Of The Son Of Man

I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust     To look with jealousy on her designs;     With every passing year more fast she twines     About my heart; with her mysterious dust     Claim I a fellowship not less august     Although she works before me and combines     Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines     Spreading a leafy volume on the crust     Of the old world; and man himself likewise     Is of her making: wherefore then divorce     What God hath joined thus, and rend by force     Spirit away from substance, bursting ties     By which in one great bond of unity     God hath together bound all things that be?     II. And in these lines my purpose is to show     That He who left the Father, though he came     Not with art-splendour or the earthly flame     Of genius, yet in that he did bestow     His own true loving heart, did cause to grow,     Unseen and buried deep, whate'er we name     The best in human art, without the shame     Of idle sitting in most real woe;     And that whate'er of Beautiful and Grand     The Earth contains, by him was not despised,     But rather was so deeply realized     In word and deed, though not with artist hand,     That it was either hid or all disguised     From those who were not wise to understand.     III. Art is the bond of weakness, and we find     Therein acknowledgment of failing power:     A man would worship, gazing on a flower--     Onward he passeth, lo his eyes are blind!     The unenlivened form he left behind     Grew up within him only for an hour!     And he will grapple with Nature till the dower     Of strength shall be retreasured in his mind.     And each form-record is a high protest     Of treason done unto the soul of man,     Which, striving upwards, ever is oppress'd     By the old bondage, underneath whose ban     He, failing in his struggle for the best,     Must live in pain upon what food he can.     IV. Moreover, were there perfect harmony     'Twixt soul and Nature, we should never waste     The precious hours in gazing, but should haste     To assimilate her offerings, and we     From high life-elements, as doth the tree,     Should grow to higher; so what we call Taste     Is a slow living as of roots encased     In the grim chinks of some sterility     Both cramping and withholding. Art is Truth,     But Truth dammed up and frozen, gagged and bound     As is a streamlet icy and uncouth     Which pebbles hath and channel but no sound:     Give it again its summer heart of youth     And it will be a life upon the ground.     V. And Love had not been prisoned in cold stone,     Nor Beauty smeared on the dead canvas so,     Had not their worshipper been forced to go     Questful and restless through the world alone,     Searching but finding not, till on him shone     Back from his own deep heart a chilly glow     As of a frost-nipped sunbeam, or of snow     Under a storm-dodged crescent which hath grown     Wasted to mockery; and beneath such gleam     His wan conceits have found an utterance,     Which, had they found a true and sunny beam,     Had ripened into real touch and glance--     Nay more, to real deed, the Truth of all,     To some perfection high and personal.     VI. "But yet the great of soul have ever been     The first to glory in all works of art;     For from the genius-form would ever dart     A light of inspiration, and a sheen     As of new comings; and ourselves have seen     Men of stern purpose to whose eyes would start     Sorrow at sight of sorrow though no heart     Did riot underneath that chilly, screen;     And hence we judge such utterance native to     The human soul--expression highest--best."     --Nay, it is by such sign they will pursue,     Albeit unknowing, Beauty, without rest;     And failing in the search, themselves will fling     Speechless before its shadow, worshipping.     VII. And how shall he whose mission is to bring     The soul to worship at its rightful shrine,     Seeing in Beauty what is most divine,     Give out the mightiest impulse, and thus fling     His soul into the future, scattering     The living seed of wisdom? Shall there shine     From underneath his hand a matchless line     Of high earth-beauties, till the wide world ring     With the far clang that tells a missioned soul,     Kneeling to homage all about his feet?     Alas for such a gift were this the whole,     The only bread of life men had to eat!     Lo, I behold them dead about him now,     And him the heart of death, for all that brow!     VIII. If Thou didst pass by Art, thou didst not scorn     The souls that by such symbol yearned in vain     From Truth and Love true nourishment to gain:     On thy warm breast, so chilly and forlorn     Fell these thy nurslings little more than born     That thou wast anguished, and there fell a rain     From thy blest eyelids, and in grief and pain     Thou partedst from them yet one night and morn     To find them wholesome food and nourishment     Instead of what their blindness took for such,     Laying thyself a seed in earthen rent     From which, outspringing to the willing touch,     Riseth for all thy children harvest great,     For which they will all learn to bless thee yet.     IV. Thou sawest Beauty in the streaking cloud     When grief lift up those eyelids; nor in scorn     Broke ever on thine eyes the purple morn     Along the cedar tops; to thee aloud     Spake the night-solitude, when hushed and bowed     The earth lay at thy feet stony and worn;     Loving thou markedst when the lamb unshorn     Was glad before thee, and amongst the crowd     Famished and pent in cities did thine eye     Read strangest glory--though in human art     No record lives to tell us that thy heart     Bowed to its own deep beauty: deeper did lie     The burden of thy mission, even whereby     We know that Beauty liveth where Thou art.     X. Doubtless thine eyes have watched the sun aspire     From that same Olivet, when back on thee     Flushed upwards after some night-agony     Thy proper Godhead, with a purer fire     Purpling thy Infinite, and in strong desire     Thou sattest in the dawn that was to be     Uplifted on our dark perplexity.     Yea in thee lay thy soul, a living lyre,     And each wild beauty smote it, though the sound     Rung to the night-winds oft and desert air;     Beneath thine eyes the lily paled more fair,     And each still shadow slanting on the ground     Lay sweetly on thee as commissioned there,     So full wast thou of eyes all round and round.     XI. And so thou neededst not our human skill     To fix what thus were transient--there it grew     Wedded to thy perfection; and anew     With every coming vision rose there still     Some living principle which did fulfil     Thy most legitimate manhood; and unto     Thy soul all Nature rendered up its due     With not a contradiction; and each hill     And mountain torrent and each wandering light     Grew out divinely on thy countenance,     Whereon, as we are told, by word and glance     Thy hearers read an ever strange delight--So     strange to them thy Truth, they could not tell     What made thy message so unspeakable.     XII. And by such living witness didst thou preach:     Not with blind hands of groping forward thrust     Into the darkness, gathering only dust,     But by this real sign--that thou didst reach,     In natural order, rising each from each,     Thy own ideals of the True and Just;     And that as thou didst live, even so he must     Who would aspire his fellow-men to teach,     Looking perpetual from new heights of Thought     On his old self. Of art no scorner thou!     Instead of leafy chaplet, on thy brow     Wearing the light of manhood, thou hast brought     Death unto Life! Above all statues now,     Immortal Artist, hail! thy work is wrought!     XIII. Solemn and icy stand ye in my eyes,     Far up into the niches of the Past,     Ye marble statues, dim and holden fast     Within your stony homes! nor human cries     Had shook you from your frozen phantasies     Or sent the life-blood through you, till there passed     Through all your chilly bulks a new life-blast     From the Eternal Living, and ye rise     From out your stiffened postures rosy-warm,     Walking abroad a goodly company     Of living virtues at that wondrous charm,     As he with human heart and hand and eye     Walked sorrowing upon our highways then,     The Eternal Father's living gift to men!     XIV. As the pent torrent in uneasy rest     Under the griping rocks, doth ever keep     A monstrous working as it lies asleep     In the round hollow of some mountain's breast,     Till where it hideth in its sweltering nest     Some earthquake finds it, and its waters leap     Forth to the sunshine down the mighty steep,     So in thee once was anguished forth the quest     Whereby man sought for life-power as he lay     Under his own proud heart and black despair     Wedged fast and stifled up with loads of care,     Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay;     Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer,     And he hath cried aloud since that same day!     XV. As he that parts in hatred from a friend     Mixing with other men forgets the woe     Which anguished him when he beheld and lo     Two souls had fled asunder which did bend     Under the same blue heaven! yet ere the end,     When the loud world hath tossed him to and fro,     Will often strangely reappear that glow     At simplest memory which some chance may send,     Although much stronger bonds have lost their power:     So thou God-sent didst come in lowly guise,     Striking on simple chords,--not with surprise     Or mightiest recollectings in that hour,     But like remembered fragrance of a flower     A man with human heart and loving eyes.     March, 1852.