Classic Poem

THE ODE OF PERFECT YEARS.

MOTHERHOOD.

But here is one who over all the earth
Is worshipped and is blest,
Who doth rejoice from holier springs of mirth,
And sorrow from a deeper fount of tears,
On whose sweet bosom is our earliest rest,
Whose tender voice that cheers
Is our first memory, which still doth last
Thro' all our later past —
The love of love or child, the world-worn strife,
The turmoil and the triumphs of a life —
The sweet maid-mother, pure and mild,
The deep love undefiled.

Thou art the universal praise
Of every human heart, the secret shrine
Where seer and savage keep a dream divine
Through growing and declining days;
And but for thee
And thy unselfish love, thy sacrifice,
Which brings heaven daily nearer to our eyes,
Men whom the rude world stains, men chilled by doubt,
Would find no ray of Deity
To fire a Faith gone out.
Our life from a twofold root
Springs upwards to the sky,
One, surface only, shared with tree and brute,
And one, as deep and strong as heaven is high.
Spirit and sense,
Each bears its part and dwells in innocence
Yet only grown together can they bear
The one consummate fruit.
The flower is good, the flower is fair,
But holds no lasting sweetness in its petals thin,
No seed of life within.
But the ripe fruit within its orbed gold
Doth hidden secrets hold;
Within its honied wells set safe and deep,
The Future lies asleep.
Of shamefastness our being is born,
Of shamefastness and scorn.

Oh, wonder, that so high dost soar!
Oh, vision, blest for evermore!
With every throe of birth
Two glorious Presences make glad the earth:
The stainless mother and the Eternal Child.
Of the heart comes love, of the heart and not the brain;
To heights where Thought comes not can Love attain:
We cannot tell at all, we may not know,
How to such stature high our lower natures grow;
What strong instinctive thrill
The mother's being doth fill,
And raises it from miry common ways,
Up to such heights of love
We cannot tell what blessed forces move,
And so transform the careless girlish heart
To bear so high a part.
We cannot tell; we can but praise
Fair motherhood, by every childish tongue
Thy eulogy is sung.
In every passing age
The theme of seer and sage:
The painters saw thee in a life-long dream;
The painters who have left a world more fair
Than ever days of nymph and goddess were —
Blest company, who now for centuries
Have fixed the virgin mother for our eyes —
The painters saw thee sitting brown or fair,
Under the Tuscan vines or colder Northern air;
They saw pure love transform thy peasant gaze;
They saw thy reverent eyes, thy young amaze
And left thee Queen of Heaven, wearing a crown
Of glory; and abased at thy sweet breast,
Spurning his robes of kingship down,
The God-child laid at rest.

They found thee, and they fixed thee for our eyes;
But every day that goes
Before the gazer new Madonnas rise.
What matter if the cheek show not the rose
Nor look divine is there nor queenly grace?
The mother's glory lights the homely face
In every land beneath the circling sun
Thy praise is never done.
Whatever men may doubt, they put their trust in thee;
Rude souls and coarse, to whom virginity
Seems a dead thing and cold.
So always was it from the days of old;
So shall it be while yet our race doth last;
Though truth be sought no more and faith be past,
Still, till all hope of heaven be dead,
Thy praises shall be said.

Aye, thou art ours, or wert, ere yet
The loss we ne'er forget,
The loss which comes to all who reach life's middle way
We see thee by the childish bed
Sit patient all night long,
To cool the parching lips or throbbing head;
We hear thee still with simple song
Or sweet hymn lull the wakeful eyes to sleep;
Through every turning of life's chequered page,
Joying with those who joy, weeping with those who weep
Oh, sainted love! oh, precious sacrifice!
Oh, heaven-lighted eyes!
Best dream of early youth, best memory of age!

THE ODE OF GOOD.

E TERNAL Spring, and Source
Of happiness and weal!
Indwelling and unfailing Force!
Who dost Thyself reveal
In every jocund day, and restful night;
In every dawn serenely bright;
In every tide of yearning which doth roll,
Heavenward, some growing soul!

What were life save for Thee
But pain and misery —
To have no more longing, but to be
Below the brute, below the tree,
Below the little stone, or speck of dust,
Which are themselves, and are made just,
Conforming to the law which bade them grow,
Not dreaming dreams of heaven in their estate so low!

The calm brutes live and are,
Tranquil and unafraid,
Keeping their nature only; the faint star
Pursues its orbit always though of Thee
It knows not, yet its vast periphery
Is ordered by Thy hand; by Thee were laid
The fixed foundations of the unfathomed sea; —
All these obey Thee, though they may not know
What law it is that holds them. Man alone
Sees Thee, and knowing Thee, averts his face,
And yet is higher than all for his disgrace,
Which were impossible to brute, or tree, or stone.

How shall a finite voice
Praise Thee who art too high for any praise,
Great Scheme, that by eternal, perfect ways
Farest and dost rejoice:
Thou wert before Life was, or Ill.
Thou rulest all things still;
The Governance and regimen are Thine,
Oh Plenitude divine!
Of all the countless orbs that roll
Through all Thy infinite space.
We are through Thee alone, each in its place,
Organic, Inorganic, great and small;
Thou dost inspire and keep us all; —
Earth, sky, and sea; herb, tree, insect, and brute;
All Thy created excellences mute,
To Man of large discourse, and the undying soul.

We know not by what Name our tongues shall call
Thee or Thy Essence, nor can Thought as yet
Gain those ineffable heights where Thou art set,
As from a watch-tower guarding all
Thou girdest Thyself round with mystery,
As Thy great sun behind an embattled cloud,
Or some wrapt summit, never seen;
Yet Thy veiled presence cheers us on our road.
With eyes bent down too much on earth and bowed,
We toil and do forget
All but our daily labour and its load;
Yet art Thou there the while, felt yet unseen,
Oh universal Good, and Thy great Will
Directs our footsteps still —
Directs them, though they come to stray
From Thy appointed perfect way;
Lights them, though for a while they wander far,
Led by some feeble baleful star,
Which can allure them when the blinding fold
Of mist is on the hill side, and the cold
Clouds which make green our lives, descending, hide
Death's steeps on every side.

We know not what Thou art —
Whether the Word of some all-perfect Will
Inborn and nourished in each human heart,
Some hidden and mysterious good,
Obeyed, not understood;
Or whether the harmonious note
Of some world-symphony divine,
To which the perfect Scheme of things,
Ever advancing perfectly
To high fulfilment, sings.
We know not what Thou art, and yet we love;
We know not where Thou dwell'st, yet still above
We turn our eyes to Thee, knowing Thou wilt take
Our yearnings and wilt treasure them, and make
Our little lives fulfil themselves and Thee:
And in this trust we bear to be.

Oh Light so white and pure,
Oft clouded and yet sure!
Oh inner Radiance of the heart,
That drawest all men, whatsoe'er Thou art!
Spring of the soul, that dost remove
Winter with rays of love,
And dost dispel of Thy far-working might
The clouds of Ill and Night,
For every soul which cometh to the earth;
That beamest on us at our birth,
And paling somewhat in life's grosser day,
Lightest, a pillar of fire, our evening way;
What matter by what Name
We call Thee? — still art Thou the same,
God call we Thee, or Good, — still through the strife
Unchangeable alone, of all our changeful life,
With awe-struck souls we seek Thee, we adore
Thy greatness ever more and more,
We turn to Thee with worship, till at last,
Our journey well-nigh past,
When now our day of Life draws to its end,
Looking, with less of awe and more of love,
To Thy high throne above,
We see no dazzling brightness as of old,
No kingly splendours cold,
But the sweet Presence of a heavenly Friend.

THE ODE OF EVIL.

*****

T HE victories of Right
Are born of strife.
There were no Day were there no Night,
Nor, without dying, Life.
There only doth Right triumph, where the Wrong
Is mightiest and most strong;
There were no Good, indeed, were there no Ill
And when the final victory shall come,
Burst forth, oh Awful Sun, and draw Creation home.

Not within Time or Space
Lines drawn in opposite ways grow one,
But in some Infinite place
Before the Eternal throne;
There, ways to-day divergent, Right and Wrong,
Approach the nearer that they grow more long
There at the Eternal feet,
Fused, joined, and grown complete,
The circle rounds itself, the enclosing wall
Of the Universe sinks down, and God is all in all!

THE ODE OF AGE.

T HERE is a sweetness in autumnal days,
Which many a lip doth praise;
When the earth, tired a little and grown mute
Of song, and having borne its fruit,
Rests for a little space ere winter come.
It is not sad to turn the face towards home,
Even though it shows the journey nearly done;
It is not sad to mark the westering sun,
Even though we know the imminent night doth come.
Silence there is, indeed, for song,
Twilight for noon;
But for the steadfast soul and strong
Life's autumn is as June.

As June itself, but clearer, calmer far;
Here come no passion-gusts to mar,
No thunder-clouds or rains to beat
To earth the blossoms and the wheat,
No high tumultuous noise
Of youth's self-seeking joys,
But a cold radiance white
As the moon shining on a frosty night.

To-morrow is as yesterday, scant change,
Little of new or strange,
No glamour of false hope to daze,
Nor glory to amaze,
Even the old passionate love of love or child
A temperate affection mild,
And ever the recurring thought
Returning, though unsought:
How strange the Scheme of Things! how brief a span
The little life of man!
And ever as we mark them, fleeter and more fleet,
The days and months and years, gliding with winged feet.

And ever as the hair grows grey,
And the eyes dim,
And the lithe form which toiled the live-long day,
The stalwart limb,
Begin to stiffen and grow slow,
A higher joy we know:
To spend the remnant of the waning year,
Ere comes the deadly chill,
In works of mercy, and to cheer
The feet which toil against life's rugged hill!
To have known the trouble and the fret,
To have known it, and to cease
In a pervading peace,
Too calm to suffer pain, too living to forget,
And reaching down a succouring hand
To where the sufferers are,
To lift them to the tranquil heights afar,
Whereon Time's conquerors stand.

And when the fruitful hours are done,
How sweet at set of sun
To gather up the fair laborious day! —
To have struck some blow for right
With tongue or pen;
To have smoothed the path to light
For wandering men;
To have chased some fiend of Ill away;
A little backward to have thrust
The instant powers of Drink and Lust,
To have borne down gaunt Despair,
To have dealt a blow at Care!
How sweet to light again the glow
Of hotter fires than youth's, tho' the calm blood runs slow!

Oh! is there any joy,
Of all that come to girl or boy
Of manhood's calmer weal and ease,
To vie with these?
Here is some fitting profit day by day,
Which naught can render less;
Some glorious gain Fate cannot take away,
Nor Time depress.
Sad brother, fainting on your road!
Poor sister, whom the righteous shun!
There comes for you, ere life and strength be done,
An arm to bear your load.
A feeble body, maybe bent, and old,
But bearing 'midst the chills of age
A deeper glow than youth's; a nobler rage;
A calm heart yet not cold.
A man or woman, weak perhaps, and spent,
To whom pursuit of gold or fame
Is as a fire grown cold, an empty name,
Whom thoughts of Love no more allure,
Who in a self-made nunnery dwell,
A cloistered calm and pure,
A beatific peace deeper than tongue can tell.

And sweet it is to take,
With something of the eager haste of youth,
Some fainter glimpse of Truth
For its own sake;
To observe the ways of bee, or plant, or bird;
To trace in Nature the ineffable Word,
Which by the gradual wear of secular time,
Has worked its work sublime;
To have touched, with strenuous gropings dim
Nature's extremest outward rim;
To have found some weed or shell unknown before;
To advance Thought's infinite march a footpace more;
To make or to declare laws just and sage;
These are the joys of Age.

Or by the evening hearth, in the old chair,
With children's children at our knees,
So like, yet so unlike the little ones of old —
Some little lad with curls of gold,
Some little maid demurely fair,
To sit, girt round with ease,
And feel how sweet it is to live,
Careless what fate may give;
To think, with gentle yearning mind
Of dear souls who have crossed the Infinite Sea;
To muse with cheerful hope of what shall be
For those we leave behind
When the night comes which knows no earthly morn;
Yet mingled with the young in hopes and fears,
And bringing from the treasure-house of years
Some fair-set counsel long-time worn;
To let the riper days of life,
The tumult and the strife,
Go by, and in their stead
Dwell with the living past, so living, yet so dead;
The mother's kiss upon the sleeper's brow,
The little fish caught from the brook,
The dead child-sister's gentle voice and look,
The school-days and the father's parting hand;
The days so far removed, yet oh! so near,
So full of precious memories dear;
The riddle of flying Time, so hard to understand!

Not in clear eye or ear
Dwells our chief profit here.
We are not as the brutes, who fade and make no sign;
We are sustained where'er we go,
In happiness and woe,
By some indwelling faculty divine,
Which lifts us from the deep
Of failing senses dim, and duller brain,
And wafts us back to youth again;
And as a vision fair dividing sleep,
Pierces the vasts behind, the voids before,
And opens to us an invisible gate,
And sets our winged footsteps, scorning Time and Fate,
At the celestial door.

THE ODE OF DECLINE.

*****

T HE soaring thoughts of youth
Are dead and cold, the victories of Thought
Are no more prized or sought
By eyes which draw too near the face of Truth
Whatever fruit or gain
Fate held in store,
To tempt the growing soul or brain,
Allures no more.
It is as the late Autumn, when the fields
Are bare of flower or fruit;
Nor charm nor profit the swept surface yields,
Sullen and mute;
So that a doubting mind might come to hold
The very soul and life were dead and cold.

But who can peer
Into another soul, or tell at all
What hidden energies befall
The aged lingering here?
When all the weary brain
Seems dull, the immeasurable fields of life
Lie open to the memory, and again
They know the youthful joys, the hurry and the strife
And feel, but gentlier now, the ancient pain.
In the uneasy vigils of the night,
Before the tardy light;
Or, lonely days, when no young lives are by,
There come such long processions of the dead,
The buried lives and hopes of far-off years,
Spent joys and dried-up tears,
That round them stands a blessed company,
Holding high converse, though no word be said,
Till only what is past and gone doth seem
To live, and all the Present is a dream.

So may the wintry earth,
Holding her precious seeds within the ground,
Pause for the coming birth,
When like a clarion-note the Spring shall sound;
So may the roots which, buried deep
And safe within her sleep,
Whisper as 'twere, low down, tales of the sun, —
Whisper of leaf and flower, of bee and bird, —
Till by a sudden glory stirred,
A mystic influence bids them rise,
Bursting the narrow sheath
And cerement of death,
And bloom as lilies again beneath the recovered skies.

THE ODE OF CHANGE.

*****

W E are part of an Infinite Scheme,
All we that are;
Man the high crest and crown of things that be,
The fiery-hearted earth, the cold unfathomed sea,
The central sun, the intermittent star.
Things great and small,
We are but parts of the Eternal All;
We live not in a barren, baseless dream;
No endless, ineffectual chain
Of chance successions launched in vain;
But every beat of Time,
Each sun that shines or fails to shine,
Each animate life that comes to throb or cease,
Each life of herb or tree
Which blooms and fruits and then forgets to be,
Each change of strife and peace,
Each soaring thought sublime,
Each deed of wrong and blood,
Each impulse towards an unattained good, —
All with a sure, unfaltering working tend
To one Ineffable, Beatific End.
Oh hidden Scheme, perfect Thyself, and take
Our petty lives, and mould them as Thou wilt!
All things that are, are only for Thy sake,
And not to obey Thee is our only guilt!
Perfect Thyself, and be fulfilled, oh great
Unfathomable Will, who art our Life and Fate!

There is hope, but nothing of fear,
Nought but a patient mind,
For him who waits with conscience clear
And soul resigned
Whate'er the mystic coming change
Shall bring of new and strange.
He looks back once upon the fields of life,
The good and evil locked in strife,
The happy and the unhappy days,
The Right we always love, the oft-triumphant Wrong;
And all his Being to a secret song
Sings with a mighty and unfaltering voice —
" I have been; Thou hast done all things well; I am glad; I give thanks; I rejoice! "