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LETTER AND SPIRIT 
 
Letter and Spirit 
 
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 A. M. RICHARDS 
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 BOSTON 
 
 J. G. CUTTLES COMT^^Y, TumiSHPKS 
 
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 CopyrigJU. i8qi^ 
 By A. M, Richards, 
 
 Ail rights reservsd. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THESE verses are part of a design, unfulfilled by 
 the Author and long since abandoned, of giving expression 
 to each of the manifold aspects of an unchanging and un- 
 changeable truth. 
 
 The plan was not suggested by any bias of personal 
 conviction, and, although there is frequently a meaning in 
 the order in which two or three of the sonnets foUow each 
 other, there is no idea of argument or controversy in their 
 arrangement. A. M. R. 
 
LET not Theology nor Sentiment, — 
 
 That half-interpreter of life, — be bold 
 
 To Speak of things that Faith alone may hold 
 
 Of right divine, and yet be ill content 
 
 That Art should dare invade their element, — 
 
 Art, the grave master, with clear vision cold 
 
 And love of light in all the manifold 
 
 Converging rays that in the truth are blent. 
 
 Religion hath no science and no form 
 But in that silent world of faith, and we 
 Who would create her image must employ 
 The unsparing hand of Art : all night and storm 
 And fear that shape her outline we must see 
 No less than her indwelling light and joy. 
 
I. 
 
 THE Lord saitb: Tbinkest tbou I do not bear 
 Tbe mice tbat goetb up continually 
 From out My vast innavigable sea, 
 Tbe cry of Imperfection, spbere on spbere, 
 ■Cbaos on cbaos ? Tbat I bave no fear 
 Of danger? All tbe elements with Me 
 Keep watcb, and wait in darkness patiently 
 Tbe coming of a dawn tbat is not near. 
 
 I love tbee witb a love tbou knowest not; 
 jind tbere is joy in beaven over one 
 Tbat overcometb, more tban over all 
 Tbe bosts of angels. Lo, I wait to blot 
 Out all transgression, and tbe evil done 
 On Me alone and not on tbee sballfall. 
 
 (O 
 
MIGHT I but with Jebavab^ face to face, 
 Plead as with man, that be migbt surely bear! 
 And tbe swift message came: Tbe Lord is near; 
 For tbine own country is His dwelling-place. 
 I said : Tbe end of all things drawetb apace. 
 And when tbese mocking sbadows disappear, 
 Shall I, from out the silence and the fear. 
 Behold tbe meaning of Tby mortal race? 
 
 As dawn, in night beginning far away 
 Becomes at last a luminous atmosphere, 
 So from the regions of the perfect day 
 Tbe answer comes forever sad and clear: 
 Nay ! thou, a part of some stupendous whole, 
 Shalt never, never comprehend thy soul. 
 
 (3) 
 
III. 
 
 HERE in the darkness we abide, and know 
 That elsewhere in the spaces there is day 
 But not for us. Though priest and people pray, 
 And tides of exaltation ebb and flow. 
 No light has ever really pierced below 
 Their solid dome: no sign of yea or nay 
 Has told how far their wistful fancies stray. 
 How high their earth-born aspirations go. 
 
 Knows the true seer that aU his treasured lore 
 Is but the echo of the hopes of man, 
 And holds no answer from the silent night; 
 Let him be firm and lead us more and more. 
 To be as kings of darkness, rather than 
 The slaves of an imaginable light. 
 
 (5) 
 
IV. 
 
 DENY thyself the false bumility 
 That claims the merciful justice God and man 
 Accord to ignorance, in some infinite plan 
 Thou, first and last, who art forever free 
 To know thy God! The freedom that must be 
 To recognise the depths we cannot span. 
 And limitations that with thought began. 
 Thou hast confounded with the liberty 
 
 That fetters conscience; that has dared to choose 
 Its own false limit; intercepting light. 
 To boast denial and darkness that refuse. 
 That fear conviction, while to left and right 
 Day hastens on the mountains, and thy sun 
 Goes down upon the work of God undone. 
 
 (7) 
 
V. 
 
 GOD speaketb and saitb: I do remember thee 
 When thou wentst after Me in the wilderness; 
 No desert could withhold thee, no distress 
 Of drought or fire, no peril of land or sea 
 Could come between thy burning love and Me; 
 fVhere art thou now? — j4b. Lord, Thy world did press 
 fVitb love that seemed more dear to save and bless, 
 With life more near than Thine eternity. 
 
 But now, my Father, if it be Thy will. 
 Would that I might return to Thee before 
 The night, that even mm is gathering cold. — 
 Return I I will have mercy on thee still 
 With everlasting kindness; but no more 
 Canst thou draw near with that same love of old. 
 
 (9) 
 
VI. 
 
 GOD saitb to man : 'Behold ! from year to year. 
 
 As many wandering years as separate 
 
 Thy ways from {Mine, — through all the love and hate. 
 
 And false ambition that betrayed thee, — here 
 
 Am I, forever ! What is thy career 
 
 To OAe ? To {Me there is no soon nor late ; 
 
 On thee my silent angels always wait. 
 
 Unmindful of thy futile doubt and fear. 
 
 And if, with failing hands and faith made dim. 
 Thou dost return, and hast no longer power 
 To love or fear Me, as in that stern hour 
 Of passionate youth, when 'midst my seraphim 
 Thou soughtst to shine, whatever thou may be, 
 Can I be less than God Himself to thee ? 
 
 (") 
 
VII. 
 
 I, LONEL Y shepherd watcher, not in vain 
 So many years the changeless splendor cold 
 Of slaw returning starry fires behold. 
 The dawn, the bush of noon, the awful plain 
 Of the dark sea. Here, in the sun and rain, 
 Dread presences forever new and old 
 Encamp about me, and the silent wold 
 *Bears witness that no mortal dares arraign. 
 
 It is not faith in Thee, Thou who dost live 
 
 Forever in my sight, that faileth me. 
 
 But faith in mine own self. Thou, who dost lead 
 
 The legions of Thy midnight desert, give 
 
 The hope, the patience in myself to see 
 
 That in Thine image I am made indeed. 
 
 (13) 
 
VIII. 
 
 THE sun has risen beyond the wide gray beach; 
 From the fair depths of morning comes a thrill 
 Of hope and courage, and a firmer will 
 The narrow way of higher life to reach. 
 Shall not some new-born power of thought and speech 
 This day the sacred dreams of youth fulfil. 
 Transcend these bounds of relative good and ill 
 By some eternal line, defining each 
 
 IVith clearness no expedients that assail 
 Weak wills can darken} Oh, to be only sure 
 Of absolute T{ight, and never more to quail 
 Before a tutored conscience, nor endure 
 The weight that other men's convictions give 
 The fears that reason cannot all outlive! 
 
 (IS) 
 
IX. 
 
 THERE shall ito sign he given to thee, it said. 
 The Voice that answered. And a little space 
 I mused in sorrow, longing for the grace 
 Of them who know that Jesus is not dead. 
 At last it said: But be thou comforted 
 To know that He has lived, and has a place 
 The Chief among the legions of His race. 
 And in your grave has where to lay His head. 
 
 Then in a vision of the Roman past 
 I saw the form that was the Son of Man ; 
 And knew at last that this indeed was He 
 IVhose own received Him not : the First and Last, 
 The Light that with the Word of God began; 
 The Kingdom and the Tower and Victory, 
 
 (17) 
 
X. 
 
 AND there came unto me and spake to m^ 
 That Angel of the Seven who to John 
 Showed the great city of pure gold upon 
 The mountain, saying to me : Come and see 
 Him who doth sit upon the throne. — And he 
 Went forth before me in the heavenly dawn 
 Toward the great Light in shining clouds withdrawn,- 
 The Form that moveth in eternity. 
 
 I felt the Power that makes unchanging law, 
 The Love that breaks the law it cannot change. 
 The strife and sorrow that in heaven be; 
 And with a sudden burning faith I saw, 
 'Beyond the limits of my sceptic range, 
 A vast new meaning of the Trinity, 
 
 (19) 
 
XL 
 
 THOU who dost sit among us at the hearth, 
 Thou also art with Him of Galilee, 
 The Virgin-horn: thy speech betray eth thee; 
 And fearing the encounter of their mirth, 
 J, who beyond the dearest things of earth 
 Have held Him dear, made answer sorrowfully : 
 I know Him not; nothing is He to me, 
 Nothing the legends of His death and birth. 
 
 Then to the Christ within my soul I said, 
 Hoping that Simon's grace might still be mine : 
 Dear Lord, to men like these can I lay bare 
 The mystic union that with Thine has wed 
 My inward life ? — The Spirit made no sign ; 
 Christ heard me not. He was no longer there. 
 
 (21) 
 
XII. 
 
 THE inner veil of heaven is rent in twain ; 
 Tby Lord is dead, and death has claimed bis own ; 
 The seal shall not be broken on the stone. 
 Nor the stone graven where thou hast him lain. 
 Hadst thou had faith but as this living grain. 
 He would have lived; but lost in death, unknown 
 He sleepeth, and unto the Father's throne 
 The Son of man shall never rise again. 
 
 Now art thou strong; and thou hast need of strength, 
 
 Lest in thy plastic conscience clear and still 
 
 The impress of His beauty should remain 
 
 To haunt the friendless years, and light at length 
 
 The spark of doubt in thy irresolute will: 
 
 JVas this the Son of God that I have slain? 
 
 (23) 
 
XIII. 
 
 ON the chill Lenten desert, ab what breath 
 Of spring in distant vales of rose and palm ; 
 And in clear Eastern heavens what fVisdom calm 
 Unto the troubled silence answereth! 
 Go thou abroad to all the earth. He saith. 
 Say thou that before Abraham was, I Jim ; 
 Forever dies the sacrificial Lamb, 
 Forever rises from the bands of death. 
 
 Say thou : Not only in Judea born. 
 
 Not only on the cross of Calvary slain, 
 
 The Eternal Spirit everywhere has worn 
 
 The Life it evermore shall wear again. 
 
 Ah, Church of God, why sittest thou here forlorn? 
 
 Lo, every morning is thine Easter morn! 
 
 (25) 
 
XIV. 
 
 *' LO%D, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief I" 
 Or teacb me that it weighs not in Thy scale 
 A grain of dust. Though faith and knowledge fail. 
 And this dark world stand in so clear relief 
 Against Thy far, pale heaven ; though in these brief 
 Sad years, so much of life withotU avail 
 cMake life eternal but an idle tale: 
 If it be possible, help mine unbelief! 
 
 zAssure me of the truth I slowly see 
 That doubt is but an ailment of the mini 
 IVhich life may heal not, and that we shall find 
 The paths of darkness also lead to Thee ; 
 That faith means often patience with the brief 
 Confusing shadow of our unbelief. 
 
 (27) 
 
XV. 
 
 IVE cannot love the truth who will not dare 
 To look with steadfast eyes upon her face, 
 Who fear the chambers of her dwelling place, 
 Nor the reproach of serving her can hear. 
 We love not God who only in the fair 
 New morning praise Him, and forbear to trace 
 That presence through the deepening night of space. 
 Of power that will not or that cannot spare. 
 
 The world is beautiful and fair and young. 
 The world is terrible and dark and old, — 
 A thousand generations bring no change; 
 And only he whom Truth enthroned among 
 Her contradictions charmetb can behold 
 Jehovah's face, — /// beauty sad and strange. 
 
 (29) 
 
XVI. 
 
 TO lucU minds the tbougbts of Nature are 
 The tbougbts of God, however needless seem 
 Their challenge to our faith in this long dream 
 That we call life. Since we must see that war 
 And waste and madness, and the evil star 
 That rules the myrmidons, are of some scheme 
 Uncancelled, let them drift upon their stream 
 Apart from this ideal good they mar. 
 
 For why contend we with their destiny 
 To charm the sullen life that multiplies. 
 And hastens to destruction at our feet? 
 They turn again to rend us; they can see 
 Nothing but midnight in our morning sky, 
 Nor savor but of bitter in our sweet. 
 
 (31) 
 
XVII. 
 
 THOUGH tbou bast all the wisdom of the years. 
 And mastery over ignorance such as brings 
 The deep relations of discordant things 
 To make the harmony of the living spheres ; 
 Though from out earth and heaven unto thine ears 
 Unfold their magic awful, viewless kings 
 That reign in mountain summits and the rings 
 Of the vast seas ; yea, though thy spirit hears 
 
 The Voice heyond the farthest stars, — the Word 
 That is the Life, — if love for thine own kind, 
 So easily bst^ so bard to keep or find. 
 Abide not with thee, all that thou bast beard. 
 All tbou bast spoken, cannot save thy soul: 
 Thou art no part of life's immortal whole ! 
 
 (33) 
 
XVIII. 
 
 ALONE in this dim summer light, — the air 
 Of ocean in the long sea-grass, and flight 
 Of shining mist above me, what delight 
 To seem a part of Nature's self, and dare 
 For these brief moments to forget my share 
 In life's great tragedy of Wrong and Right 
 Before the listening heavens. On what clear height 
 Far from the inward voices, frorjt despair 
 
 Above the irretrievable years, thou reignst, 
 O Nature, fair as in the dawn of Earth I 
 Nor storms nor sunbeams ever reach thy soul; 
 And I, forever conquered, fight against 
 The inexorable limits of my birth. 
 And learn no wisdom from thy self-control. 
 
 (35) 
 
XIX. 
 
 M^HEN they who sleep the sleep of youth awake, 
 
 And first discern how grievous was their fault 
 
 To dream that passion might their lives exalt 
 
 Above the never- changing laws that make 
 
 Eternal change prevail, they cannot break 
 
 The charm of hope. Although their courage halt, 
 
 They evermore mu^t arm to the assault 
 
 Of some fierce stronghold none may ever take. 
 
 Hope I thou who dost our morning prayer uplift, 
 And at the eventide forsakest thy trust. 
 Take thou thy treacherous anchor from our souls ! 
 Better with winds and currents of Nature drift, 
 Better in deep-sea calms of knowledge rust. 
 Than to be moored in tidal depths and shoals. 
 
XX. 
 
 ALAS, what hope ! Too far it would transcend 
 Thy mercy, tbou most Just and righteous King, 
 Unto this winter of my soul to send 
 Airs from the vales of thine immortal spring. 
 Yet in this vernal morn the glimmering 
 Of bidden life that stirs from end to end 
 Of all the woodland still would fondly bring 
 Such hope as doth the faithless soul befriend. 
 
 O Life ! take if tbou must what happiness, 
 
 What power and possibility of good. 
 
 There might have been; let all thy fair success 
 
 Be only promise of a springtime mood. 
 
 If but thy promise still begin anew, 
 
 And Hope forever to herself be true. 
 
 (39) 
 
XXL 
 
 NONE ever knew the silent Fates. Although 
 The texture of the thread ^ they hold and spin^ 
 The course of our life's useless discipline, 
 They, haply with a futile pity, know. 
 Yet always must the fibre twine and glow 
 And darken; always Nature's toil begin 
 The slow insistence of an ancient sin, — 
 The tired will, the strong untiring foe. 
 
 Believe not even He who watches fate 
 
 Is happy as thou countest happiness ; 
 
 That it repents Him not the open gate. 
 
 And that broad way through His fair wilderness^ 
 
 That lures so many a feeble will He gave 
 
 To pitfalls where His mercy cannot save. 
 
 (41) 
 
XXII. 
 
 WHAT above all, to us who need all things. 
 Were first ? Ab, were there some phibsopby 
 To so disarm the threats of Fate that we 
 {Might keep the faith that in our wanderings 
 Is always near, yet always taketb wings; 
 {Might bold some link between the things we see 
 And heaven's majestic unreality. 
 Our turmoil, and the silent King of kings ! 
 
 But could there be a link with heaven more great 
 Than that a God with us was born and died ? 
 Or be philosophy that conquers fate 
 If not the voice that in the desert cried: 
 ''T{eturn! Tectum ! It is not yet too late ! " 
 To man's repentance nothing is denied. 
 
 (43) 
 
XXIII. 
 
 TO that rare soul, in whom the lineage lives 
 Of spiritual kings, no sevenfold furnace flame 
 Of life's inevitable wisdom gives 
 Scathe of the harm through which his manhood came. 
 He sees beyond those dread alternatives: — 
 The high despair we boast in culture s name, 
 And that sad, stoic courage that outlives 
 Our faith and hope and youth's devoted aim. 
 
 To him the ever watchful heavens award 
 The meed of that divine philosophy 
 That false conviction can no more assail: — 
 Faith in himself through destiny ill starred, 
 Faith in the assurance of his faith that he. 
 At one with God, will over Fate prevail. 
 
 (45) 
 
XXIV. 
 
 KNOIV tbou who seest the havoc years have made 
 In some false life that knows it once was fair. 
 Not greater unto thee the ruin laid hare 
 Than to itself, not more of thine afraid 
 Than of its own just sentence. Ah, betrayed 
 Of creeping habit, heedless Nature's snare 
 For souls that trust her, who can tell what prayer 
 Has cried to Nature's God too late to save! 
 
 '' My yoke is easy and My burden light:" 
 But one who his own burden long hath borne. 
 Who has the yoke of this world too long worn. 
 Loves not the freedom of the inward might. 
 Youth alone knows the paths of self-control 
 Among the perils that surround the soul. 
 
 (47) 
 
XXV. 
 
 HE gives more power unto bis bated cbain 
 Wbo overrates tbe strength; and we wbo lie. 
 The vassals of our weakness, may too bigb 
 Have set the mark that shines forever vain. 
 Let us accept the slow, unstable gain. 
 And even our failure, who go forth to try 
 Our strength with demons, such as did defy 
 The sword of Michael on the heavenly plain. 
 
 Not always are we vanquished in the fight 
 That is not won. For He whose life bath worn 
 Our imperfection, knows that faith can win 
 No surer triumph than the secret might 
 Of hope that is of swift repentance born, — 
 Of patience with the victories of sin. 
 
 (49) 
 
XXVI. 
 
 TAKE from me what thou wilt, O sceptic mind! 
 
 The mansions of the immaterial space, — 
 
 All thou canst measure of the measureless grace 
 
 Of that Intelligence whose eye is blind 
 
 To mortal folly. Thou bast not divined 
 
 The innate attitude of prayer, the base 
 
 Of all things, wherein they thai seek His face 
 
 Shall find Him, and their lost possessions find. 
 
 We so forget the power of God we speak 
 
 As though His presence with us were the sport 
 
 Of any chance encounter, and our weak 
 
 And wavering faith were His supreme resort: 
 
 But though thy soul know not her heavenward wings 
 
 Him losest thou not in any wanderings. 
 
 (sO 
 
XXVII. 
 
 IS it thou who knowest not, who dost not dread 
 The Nemesis of God? Always before 
 Thine eyes she stands, the threshold of thy door 
 She enters even now with noiseless tread; 
 And ever when thou layest down thy head 
 She is it whom thou dost in vain implore 
 To call the illusions of the past once more. 
 And for these stones give back their living bread. 
 
 Thou knowest her not; thee she has always known. 
 Ever pursuing, neither in grief nor wrath 
 Thy footsteps, nor in kindness; but alone 
 In silence, where thou bast ordained her path. 
 Mercy has no such power in the boundless heaven 
 As thou thyself to Nemesis hast given. 
 
 (S3) 
 
XXVIIL 
 
 FROM that cold height where Law can never yield 
 
 His place to Mercy, comes to mortal ear 
 
 The cry, '' T{enounce! '' — that all who pause to ieai 
 
 Must as they will interpret. On some field 
 
 Of self -obedience they are called to wield 
 
 A sword of fire whose names are written clear 
 
 In heaven or in earth; and in the sphere 
 
 Of hidden life, however we may shield 
 
 A slothful will, the unexplained command 
 Haunts the convictions of the troubled mind 
 With dreams of rest. It may be that we live 
 Upon the borders of a Promised Land 
 Where the obedience of the Law would find 
 A recompense that Mercy cannot give. 
 
 (55) 
 
XXIX. 
 
 AT last, O God! I come to do Thy wiU, — 
 Unto the narrow pathway of the Cross ; 
 I, who upon the seething ocean toss 
 Of these dread sweet temptations that fulfil 
 The cry of life, yet have such power to kill 
 The soul. Of all things will I suffer loss 
 That I may win Thee only, who across 
 Dark wastes of heaven dwellest in Thy still 
 
 And hidden light, alone. Thy counsels faU 
 But as a silence midst confusing noise 
 Of earthly voices, yet I hear Thy call, — 
 And dead to all the music of their joys, 
 I come to live henceforth for Thee alone, 
 To give up all that I have called my own, 
 
 (57) 
 
XXX. 
 
 OF all the fair possessions Life recounts 
 
 Is it then true that nothing is her awn. 
 
 And that by Restoration she alone 
 
 Unto the fulness of her title mounts ? 
 
 Is then that cry of martyr deeds, "Renounce!" 
 
 The only key to victory they have known, 
 
 IVho have the stronghold of the will o'ertbrown, 
 
 IVho drink of power from superhuman founts ? 
 
 Ah, even such victory may be dearly bought. 
 And such possession, loss ! My life, no more 
 Even for those glimmering principalities 
 Give up the birthright of thy freeborn thought. 
 Nor vex the sunshine of thy native shore 
 IVith dreams that rove the dark surrounding seas. 
 
 (59) 
 
XXXI. 
 
 CHILD that awakest from tby Mystic dream, 
 IVbose tired will shall nevermore aspire 
 To those far heights, the Land of cloud and fire, 
 Of the will of God, I, too, have known the gleam. 
 Mirage of a waste desert, — that doth seem 
 To bend the impossible heavens to our desire; 
 Have seen the light of faith die from those higher 
 Enchanted summits of the life supreme. 
 
 Yet here may life, begin; nor thy vain cross 
 Be all in vain, — the sacrifice, the pain 
 Of self-deception not forever loss 
 In the self-knowledge that is endless gain. 
 Learn thou the limit of the soul, and live 
 To seek such peace alone as life can give. 
 
 (6i) 
 
XXXII. 
 
 HERE, where not always we behold the race 
 Unto the swift, we who by random gift 
 Of careless Nature are among the swift 
 And strong ennumbered, must assert our place 
 Of strongest, oftenest by the patient grace 
 That bears with failure. There is power to lift 
 The soul of man from those dark tides that drift 
 De^air and death to meet him, in the face 
 
 Of his own mercy. Ah, the task is light 
 To gram impatient with ourselves, to scorn 
 Our own absolving; — hard, indeed, to slight 
 The self -condemning of self-knowledge horn: 
 But he is strongest who can most forgive 
 To that lost youth he would so fain relive. 
 
 (63) 
 
XXXIII. 
 
 TO'MORROfV'S sun will never shine for thee 
 Farewell, O love, for thou must go to-nigbt 
 Forever from the darkness and the light! 
 Ah I if this be, then take away from me 
 All sights and sounds of earth, and let me he 
 Alone with silence, on the silent height 
 Beyond the darkness ; for ye have no right 
 Before the veil of mine eternity. 
 
 Fear est thou then, O love? Alas! no light 
 Will ever reach thee. Whether terrors, sown 
 In hapless childhood, spread their shadows drear, 
 Or the dark peace of everlasting night 
 Prevail ahove me, — unto me alone 
 Belongs the hour whose power is drawing near. 
 
 (65) 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 '' THIS night tby soul shall be required of thee!'' 
 Ah! thine in life and death, my Father, thine 
 The kingdom and the power and victory, 
 And mine in Thee I O earth, no longer mine; 
 O desolate sea, whose morrow's sun will shine 
 In thy sad east, — what morning shall I see 
 In the new. sunlight that has dawned for me 
 Where I lie here in darkness without sign! 
 
 And from the region of the light and air 
 Ye know not, in the silence that doth give 
 Earth unto earth, shall my assurance live 
 Through the denial of that vast despair. 
 That Christ was faithful to the Word He gave 
 And hath gone down with me into the grave. 
 
 (67) 
 
XXXV. 
 
 THE night at last, the outer starless night — 
 The inconceivable dawn! Resign! Resign! 
 Surrender all things, Soul, no longer mine ; 
 The useless legions of the daylight fight 
 In vain. Because thou wilt not yield thy right 
 To hope and fear that shall no more be thine. 
 Therefore alone the glimmering Space divine 
 Of Death grows dark and narrow in thy sight. 
 
 Life hath no counsel. Since it were too late 
 For pleasure or for deep mistake or sin 
 To barter with thy fears, let tbem alone. 
 And silently advance into the great 
 Approaching Presence, where thou shall begin 
 To know thyself as thou wast always known. 
 
 (69) 
 
XXXVI. 
 
 WHAT though we dream we understand so well 
 
 The mechanism of our life, that we 
 
 Have measured the unknowable decree 
 
 That moved on the dark waters, — and can tell 
 
 The meaning of Jebcwah that there fell 
 
 The shadow upon Eden of a Tree 
 
 Of Life, — untasied ? For we cannot flee 
 
 The powers that in the silent future dwell. 
 
 And though convi^ion have no sovereignty. 
 And hope no knowledge, by the initial law 
 Of mortal heing, we may not control 
 The brings of faith, — and Immortality 
 Hath power to haunt with an unreasoning awe 
 The distant, lonely centre of the soul. 
 
 (71) 
 
XXXVII. 
 
 so dear is life, and the beloved dust 
 That answers to our love no more so dear, 
 That the unconsciom oracle sincere 
 Of our desire creates the innate trust 
 In life immortal. Even the hosts august, 
 Martyr and saint and ministering angel dear 
 To wistful faith, fade from his atmo^bere 
 Who finds eternal Nature wisely just 
 
 In death as life ; who loves the truth so well 
 That life is not so dear. Although the law 
 Of outer forces may not mark the tide 
 And limit of the work of God, nor tell 
 The tale of being, with no lessened awe 
 He bows who dares to otherwise decide. 
 
 (73) 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 NOT out of Nigbt and Time and Anarchy 
 Didst tbou descend, nor tbitber canst return. 
 The ligbt of immortality dotb burn 
 Before tbee as bebind; tbe bigb decree 
 Of all-pervading law, tbe identity 
 Of life witb law, not He wbo made can turn 
 From tbat stern order: — wbo art tbou to ^urn 
 Tbe bondage of divine necessity ? 
 
 Either is man immortal, or be sure 
 
 There is no immortality witb God. 
 
 His Spirit must lie beneath tbe careless sod 
 
 Where tbou art laid, or tbou, forever pure. 
 
 Through these dark limits must witb Him ascend 
 
 Where there is no beginning and no end. 
 
 (75) 
 
XXXIX. 
 
 YE must be born again. What he may mean 
 Who §pake of blood and water and the swift 
 Fire of the Spirit, though we may not lift 
 The eyes of faith to see, never unseen 
 The deadly sin : no flattering mists between 
 Our conscience and the insisting knowledge drift 
 That we unless we may accept some gift 
 Of measureless repentance are unclean, 
 
 Unclean forever. And in heavenly scorn 
 Of human challenge, having place nor part 
 In human reason, lives the silent power — 
 The Resurrection and the Life, new born, 
 That answers to the cry of every heart 
 From the beginning even unto this hour. 
 
 (77) 
 
XL. 
 
 CHILL is the dewy air; the vineyard gate 
 Is shut beneath the pitiless evening star; 
 No longer can the patient Master wait 
 To welcome harvest laborers from afar. 
 Dear Master, I am not as others are ; 
 Oh, let me work although it be so late I 
 ''Ah, willingly would I the gate unbar; 
 But none can work, the darkness is so great.'' 
 
 If I had known haw the swift daylight §ped 
 I would have come • yet Lord have we not heard. 
 Thai all who wiU may eat the living bread. 
 That thou wilt save us who believe thy Word? 
 '' I will not say thee, nay ; but ab, take heed. 
 That on my PVord thou dost believe indeed/' 
 
 (79) 
 
XLI. 
 
 STERN, narrow soul, lost in the vague domain 
 Of mystic faith, strong will by accident 
 Of birth, that urged by heavenly discontent 
 The impossible heights of perfect peace to gain 
 Didst not prevail beyond the strife and pain 
 Of baffled sense, no tribute of lament 
 Above thy futile grief and toil misspent 
 Can reach thee now where from thy high disdain 
 
 Thou liest so low. Ah, were not too much given 
 For thy soul's ransom, would that thou wert free 
 From thy eternal solace to descend. 
 Only to tell us what availed to Heaven 
 Thy life of sacrifice and pain, that we 
 Might know of our self-pleasing years the end. 
 
 (8i) 
 
XLIL 
 
 TO walk this world with eyes forever cast 
 On the unsure foundations of our peace 
 WiU huy of God no favor, nor decrease 
 The evil legions. Of the inviolate past 
 The world that is, the shadowed presence vast 
 Of worlds heyond, since nothing can release 
 The identity that binds them, let us cease 
 Our ignorant rebellion, nor contrast 
 
 Eternity and Time, and Life and Death, 
 As though we might appease the God of life 
 By our Memento Mori. Peace bath he, 
 He only steadfast, who remembereth 
 The strength of God nor dares unequal strife 
 With the conditions of humanity. 
 
 (33) 
 
XLIII. 
 
 EARTH'S highest gift, he others what tbey may. 
 Is leisure, — measured duty, needful care, 
 But time for thought. Alas! not everywhere 
 Have Duty's keenest foUmoers won their day; 
 For the unguarded impulse to obey 
 The promptings of a thoughtless conscience, bare 
 To every sting, must the firm will impair. 
 And waste our strength in labyrinths far away 
 
 From simple action. Master of his soul 
 Is he whom careful Nature hath endowed 
 With power to stay, and let the world go by. 
 The world 's conflicting duties past him roll. 
 Till he discern from all the tumult loud 
 The single voice with warrant from on high. 
 
 (85) 
 
* XLIV. 
 
 ART thou at rest in the uncertain gain 
 Of wilful leisure, he not sure the source 
 Is in the unresting heavens. The transient force 
 Of human courage bears not even the strain 
 Of wise delay, and since our days contain 
 So little tenure to decide their course. 
 We dare not §pare to Memory the remorse 
 For deeds of conscience, — haply blind or vain. 
 
 If thou art true unto the dreams of youth 
 When stern Jehovah ^ake as with the voice 
 Of thy Beloved, and His command was writ 
 In fire from Heaven, thou wilt discern the truth, 
 AU falsehoods of thine own device among. 
 With instant inward radiance always lit. 
 
 (87) 
 
XLV. 
 
 THE unquiet hope wherein your days await 
 A good that comes not, and the fretful pain 
 That haunts the triumph of your fairest gain, 
 Comes from no malice of celestial fate, 
 But that the infinite truth has dawned too late 
 Ye cannot serve two masters. Ye remain 
 In half allegiance to the tyrant reign 
 Of Truth, the loving Master, stern and great, 
 
 fVhilst every moment brings its petty weight 
 Of social bondage, falsehoods that restrain 
 From loyal a^ion, courteous words that feign 
 A willing service to a world you hate. 
 Renounce that world, or from high truth refrain. 
 And neither master shall ye serve in vain. 
 
 (89) 
 
XLVI. 
 
 THE merciful God will yet bow down the skies 
 To my importunate prayer! Believe not so; 
 But set tby life to learn its task, and know 
 That tby keen wrong of sorrow, though it cries 
 To Heaven's justice in its blind surprise. 
 Is but a part of Heaven's remorseless, slow. 
 Primeval law. No sound above, below. 
 But the swift echo of thy voice, replies. 
 
 He alone life 's compassionate answer gains 
 
 IV ho dares not waste his strength in vain appeal; 
 
 But seeks amid the wreck of surest hope 
 
 IVhatever faith in God and man remains. 
 
 And even from his own heart would fain conceal 
 
 Of that dread loss the wide and desolate scope. 
 
 (9O 
 
XLVII. 
 
 IT is in no irreverence, friend and priest. 
 For thine high office that I mtist not choose 
 Even in these bonds of reverence, but refuse 
 Thy ministration, that to me, at least, 
 Can minister not, although it be the feast 
 Of multitudes, who, losing thee, would lose 
 Their bread of life. Let not thy pride accuse 
 Just Nature that some minds have been released 
 
 From that lay service ; but arraign the blind 
 If careful judgment that through time unknown 
 Has failed to sanation that release. O friend, 
 Seest thou then not two lives divide mankind, - 
 The priest 's, though priest unto himself alone. 
 And his who must on priestly help depend I 
 
 (93) 
 
XLVIII. 
 
 HE is it who hatb made us, and not we 
 
 Ourselves: and in one human mould is cast. 
 Though with discerning justice we contrast 
 Ourselves with others, all humanity. 
 He is not from the bonds of nature free 
 Who wills to be in lonely priesthood classed ; 
 The slowest years will manifest at last 
 The tether of bis vaunted liberty. 
 
 For, pierced with secret sin, or weak with pain. 
 
 Or worn by long vicissitude of fate. 
 
 The organism of his weary brain 
 
 PVill fear or superstition penetrate ; 
 
 And he the nearest guide will fain receive, 
 
 And by a stranger's faith or hope believe. 
 
 (95) 
 
XLIX. 
 
 THOU restless sbepberd-dog, that up and down 
 Pursuest thy Master's sheep, art thou so sure 
 Thou knowest the greenest fold, the spring most pure 
 For every lamb ? IVbat floods of doctrine drown, 
 What beasts devour, what pastures dry and brozm 
 May starve tbe flock, or bidden snare allure 
 To many a tempting shelter insecure, 
 Tbou bast no beed save of tby own renown 
 
 For :(ealous service. fVill not at thy bands 
 Tbe Sbepberd of bis flock demand bis sheep 
 Wbom tbou bast led from many a sheltered fold 
 Of simple faith, at last to treacherous sands 
 Of dogma, whereon pours tbe unsounded deep 
 Of infinite denial, dark and cold I 
 
 (97) 
 
L. 
 
 / WHO am young, let me not crave too much 
 The burden of content, not too much strain 
 The shining mirage of Desire to touch; 
 Fruition's rest is full of nameless pain. 
 And yet, O End I O Rest! if there be such 
 In all the world, come in the mighty reign 
 Of autumn on this silent inland plain ; 
 Come to a spirit toiling overmuch. 
 
 I, who am old, let not my heart annul 
 With futile hope the gain of suffering years, 
 Nor make the fine gold of their wisdom dull 
 With youth's sweet passion of unfruitful tears. 
 And yet, in this fair spring, with nature 's tongue 
 I cry aloud : Would God I too were young! 
 
 (99) 
 
LI. 
 
 AND thou, what dost thou here ? my ^irit said. 
 
 With these disciples of the fold shut in. 
 
 Who hast no hope nor fear to theirs akin, 
 
 Who art not hungry for their living bread. 
 
 If from the arid deserts of the dead 
 
 Thou wouldst anew some Way of Life begin. 
 
 What sacrifice can take away thy sin. 
 
 Or give a form to faith whose soul is dead ? 
 
 Sad ^irit! I know not why thou seest me here: 
 Only the weU-remembered hymn and prayer 
 I bear again — half reverent, half in scorn ; 
 The unforgotten dreams of faith draw near. 
 And fill these waking moments with the air 
 Of some dim Eden where their light was born. 
 
 (lOl) 
 
LIL 
 
 MAN is a race of kings. Who that is horn 
 Knows not that he should have been born to rule, 
 And not to he the rash and pliant fool 
 Of inclination, in obedience sworn 
 To Nature, cruel master! zAh, forlorn, 
 In our own kingdom captive, in what school 
 Shall we regain the knowledge how to rule, — 
 To live no longer prey to our self -scorn ! 
 
 Ohey Thyself ! and thou shall hold the key 
 Unto the wide dominion of the earth. 
 And high alliance with the powers of Heaven I 
 Angels and kings and hosts will honor thee ; 
 Thou wilt have grace hefitting rcyal birth. 
 Even to forgive the seventy times of seven. 
 
 ( 103 ) 
 
LIII. 
 
 DEEP virtue hatb this cup of healing cold 
 
 That JVisdom offers, that however rare 
 
 May seem your life's endurance, ye hut share 
 
 A common lot; that every heart has told 
 
 Your secret of experience in the old 
 
 And pitiless desert of the heavenly air ! 
 
 Ah, false and vain ! No man can lightlier bear 
 
 That man has borne, — nor earth's arcana hold 
 
 A virtue that hath any cure to give 
 Life's weary fever. Let us rather face 
 The outer snow and night, — the Land of Death ; 
 Whereof we know not save that God doth live 
 And rest therein, and from the sunless ^ace 
 Alone the voice of Duty answereth. 
 
 (105) 
 
LIV. 
 
 LORD, where thou art the night forgets to fall, 
 The winter stays his hand from shore to shore ; 
 The music of the charmer charms no more, 
 The voice of the abyss forbears to call. 
 On the dark earth as in a silent hall 
 Where mortal foot has never trod before; 
 I alone enter through an open door 
 Into the presence of the AH in all. 
 
 Mine are all things in heaven or in earth 
 If I shall ask them. O my Father, one. 
 One thing alone has any place or worth 
 To me, or unto Thee, beneath the sun, — 
 Faith in myself, — faith that Thou gavest to me 
 z/l life that was begun, that ends in Thee. 
 
 (107) 
 
LV. 
 
 €\iY days, ^eed not so fast unto the IVest 
 From the swift mornings, — not so far, so fast! 
 
 Night of nights ! let the long shadows cast 
 About me linger. For although the best, 
 
 The hopeful hours — our birthright's high bequest 
 Are squandered, though the tide of faith is past, 
 God, so long silent, ^eaks again at last. 
 And I, though I am weary, would not rest. 
 
 He waits no more; He has undone the door, 
 Saying: "Not yet, not yet too late!" Who well 
 Knawetb bow late, — into what hands before 
 
 1 have betrayed Him. Oh, Immanuel! 
 Father or Son — we know not — unto me 
 Art Thou indeed the old reality! 
 
 (109) 
 
LVI. 
 
 THE joy of Nature cannot know foretaste 
 Of sorrow; never human hope forlorn 
 Disturbs the peace of that celestial scorn, 
 Nor stays the pulses of her noble haste. 
 The light that glows upon the silent waste 
 Of en^ening hills, the long, white flash of morn 
 On misty seas have gladness, heaven born. 
 By nought that is of earth to be effaced. 
 
 And that the voice of beauty wakes a chord 
 Of an un^eakable sadness in our lives. 
 Is only that within m there survives 
 Some unexplained message of the Lord, 
 Born with our birth, and buried with the dead, 
 Never to any man interpreted. 
 
 (Ill) 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 
 
 AND there came unto me and spake to me . . , X 
 
 A7id tkouy ivkat dost thou heref my spirit said . . LI 
 Alone in this dim summer light — the air . . . XVIII 
 Alas,, what hope I too far it would tra7iscend , . . XX 
 At last,, O God,, I come to do thy ivill . . . XXIX 
 Art thou at rest in the uncertain gain .... XL IV 
 Child that atvakest from thy Mystic dream . . XXXI 
 
 Chill is the dewy air,, the vineyard gates . . . XL 
 
 Deny thyself the false humility IV 
 
 Deep virtue hath this cup of heaWig cold . . . LIII 
 
 Earth'^s highest gift,, he others what they may . . XLIII 
 
 From that cold height ,, where Law can 7iever yield XXVIII 
 God speaketh atid saith^ I do remember thee . , . V 
 
 God saith to ma?iy behold from year to year . . . VI 
 
 Here in the darkness we abide,, and know . , . /// 
 
 He gives more power unto his hated chain . . . XXV 
 Here where not always we behold the race . . XXXII 
 He is it who hath made us,, and not we . . XL VIII 
 
 /, lonely shepherd watcher^ 7iot in vai7i .... VII 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 
 
 Is it thou who knowest not, -vjho dost not fear , . XXVII 
 
 It is in no irreverence, friend and priest . . XL VII 
 
 I who am young, let me not crave too much . . . L 
 
 Know thou who seest the havoc years have mad: . XXIV 
 Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief .... XIV 
 
 Lord, where thou art the night forgets to fall . . LIV 
 
 Might I but with Jehovah, face to face . . . . // 
 
 My days, speed not so fast unto the West . . . . LV 
 
 Man is a race of kings. Who that is born . . . LII 
 
 None ever knew the silent fates. Although . . XXI 
 
 Not out of Night and Time and Anarchy . . XXXVIII 
 
 On the chill Lenten desert, ah, what breath . . XIII 
 
 Of all the fair possessions Life recounts . . . XXX 
 So dear is life^ and the beloved dust .... XXXVI 
 
 Stern, narrow soul, lost in the vague domain . . XLI 
 
 The Lord saith, thinkest thou I do not hear . . . / 
 
 The sun has risen beyond the wide gray beach , . VIII 
 
 There shall no sign be given to thee, it said . . . IX 
 
 Thou who dost sit amongst us at the hearth . . . XI 
 The inner veil of heaven is rent in twain .... XII 
 
 To lucid minds, the thoughts of Nature are . . .XVI 
 
 ("4) 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 
 
 Though thou kast all the ivisdom of the years , . XVII 
 
 To that rare soul in 'whom the Imeage lives . . . XXIII 
 
 Take from me what thou iviltj O sceptic mind . . XXVI 
 
 To-morrow^ s sun will never shine for thee . . XXXIII 
 
 This night thy soul shall be required of thee . . XXXIV 
 
 The night at last^ the outer starless night . , XXXV 
 
 To walk this world with eyes forever cast . . . XLII 
 
 The unquiet hope wherein your days await . . . XL V 
 
 The merciful God will yet bow down the skies . . XL VI 
 
 Thou restless shepherd dog^ that up and down . XL IX 
 
 The joy of Nature cannot know foretaste . . . LVI 
 
 We cannot love the truths who will not dare , . . XV 
 
 What above alU to us who need all things . . . XXII 
 
 When they who sleep the sleep of youth awake . . XIX 
 
 What though we dream we understand so xvell . . XXXVI 
 
 Te must be born again. What he may mean . XXXIX 
 
 THE END. 
 
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