Classic Poem

I

At times I lift mine eyes unto " the hills
Whence my salvation cometh " — aye, and higher —
And, the mind kindling with the heart's desire,
Mount to that realm nor blight nor shadow chills:
With concourse of bright forms that region thrills:
I see the lost one midmost in the choir:
From heaven to heaven, on wings that ne'er can tire,
I soar; and God Himself my spirit fills.
If that high rapture lasted, need were none
For aid beside, nor any meaner light,
Nothing henceforth to seek, and nought to shun:
But my soul staggers at its noonday height
And, stretching forth blind hands, a shape undone,
Drops back into the gulfs of mortal night.

II

Then learn I that the fancy's saintliest flight
Gives or a fleeting, or a false relief;
And fold my hands and say " Let grief be grief,
Let winter winter be, and blight be blight! "
O Thou all wise, all-just and infinite!
Whate'er the good we clasped, the least, the chief,
Was Thine, not ours, and held by us in fief;
Thy Will consummate in my will's despite!
" Blessed the dead " : and they, they too, are blest.
Who, dead on earth, in full submission find,
Buried in God's high will, their Maker's rest:
Kneeling, the blood-drops from the Saviour's feet
Their brows affusing, makes their passion sweet;
And in His sepulchre they sleep enshrined.

III

Alone, among thy books, once more I sit;
No sound there stirs except the flapping fire;
Strange shadows of old times about me flit
As sinks the midnight lamp or flickers higher.
I see thee pace the room. With eye thought-lit
Back, back, thou com'st once more to my desire:
Low-toned thou read'st once more the verse new-writ,
Too deep, too pure for worldlings to admire.
That brow all honour, that all gracious hand,
That cordial smile, and clear voice musical,
That noble bearing, mien of high command,
Yet void of pride — to-night I have them all.
Ah, phantoms vain of thought! The Christmas air
Is white with flying flakes. Where art thou — where?