384 WITHOUT AND WITHIN. — GODMINSTER CHIMES. Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, And to my heart this message came : Each clamorous throat among them tells What strong-souled martyrs died in flame To make it possible that thou Shouldst here with brother sinners bow. Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we Breathe cheaply in the common air; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare, Who perished, opening for their race New pathways to the commonplace. Henceforth, when rings the health to those Who live in story and in song, WITHOUT AND WITHIN. My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot. He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode. Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon. The winter wind is not so cold By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms. O, could he have my share of din, GODMINSTER CHIMES. WRITTEN IN AID OF A CHIME OF BELLS And builds of half-remembered things Through aisles of long-drawn centuries Which God's own pity wrought; That throbs with praise and prayer. And all the way from Calvary down crown And safe in God repose; The saints of many a warring creed Who now in heaven have learned That all paths to the Father lead Where Self the feet have spurned. And, as the mystic aisles I pace, By aureoled workmen built, Lives ending at the Cross I trace Alike through grace and guilt; One Mary bathes the blessed feet With ointment from her eyes, With spikenard one, and both are sweet, For both are sacrifice. Moravian hymn and Roman chant One choked with sinner's tears, Whilst thus I dream, the bells clash out Upon the Sabbath air, Each seems a hostile faith to shout, A selfish form of prayer; O chime of sweet Saint Charity, THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. WHO hath not been a poet? Who hath not, With life's new quiver full of winged years, Shot at a venture, and then, following on, Stood doubtful at the Parting of the Ways? There once I stood in dream, and as I paused, Looking this way and that, came forth to me The figure of a woman veiled, that said, "My name is Duty, turn and follow me"; Something there was that chilled me in her voice; I felt Youth's hand grow slack and cold in mine, As if to be withdrawn, and I replied: "O, leave the hot wild heart within my breast! Duty comes soon enough, too soon comes Death; This slippery globe of life whirls of itself, Hasting our youth away into the dark; These senses, quivering with electric heats, Too soon will show, like nests on wintry boughs Obtrusive emptiness, too palpable wreck, Which whistling northwinds line with downy snow Sometimes, or fringe with foliaged rime, in vain, Thither the singing birds no more return." After long weary days I stood again And waited at the Parting of the Ways; Again the figure of a woman veiled Stood forth and beckoned, and I followed now: Down to no bower of roses led the path. But through the streets of towns where chattering Cold Hewed wood for fires whose glow was owned and fenced, Where Nakedness wove garments of warm wool Not for itself; -or through the fields it led Where Hunger reaped the unattainable grain, Where Idleness enforced saw idle lands, Leagues of unpeopled soil, the common earth, Walled round with paper against God and Man. "I cannot look," I groaned, "at only these ; The heart grows hardened with perpetual wont, And palters with a feigned necessity, The Form replied: "Men follow Duty, never overtake; Duty nor lifts her veil nor looks behind." But, as she spake, a loosened lock of hair Slipped from beneath her hood, and I, who looked To see it gray and thin, saw amplest gold; Not that dull metal dug from sordid earth, But such as the retiring sunset flood Leaves heaped on bays and capes of island cloud. "O Guide divine," I prayed, "although not yet I may repair the virtue which I feel Gone out at touch of untuned things and foul With draughts of Beauty, yet declare how soon!" "Faithless and faint of heart," the voice returned, "Thou see'st no beauty save thou make it first; Man, Woman, Nature, each is but a glass Where the soul sees the image of herself, Visible echoes, offsprings of herself. But, since thou need'st assurance of how soon, Wait till that angel comes who opens all, The reconciler, he who lifts the veil, The reuniter, the rest-bringer, Death." I waited, and methought he came; but how, Or in what shape, I doubted, for no sign, By touch or mark, he gave me as he passed: Only I know a lily that I held Snapt short below the head and shrivelled up; Then turned my Guide and looked at me unveiled, And I beheld no face of matron stern, But that enchantment I had followed WHEN I was a beggarly boy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; My beautiful castles in Spain ! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright, For the one that is mine no more; Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and may snatch again; I have nothing 't would pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain ! AN INVITATION. NINE years have slipt like hour-glass sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the token which you gave, While slowly the smoke pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And shut the distance like a grave, Leaving me in the colder world. The old worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope, While you, where beckoning billows fleet Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, You sought the new world in the old, He needs no ship to cross the tide, Whatever moulds of various brain Come back our ancient walks to tread, sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends. Up a ridged beach of cloudy gay, As upon Adam, red like blood, Or whether, under skies full flown, Against the beach's yellow zone, And, as we watch those canvas towers hours Convoy you from this land of ours, Since from my side you bear not him!" For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind; |