How sweet to have a common faith! To hold a common scorn of death! And at a burial to hear
The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!
A grief not uninformed, and dull Hearted with hope, of hope as full As is the blood with life, or night And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. To stand beside a grave, and see The red small atoms wherewith we Are built, and smile in calm, and say— "These little moles and graves shall be Clothed on with immortality
More glorious than the noon of day—
All that is pass'd into the flowers
And into beasts and other men,
And all the Norland whirlwind showers
From open vaults, and all the sea
O'er washes with sharp salts, again
Shall fleet together all, and be Indued with immortality."
Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee! Who lets his waxen fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. They comfort him by night and day; They light his little life alway; He hath no thought of coming woes; He hath no care of life or death, Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath
Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth, Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose chillness would make visible Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood, Fullfills him with beatitude.
Oh! sure it is a special care Of God, to fortify from doubt, To arm in proof, and guard about With triple-mailed trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year.
Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listen'd to thy vows, For me outpour'd in holiest prayer— For me unworthy!—and beheld
Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith,
And the clear spirit shining through. Oh! wherefore do we grow awry
From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desert? Could not I
Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt. To th' earth—until the ice would melt
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?
What Devil had the heart to scathe
Flowers thou hadst rear'd—to brush the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave
Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why
Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro' utter dark a fullsailed skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk! I know At matins and at evensong,
That thou, if thou were yet alive, In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still—
Bring this lamb back into thy fold, My Lord, if so it be thy will".
Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, And chastisement of human pride; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God! That hitherto I had defied And had rejected God—that grace Would drop from his o'erbrimming love, As manna on my wilderness,
If I would pray—that God would move And strike the hard hard rock, and thence,
Sweet in their utmost bitterness,
Would issue tears of penitence
Which would keep green hope's life. Alas! I think that pride hath now no place Nor sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.
Why not believe then? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moor'd and rested? Ask the sea
At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret
The broadimbased beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland mere ?
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can
Draw down into his vexed pools
All that blue heaven which hues and paves
The other? I am too forlorn,
Too shaken my own weakness fools
My judgment, and my spirit whirls,
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.
"Yet," said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunned freshness of my strength, When I went forth in quest of truth, "It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length, Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows, And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs, at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the Ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The horned valleys all about, And hollows of the fringed hills In summerheats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flower'd furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains
Through his warm heart; and then, from whence He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem, And things that be, and analyse Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be?" Ay me! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove
For her the showers shall not fall,
Nor the round sun that shineth to all; Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green grass shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, Till Love have his lull revenge.
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