| LIV
Oh, yet we trust that somehow
good
Will be the
final goal of ill,
To pangs of
nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints
of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless
feet;
That not one
life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as
rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile
complete;
That not a worm is cloven
in vain;
That not a
moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd
in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's
gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust
that good shall fall
At last --
far off -- at last, to all,
And every winter change
to spring.
So runs my dream: but what
am I?
An infant crying
in the night:
An infant crying
for the light:
And with no language but
a cry.
LV
The wish, that of the living
whole
No life may
fail beyond the grave,
Derives it
not from what we have
The likest God within the
soul?
Are God and Nature then at
strife,
That Nature
lends such evil dreams?
So careful
of the type she seems,
So careless of the single
life;
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret
meaning in her deeds,
And finding
that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one
to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling
with my weight of cares
Upon the great
world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness
up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith,
and grope,
And gather
dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel
is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger
hope. |
LVI
"So careful of the type?"
but no.
From scarped
cliff and quarried stone
She cries,
"A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all
shall go.
"Thou makest thine appeal
to me:
I bring to
life, I bring to death:
The spirit
does but mean the breath:
I know no more." And he,
shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem'd
so fair,
Such splendid
purpose in his eyes,
Who roll'd
the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless
prayer,
Who trusted God was love
indeed
And love Creation's
final law --
Tho' Nature,
red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against
his creed --
Who loved, who suffer'd countless
ills,
Who battled
for the True, the Just,
Be blown about
the desert dust,
Or seal'd within the iron
hills?
No more? A monster then,
a dream,
A discord.
Dragons of the prime,
That tare each
other in their slime,
Were mellow music match'd
with him.
O life as futile, then, as
frail!
O for thy voice
to soothe and bless!
What hope of
answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind
the veil.
LVII
Peace; come away: the song
of woe
Is after all
an earthly song:
Peace; come
away: we do him wrong
To sing so wildly: let us
go.
Come; let us go: your cheeks
are pale;
But half my
life I leave behind:
Methinks my
friend is richly shrined;
But I shall pass; my work
will fail.
Yet in these ears, till hearing
dies,
One set slow
bell will seem to toll
The passing
of the sweetest soul
That ever look'd with human
eyes.
I hear it now, and o'er and
o'er,
Eternal greetings
to the dead;
And "Ave, Ave,
Ave," said,
"Adieu, adieu," for evermore. |