A Manchester Poem

'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad.         The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold         The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught,         And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks,         A black precipitate, on miry streets.         And faces gray glide through the darkened fog.         Slave engines utter again their ugly growl,         And soon the iron bands and blocks of stone         That prison them to their task, will strain and quiver         Until the city tremble. The clamour of bells,         Importunate, keeps calling pale-faced forms         To gather and feed those Samsons' groaning strength         With labour; and among the many come         A man and woman--the woman with her gown         Drawn over her head, the man with bended neck         Submissive to the rain. Amid the jar,         And clash, and shudder of the awful force,         They enter and part--each to a different task,         But each a soul of knowledge to brute force,         Working a will through the organized whole         Of cranks and belts and levers, pinions and screws         Wherewith small man has eked his body out,         And made himself a mighty, weary giant.         In labour close they pass the murky day,         'Mid floating dust of swift-revolving wheels,         And filmy spoil of quick contorted threads,         Which weave a sultry chaos all about;         Until, at length, old darkness, swelling slow         Up from the caves of night to make an end,         Chokes in its tide the clanking of the looms,         The monster-engines, and the flying gear.         'Tis Earth that draws her curtains, and calls home         Her little ones, and sets her down to nurse         Her tired children--like a mother-ghost         With her neglected darlings in the dark.         So out they walk, with sense of glad release,         And home--to a dreary place! Unfinished walls,         Earth-heaps, and broken bricks, and muddy pools         Lie round it like a rampart against the spring,         The summer, and all sieges of the year.         But, Lo, the dark has opened an eye of fire!         The room reveals a temple, witnessed by signs         Seen in the ancient place! Lo, here is light,         Yea, burning fire, with darkness on its skirts;         Pure water, ready to baptize; and bread;         And in the twilight edges of the light,         A book; and, for the cunning-woven veil,         Their faces--hiding God's own holiest place!         Even their bed figures the would-be grave         Where One arose triumphant, slept no more!         So at their altar-table they sit down         To eat their Eucharist; for, to the heart         That reads the live will in the dead command,         He is the bread, yea, all of every meal.         But as, in weary rest, they silent sit,         They gradually grow aware of light         That overcomes their lamp, and, through the blind,         Casts from the window-frame two shadow-glooms         That make a cross of darkness on the white.         The woman rises, eagerly looks out:         Lo, some fair wind has mown the earth-sprung fog,         And, far aloft, the white exultant moon,         From her blue window, curtained all with white,         Looks greeting them--God's creatures they and she!         Smiling she turns; he understands the smile:         To-morrow will be fair--as holy, fair!         And lying down, in sleep they die till morn,         While through their night throb low aurora-gleams         Of resurrection and the coming dawn.         They wake: 'tis Sunday. Still the moon is there,         But thin and ghostly--clothed upon with light,         As if, while they were sleeping, she had died.         They dress themselves, like priests, in clean attire,         And, through their lowly door, enter God's room.         The sun is up, the emblem on his shield.         One side the street, the windows all are moons         To light the other side that lies in shade.         See, down the sun-side, an old woman come         In a red cloak that makes the whole street glad!         A long-belated autumn-flower she seems,         Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life         Up hidden stairs to see the calling sun,         But in her cloak and smile they know the spring,         And haste to meet her through slow dissolving streets         Widening to larger glimmers of growing green.         Oh, far away the streets repel the spring!         Yet every stone in the dull pavement shares         The life that thrills anew the outworn earth,         A right Bethesda angel--for all, not some!         A street unfinished leads them forth at length         Where green fields bask, and hedgerow trees, apart,         Stand waiting in the air as for some good,         And the sky is broad and blue--and there is all!         No peaceful river meditates along         The weary flat to the less level sea!         No forest brown, on pillared stems, its boughs         Meeting in gothic arches, bears aloft         A groined vault, fretted with tremulous leaves!         No mountains lift their snows, and send their brooks         Down babbling with the news of silent things!         But love itself is commonest of all,         And loveliest of all, in all the worlds!         And he that hath not forest, brook, or hill,         Must learn to read aright what commoner books         Unfold before him. If ocean solitudes--         Then darkness dashed with glory, infinite shades,         And misty minglings of the sea and sky.         If only fields--the humble man of heart         Will revel in the grass beneath his foot,         And from the lea lift his glad eye to heaven,         God's palette, where his careless painter-hand         Sweeps comet-clouds that net the gazing soul;         Streaks endless stairs, and blots half-sculptured blocks;         Curves filmy pallors; heaps huge mountain-crags;         Nor touches where it leaves not beauty's mark.         To them the sun and air are feast enough,         As through field-paths and lanes they slowly walk;         But sometimes, on the far horizon dim         A veil is lifted, and they spy the hills,         Cloudlike and faint, yet sharp against the sky;         Then wakes an unknown want, which asks and looks         As for some thing forgot--loved long ago,         But on the hither verge of childhood dropt:         'Tis but home-sickness roused in the soul by Spring!         Fresh birth and eager growth, reviving life,         Which is because it would be, fill the world;         The very light is new-born with the grass;         The stones themselves are warm; the brown earth swells,         Filled, sponge-like, with dark beams, which nestle close         And brood unseen and shy, and potent warm         In every little corner, nest, and crack         Where buried lurks a blind and sleepy seed         Waiting the touch of the finger of the sun.         The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life         Oozes exuberant in brown and green,         Are clad in golden splendours, crossed and lined         With shuttle-shadows weaving lovely change.         Through the tree-tops the west wind rushing goes,         Calling and rousing the dull sap within:         The fine jar down the stem sinks tremulous,         From airy root thrilling to earthy branch.         And though as yet no buddy baby dots         Sparkle the darkness of the hedgerow twigs,         The smoke-dried bark appears to spread and swell         In the soft nurture of the warm light-bath.         The sun had left behind him the keystone         Of his low arch half-way when they turned home,         Filled with pure air, and light, and operant spring:         Back, like the bees, they went to their dark house         To store their innocent spoil in honeyed thought.         But on their way, crossing a field, they chanced         Upon a spot where once had been a home,         And roots of walls still peered out, grown with moss.         'Twas a dead cottage, mouldered quite, where yet         Lay the old shadow of a vanished care;         The little garden's blunt, half-blotted map         Was yet discernible by thinner grass         Upon the walks. There, in the midst of dry         Bushes, dead flowers, rampant, uncomely weeds,         A single snowdrop drooped its snowy drop,         The lonely remnant of a family         That in the garden dwelt about the home--         Reviving with the spring when home was gone:         They see; its spiritual counterpart         Wakes up and blossoms white in their meek souls--         A longing, patient, waiting hopefulness,         The snowdrop of the heart; a heavenly child,         That, pale with the earthly cold, hangs its fair head         As it had nought to say 'gainst any world;         While they in whom it dwells, nor knows itself,         Inherit in their meekness all the worlds.         I love thee, flower, as a slow lingerer         Upon the verge of my humanity.         Lo, on thine inner leaves and in thy heart         The loveliest green, acknowledging the grass--         White-minded memory of lowly friends!         But almost more I love thee for the earth         Which clings to thy transfigured radiancy,         Uplifted with thee from thine abandoned grave;         Say rather the soiling of thy garments pure         Upon thy road into the light and air,         The heaven of thy new birth. Some gentle rain         Will one day wash thee white, and send the earth         Back to the earth; but, sweet friend, while it clings,         I love the cognizance of our family.         With careful hands uprooting it, they bore         The little plant a willing captive home--         Fearless of dark abode, because secure         In its own tale of light. As once of old         The angel of the annunciation shone,         Bearing all heaven into a common house,         It brings in with it field and sky and air.         A pot of mould its one poor tie to earth,         Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops,         Its world the priests of that small temple-room,         It takes its prophet-place with fire and book,         Type of primeval spring, whose mighty arc         Hath not yet drawn the summer up the sky.         At night, when the dark shadow of the cross         Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and wan         Like a pale mourner at its foot the flower         Will, drooping, wait the dawn. Then the dark bird         Which holds breast-caged the secret of the sun,         And therefore hangs himself a prisoner caged,         Will break into its song--Lo, God is light!         Weary and hopeful, to their sleep they go;         And all night long the snowdrop glimmers white         Thinning the dark, unknowing it, and unseen.              *         *         *         *         *         Out of my verse I woke, and saw my room,         My precious books, the cherub-forms above,         And rose, and walked abroad, and sought the woods;         And roving odours met me on my way.         I entered Nature's church, a shimmering vault         Of boughs, and clouded leaves--filmy and pale         Betwixt me and the sun, while at my feet         Their shadows, dark and seeming solid, lay         Like tombstones o'er the vanished flowers of Spring.         The place was silent, save for the broken song         Of some Memnonian, glory-stricken bird         That burst into a carol and was still;         It was not lonely: golden beetles crept,         Green goblins, in the roots; and squirrel things         Ran, wild as cherubs, through the tracery;         And here and yonder a flaky butterfly         Was doubting in the air, scarlet and blue.         But 'twixt my heart and summer's perfect grace,         Drove a dividing wedge, and far away         It seemed, like voice heard loud yet far away         By one who, waking half, soon sleeps outright:--         Where was the snowdrop? where the flower of hope?         In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay         Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer!         My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud,         And summer crushed it with its weight of light!         Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs,         Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore;         Summer is too complete for growing hearts--         Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing,         Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves;         Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave;         We need a broken season, where the cloud         Is ruffled into glory, and the dark         Falls rainful o'er the sunset; need a world         Whose shadows ever point away from it;         A scheme of cones abrupt, and flattened spheres,         And circles cut, and perfect laws the while         That marvellous imperfection ever points         To higher perfectness than heart can think;         Therefore to us, a flower of harassed Spring,         Crocus, or primrose, or anemone,         Is lovely as was never rosiest rose;         A heath-bell on a waste, lonely and dry,         Says more than lily, stately in breathing white;         A window through a vaulted roof of rain         Lets in a light that comes from farther away,         And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy         Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o'er the world:         Man seeks a better home than Paradise;         Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy,         A disappointment better than a feast,         And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea         Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four.