heart the Universe is stirred . . . 400 
By one pervading spirit . . . . . . -113 

By those heights we dare to dare ..... 406 

Calm soul of all things ! make it mine .... 232 

Chanting the square deific, out of the One advancing, out of 

the sides . . . ... 224 

Christ, as a light ........ 136 

Come, dear Heart ........ 530 

Come down, O Christ, and help me ! reach thy hand . . 395 

Come, Hesper, and ye Gods of mountain waters . . 378 

Comest Thou peaceably, Lord ? . . . . . 488 

Consider the sea's listless chime ..... 252 

Could my heart but see Creation as God sees it, from within 384 

Creation's and Creator's crowning good .... 239 

Darkness broods upon the temple . . . . .250 

Dead ? Not to thee, thou keen watcher, not silent, not 

viewless, to thee ....... 393 

Dear and fair as Earth may be . . . ... 598 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire . . . . .162 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows . . . . .15? 

Each wave that breaks upon the strand . . . .367 

Elder father, though thine eyes 519 

Elected Silence, sing to me . . . . . . 353 

En Soph, uncomprehended in the thought . . . 350 
Ere aught began ,. . . . . . . -574 

Even as a bird sprays many-coloured fires . . . 495 
Ev'n like two little bank-dividing brooks . . . .22 

False life ! a foil and no more, when .... 63 

Far in the Heavens my God retires 83 

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose .... 473 

Fate, which foresaw ....... 230 

Flight is but the preparative. The sight .... 66 

Flower in the crannied wall . . . . . .162 

For I have learned . ....... 121 

For years I sought the Many in the One . . . .581 

Fountain of Fire whom all divide ..... 471 

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode 551 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 637 

PAGE 

From age to age in the public place ..... 435 
From the Silence of Time, Time's Silence borrow . . 400 
From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary 

lines 216 

From twig to twig the spider weaves . . ' . -254 
From wha,t meek jewel seed . . . . . 571 

Give reverence, man, to mystery . . . ^ . 201 

God, God ! . L . . 147 

God is the sole and self -subsistent one . . . .211 
God was, alone in unity. He willed .-. . . .211 
God, who made man out of dust ..... 487 
Good Friday in my heart ! Fear and affright ! . . . 449 
Grand is the leisure of the earth ..... 263 
Grand is the seen, the light, to me grand are the sky and 

stars 227 

Grow old along with me ! , . . . . . . 194 

Hail, sacred Order of eternal Truth ! .... 207 
Hallowed be Thy name Halleluiah! . . . .167 
Happy those early dayes ! when I . . . . -57 
He is made one with Nature : there is heard . . . 131 
He stood there. Like the smoke . . . . . 179 
He who knows Love becomes Love, and his eyes . . 602 
Hear now, O Soul, the last command of all . . 466 

Hearken, oh hearken ! let your souls behind you . .146 
Hemmed in by petty thoughts and petty things . . 387 
Her feet are set in darkness at Her feet . . . .548 

Here is the efflux of the Soul 217 

Here kneels my word, that may not say .... 569 
Here on this little bridge in this warm day . . . 201 
Here, Pan, on grey rock slab we set for Thee . . .510 
High stretched upon the swinging yard . . . .260 
Himself his foe and bitter regicide . . . . .627 
His wide Hands fashioned us white grains and red . .511 
How like an Angel came I down ! . . . . -63 
How shall I find Him, who can be my guide . . . 577 

I am beloved of the Prince of the garden of pleasure . . 533 

I am that which began ....... 286 

I am the God of the sensuous fire . . . . -283 

I am the Reaper ........ 376 

I am the song, that rests upon the cloud .... 501 

I am the spirit of all that lives 579 

I am the wind which breathes upon the sea i 

I begin through the grass once again to be bound to the Lord 500 



638 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 
I came into the world for love of Thee .... 438 

I come in the little things 524 

I did not think, I did not strive ..... 552 

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days . . 409 
I found full many a hindrance on the road . . .613 
I found Thee in my heart, Lord . . . . . 340 

I give you the end of a golden string . . . .109 

I got me flowers to straw Thy way . . . . 23 

I had no God but these ....... 369 

I have gone the whole round of Creation : I saw and I spoke ! 1 75 
I have seen . . . . . . . . .in 

I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed . . . . 1 73 

I know 'tis but a loom of land . ..... 261 

I like a church ; I like a cowl ...... 137 

I missed him when the sun began to bend '.. . . 247 

I pass the vale. I breast the steep ..... 508 

I paused beside the cabin door and saw the King of Kings at 

play 498 

I sat me down and looked around ..... 504 

I saw Eternity the other night 59 

I saw the Son of God go by . . . . 547 

I saw the Sun at midnight, rising red .... 560 

I see his blood upon the rose ...... 561 

I sing the Name which None can say 33 

I spin, I spin, around, around ...... 341 

I stood among the ancient hills . .... 595 

I struck the board, and cry'd, ' No more ' . . . -3 
I think that in the savour of some flowers . . .613 
I was not with the rest at play ..... 346 

I will arise and to my Father go ..... 509 

I wish a greater knowledge, then t'attaine . . .21 
I, woman, am that wonder -breathing Rose . . . 603 

If the red slayer thinks he slays 142 

If there had anywhere appeared in space . . . .152 
If thou would'st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive . .167 
Imagination here the Power so called . . . .123 

In childhood's pride I said to Thee 610 

In some green bower . . . . ... .124 

In strenuous hope I wrought . . . . . .236 

In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea 536 
In the secret Valley of Silence ...... 398 

In the vaile of restles mynd 6 

In what torne ship soever I embarke . . . .18 
In Youth, when through our veins runs fast . . . 408 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 639 

PAGE 

Is it the moved air or the moving sound . . . .253 
Is not the work done ? Nay, for still the Scars . . 493 
It lies not on the sunlit hill 398 

King's Daughter ! . . . . . . . . 628 

Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame % 400 

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom . . . 135 
Leave, leave, thy gadding thoughts ..... 56 

' Leave the romance before the end ' . . . -312 
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this . . 17 

Let me come nearer Thee ...... 585 

Lies yet a well of wonder ...... 503 

Life of my life ! soul of my inmost soul ! . . . . 387 

Lift up your heads, gates of my heart, unfold . . . 306 
' Lift up your hearts ! ' The holy dews . . . -631 
Like a tired lover I rest on her bosom . . . .578 

Like soundless summer lightning seen afar . . . 364 
Lo as some bard on isles of the Aegean .... 335 

Lo here a little volume, but great Book .... 50 

Lo, in the sanctuaried East . . . . . .416 

Lo ! in the vigils of the night, ere sped .... 330 

Look, blinded eyes and burning . . . . . 332 

Lord Buddha, on thy lotus-throne . . . . .611 

Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night . . . 340 
Lord of the grass and hill ...... 450 

Lord, said a flying fish . . . . . . -452 

Lord, Thou art mine, and I am Thine .... 28 

Lord, when the sense of thy sweet grace .... 49 

Loud mockers in the roaring street ..... 485 

Love came to crave sweet love, if love might be . . 367 
Love, flooding all the creeks of my dry soul . . . 377 
Love, thou art Absolute sole lord ..... 40 

Luf es lyf J>at lastes ay, {>ar it in Criste es feste i 

Mariner, what of the deep ? This of the deep . . .318 
Me Lord ? can'st thou mispend ..... 19 

Men say the world is full of fear and hate . . . .611 

' Mortals, that behold a Woman ' . . . . .419 

My contemplation dazzles in the End . . . .76 

My genial spirits fail . . . . . . .127 

My God, I heard this day ...... 24 

My good blade carves the casques of men . . . .158 

My heart did heave, and there came forth ' God ! ' .24 

My Lord, my Love ! in pleasant pain .... 257 

My naked simple Life was I . . . . . 71 



640 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

My sorrow had pierced me through ; it throbbed in my 

heart like a thorn ....... 468 

My soul is like a fenced tower . . . . .608 

My Spectre around me night and day . . . 91 

No coward soul is mine ....... 215 

Not alone in Palestine those blessed Feet have trod . . 555 
Not made with hands, its walls began to climb . . . 309 
Now God forbid that Faith be blind assent . . .518 

beat and pause that count the life of man . . . 401 
Captain of the wars, whence won Ye so great scars ? . 423 
chantry of the Cherubim ...... 389 

O gain that lurk'st ungained in all gain ! . . . . 424 

God, where does this tend these struggling aims ?. . 171 
joyes ! Infinite sweetnes ! with what flowres ... 58 
life ! what letts thee from a quicke decease . . . n 
little lark, you need not fly . . . . . . 589 

living will that shalt endure . . . . . .163 

Lord, the Giver of my days . . . . . .269 

martyred Spirit of this helpless Whole .... 469 

me, man of slack faith so long . . . . .226 

nectar ! delicious stream . . . . . . .80 

Power to whom this earthly clime .... 446 

somewhere, somewhere, God unknown .... 337 

thou mysterious One, lying asleep : 602 

Thou not made with hands . ... . . . 249 

Thou that movest all, Power ..... 402 

tree of life, blissful tree ...... 426 

vast Rondure, swimming in space . . . .219 

what am I that the cold wind affrays . . . 626 
world invisible, we view thee . . ~. . .425 
O world, thou choosest not the better part ! 469 

O Yeares ! and Age ! Farewell ...... 20 

O'er boundless fields of night, lo, near and far . . . 504 
Of all great Nature's tones that sweep . . . .208 

Of that external scene which round me lay . . .122 
Oh, fair immaculate rose of the world, rose of my dream, my 

Rose ! . . 399 

Oh ! little blade of grass 228 

Oh, tempt me not ! I love too well this snare . . .491 
Oh, there are moments in man's mortal years . . . 310 
Oh where the immortal and the mortal meet . . .371 
Om, Amitaya ! measure not with words .... 266 

On a rusty iron throne 505 

On the heights of Great Endeavour ..... 480 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 641 

PAGE 

Once, long before the birth of time, a storm . . . 534 
Once, when my heart was passion-free . . . -367 
One of the crowd went up . . . . . 462 

One thing in all things have I seen ..... 499 

Only to be twin elements of joy . . . . 556 

Our seer, the net-mender ...... 470 

Out of the depths of the Infinite Being eternal . . . 531 
Out of the seething cauldron of my woes . . . . 524 

Over the great city ....... 363 

Pilate and Ca'iaphas . . . . .. 511 

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World . . . - . 472 
Round holy Rabia's suffering bed . . . . .156 

See how the orient dew 54 

She moves in tumult ; round her lies .... 517 

Silent is the house : all are laid asleep . . . .214 

Sleep sleep old Sun, thou canst not have repast " .- ' . 16 
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide . . . 461 
Snowflakes downfloating from the void .... 482 

So thin a veil divides ....... 364 

Some evil upon Rabia fell . ... . . .154 

Some folk as can afford ....... 593 

Some thank Thee that they ne'er were so forsaken . . 630 
Sometimes, as in the summer fields ..... 375 

Sometimes, I know not why, nor how, nor whence . -391 
Souls there be to whom 'tis given ..... 483 

Spirit ! that dwellest where . . . . . . 153 

Stars in the heavens turn . . . . . . 476 

Still as great waters lying in the West .... 546 

Still deep into the West I gazed ; the light . . . 337 
Strange, all-absorbing Love, who gatherest . . . 373 
Strangely, strangely, Lord, this morning .... 590 

Such was the Boy but for the growing Youth . . . 109 
Summer, and noon, and a splendour of silence, felt . . 295 
Sunshine let it be or frost ...... 450 

Sure Man was born to meditate on things . . .68 

Sweet Infancy !........ 68 

Sweetest Saviour, if my soul . . . . . .26 

Swirl of the river aflow to the sea . . . . . 481 

Teach me, my God and King ...... 29 

Tell us, tell us, holy shepherds . . . . 374 

That all things should be mine . . . -75 

The altar tiles are under her feet ..... 564 

The angells' eyes, whome veyles cannot deceive . . 1 1 
The awful shadow of some unseen Power . 128 



642 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

The body is not bounded by its skin .... 510 

The brook and road . . . . . . .124 

The buried statue through the marble gleams . . . 582 
The city quakes, the earth is filled with blood . . . 618 

The desire of love, Joy 398 

The knowledge of God is the wisdom of man . . . 209 
The Lion, he prowleth far and near ..... 624 

The Lord of all, himself through all diffus'd ... 87 
The Maiden caught me in the wild . . . . " . 104 

The man that hath great griefs I pity not . . . .258 

The Master said ........ 319 

The Master stood upon the mount, and taught . . . 228 
The Mother sent me on the holy quest .... 582 

The peaks, and the starlit skies, the deeps of the fathomless 

seas . . . . . . . . . 271 

The Secret of the World is lowly . . . . .561 

The Self is Peace : that Self am I 604 

The spirit grows the form for sdf-expression . . . 280 
The sun descending in the west ..... 90 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains 161 
The Vision of Christ that thou dost see . . -94 

The Western Road goes streaming out to seek the cleanly 

wild ......... 527 

The Woof that I weave not . . . . . .321 

The world is charged with the grandeur of God . . 355 

The world uprose as a man to find Him .... 433 

Then came Sir Joseph, hight, of Arimathee . . . 145 
There are who, when the bat on wing transverse . . 305 
There came one day a leper to my door .... 370 

There is a flame within me that has stood . . . 629 
There is a glory in the apple boughs . . . -477 
There is a rapture that my soul desires .... 242 

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind . . . .126 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream . .114 
There were no shadows till the worlds were made . . 204 
These Houres, and that which hovers o're my End . . 32 
They said : ' She dwelleth in some place apart ' . . 584 
They say there is a hollow, safe and still . . . 285 

This is he, who, felled by foes . . . . . .143 

This outer world is but the pictured scroll . . . 544 
This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist . . . .125 

This, this is what I love, and what is this ? 248 

Thou, for whom words have exhausted their sweetness . 588 
Thou hope of all Humanity ...... 592 

Thou, so far, we grope to grasp thee .... 203 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 643 

PAGE 

Thou, who didst wrap the cloud no 

Though the long seasons seem to separate . . .581 
Thrice bless'd are they, who feel their loneliness . -133 
Through the dark night I wander on alone . . . 240 
Through the Uncreated ....... 623 

Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on . .121 
Thy God was making hast into thy roofe .... 32 

Thy voice is on the rolling air . . . . .. .163 

'Tis Man's own Nature, which in its own Life . . .84 
To every Form of being is assigned . . . . .112 

To God, the everlasting, who abides ..... 307 

To make the Body and the Spirit one .... 396 

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love ..... 89 

To my friend Butts I write ...... 106 

To see a World in a grain of sand . . . . -105 

To the assembled folk . . . . . . 457 

To the elements it came from ...... 233 

To-night I tread the unsubstantial way . . . .522 

Toy -bewitched . . . . . . . .127 

Trimurti, Trimurti . . . . . . . .170 

Truth is within ourselves ; it takes no rise . . -173 
Truth, so far, in my book ; the truth which draws . -150 

Under the flaming wings of cherubim .... 342 
Unfold thy face, unmaske thy ray 31 

Victim of love, in manhood's prime ..... 255 
Visionary power attends the motions of the viewless winds 123 

We are resolved into the supreme air .... 395 

We know Thee, each in part 369 

We of the world who shuffle to our doom .... 626 
We sow the glebe, we reap the corn ..... 148 
We suffer. Why we suffer, that is hid . . . -315 
Well-meaning readers ! you that come as friends . . 46 
' What art Thou, dearest Lord, and what am I ' . . 512 

What do I want of thee ? 584 

What do you seek within, Soul, my Brother ? . . 526 
What domination of what darkness dies this hour . . 496 
What happy, secret fountain ...... 62 

What is that beyond thy life . . . . . 501 

What is there hid in the heart of a rose . . . .544 

What is this ? 273 

What is this maiden fair 237 

What is this reverence in extreme delight .... 474 
What love I when I love Thee, my God . . .248 
What, Eternity 368 



6 44 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



PAGE 

What of the Night, Watcher ? . . . . . 478 

What powerful Spirit lives within ! 81 

What 's that which, ere I spake, was gone . . . 236 

When all the shores of knowledge fade .... 549 

When first thy Eies unveil, give thy Soul leave . . . 59 

When for the thorns with which I long, too long . . 55 

When God at first made man ...... 28 

When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth . . . -63 

When I am dead unto myself, and let . . . . 246 

When I from life's unrest had earned the grace . . . 585 

When I have gained the Hill ...... 629 



When I was young the days were long 

When our five-angled spears, that pierced the world . 

When Rabia unto Mekkeh came ..... 

When the hermit made an end 

When the Soul travails in her Night Obscure . 

When the storm was in the sky ..... 

When thee (0 holy sacrificed Lambe) .... 

When thou turn'st away from ill ..... 

When weight of all the garner'd years .... 

Where is the land of Luthany ...... 

Where shall this self at last find happiness ? 
Who can blot out the Crosse, which th' instrument 

Who gave thee, Beauty 

Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God ? 

Wide fields of corn along the valleys spread 

Wild air, world-mothering air . 

Wise, heart, is the heart which loves ; but what of the 

heart which refrains 

With a measure of light and a measure of shade 
With brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod 
With tear-dimmed eyes I went upon my way . 
With thee a moment ! Then what dreams have play 

With this ambiguous earth 

Would I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease . 
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build 

Yet, longer dwelling in that ruined court .... 
Yonder the veil'd Musician sits, His feet .... 
' You never attained to Him.' ' If to attain 



465 
528 

155 
165 
547 
404 

13 
245 
343 
4i5 
475 

15 
139 
258 
509 
355 

444 
445 
339 
370 
495 
463 



627 
321 
462 



The Oxford book of English 
mystical verse, compiled by 
D.H.S. Nicholson and 

A.H.S. Lee 



PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE 
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET 



UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY