Whether I care for thee.
In thee lies hid my unknown heart,
In thee my perfect mind;
In all my joys, my Lord, thou art
The deeper joy behind.
But when fresh light and visions bold
My heart and hope expand,
Up comes the vanity of old
That now I understand:
Away, away from thee I drift,
Forgetting, not forgot;
Till sudden yawns a downward rift—
I start—and see thee not.
Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours!
All in the dark I stray,
Until my spirit fainting cowers
On the threshold of the day.
Hence not even yet I child-like dare
Nestle unto thy breast,
Though well I know that only there
Lies hid the secret rest.
But now I shrink not from thy will,
Nor, guilty, judge my guilt;
Thy good shall meet and slay my ill—
Do with me as thou wilt.
If I should dream that dream once more,
Me in my dreaming meet;
Embrace me, Master, I implore,
And let me kiss thy feet.
II
I stood before my childhood’s home,
Outside its belt of trees;
All round my glances flit and roam
O’er well-known hills and leas;
When sudden rushed across the plain
A host of hurrying waves,
Loosed by some witchery of the brain
From far, dream-hidden caves.
And up the hill they clomb and came,
A wild, fast-flowing sea:
Careless I looked as on a game;
No terror woke in me.
For, just the belting trees within,
I saw my father wait;
And should the waves the summit win,
There was the open gate!
With him beside, all doubt was dumb;
There let the waters foam!
No mightiest flood would dare to come
And drown his holy home!
Two days passed by. With restless toss,
The red flood brake its doors;
Prostrate I lay, and looked across
To the eternal shores.
The world was fair, and hope was high;
My friends had all been true;
Life burned in me, and Death and I
Would have a hard ado.
Sudden came back the dream so good,
My trouble to abate:
At his own door my Father stood—
I just without the gate!
“Thou know’st what is, and what appears,”
I said; “mine eyes to thine
Are windows; thou hear’st with thine ears,
But also hear’st with mine:”
“Thou knowest my weak soul’s dismay,
How trembles my life’s node;
Thou art the potter, I am the clay—
’Tis thine to bear the load.”
III
A piece of gold had left my purse,
Which I had guarded ill;
I feared a lack, but feared yet worse
Regret returning still.
I lifted up my feeble prayer
To him who maketh strong,
That thence no haunting thoughts of care
Might do my spirit wrong.
And even before my body slept,
Such visions fair I had,
That seldom soul with chamber swept
Was more serenely glad.
No white-robed angel floated by
On slow, reposing wings;
I only saw, with inward eye,
Some very common things.
First rose the scarlet pimpernel
With burning purple heart;
I saw within it, and could spell
The lesson of its art.
Then came the primrose, child-like flower,
And looked me in the face;
It bore a message full of power,
And confidence, and grace.
And breezes rose on pastures trim
And bathed me all about;
Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim,
Or only half spoke out.
Sudden it closed, some door of heaven,
But what came out remained:
The poorest man my loss had given
For that which I had gained!
Thou gav’st me, Lord, a brimming cup
Where I bemoaned a sip;
How easily thou didst make up
For that my fault let slip!
What said the flowers? what message new
Embalmed my soul with rest?
I scarce can tell—only they grew
Right out of God’s own breast.
They said, to every flower he made
God’s thought was root and stem—
Perhaps said what the lilies said
When Jesus looked at them.
IV
Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake,
Our souls with visions teem
Which to the slumbering brain would take
The form of wondrous dream.
Once, with my thought-sight, I descried
A plain with hills around;
A lordly company on each side
Leaves bare the middle ground.
Great terrace-steps at one end rise
To something like a throne,
And thither all the radiant eyes,
As to a centre, shone.
A snow-white glory, dim-defined,
Those seeking eyes beseech—
Him who was not in fire or wind,
But in the gentle speech.
They see his eyes far-fixed wait:
Adown the widening vale
They, turning, look; their breath they bate,
With dread-filled wonder pale.
In raiment worn and blood-bedewed,
With faltering step and numb,
Toward the shining multitude
A weary man did come.
His face was white, and still-composed,
As of a man nigh dead;
The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed,
A faint, wan splendour shed.
Drops on his hair disordered hung
Like rubies dull of hue;
His hands were pitifully wrung,
And stricken through and through.
Silent they stood with tender awe:
Between their ranks he came;
Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw
What made his feet so lame.
He reached the steps below the throne,
There sank upon his knees;
Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan,
And spake in words like these:—
“Father, I am come back. Thy will
Is sometimes hard to do.”
From all that multitude so still
A sound of weeping grew.
Then mournful-glad came down the One;
He kneeled and clasped his child;
Lay on his breast the outworn man,
And wept until he smiled.
The people, who, in bitter woe
And love, had sobbed and cried,
Raised aweful eyes at length—and, Lo,
The two sat side by side!
V
Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood
High in the gloomy air;
One bore a thief, and one the Good;
The other waited bare.
A soldier came up to the place,
And took me for the third;
My eyes they sought the Master’s face,
My will the Master’s word.
He bent his head; I took the sign,
And gave the error way;
Gesture nor look nor word of mine
The secret should betray.
The soldier from the cross’s foot
Turned. I stood waiting there:
That grim, expectant tree, for fruit
My dying form must bear.
Up rose the steaming mists of doubt
And chilled both heart and brain;
They shut the world of vision out,
And fear saw only pain.
“Ah me, my hands! the hammer’s blow!
The nails that rend and pierce!
The shock may stun, but, slow and slow,
