The Reply
Blue are of heaven whose lattices
Are throng'd with starry eyes;
Vast dome that over land and seas
Dost luminously rise,
With mystic characters enwrought
More strange than all poetic thought!
Hear, Heaven, if thou canst hear! and see,
O stars, if see ye can!
Mark, while your speechless mystery
Flows to a Voice in man:
He stands erect this solemn hour
In reverent insolence of power.
Order divine, whose awful show
Dazzles all guess or dream;
Sequence unseen, whose mystic flow
Fulfils the immortal scheme;
Thou Law whereby all stand or stir, —
Here breathes your last interpreter!
Because one foolish King hath slain
Another foolish King;
Because a half-born nation's brain
With dizzy joy doth ring;
Because at the false Shepherd's cry
The silly sheep still throng to die;
Because purblind Philosophy
Out of her cobweb'd cave
Croaks in a voice of senile glee
While empty patriots rave;
Because humanity is still
The gull of any daring will;
Because the Tinsel Order stands
A little longer yet;
Because in each crown'd puppet's hands
A laurel-sprig is set,
While the old lame device controls
The draff of miserable souls;
Because man's blood again bathes bright
The purple and the throne,
And gray fools gladden at the sight,
And maiden choirs intone;
Because once more the puppet Kings
Dance, while Death's lean hand pulls the strings;
Because these things have been and are,
And oft again may be,
Doth this man swear by sun and star,
And oh our God by Thee,
Framing to cheat his own shrewd eyes
His fair cosmogony of lies.
O Lord our God whose praise we sing,
Behold he deemeth Thee
A little nobler than the King,
And greater in degree,
Set just above the monarch's mind,
Greater in sphere but like in kind!
O calm Intelligence divine,
Transcending life and death,
He deems these bursting bubbles Thine,
Blown earthward by thy breath, —
He marks Thee sitting well content,
Like some old King at tournament.
The lists are set; upon the sod
The gleaming columns range;
The sign is given by Thee, O God,
From Thy Pavilion strange:
The trumpets blow, the champions meet,
One screams — Thou smilest on Thy seat.
Behold, O God, the Order blest
Of Thy great chivalry!
See tinsel crown and glittering crest,
Cold heart and empty eye!
The living shout, the dying groan,
All reddens underneath Thy throne!
Accept Thy chosen! great and good,
Vouchsafe them all they seek!
Deepen their purple in man's blood!
Trumpet them with man's shriek!
Paint their escutcheons fresh, O Sire;
With heart's blood bright and crimson fire!
And further, from the fire they light
Protect them with Thy hand,
Beyond the bright hill of the fight
Let them in safety stand;
For 'twere not well a random blow
Should strike Thy next-of-kin below.
O God! O Father! Lord of All!
Spare us, for we blaspheme,
See, — for upon our knees we fall,
And hush our mocking scream —
Let us pray low; let us pray low;
Thy will be done; Thy Kingdom grow!
Blue are of heaven whose lattices
Are throng'd with starry eyes,
Still dome that over earth and seas
Doth luminously rise;
Fair Order mystically wrought,
More strange than all poetic thought.
He fears ye all, this son of man,
To his own soul he lies,
Lo! trembling at his own dark plan
He contemplates the prize:
He has won all, and lo! he stands
Clutching the glory in his hands!
To one, to all, on life's dark way,
Sooner or late is brought
The silent solemnising ray
Illuminating thought;
It shines, they stand on some lone spot,
Its light is strange, they know it not.
Sleeps, like a mirror in the dark,
The Conscience of the Soul,
Unknown, where never eye may mark,
While days and seasons roll;
But late or soon the walls of clay
Are loosening to admit the day.
Light comes — a touch — a streak — a beam —
Child of the unknown sky —
And lo! the Mirror with a gleam
Flashes its first reply:
Light brighteneth: and all things fair
Flow to the glass and tremble there.
O Lord our God, Thou art the Light,
We shine by Thee alone;
Tho' Thou hast made us mirrors bright,
The gleam is not our own;
Until Thy ray shines sweet and plain
All shall be dark as this man's brain.
Thro' human thought as thro 'a cave
Creep gently, Light, this hour;
Tho' now 'tis darker than the grave,
There lies the shining power;
Come! let the Soul flash back to Thee
The million lights of Deity!
Are throng'd with starry eyes;
Vast dome that over land and seas
Dost luminously rise,
With mystic characters enwrought
More strange than all poetic thought!
Hear, Heaven, if thou canst hear! and see,
O stars, if see ye can!
Mark, while your speechless mystery
Flows to a Voice in man:
He stands erect this solemn hour
In reverent insolence of power.
Order divine, whose awful show
Dazzles all guess or dream;
Sequence unseen, whose mystic flow
Fulfils the immortal scheme;
Thou Law whereby all stand or stir, —
Here breathes your last interpreter!
Because one foolish King hath slain
Another foolish King;
Because a half-born nation's brain
With dizzy joy doth ring;
Because at the false Shepherd's cry
The silly sheep still throng to die;
Because purblind Philosophy
Out of her cobweb'd cave
Croaks in a voice of senile glee
While empty patriots rave;
Because humanity is still
The gull of any daring will;
Because the Tinsel Order stands
A little longer yet;
Because in each crown'd puppet's hands
A laurel-sprig is set,
While the old lame device controls
The draff of miserable souls;
Because man's blood again bathes bright
The purple and the throne,
And gray fools gladden at the sight,
And maiden choirs intone;
Because once more the puppet Kings
Dance, while Death's lean hand pulls the strings;
Because these things have been and are,
And oft again may be,
Doth this man swear by sun and star,
And oh our God by Thee,
Framing to cheat his own shrewd eyes
His fair cosmogony of lies.
O Lord our God whose praise we sing,
Behold he deemeth Thee
A little nobler than the King,
And greater in degree,
Set just above the monarch's mind,
Greater in sphere but like in kind!
O calm Intelligence divine,
Transcending life and death,
He deems these bursting bubbles Thine,
Blown earthward by thy breath, —
He marks Thee sitting well content,
Like some old King at tournament.
The lists are set; upon the sod
The gleaming columns range;
The sign is given by Thee, O God,
From Thy Pavilion strange:
The trumpets blow, the champions meet,
One screams — Thou smilest on Thy seat.
Behold, O God, the Order blest
Of Thy great chivalry!
See tinsel crown and glittering crest,
Cold heart and empty eye!
The living shout, the dying groan,
All reddens underneath Thy throne!
Accept Thy chosen! great and good,
Vouchsafe them all they seek!
Deepen their purple in man's blood!
Trumpet them with man's shriek!
Paint their escutcheons fresh, O Sire;
With heart's blood bright and crimson fire!
And further, from the fire they light
Protect them with Thy hand,
Beyond the bright hill of the fight
Let them in safety stand;
For 'twere not well a random blow
Should strike Thy next-of-kin below.
O God! O Father! Lord of All!
Spare us, for we blaspheme,
See, — for upon our knees we fall,
And hush our mocking scream —
Let us pray low; let us pray low;
Thy will be done; Thy Kingdom grow!
Blue are of heaven whose lattices
Are throng'd with starry eyes,
Still dome that over earth and seas
Doth luminously rise;
Fair Order mystically wrought,
More strange than all poetic thought.
He fears ye all, this son of man,
To his own soul he lies,
Lo! trembling at his own dark plan
He contemplates the prize:
He has won all, and lo! he stands
Clutching the glory in his hands!
To one, to all, on life's dark way,
Sooner or late is brought
The silent solemnising ray
Illuminating thought;
It shines, they stand on some lone spot,
Its light is strange, they know it not.
Sleeps, like a mirror in the dark,
The Conscience of the Soul,
Unknown, where never eye may mark,
While days and seasons roll;
But late or soon the walls of clay
Are loosening to admit the day.
Light comes — a touch — a streak — a beam —
Child of the unknown sky —
And lo! the Mirror with a gleam
Flashes its first reply:
Light brighteneth: and all things fair
Flow to the glass and tremble there.
O Lord our God, Thou art the Light,
We shine by Thee alone;
Tho' Thou hast made us mirrors bright,
The gleam is not our own;
Until Thy ray shines sweet and plain
All shall be dark as this man's brain.
Thro' human thought as thro 'a cave
Creep gently, Light, this hour;
Tho' now 'tis darker than the grave,
There lies the shining power;
Come! let the Soul flash back to Thee
The million lights of Deity!
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