Doubtless his church will be no hospital For superannuate forms and mumping shams, No parlor where men issue policies Of life-assurance on the Eternal Mind, Scorned by the strong; yet he, uncon scious heir To the influence sweet of Athens and of And old Judæa's gift of secret fire, From far as Rouen, to give votes for Each vote a block of stone securely laid Will what our ballots rear, responsible To no grave forethought, stand so long as this? Spite of himself shall surely learn to Delight like this the eye of after days know And worship some ideal of himself, Not nice in trifles, a soft creditor, cant. And, if his Church be doubtful, it is sure That, in a world, made for whatever else, Of toil but half-requited, or, at best, Brightening with pride that here, at least, were men Who meant and did the noblest thing they knew? Can our religion cope with deeds like this? We, too, build Gothic contract-shams, Our deacons have discovered that it pays, we spoke, So fiercely practical, so keen of eye, Find out, some day, that nothing pays but God, Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field, In work obscure done honestly, or vote For truth unpopular, or faith maintained To ruinous convictions, or good deeds Wrought for good's sake, mindless of heaven or hell? Shall he not learn that all prosperity, Whose bases stretch not deeper than the sense, Is but a trick of this world's atmosphere, A desert-born mirage of spire and dome, Or find too late, the Past's long lesson missed, That dust the prophets shake from off their feet Grows heavy to drag down both tower and wall? I know not; but, sustained by sure belief That man still rises level with the height Each the bright gift of some mechanic guild Who loved their city and thought gold well spent To make her beautiful with piety; I pause, transfigured by some stripe of bloom, And my mind throngs with shining auguries, Circle on circle, bright as seraphim, With golden trumpets, silent, that await The signal to blow news of good to men. Then the revulsion came that always comes After these dizzy elations of the mind: And with a passionate pang of doubt I cried, "O mountain-born, sweet with snowfiltered air From uncontaminate wells of ether drawn And never-broken secrecies of sky, Freedom, with anguish won, misprized till lost, They keep thee not who from thy sacred eyes Catch the consuming lust of sensual good And the brute's license of unfettered will. Far from the popular shout and venal breath I walked forth saddened; for all thought is sad, And leaves a bitterish savor in the And fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch, Now on a mitre poising, now a crown, Irreverently happy. While I thought How confident they were, what, careless hearts Flew on those lightsome wings and shared the sun, A larger shadow crossed; and looking up. I saw where, nesting in the hoary towers, The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noiseless air, With sidelong head that watched the joy below, Grim Norman baron o'er this clan of Kelts. Enduring Nature, force conservative, Indifferent to our noisy whims! Men prate Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered On level with the dullest, and expect (Sick of no worse distemper than themselves) |