Wind-Clouds And Star-Drifts

From The Young Astronomer's Poem I. AMBITION     Another clouded night; the stars are hid,     The orb that waits my search is hid with them.     Patience! Why grudge an hour, a month, a year,     To plant my ladder and to gain the round     That leads my footsteps to the heaven of fame,     Where waits the wreath my sleepless midnights won?     Not the stained laurel such as heroes wear     That withers when some stronger conqueror's heel     Treads down their shrivelling trophies in the dust;     But the fair garland whose undying green     Not time can change, nor wrath of gods or men!     With quickened heart-beats I shall hear tongues     That speak my praise; but better far the sense     That in the unshaped ages, buried deep     In the dark mines of unaccomplished time     Yet to be stamped with morning's royal die     And coined in golden days, - in those dim years     I shall be reckoned with the undying dead,     My name emblazoned on the fiery arch,     Unfading till the stars themselves shall fade.     Then, as they call the roll of shining worlds,     Sages of race unborn in accents new     Shall count me with the Olympian ones of old,     Whose glories kindle through the midnight sky     Here glows the God of Battles; this recalls     The Lord of Ocean, and yon far-off sphere     The Sire of Him who gave his ancient name     To the dim planet with the wondrous rings;     Here flames the Queen of Beauty's silver lamp,     And there the moon-girt orb of mighty Jove;     But this, unseen through all earth's ions past,     A youth who watched beneath the western star     Sought in the darkness, found, and shewed to men;     Linked with his name thenceforth and evermore     So shall that name be syllabled anew     In all the tongues of all the tribes of men:     I that have been through immemorial years     Dust in the dust of my forgotten time     Shall live in accents shaped of blood-warm breath,     Yea, rise in mortal semblance, newly born     In shining stone, in undecaying bronze,     And stand on high, and look serenely down     On the new race that calls the earth its own.     Is this a cloud, that, blown athwart my soul,     Wears a false seeming of the pearly stain     Where worlds beyond the world their mingling rays     Blend in soft white, - a cloud that, born of earth,     Would cheat the soul that looks for light from heaven?     Must every coral-insect leave his sign     On each poor grain he lent to build the reef,     As Babel's builders stamped their sunburnt clay,     Or deem his patient service all in vain?     What if another sit beneath the shade     Of the broad elm I planted by the way, -     What if another heed the beacon light     I set upon the rock that wrecked my keel, -     Have I not done my task and served my kind?     Nay, rather act thy part, unnamed, unknown,     And let Fame blow her trumpet through the world     With noisy wind to swell a fool's renown,     Joined with some truth he stumbled blindly o'er,     Or coupled with some single shining deed     That in the great account of all his days     Will stand alone upon the bankrupt sheet     His pitying angel shows the clerk of Heaven.     The noblest service comes from nameless hands,     And the best servant does his work unseen.     Who found the seeds of fire and made them shoot,     Fed by his breath, in buds and flowers of flame?     Who forged in roaring flames the ponderous stone,     And shaped the moulded metal to his need?     Who gave the dragging car its rolling wheel,     And tamed the steed that whirls its circling round?     All these have left their work and not their names, -     Why should I murmur at a fate like theirs?     This is the heavenly light; the pearly stain     Was but a wind-cloud drifting o'er the stars! II. REGRETS     Brief glimpses of the bright celestial spheres,     False lights, false shadows, vague, uncertain gleams,     Pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid flame,     The climbing of the upward-sailing cloud,     The sinking of the downward-falling star, -     All these are pictures of the changing moods     Borne through the midnight stillness of my soul.     Here am I, bound upon this pillared rock,     Prey to the vulture of a vast desire     That feeds upon my life. I burst my bands     And steal a moment's freedom from the beak,     The clinging talons and the shadowing plumes;     Then comes the false enchantress, with her song;     "Thou wouldst not lay thy forehead in the dust     Like the base herd that feeds and breeds and dies     Lo, the fair garlands that I weave for thee,     Unchanging as the belt Orion wears,     Bright as the jewels of the seven-starred Crown,     The spangled stream of Berenice's hair!"     And so she twines the fetters with the flowers     Around my yielding limbs, and the fierce bird     Stoops to his quarry, - then to feed his rage     Of ravening hunger I must drain my blood     And let the dew-drenched, poison-breeding night     Steal all the freshness from my fading cheek,     And leave its shadows round my caverned eyes.     All for a line in some unheeded scroll;     All for a stone that tells to gaping clowns,     "Here lies a restless wretch beneath a clod     Where squats the jealous nightmare men call     Fame!"     I marvel not at him who scorns his kind     And thinks not sadly of the time foretold     When the old hulk we tread shall be a wreck,     A slag, a cinder drifting through the sky     Without its crew of fools! We live too long,     And even so are not content to die,     But load the mould that covers up our bones     With stones that stand like beggars by the road     And show death's grievous wound and ask for tears;     Write our great books to teach men who we are,     Sing our fine songs that tell in artful phrase     The secrets of our lives, and plead and pray     For alms of memory with the after time,     Those few swift seasons while the earth shall wear     Its leafy summers, ere its core grows cold     And the moist life of all that breathes shall die;     Or as the new-born seer, perchance more wise,     Would have us deem, before its growing mass,     Pelted with star-dust, stoned with meteor-balls,     Heats like a hammered anvil, till at last     Man and his works and all that stirred itself     Of its own motion, in the fiery glow     Turns to a flaming vapor, and our orb     Shines a new sun for earths that shall be born.     I am as old as Egypt to myself,     Brother to them that squared the pyramids     By the same stars I watch. I read the page     Where every letter is a glittering world,     With them who looked from Shinar's clay-built towers,     Ere yet the wanderer of the Midland sea     Had missed the fallen sister of the seven.     I dwell in spaces vague, remote, unknown,     Save to the silent few, who, leaving earth,     Quit all communion with their living time.     I lose myself in that ethereal void,     Till I have tired my wings and long to fill     My breast with denser air, to stand, to walk     With eyes not raised above my fellow-men.     Sick of my unwalled, solitary realm,     I ask to change the myriad lifeless worlds     I visit as mine own for one poor patch     Of this dull spheroid and a little breath     To shape in word or deed to serve my kind.     Was ever giant's dungeon dug so deep,     Was ever tyrant's fetter forged so strong,     Was e'er such deadly poison in the draught     The false wife mingles for the trusting fool,     As he whose willing victim is himself,     Digs, forges, mingles, for his captive soul? III. SYMPATHIES     The snows that glittered on the disk of Mars     Have melted, and the planet's fiery orb     Rolls in the crimson summer of its year;     But what to me the summer or the snow     Of worlds that throb with life in forms unknown,     If life indeed be theirs; I heed not these.     My heart is simply human; all my care     For them whose dust is fashioned like mine own;     These ache with cold and hunger, live in pain,     And shake with fear of worlds more full of woe;     There may be others worthier of my love,     But such I know not save through these I know.     There are two veils of language, hid beneath     Whose sheltering folds, we dare to be ourselves;     And not that other self which nods and smiles     And babbles in our name; the one is Prayer,     Lending its licensed freedom to the tongue     That tells our sorrows and our sins to Heaven;     The other, Verse, that throws its spangled web     Around our naked speech and makes it bold.     I, whose best prayer is silence; sitting dumb     In the great temple where I nightly serve     Him who is throned in light, have dared to claim     The poet's franchise, though I may not hope     To wear his garland; hear me while I tell     My story in such form as poets use,     But breathed in fitful whispers, as the wind     Sighs and then slumbers, wakes and sighs again.     Thou Vision, floating in the breathless air     Between me and the fairest of the stars,     I tell my lonely thoughts as unto thee.     Look not for marvels of the scholar's pen     In my rude measure; I can only show     A slender-margined, unillumined page,     And trust its meaning to the flattering eye     That reads it in the gracious light of love.     Ah, wouldst thou clothe thyself in breathing shape     And nestle at my side, my voice should lend     Whate'er my verse may lack of tender rhythm     To make thee listen.     I have stood entranced     When, with her fingers wandering o'er the keys,     The white enchantress with the golden hair     Breathed all her soul through some unvalued rhyme;     Some flower of song that long had lost its bloom;     Lo! its dead summer kindled as she sang!     The sweet contralto, like the ringdove's coo,     Thrilled it with brooding, fond, caressing tones,     And the pale minstrel's passion lived again,     Tearful and trembling as a dewy rose     The wind has shaken till it fills the air     With light and fragrance. Such the wondrous charm     A song can borrow when the bosom throbs     That lends it breath.     So from the poet's lips     His verse sounds doubly sweet, for none like him     Feels every cadence of its wave-like flow;     He lives the passion over, while he reads,     That shook him as he sang his lofty strain,     And pours his life through each resounding line,     As ocean, when the stormy winds are hushed,     Still rolls and thunders through his billowy caves. IV. MASTER AND SCHOLAR     Let me retrace the record of the years     That made me what I am. A man most wise,     But overworn with toil and bent with age,     Sought me to be his scholar,-me, run wild     From books and teachers,-kindled in my soul     The love of knowledge; led me to his tower,     Showed me the wonders of the midnight realm     His hollow sceptre ruled, or seemed to rule,     Taught me the mighty secrets of the spheres,     Trained me to find the glimmering specks of light     Beyond the unaided sense, and on my chart     To string them one by one, in order due,     As on a rosary a saint his beads.     I was his only scholar; I became     The echo to his thought; whate'er he knew     Was mine for asking; so from year to year     W e wrought together, till there came a time     When I, the learner, was the master half     Of the twinned being in the dome-crowned tower.     Minds roll in paths like planets; they revolve,     This in a larger, that a narrower ring,     But round they come at last to that same phase,     That selfsame light and shade they showed before.     I learned his annual and his monthly tale,     His weekly axiom and his daily phrase,     I felt them coming in the laden air,     And watched them laboring up to vocal breath,     Even as the first-born at his father's board     Knows ere he speaks the too familiar jest     Is on its way, by some mysterious sign     Forewarned, the click before the striking bell.     He shrivelled as I spread my growing leaves,     Till trust and reverence changed to pitying care;     He lived for me in what he once had been,     But I for him, a shadow, a defence,     The guardian of his fame, his guide, his staff,     Leaned on so long he fell if left alone.     I was his eye, his ear, his cunning hand,     Love was my spur and longing after fame,     But his the goading thorn of sleepless age     That sees its shortening span, its lengthening shades,     That clutches what it may with eager grasp,     And drops at last with empty, outstretched hands.     All this he dreamed not. He would sit him down     Thinking to work his problems as of old,     And find the star he thought so plain a blur,     The columned figures labyrinthine wilds     Without my comment, blind and senseless scrawls     That vexed him with their riddles; he would strive     And struggle for a while, and then his eye     Would lose its light, and over all his mind     The cold gray mist would settle; and erelong     The darkness fell, and I was left alone. V. ALONE     Alone! no climber of an Alpine cliff,     No Arctic venturer on the waveless sea,     Feels the dread stillness round him as it chills     The heart of him who leaves the slumbering earth     To watch the silent worlds that crowd the sky.     Alone! And as the shepherd leaves his flock     To feed upon the hillside, he meanwhile     Finds converse in the warblings of the pipe     Himself has fashioned for his vacant hour,     So have I grown companion to myself,     And to the wandering spirits of the air     That smile and whisper round us in our dreams.     Thus have I learned to search if I may know     The whence and why of all beneath the stars     And all beyond them, and to weigh my life     As in a balance, - poising good and ill     Against each other, - asking of the Power     That flung me forth among the whirling worlds,     If I am heir to any inborn right,     Or only as an atom of the dust     That every wind may blow where'er it will. VI. QUESTIONING     I am not humble; I was shown my place,     Clad in such robes as Nature had at hand;     Took what she gave, not chose; I know no shame,     No fear for being simply what I am.     I am not proud, I hold my every breath     At Nature's mercy. I am as a babe     Borne in a giant's arms, he knows not where;     Each several heart-beat, counted like the coin     A miser reckons, is a special gift     As from an unseen hand; if that withhold     Its bounty for a moment, I am left     A clod upon the earth to which I fall.     Something I find in me that well might claim     The love of beings in a sphere above     This doubtful twilight world of right and wrong;     Something that shows me of the self-same clay     That creeps or swims or flies in humblest form.     Had I been asked, before I left my bed     Of shapeless dust, what clothing I would wear,     I would have said, More angel and less worm;     But for their sake who are even such as I,     Of the same mingled blood, I would not choose     To hate that meaner portion of myself     Which makes me brother to the least of men.     I dare not be a coward with my lips     Who dare to question all things in my soul;     Some men may find their wisdom on their knees,     Some prone and grovelling in the dust like slaves;     Let the meek glowworm glisten in the dew;     I ask to lift my taper to the sky     As they who hold their lamps above their heads,     Trusting the larger currents up aloft,     Rather than crossing eddies round their breast,     Threatening with every puff the flickering blaze.     My life shall be a challenge, not a truce!     This is my homage to the mightier powers,     To ask my boldest question, undismayed     By muttered threats that some hysteric sense     Of wrong or insult will convulse the throne     Where wisdom reigns supreme; and if I err,     They all must err who have to feel their way     As bats that fly at noon; for what are we     But creatures of the night, dragged forth by day,     Who needs must stumble, and with stammering steps     Spell out their paths in syllables of pain?     Thou wilt not hold in scorn the child who dares     Look up to Thee, the Father, - dares to ask     More than thy wisdom answers. From thy hand     The worlds were cast; yet every leaflet claims     From that same hand its little shining sphere     Of star-lit dew; thine image, the great sun,     Girt with his mantle of tempestuous flame,     Glares in mid-heaven; but to his noon-tide blaze     The slender violet lifts its lidless eye,     And from his splendor steals its fairest hue,     Its sweetest perfume from his scorching fire. VII. WORSHIP     From my lone turret as I look around     O'er the green meadows to the ring of blue,     From slope, from summit, and from half-hid vale     The sky is stabbed with dagger-pointed spires,     Their gilded symbols whirling in the wind,     Their brazen tongues proclaiming to the world,     "Here truth is sold, the only genuine ware;     See that it has our trade-mark! You will buy     Poison instead of food across the way,     The lies of    -    - -" this or that, each several name     The standard's blazon and the battle-cry     Of some true-gospel faction, and again     The token of the Beast to all beside.     And grouped round each I see a huddling crowd     Alike in all things save the words they use;     In love, in longing, hate and fear the same.     Whom do we trust and serve? We speak of one     And bow to many; Athens still would find     The shrines of all she worshipped safe within     Our tall barbarian temples, and the thrones     That crowned Olympus mighty as of old.     The god of music rules the Sabbath choir;     The lyric muse must leave the sacred nine     To help us please the dilettante's ear;     Plutus limps homeward with us, as we leave     The portals of the temple where we knelt     And listened while the god of eloquence     (Hermes of ancient days, but now disguised     In sable vestments) with that other god     Somnus, the son of Erebus and Nox,     Fights in unequal contest for our souls;     The dreadful sovereign of the under world     Still shakes his sceptre at us, and we hear     The baying of the triple-throated hound;     Eros is young as ever, and as fair     The lovely Goddess born of ocean's foam.     These be thy gods, O Israel! Who is he,     The one ye name and tell us that ye serve,     Whom ye would call me from my lonely tower     To worship with the many-headed throng?     Is it the God that walked in Eden's grove     In the cool hour to seek our guilty sire?     The God who dealt with Abraham as the sons     Of that old patriarch deal with other men?     The jealous God of Moses, one who feels     An image as an insult, and is wroth     With him who made it and his child unborn?     The God who plagued his people for the sin     Of their adulterous king, beloved of him, -     The same who offers to a chosen few     The right to praise him in eternal song     While a vast shrieking world of endless woe     Blends its dread chorus with their rapturous hymn?     Is this the God ye mean, or is it he     Who heeds the sparrow's fall, whose loving heart     Is as the pitying father's to his child,     Whose lesson to his children is "Forgive,"     Whose plea for all, "They know not what they do"? VIII. MANHOOD     I claim the right of knowing whom I serve,     Else is my service idle; He that asks     My homage asks it from a reasoning soul.     To crawl is not to worship; we have learned     A drill of eyelids, bended neck and knee,     Hanging our prayers on hinges, till we ape     The flexures of the many-jointed worm.     Asia has taught her Allahs and salaams     To the world's children,-we have grown to men!     We who have rolled the sphere beneath our feet     To find a virgin forest, as we lay     The beams of our rude temple, first of all     Must frame its doorway high enough for man     To pass unstooping; knowing as we do     That He who shaped us last of living forms     Has long enough been served by creeping things,     Reptiles that left their footprints in the sand     Of old sea-margins that have turned to stone,     And men who learned their ritual; we demand     To know Him first, then trust Him and then love     When we have found Him worthy of our love,     Tried by our own poor hearts and not before;     He must be truer than the truest friend,     He must be tenderer than a woman's love,     A father better than the best of sires;     Kinder than she who bore us, though we sin     Oftener than did the brother we are told     We - poor ill-tempered mortals - must forgive,     Though seven times sinning threescore times and     ten.     This is the new world's gospel: Be ye men!     Try well the legends of the children's time;     Ye are the chosen people, God has led     Your steps across the desert of the deep     As now across the desert of the shore;     Mountains are cleft before you as the sea     Before the wandering tribe of Israel's sons;     Still onward rolls the thunderous caravan,     Its coming printed on the western sky,     A cloud by day, by night a pillared flame;     Your prophets are a hundred unto one     Of them of old who cried, "Thus saith the Lord;"     They told of cities that should fall in heaps,     But yours of mightier cities that shall rise     Where yet the lonely fishers spread their nets,     Where hides the fox and hoots the midnight owl;     The tree of knowledge in your garden grows     Not single, but at every humble door;     Its branches lend you their immortal food,     That fills you with the sense of what ye are,     No servants of an altar hewed and carved     From senseless stone by craft of human hands,     Rabbi, or dervish, brahmin, bishop, bonze,     But masters of the charm with which they work     To keep your hands from that forbidden tree!     Ye that have tasted that divinest fruit,     Look on this world of yours with opened eyes!     Y e are as gods! Nay, makers of your gods, -     Each day ye break an image in your shrine     And plant a fairer image where it stood     Where is the Moloch of your fathers' creed,     Whose fires of torment burned for span - long babes?     Fit object for a tender mother's love!     Why not? It was a bargain duly made     For these same infants through the surety's act     Intrusted with their all for earth and heaven,     By Him who chose their guardian, knowing well     His fitness for the task, - this, even this,     Was the true doctrine only yesterday     As thoughts are reckoned, - and to - day you hear     In words that sound as if from human tongues     Those monstrous, uncouth horrors of the past     That blot the blue of heaven and shame the earth     As would the saurians of the age of slime,     Awaking from their stony sepulchres     And wallowing hateful in the eye of day! IX. RIGHTS     What am I but the creature Thou hast made?     What have I save the blessings Thou hast lent?     What hope I but thy mercy and thy love?     Who but myself shall cloud my soul with fear?     Whose hand protect me from myself but thine?     I claim the rights of weakness, I, the babe,     Call on my sire to shield me from the ills     That still beset my path, not trying me     With snares beyond my wisdom or my strength,     He knowing I shall use them to my harm,     And find a tenfold misery in the sense     That in my childlike folly I have sprung     The trap upon myself as vermin use,     Drawn by the cunning bait to certain doom.     Who wrought the wondrous charm that leads us on     To sweet perdition, but the selfsame power     That set the fearful engine to destroy     His wretched offspring (as the Rabbis tell),     And hid its yawning jaws and treacherous springs     In such a show of innocent sweet flowers     It lured the sinless angels and they fell?     Ah! He who prayed the prayer of all mankind     Summed in those few brief words the mightiest plea     For erring souls before the courts of heaven, -     Save us from being tempted, - lest we fall!     If we are only as the potter's clay     Made to be fashioned as the artist wills,     And broken into shards if we offend     The eye of Him who made us, it is well;     Such love as the insensate lump of clay     That spins upon the swift-revolving wheel     Bears to the hand that shapes its growing form, -     Such love, no more, will be our hearts' return     To the great Master-workman for his care, -     Or would be, save that this, our breathing clay,     Is intertwined with fine innumerous threads     That make it conscious in its framer's hand;     And this He must remember who has filled     These vessels with the deadly draught of life, -     Life, that means death to all it claims. Our love     Must kindle in the ray that streams from heaven,     A faint reflection of the light divine;     The sun must warm the earth before the rose     Can show her inmost heart-leaves to the sun.     He yields some fraction of the Maker's right     Who gives the quivering nerve its sense of pain;     Is there not something in the pleading eye     Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns     The law that bids it suffer? Has it not     A claim for some remembrance in the book     That fills its pages with the idle words     Spoken of men? Or is it only clay,     Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,     Yet all his own to treat it as He will     And when He will to cast it at his feet,     Shattered, dishonored, lost forevermore?     My dog loves me, but could he look beyond     His earthly master, would his love extend     To Him who - Hush! I will not doubt that He     Is better than our fears, and will not wrong     The least, the meanest of created things!     He would not trust me with the smallest orb     That circles through the sky; He would not give     A meteor to my guidance; would not leave     The coloring of a cloudlet to my hand;     He locks my beating heart beneath its bars     And keeps the key himself; He measures out     The draughts of vital breath that warm my blood,     Winds up the springs of instinct which uncoil,     Each in its season; ties me to my home,     My race, my time, my nation, and my creed     So closely that if I but slip my wrist     Out of the band that cuts it to the bone,     Men say, "He hath a devil;" He has lent     All that I hold in trust, as unto one     By reason of his weakness and his years     Not fit to hold the smallest shred in fee     Of those most common things he calls his own, -     And yet - my Rabbi tells me - He has left     The care of that to which a million worlds     Filled with unconscious life were less than naught,     Has left that mighty universe, the Soul,     To the weak guidance of our baby hands,     Let the foul fiends have access at their will,     Taking the shape of angels, to our hearts, -     Our hearts already poisoned through and through     With the fierce virus of ancestral sin;     Turned us adrift with our immortal charge,     To wreck ourselves in gulfs of endless woe.     If what my Rabbi tells me is the truth     Why did the choir of angels sing for joy?     Heaven must be compassed in a narrow space,     And offer more than room enough for all     That pass its portals; but the under-world,     The godless realm, the place where demons forge     Their fiery darts and adamantine chains,     Must swarm with ghosts that for a little while     Had worn the garb of flesh, and being heirs     Of all the dulness of their stolid sires,     And all the erring instincts of their tribe,     Nature's own teaching, rudiments of "sin,"     Fell headlong in the snare that could not fail     To trap the wretched creatures shaped of clay     And cursed with sense enough to lose their souls!     Brother, thy heart is troubled at my word;     Sister, I see the cloud is on thy brow.     He will not blame me, He who sends not peace,     But sends a sword, and bids us strike amain     At Error's gilded crest, where in the van     Of earth's great army, mingling with the best     And bravest of its leaders, shouting loud     The battle-cries that yesterday have led     The host of Truth to victory, but to-day     Are watchwords of the laggard and the slave,     He leads his dazzled cohorts. God has made     This world a strife of atoms and of spheres;     With every breath I sigh myself away     And take my tribute from the wandering wind     To fan the flame of life's consuming fire;     So, while my thought has life, it needs must burn,     And, burning, set the stubble-fields ablaze,     Where all the harvest long ago was reaped     And safely garnered in the ancient barns.     But still the gleaners, groping for their food,     Go blindly feeling through the close-shorn straw,     While the young reapers flash, their glittering steel     Where later suns have ripened nobler grain! X. TRUTHS     The time is racked with birth-pangs; every hour     Brings forth some gasping truth, and truth newborn     Looks a misshapen and untimely growth,     The terror of the household and its shame,     A monster coiling in its nurse's lap     That some would strangle, some would only starve;     But still it breathes, and passed from hand to hand,     And suckled at a hundred half-clad breasts,     Comes slowly to its stature and its form,     Calms the rough ridges of its dragon-scales,     Changes to shining locks its snaky hair,     And moves transfigured into angel guise,     Welcomed by all that cursed its hour of birth,     And folded in the same encircling arms     That cast it like a serpent from their hold!     If thou wouldst live in honor, die in peace,     Have the fine words the marble-workers learn     To carve so well, upon thy funeral-stone,     And earn a fair obituary, dressed     In all the many-colored robes of praise,     Be deafer than the adder to the cry     Of that same foundling truth, until it grows     To seemly favor, and at length has won     The smiles of hard-mouthed men and light-lipped dames;     Then snatch it from its meagre nurse's breast,     Fold it in silk and give it food from gold;     So shalt thou share its glory when at last     It drops its mortal vesture, and, revealed     In all the splendor of its heavenly form,     Spreads on the startled air its mighty wings!     Alas! how much that seemed immortal truth     That heroes fought for, martyrs died to save,     Reveals its earth-born lineage, growing old     And limping in its march, its wings unplumed,     Its heavenly semblance faded like a dream!     Here in this painted casket, just unsealed,     Lies what was once a breathing shape like thine,     Once loved as thou art loved; there beamed the eyes     That looked on Memphis in its hour of pride,     That saw the walls of hundred-gated Thebes,     And all the mirrored glories of the Nile.     See how they toiled that all-consuming time     Might leave the frame immortal in its tomb;     Filled it with fragrant balms and odorous gums     That still diffuse their sweetness through the air,     And wound and wound with patient fold on fold     The flaxen bands thy hand has rudely torn!     Perchance thou yet canst see the faded stain     Of the sad mourner's tear. XI. IDOLS     But what is this?     The sacred beetle, bound upon the breast     Of the blind heathen! Snatch the curious prize,     Give it a place among thy treasured spoils,     Fossil and relic, - corals, encrinites,     The fly in amber and the fish in stone,     The twisted circlet of Etruscan gold,     Medal, intaglio, poniard, poison-ring, -     Place for the Memphian beetle with thine hoard!     AM longer than thy creed has blest the world     This toy, thus ravished from thy brother's breast,     Was to the heart of Mizraim as divine,     As holy, as the symbol that we lay     On the still bosom of our white-robed dead,     And raise above their dust that all may know     Here sleeps an heir of glory. Loving friends,     With tears of trembling faith and choking sobs,     And prayers to those who judge of mortal deeds,     Wrapped this poor image in the cerement's fold     That Isis and Osiris, friends of man,     Might know their own and claim the ransomed soul.     An idol? Man was born to worship such!     An idol is an image of his thought;     Sometimes he carves it out of gleaming stone,     And sometimes moulds it out of glittering gold,     Or rounds it in a mighty frescoed dome,     Or lifts it heavenward in a lofty spire,     Or shapes it in a cunning frame of words,     Or pays his priest to make it day by day;     For sense must have its god as well as soul;     A new-born Dian calls for silver shrines,     And Egypt's holiest symbol is our own,     The sign we worship as did they of old     When Isis and Osiris ruled the world.     Let us be true to our most subtle selves,     We long to have our idols like the rest.     Think! when the men of Israel had their God     Encamped among them, talking with their chief,     Leading them in the pillar of the cloud     And watching o'er them in the shaft of fire,     They still must have an image; still they longed     For somewhat of substantial, solid form     Whereon to hang their garlands, and to fix     Their wandering thoughts and gain a stronger hold     For their uncertain faith, not yet assured     If those same meteors of the day and night     Were not mere exhalations of the soil.     Are we less earthly than the chosen race?     Are we more neighbors of the living God     Than they who gathered manna every morn,     Reaping where none had sown, and heard the voice     Of him who met the Highest in the mount,     And brought them tables, graven with His hand?     Yet these must have their idol, brought their gold,     That star-browed Apis might be god again;     Yea, from their ears the women brake the rings     That lent such splendors to the gypsy brown     Of sunburnt cheeks, - what more could woman do     To show her pious zeal? They went astray,     But nature led them as it leads us all.     We too, who mock at Israel's golden calf     And scoff at Egypt's sacred scarabee,     Would have our amulets to clasp and kiss,     And flood with rapturous tears, and bear with us     To be our dear companions in the dust;     Such magic works an image in our souls.     Man is an embryo; see at twenty years     His bones, the columns that uphold his frame     Not yet cemented, shaft and capital,     Mere fragments of the temple incomplete.     At twoscore, threescore, is he then full grown?     Nay, still a child, and as the little maids     Dress and undress their puppets, so he tries     To dress a lifeless creed, as if it lived,     And change its raiment when the world cries shame!     We smile to see our little ones at play     So grave, so thoughtful, with maternal care     Nursing the wisps of rags they call their babes; -     Does He not smile who sees us with the toys     We call by sacred names, and idly feign     To be what we have called them? He is still     The Father of this helpless nursery-brood,     Whose second childhood joins so close its first,     That in the crowding, hurrying years between     We scarce have trained our senses to their task     Before the gathering mist has dimmed our eyes,     And with our hollowed palm we help our ear,     And trace with trembling hand our wrinkled names,     And then begin to tell our stories o'er,     And see - not hear - the whispering lips that say,     "You know? Your father knew him. - This is he,     Tottering and leaning on the hireling's arm," -     And so, at length, disrobed of all that clad     The simple life we share with weed and worm,     Go to our cradles, naked as we came. XII. LOVE     What if a soul redeemed, a spirit that loved     While yet on earth and was beloved in turn,     And still remembered every look and tone     Of that dear earthly sister who was left     Among the unwise virgins at the gate, -     Itself admitted with the bridegroom's train, -     What if this spirit redeemed, amid the host     Of chanting angels, in some transient lull     Of the eternal anthem, heard the cry     Of its lost darling, whom in evil hour     Some wilder pulse of nature led astray     And left an outcast in a world of fire,     Condemned to be the sport of cruel fiends,     Sleepless, unpitying, masters of the skill     To wring the maddest ecstasies of pain     From worn-out souls that only ask to die, -     Would it not long to leave the bliss of heaven, -     Bearing a little water in its hand     To moisten those poor lips that plead in vain     With Him we call our Father? Or is all     So changed in such as taste celestial joy     They hear unmoved the endless wail of woe;     The daughter in the same dear tones that hushed     Her cradle slumbers; she who once had held     A babe upon her bosom from its voice     Hoarse with its cry of anguish, yet the same?     No! not in ages when the Dreadful Bird     Stamped his huge footprints, and the Fearful Beast     Strode with the flesh about those fossil bones     We build to mimic life with pygmy hands, -     Not in those earliest days when men ran wild     And gashed each other with their knives of stone,     When their low foreheads bulged in ridgy brows     And their flat hands were callous in the palm     With walking in the fashion of their sires,     Grope as they might to find a cruel god     To work their will on such as human wrath     Had wrought its worst to torture, and had left     With rage unsated, white and stark and cold,     Could hate have shaped a demon more malign     Than him the dead men mummied in their creed     And taught their trembling children to adore!     Made in his image! Sweet and gracious souls     Dear to my heart by nature's fondest names,     Is not your memory still the precious mould     That lends its form to Him who hears my prayer?     Thus only I behold Him, like to them,     Long-suffering, gentle, ever slow to wrath,     If wrath it be that only wounds to heal,     Ready to meet the wanderer ere he reach     The door he seeks, forgetful of his sin,     Longing to clasp him in a father's arms,     And seal his pardon with a pitying tear!     Four gospels tell their story to mankind,     And none so full of soft, caressing words     That bring the Maid of Bethlehem and her Babe     Before our tear-dimmed eyes, as his who learned     In the meek service of his gracious art     The tones which, like the medicinal balms     That calm the sufferer's anguish, soothe our souls.     Oh that the loving woman, she who sat     So long a listener at her Master's feet,     Had left us Mary's Gospel, - all she heard     Too sweet, too subtle for the ear of man!     Mark how the tender-hearted mothers read     The messages of love between the lines     Of the same page that loads the bitter tongue     Of him who deals in terror as his trade     With threatening words of wrath that scorch like flame     They tell of angels whispering round the bed     Of the sweet infant smiling in its dream,     Of lambs enfolded in the Shepherd's arms,     Of Him who blessed the children; of the land     Where crystal rivers feed unfading flowers,     Of cities golden-paved with streets of pearl,     Of the white robes the winged creatures wear,     The crowns and harps from whose melodious strings     One long, sweet anthem flows forevermore!     We too had human mothers, even as Thou,     Whom we have learned to worship as remote     From mortal kindred, wast a cradled babe.     The milk of woman filled our branching veins,     She lulled us with her tender nursery-song,     And folded round us her untiring arms,     While the first unremembered twilight yeas     Shaped us to conscious being; still we feel     Her pulses in our own, - too faintly feel;     Would that the heart of woman warmed our creeds!     Not from the sad-eyed hermit's lonely cell,     Not from the conclave where the holy men     Glare on each other, as with angry eyes     They battle for God's glory and their own,     Till, sick of wordy strife, a show of hands     Fixes the faith of ages yet unborn, -     Ah, not from these the listening soul can hear     The Father's voice that speaks itself divine!     Love must be still our Master; till we learn     What he can teach us of a woman's heart,     We know not His whose love embraces all.