Classic Poem

As in the City's streets I wander'd late,
Bitter with God because my wrongs seem'd great,
Chiller at heart than the bleak winds that flew
Under the star-strewn voids of steel-bright blue,
Sick at the silence of the Snow, and dead
To the white Earth beneath and Heaven o'erhead,
I heard a voice sound feebly at my side
In hollow human accents, and it cried
" For God's sake, mortal, let me lean on thee!"
And as I turn'd in mute amaze to see
Who spake, there flew a whirlwind overhead
In which the lights of Heaven were darkened,
Shut out from sight or flickering sick and low
Like street-lamps when a sudden blast doth blow;
But I could hear a rustling robe wind-swept
And a faint breathing; then a thin hand crept
Into mine own, clammy and cold as clay!

'Twas on that Night which ushereth in Christ's Day.
The winds had winnowed the drifts of cloud,
But the white fall had ceased. There, pale and proud,
In streets of stone empty of life, while Sleep
In silvern mist hung beautiful and deep
Over the silent City even as breath,
I mused on God and Man, on Life and Death,
And mine own woe was as a glass wherein
I mirror'd God's injustice and Man's sin.
And so, remembering the time, I sneer'd
To think the mockery of Christ's birth-tide near'd,
And pitying thought of all the blinded herd
Who eat the dust and ashes of the Word,
Holding for all their light and all their good
The Woeful Man upon the Cross of wood;
And bitterly to mine own heart I said,
" In vain, in vain, upon that Cross He bled!
In vain He swore to vanquish Death, in vain
He spake of that glad Realm where He should reign!
Lo, all His promise is a foolish thing,
Flowers gathered by a child and withering
In the moist hand that holdeth them; for lo!
Winter hath come, and on His grave the snow
Lies mountain-deep; and where He sleeping lies
We too shall follow soon and close our eyes
Unvex'd by dreams. The golden Dream is o'er,
And he whom Death hath conquer'd wakes no more!"

Even then I heard the desolate voice intone,
And the thin hand crept trembling in my own,
And while my heart shut sharp in sudden dread
Against the rushing blood, I murmured
" Who speaks? who speaks?" Suddenly in the sky
The Moon, a luminous white Moth, flew by
And from her wings silent and mystical
Thick rays of vitreous dust began to fall,
Illuming Earth and Heaven; when I was 'ware
Of One with reverend silver beard and hair
Snow-white and sorrowful, looming suddenly
In the new light like to a leafless Tree
Hung round with ice and magnified by mist
Against a frosty Heaven! But ere I wist
Darkness return'd, the splendour died away,
And all I felt was that thin hand which lay
Fluttering in mine!
Then suddenly again
I heard the tremulous voice cry out in pain
" For God's sake, mortal, let me lean on thee!"
And peering thro' the dimness I could see
Snows of white hair blowing feebly in the wind;
And deeply was I troubled in my mind
To see so ancient and so weak a Wight
At the cold mercy of the storm that night,
And said, while 'neath his wintry load he bent,
" Lean on me, father!" adding, as he leant
Feebly upon me, wearied out with woe,
" Whence dost thou come? and whither dost thou go?"
O then, meseem'd, the womb of Heaven afar
Quickened to sudden life, and moon and star
Flash'd like the opening of a million eyes,
Dimming from every labyrinth of the skies
Their lustre on that Lonely Man; and he
Loom'd like a comer from a far Countrie
In ragged antique raiment, and around
His waist a rotting rope was loosely bound,
And in one feeble hand a lanthorn quaint
Hung lax and trembling, and the light was faint
Within it unto dying, tho' it threw
Upon the snows beneath him light enew
To show his feeble feet were bloody and bare!

Thereon, with deep-drawn breath and dull dumb stare,
" Far have I travelled and the night is cold,"
He murmur'd, adding feebly, " I am old!"
He spake like one whose wits are wandering,
And strange his accents were, and seem'd to bring
The sense of some strange region far away;
And like a caged Lion gaunt and grey
Who, looking thro' the bars, all woe-be-gone,
Beholdeth not the men he looketh on,
But gazeth thro' them on some lonely pool
Far in the desert, whither he crept to cool
His sunburnt loins and drink when strong and free,
Ev'n so with dull dumb stare he gazed thro' me
On some far bourne; and tho' his eyes were bright
They seem'd to suffer from the piteous light
They shed upon me thro' his hoary hair!

Then was I seized with wonder unaware
To see a man so old and strangely dight
Wandering alone beneath the Heavens that night;
For round us were the silenced haunts of trade,
The public marts and buildings deep in shade,
All emptied of their living waters; cold
And swift the stars did plunge thro' fold on fold
Of vaporous gauze, wind-driven; and the street
Was washen everywhere around my feet
With smoky silver; and the stillness round
Was dreadfuller by memory of the sound
Which fill'd the place all day from dawn to dark:
And strange it was and pitiful to mark
The heavy snow of years upon this Man,
His furrow'd cheeks down which the rheum-drops ran,
His wintry eyes that saw some summer land
Far off and very peaceful, while his hand
Dank as the drowned dead's lay loose in mine.

But, my fear lessening, eager to divine
What man he was, and thro' what cruel fate
He wander'd homeless and disconsolate,
Scourged by the pitiless God who hateth men,
A victim, the more piteous in his pain
Because that God had given him length of days,
I cried, " Who art thou? From what weary ways
Comest thou, father? Thou art frail and old!
Sad is thy lot upon a night so cold
To wander barefoot in a world of snow!
Speak to me, father! for I fain would know
What cruel Hand is on thee out of Heaven,
That by the wintry tempests thou art driven
Hither and thither? Speak thy grief out strong,
For God, I know, is hard, and I, too, have my wrong."

Then as I looked full eagerly on him,
And my limbs trembled and mine eyes grew dim,
With dull still gaze he stared on thro' me
At that far bourne of rest his Soul could see,
And shiver'd as the frost took blood and bone,
And even as a feeble child might moan
He murmured, " I am hungry and athirst!"

O then my soul was sicken'd, and I curst
The winds and snows that smote this Man so old,
And drave him outcast thro' the wintry wold,
And made the belly of him tight with pain
For lack of food, and only with the rain
Moisten'd his toothless gums! and 'neath my breath
I curst the pitiless Lord of Life and Death,
And " All the hate I bear for Him who wrought
This crumbling prison-house of flesh" (methought)
" Is vindicated by this Wight who bears
The rueful justification of grey hairs!"
And as I held his clay-cold hand, nor spake,
For I was hoarse with sorrow for his sake,
He cried in a strange, witless, wandering way,
Not loud, but as a burthen children say
When they have known it long by heart, " Aye me!
The blessed Night is dark on land and sea,
On tired eyes the dusts of Sleep are shed,
And yet I have no place to rest my head!"

Ev'n as he spake there flash'd across my sight
A glamour of the Sleepers of the Night:
The hushed rooms where dainty ladies dream,
And shaded night-lamps shed a slumberous gleam
Across the silken sheets and broider'd couch;
The beggarman, a groat within his pouch,
Pillow'd on filthy rags and chuckling deep
Because his dreams are golden; the sweet sleep
Of little children holding in pink palm
The fancied toy, and smiling; slumbers calm
Of delicate-limb'd vestals, slumbers wild
Of puerperal women and of nymphs defiled
Wasting like rotten fruit; — as scenes we see
By lightning flashes, changing momently,
These visions came and went, each gleaming clear
Yet spectral, in the act to disappear;
I marked the long streets empty to the sky,
And every dim square window was an eye
That gazing dimly inward saw within
Some hidden mystery of shame or sin, —
Lovebed and deathbed, raggedness and wealth,
Pale Murder, tiptoe, creeping on in stealth
With sharp uplifted knife, or haggard Lust
Mouthing his stolen fruit of tasteless dust;
And then I saw strange huddled shapes that lay
In blankets under palm trees, while the day
Drew far across the sands its blood-red line;
The sailor drearily dozing, while the brine
Flash'd eyes of foam around him; glimpses then
Of purple royal chambers, where pale men
Lay naked of their glory; and of the warm
Bonfires on mountain sides, where many a form
Lay prone but gript the sword; of halls of stone
Lofty and cold, where wounded men made moan,
And the calm nurse stole softly down the row
Of narrow sickbeds, like a ghost; and lo!
These pictures swiftly came and vanished
Like northern meteors, leaving as they fled
A trouble like the wash of leaden seas.

Then, while the glamour of such images
Weighed on my Soul, I said, " Hard by I dwell, —
Poor is the place, yet thou mayst find it well
After thy travail. Thither let us go!"
And by my side he falter'd feeble and slow,
Breathing the frosty air with pain, and soon
We reached a lonely Bridge o'er which the Moon
Hung phosphorescent, blinding with its wings
The lamps that flicker'd there like elfin things;
But near us, on the water's brim, engloom'd
In its own night, a mighty Abbey loom'd,
Clothen with rayless snow as with a shroud;
And suddenly that old Man cried aloud,
Lifting his weary face and woe-begone
Up to the painted window-panes that shone
With frosty glimmers, " Open, O thou Priest
Who waitest in the Temple!" As he ceased,
The fretted arches echoed to the cry
And with a shriek the wintry wind went by
And died in silence. For a moment's space
He stood and listened with upturned face,
Then moan'd and faltered on in dumb despair,
Until we stood upon the Bridge, and there
The vitreous light was luminously drawn,
Making the lamps burn dim, as in a ghostly dawn.