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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 THE AUTHOR OF "OLRIG GRANGE." 
 
 New and Cheaper Uniform Edition. Cloth, gilt top. 
 
 OLRIG GRANGE. Fourth Edition. 5s. 
 NORTH COUNTRY FOLK. 5s. 
 KILDROSTAN. 5s. 
 HILDA. Fourth Edition. 5s. 
 
 New Volume by Author of " Olrig Grange." 
 
 THOUGHTS AND FANCIES FOR SUN- 
 DAY EVENINGS. Second Edition. 2s. 6d 
 
 GLASGOW : JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, 
 Publishers to the University. 
 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO.
 
 A HERETIC AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " OLRIG GRANGE," " HILDA," " KILDROSTAN," 
 " NORTH COUNTRY FOLK," ETC.
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW, 
 $ublishfrs to the eimberstti). 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK. 
 London, - - - - Simftkin, Marshall, Hamilton, 
 
 Kent and Co., Limited. 
 Cambridge, ■ - - Macmillan and Bowes. 
 Edinburgh, - - Douglas and Fonlis. 
 
 MDCCCXCI.
 
 A HERETIC 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER C SMITH 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS 
 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY 
 I 89 I 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A HERETIC, ! 
 
 SABBATH EVENING LONG AGO, ■,. 
 
 CREEDS, ,j. 
 
 THE DISCOVERY OF GOD, . 2 
 
 THE INVENTION OF GOD, \ , . ,g 
 
 THE VISION OF GOD, c 2 
 
 THE BURDEN OF GOD, -,- 
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT, gr 
 
 .-J PULPITEER, go 
 
 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST, l2 c 
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL, . . . .1^5 
 
 A DREAM, [r 
 
 MORAL-SUBLIME, x 6 4 
 
 MIRREN, l7 - 
 
 A DARK EVENING l8g 
 
 FOUND AND LOST, igo 
 
 vii 
 
 HiJ7Qk:^j
 
 vin CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LETTRE DE CACHET, 20 5 
 
 A CALM, 22 ^ 
 
 SPRING MORNING, 22 q 
 
 ORWELL, 2 ,, 
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS 2,-,
 
 Jt gjewtir. 
 
 Yes, he was there at the grave, and we 
 
 Eyed each other with meaning look, 
 Wondering what he had come to see ; 
 Yet we pitied him, too, ere long, as he 
 
 Stood by himself alone, and shook 
 While the earth fell dull on the coffin lid. 
 But why had he come where he was not bid? 
 He might have known he would mar our meeting, 
 
 Who neither its love nor its grief could share. 
 And how could we give him a word of greeting? — 
 
 He ! the last man that we looked for there. 
 
 A
 
 2 A HERETIC. 
 
 So, lonely and silent he took his place, 
 And silent and lonely he went his way. 
 
 But what was the shadow that lay on his face? 
 
 Was it, maybe, some touch of the tender grace, 
 And the lingering love of a former day? 
 
 It puzzled me then ; but I let him go 
 
 Lonely away, with his head bent low. 
 
 They had been friends in youth, had read 
 Together the words of the classic dead — 
 Epic and drama and lyric bold, 
 
 And sage discourse of the wise and true, 
 And the fabled tale, and the legend old 
 
 Where the faiths of a rank religion grew ; 
 And many a close-writ notebook told 
 
 How well the past life of the world they 
 knew, 
 How much of the gods and the wits of Greece, 
 And of Rome with its arts of war and peace.
 
 A HERETIC. < 
 
 Oft wandering, too, by brake and brook, 
 
 Or seated on lichened boulder stone, 
 They read as in an open book 
 
 How earth was fashioned, and rocks had grown, 
 By frost and ice, by fire and flood, 
 From the weltering slime of the primal mud ; 
 And what the records of nature bore 
 Of the struggle of Life from less to more — 
 What mosses in the swamps grew rank, 
 
 What fishes stirred the long sea-weeds, 
 What great beasts on the river's bank 
 
 Went crashing through the giant reeds. 
 So had they searched, through ages vast, 
 The strange grave-yards of the buried Past. 
 
 Later, their converse had mostly been 
 With Fathers and Schoolmen and knotty Creeds, 
 
 And Councils, where subtlest wits were seen 
 Busily sowing the fruitful seeds
 
 4 A HERETIC. 
 
 Of faith and doubt, and love and hate, 
 And all that chequers our mortal fate. 
 The fall too of Empire, the dark sunset 
 
 Of learning through lust of power and gold, 
 The mighty Popes, and the mightier yet 
 
 Who wrought reform in the days of old, 
 And martyr-sorrows by fire and cord, 
 And the glory and triumph of God's pure Word, 
 These, too, they pondered, laying up store 
 Of late born science and old world lore. 
 So had the Kirk for her sons designed 
 That the rich in faith should be full in mind. 
 
 Then settled near each other — this, 
 
 In a rural parish of easy bliss, 
 
 That, in a neighbouring city rife 
 
 With the questionings of a keen young life — 
 
 They walked together side by side, 
 
 And each of the other would speak with pride :
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 How one had treasures of learning vast, 
 
 And one had thoughts that were sure to cast 
 
 A larger light upon life and death, 
 
 And gird up the loins of our dwindling faith. 
 
 Brothers first in the toils of youth, 
 
 Brothers now in the bonds of truth, 
 
 Each in the other was fain to see 
 
 The powers of the world that was to be. 
 
 But one man like a tree shall stand, 
 
 Leafing and fruiting year by year, 
 And cling to his little patch of land, 
 
 And cast a shade for the lazy steer, 
 With no more change than the passing breeze 
 
 Makes when it tosses the creaking bough ; 
 And prosperous, plentiful, full of ease, 
 
 To-morrow he shall be the same as now. 
 Another shall flow like a freshening stream, 
 
 Flashing there where the sunbeam flies,
 
 6 A HERETIC. 
 
 Eddying here in a brooding dream, 
 
 And all its life in its movement lies ; 
 This the law of his being strange, 
 Ever he grows by flux and change. 
 What would you? Nature will have her way; 
 Will mend by night what you mar by day, 
 And laugh at the man who would say her 
 
 Nay. 
 Tree cannot pluck up its roots and go, 
 Restless stream cannot cease to flow, 
 Each must obey the high Law given 
 To the things of earth by the Lord of Heaven. 
 
 And some read many books, and grow 
 Wiser and better by all they know ; 
 From 'thoughts of other men their own 
 Get warmth and colour and richer tone, 
 And what is old they make as new 
 From the shaping mind it passes through :
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 It was but a seed when it was sown, 
 
 But a goodly plant in their souls has grown, 
 
 For all that they gather with patient strife 
 
 Is penetrated with mystic life. 
 
 Another shall read and heap up lore, 
 
 Yet be no wiser than ever before ; 
 
 Folios mighty he knows by rote, 
 
 And each edition, its date, and size, 
 Page and paragraph well can quote, 
 
 And where a word on the margin lies; 
 Hardly a question up shall spring, 
 Sudden as startled bird on wing, 
 But a loaded gun is up to sight 
 With a score of quotations to settle it right ; 
 Yet never a thought of his own has he, 
 Nor any mind but memory. 
 
 So these twain took their several ways, 
 Though each was full of the other's praise,
 
 8 A HERETIC. 
 
 Keeping ever a constant heart, 
 
 While drifting more and more wide apart. 
 
 For he whom we laid in the grave that day, — 
 
 Honoured and wept for his service — learned 
 By change and sorrow the sacred way 
 
 Which the dull, slow book-worm never discerned. 
 
 He had come among us in brilliant youth, 
 
 Eloquent, earnest, eager to tell 
 Just the old story we held for truth, 
 
 And we praised him for it, and liked him well ; 
 Praised the round periods shaped with care, 
 And the brilliant tropes that he did not spare, 
 And liked the man and his modest air. 
 Praised him and liked him ! What would he 
 
 more ? 
 Welcome his knock at the cottage door, 
 Welcome at school to the children gay, 
 
 Welcome his presence at wedding feast,
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 Welcome where sickness restless lay. 
 
 Welcome as Comforter, Prophet and Priest — 
 What would he more than already he had? 
 And why should his countenance now be sad? 
 
 Say you are set to pasture sheep, 
 
 Taught where the short, sweet grasses grow, 
 And the tender ewes and the lambs to keep 
 
 From the wily fox and the hooded crow, 
 And how to shift them from hill to dale, 
 And how to bring healing to them that ail, 
 And when to fold them, and feed them well 
 While the snow lies deep upon field and fell. 
 And so you tend them with care, and they 
 
 Trust your shepherding, as you strive 
 To keep them safe in the good old way — 
 
 But somehow or other they do not thrive ; 
 They do not grow as they ought to grow, 
 But pine where the quiet waters flow,
 
 io A HERETIC. 
 
 And many are ailing, and none grow fat — 
 Could you be well content with that? 
 Nay, you are not there to be liked and praised, 
 But to see that the sheep are fitly grazed. 
 
 Or say that you go a-fishing, well 
 
 Equipt with a handy rod and reel, 
 And the temptingest flies that ever fell, 
 
 Like light, where the rippling waters steal, 
 And you know all the likely casts and pools, 
 And to ply your art by the latest rules. 
 Could you be satisfied now to see 
 
 Shoals come sniffing about your hooks, 
 As it were a pleasure for them to be 
 
 Playing there, in the shining brooks, 
 With the golden wings and the scarlet dyes 
 Of all those beautiful summer flies, 
 If never a speckled trout would touch 
 The dainty things that they liked so much?
 
 A HERETIC. il 
 
 Greatly our Shepherd, then, we admired, 
 
 And greatly his fishing-craft we praised ; 
 But that was not what his heart desired, 
 
 And therefore with sorrowing eyes he gazed 
 Round and down on the thronging pews, 
 As one who had failed in telling his news. 
 For our life went on as it did before, 
 Heaping up treasures from less to more, 
 Seeking our pleasure, and serving our sins, 
 And giving our honours to him that wins. 
 
 And so he began to ask, "What next? 
 
 Can I spend my years on a fruitless task? 
 My soul is weary and sore perplexed, 
 
 Will God not give me the boon I ask? 
 Better go plough a straight furrow, and reap, 
 Better the broom of a crossing sweep, 
 Labour of any kind one can see 
 Good coming out of, than this for me."
 
 I2 A HERETIC. 
 
 Some would have laid all the blame on the 
 
 flock, 
 And called their hearts hard as a flinty rock ; 
 But that was never his way ; for he 
 
 Searched himself and his work to find 
 What might the cause of his failure be, 
 
 And whether it were in his heart or mind. 
 Was it the good news of God he had spoken ? 
 Was it the true Bread of life he had broken? 
 And the Christ he had preached, was He God's 
 
 own Son ? 
 Or only the Christ whom the schoolmen spun, 
 Part of the earth, and part of the air, 
 From the small fine threads of their logic bare ? 
 
 Now came a season of deep unrest, 
 
 Of teaching thought to be lame and halt, 
 
 And meetings of elders with minds oppressed, 
 And meddling of ministers finding fault.
 
 A HERETIC. 13 
 
 For the fight he was fighting all the week through, 
 
 As the Sabbath came round, he must fight it anew ; 
 
 And now it went this way, now it went that. 
 
 Till we hardly could tell what he meant to be at; 
 
 But we felt he was real, and groping about 
 
 In search of a Faith that he had to find out. 
 
 Slowly the light came ; slowly it grew, 
 
 Not without questionings, Could it be true? 
 
 And faint heart-misgivings, What might be the end? 
 
 Must he lose for the sake of it lover and friend? 
 
 Sometimes resisting it when it seemed clearest, 
 
 Sometimes afraid of it when it felt dearest, 
 
 Sometimes persuaded it could not be right, 
 
 Else the saints nearest God would have glowed in 
 
 its light, 
 And sometimes defiant and scornful, he, 
 As one who knew what the cost must be, 
 Hurled it at us, and went his way, 
 To kneel in his closet, and weep and pray.
 
 i 4 A HERETIC, 
 
 But he settled at last in the lucent calm 
 
 Of a restful faith which was sweet as a Psalm — 
 
 Calm and sweet as the waters blest 
 
 Where the Good Shepherd causeth His flock to rest. 
 
 At first we heard him with growing fear. 
 
 Was he hitting indeed at our cherished beliefs ? 
 Was he sapping the truth to our fathers dear? 
 
 Was he shooting heretical arrows in sheafs? 
 Was he driving shafts through the Catechism 
 To undermine our old Calvinism ? 
 Some held it was only the truth he sought, 
 Truth which at any price must be bought : 
 And some, that he ne'er should have come to preach 
 If he had not already the truth to teach. 
 And so, at each fireside the battle raged 
 Which he with himself in anguish waged, 
 And we searched the Book, and we gathered store 
 
 Of other books, and we deemed them good,
 
 A HERETIC. I5 
 
 Not for the wealth of their learned lore, 
 
 But for help that they gave us in living more 
 
 Nobly and truly as Christians should; 
 That was his test for every thought, 
 Will it lift you up nearer to God or not? 
 
 O that was a spring time of sowing seed — 
 
 Seed of the better life surely — for mind 
 Was quickened by him, and the soul was freed 
 
 From dead traditions that bind and blind ; 
 It was a time too of tears and prayers, 
 
 And bearing of crosses by high and low ; 
 If the enemy also sowed his tares, 
 
 He warned us well that it must be so. 
 In the end, when his way at length was clear, 
 
 And the light shone quietly forth in power, 
 And he came to us speaking good words of good 
 cheer 
 
 That dropt on our souls like a summer shower,
 
 16 A HERETIC. 
 
 How we waited for Sunday then, eager to listen 
 To a message that made the heart glow, and eye 
 glisten ! 
 
 the hush of the multitude, breathless and still, 
 As their souls bowed before him, and moved at 
 
 his will ! 
 
 Meanwhile his friend in his rural home 
 Read many a clasped, white-vellumed tome, 
 Black-lettered, and with red-edged leaf, 
 And never a sentence clear and brief. 
 Meikle he read, but little he grew; 
 
 A dwarf in giant's armour he ; 
 And all that was old he held for true, 
 
 And all that was new must error be; 
 Fresh lights indeed on the earth might shine, 
 But nothing fresh upon things divine; 
 And little he heeded the voice which said, 
 
 1 am living, and these are dead.
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 17 
 
 Then some came to him, whispering, " Lo ! 
 The hour is come, and the man we know. 
 The friend of thy youth has gone astray 
 From the beaten path of the narrow way, 
 And leadeth others to do likewise, 
 
 As there are always silly sheep 
 Will follow the bell-wether, when he tries 
 
 O'er his own shadow in vain to leap. 
 That which the Fathers held for truth 
 In the faith-sure days of the church's youth, 
 That which Divines at a later stage, 
 With the learning ripe of a thoughtful age, 
 Fashioned into a Creed compact, 
 Every link of it strong as fact, 
 Every joint of it fitting tight 
 As Scripture and Reason could shape them 
 
 right — 
 That, like another blind Samson, he, 
 
 Making sport for the Philistine, 
 
 B
 
 !8 a heretic. 
 
 Would fain pull down on our heads, that we 
 
 May die like the Gadarene herd of swine : 
 (Figures are apt to get confused, 
 In the heat of angry passion used.) 
 But now is the harvest come at last 
 
 Of all thy sowing of fruitless seed ; 
 God has been guiding thee in the past 
 
 To help His Church in her hour of need. 
 He is thy friend, and dear to thee, 
 But not so dear as the Truth should be ; 
 Up, then, and gird thine armour on, 
 Or take thy sling and the pebble stone, 
 And smite this giant of carnal doubt. 
 The Church must deal with him; but without 
 The lore of the ages, known to thee, 
 Hardly her way shall be plain to see ; 
 For the critical, carping spirit abroad 
 
 Lies ever in wait for the Church's tripping, 
 If she miss but a turn of the changing road,
 
 A HERETIC. ig 
 
 Or a chance wrong word from her mouth come 
 slipping, 
 And they scoff and mock, and fleer and flout 
 If a date be wrong, or a jot left out. 
 Heaven trained thee for this task. Behold, 
 There is glory to win, and maybe— gold, 
 When the true champion of the faith 
 Has stricken this heresy unto death." 
 
 They were not many-thoughted men, 
 
 Nor wise at winning souls, but yet 
 Fitly and well they reasoned then 
 
 To snare this soul in their wily net, 
 For he in his heart was vain and cold, 
 And hankered, too, with the lust of gold ; 
 And this was how the leaven wrought 
 As he sat him down by the fire, and thought — 
 "How can I do it? He is my friend, 
 
 Tender and true, and a saintly spirit,
 
 2 o A HERETIC. 
 
 Living, by work and prayer, to mend 
 
 The ills and woes that we all inherit. 
 They'll call me a Balaam, a Judas, — what not? 
 If I meddle with that which concerns me not. 
 But I will not prophesy at their call ; 
 And the profits, if any, must needs be small. 
 Yet should not a warning word be spoken, 
 Even at the risk of a friendship broken? 
 Can I in faithfulness let him go 
 
 Unrebuked in his erring way, 
 Marring the ancient doctrine so, 
 
 And leading others, too, far astray ? 
 'Tis pleasant to find my work at last 
 
 Appreciated as it should be ; 
 And what, if, indeed, through the busy Past, 
 
 God for this has been training me ? 
 So they read it, as men of sense, 
 Skilled in the ways of Providence. 
 It is right to do what the Church requires,
 
 A HERETIC. 21 
 
 And to tend the flame of her altar fires, 
 
 And glory is good, and likewise gold, 
 
 When the lambs are many within the fold. 
 
 How painful soever, then, I must speak ; — 
 
 And, besides, he is clearly all wrong in his Greek." 
 
 Followed a sharp Remonstrance, charged 
 With high authorities, and enlarged 
 With customary polemic hits — 
 The shallow trick of barren wits — 
 As "love of novelty — fickle mind — 
 
 Failure of logic, if beauty of art — 
 Hunger for fame of the emptiest kind — 
 
 Itch of vanity in the heart — 
 Knowledge that had not a touch of grace, 
 Not accurate either, and out of place." 
 You know the style ; it was commoner once 
 Than it is to-day, when the learned dunce 
 Is of little account. As he read the "proof,"
 
 22 A HERETIC. 
 
 Though he knew how unkindly his words must 
 seem, 
 Like a pigeon perched on the high house-roof, 
 
 He crooned and swelled in a vain fond dream 
 Of all the honours that he should win, 
 
 When scholars his learned volume read, 
 And the wealth of coin that it might bring in, 
 
 And the name that should live when he was dead ; 
 But he did not remember the love he lost — 
 The broken seal of the Holy Ghost. 
 One word only he spoke out plain, 
 But that word measured the bulk of his brain : 
 " That Aorist, now ; he is clearly wrong ; 
 I have touched him there, and my point is strong." 
 For the faith and the hope of men, he wist, 
 All hinged on the turn of an Aorist. 
 
 Remonstrance led to Rejoinder, of course, 
 Deftly handled with point and force,
 
 A HERETIC. 23 
 
 And equal learning and dainty wit, 
 
 And there was not an unkind word in it. 
 
 " Pleasant," he writ, " was a quiet life 
 
 Spent among big-margined folio books, 
 Far from the town with its busy strife, 
 
 'Mid the singing of larks, and the cawing of 
 rooks ; 
 And well for his friend to have lettered ease, 
 
 For the Church to have scholars ripe and good, 
 Though it is not for any themselves to please, 
 
 And sit in brown study, and dream and brood, 
 Fighting the battles of long ago 
 With ghosts that are wandering to and fro, 
 When they ought of rights to be lying low. 
 For himself, his task had been plainly set 
 Where the eager throng in the market met, 
 And the rush of thoughts into men's vexed minds 
 Was borne like the dust on the wild March 
 winds,
 
 2 4 
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 And would not be settled by tense or mood, 
 Or aught that the nice grammarian could. 
 He must serve his time, for he did not think 
 
 God had mistaken the time of day, 
 And sent him forth, like an owl to blink 
 
 At noon, instead of the evening grey ; 
 But to look in the face of man, and see 
 
 What was aching his heart and brow, 
 And where the shadow of Mystery 
 
 Lay on the face of the dial now. 
 
 " Fresh lights had shone upon earth and heaven, 
 
 And time had his ancient secrets given 
 
 Up to our search from the earth and stone 
 
 That held the story of Babylon. 
 
 Not now could any one wholly read 
 
 The truth aright, if he gave no heed 
 
 To that which the Fathers could not know-- 
 
 The lights which out of the ages grow.
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 And ere the brief hours of his day were run, 
 He would like to feel that his task was done 
 With clear intelligence of the time, 
 
 Wasting nothing on mere by-play, 
 But filling his place in the plan sublime 
 
 God worked out in His own great way. 
 Others might come to mend it soon, 
 
 To-morrow a different work might need, 
 Men must change with the changing moon, 
 And life be sung to another tune, 
 
 And shape itself to a larger Creed. 
 Faith in God was the only way, 
 And there was no last word on that to say. 
 
 " What have I done ? I have only told 
 My flock of the boundless love of God, 
 
 Which is not straitened, but doth enfold 
 All that on earth have their abode, 
 
 All in the Universe that dwell
 
 2 6 A HERETIC. 
 
 In the heights of heaven, or the depths of hell ; 
 For there is no shore where that ocean breaks 
 
 And finds its limit : God is not there 
 Where Love is not, that our burden takes; 
 
 But God is love, and is everywhere. 
 And I told them, that God and His grace and work 
 
 Are not tied fast to a Bishop's crook, 
 Are not shut up in an ordered kirk, 
 
 Nor yet bound up in a printed book, 
 For all good thoughts that visited them, 
 
 All longings for the pure and true, 
 All from His inspiration came; 
 
 And there was not an erring soul but knew 
 The pleading tones of the Father's love 
 Calling — calling him from above. 
 And I taught moreover that they who hear, 
 
 And turn from the evil of their ways, 
 Shall find that His mercy is ever near, 
 
 And sing to Him yet in a song of praise ;
 
 A HERETIC. 27 
 
 For among the living, among the dead, 
 
 Yesterday, to-day, and for ever, 
 He is still the same, as the Spirit said, 
 
 Pouring forth love as a flowing river. 
 Is it heresy to have taught them so? 
 
 I glory in it, and ever must, 
 Ever with Christ my faith must go, 
 
 When He seeks the living to make them just, 
 
 Or joins the dead where they lie in dust ; 
 For He must be doing His Father's will, 
 Bearing the message of mercy still." 
 
 Process of heresy then began, 
 
 And who but his ancient friend was fit, 
 
 Since the heretic too was a learned man, 
 With competent knowledge to handle it? 
 
 O they were grieved, for well they wot 
 The man was good, and the work he did, 
 
 A saintly spirit in deed and thought,
 
 2 8 A HERETIC. 
 
 Though he plainly taught what the Church forbid : 
 But never a heresy yet had thriven 
 But what some holy man had given 
 A tone to it that appeared from Heaven. 
 It was all the worse for the Church, they said, 
 
 When a man of God from the old paths broke ; 
 But there was little to fear or dread, 
 
 When the heretic was like other folk. 
 
 Weekly they met in hot debate, 
 
 And weekly they preached on the business too, 
 Daily also, and early and late, 
 
 We all debated the case anew. 
 Never such stir was known in the place ; 
 
 Never such searching of chapter and verse ; 
 Never such talk of election and grace, 
 
 Never such arguments clear and terse ; 
 Never such stores of theology brought 
 
 From hiding places in old men's heads,
 
 A HERETIC. 29 
 
 Never such troubled and anxious thought, 
 
 As we walked by the way, or lay still in our beds, 
 
 To think of the man that we held so dear 
 Badgered as if he were fool or rogue : 
 
 But at length, in the cold dark end of the year, 
 They cast him out of their synagogue. 
 
 I was there on that chill December night 
 
 When they gave their verdict, and spake his doom 
 By a single candle's glimmering light 
 
 That was only just seen in the dusky gloom. 
 Many were weeping, and some men swore, 
 
 But a low laugh rose when the light died out, 
 And we said, " Here we seek for the truth no more, 
 
 They have left us in darkness to wander about." 
 Yet were we glad that the end had come, 
 And the torrents of foolishest speech were dumb. 
 
 But in the name of God to smite
 
 3 o A HERETIC. 
 
 Him that was walking with God in light ! 
 
 And in the name of God to wreak 
 
 Wrath on the lowly heart and meek ! 
 
 And in the name of God to pray 
 
 O'er such a work as they did that day, 
 
 Little witting what they were at ! — 
 
 In God's name what is the end of that? 
 
 Outcast now from its fellowship, 
 Still to the Kirk he fondly clung, 
 
 And often he said, with quivering lip, 
 
 How good it was, when the bell was rung, 
 To go where the grand old Psalms were sung, 
 
 And to be where lowly hearts were bent 
 
 In prayer or holy Sacrament ; 
 
 For the Kirk made brave and earnest men, 
 
 And he loved her now as he loved her then. 
 
 So he lived on, the meekest saint, 
 
 Nor wasted his life in vain complaint,
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 Nor formed another sect to claim 
 
 That it was the true Jerusalem, 
 
 And rear its altars in his name ; 
 
 But gathered around him thoughtful youth, 
 
 Inspiring them with the love of truth, 
 
 And to look for guidance from above, 
 
 And to believe that God is Love. 
 
 At first, of course, we were only few — 
 
 Just one here, and another there — 
 Suspected and distrusted too, 
 
 And work was scanty, and calls were rare. 
 But soon the leaven spread, and we 
 Became a goodly company : 
 And many a pulpit in the land 
 
 Ere long was quickened by his faith, 
 And sounded forth the message grand 
 
 That Love had vanquished sin and death, 
 That God had been a little child, 
 
 3*
 
 32 
 
 A HE HE TIC. 
 
 And walked with sinners, undefined, 
 
 And with the wicked had made His grave, 
 
 That grace and hope might come to all, 
 And all might join the battle brave 
 
 Who heard and would obey His call. 
 And we grew bold, and dared to greet 
 
 The outcast in his failing years 
 With words of love and honour meet 
 
 That filled his wistful eyes with tears — 
 Never a task I laboured at 
 So much to my liking as writing that— 
 For he had meekly borne the yoke, 
 
 And now behold the seed had sprung, 
 And over all the Church awoke 
 
 The same glad strain which he had sung. 
 O mystery of truth, whose hour 
 Of sorrow is its day of power, 
 Which but accepts its Cross, and then 
 Rides forth in its might to conquer men !
 
 A HERETIC. 
 
 But who was the heretic kept apart 
 From the truth and life by his faithless heart ? 
 He who was loser, but still loved on ? 
 Or he who gave up his love, and won ? 
 Ah! would you read God's meaning? look 
 Not on the bright, shining page of His Book, 
 But where the shadow lies dark on the face 
 Of some tragic failure, some proud disgrace- 
 For the loss is gain, and the gain is loss, 
 
 And the shame is glory when He wills 
 That thou shouldst shine in the healing Cross, 
 
 Which all the Law by love fulfils. 
 
 33
 
 34 
 
 .Sabbath (Evening |Cxmg JVgo. 
 
 I see the old home on the Sabbath night — 
 It smelt of heresy to call it Sunday, 
 
 A heathen name, although we held it right 
 To paganize the Saturday and Monday. 
 
 The cruise hung on the jamb, with poor rush pith 
 That, soaked in whale oil, dimly kept a-gleaming; 
 
 More shadows filled the room than lights therewith, 
 And how those wavering shadows set me dreaming ! 
 
 A sea-coal fire glowed on the old Dutch slates, 
 And on the brown carved settle near the doorway, 
 
 And on a rack of willow-pattern plates, 
 
 And on a bronze-hued wooden bowl from Norway.
 
 SABBA TH £ VENING L ONG AGO. 35 
 
 A mighty cauldron simmered by the fire, 
 Whereto our hungry eyes kept often turning, 
 
 For the much-preaching sharpened the desire 
 To satisfy the flesh we had been spurning. 
 
 In the big chair the father gravely sat, 
 
 And round the fire the household gathered quiet ; 
 
 The dog wheeled round, and, coiling on the mat, 
 Slept through the lesson, profiting not by it. 
 
 And then we went right through the " Catechism," 
 From "Man's chief end" to "Amen" in conclusion — 
 
 Heaven's white light broken in a logic prism 
 
 To clear our thought, and end in dire confusion. 
 
 Mostly I did not understand at all, 
 
 And my mind wandered off to hear the shouting 
 Of comrades at a game of bat or ball; 
 
 But where I understood, it set me doubting.
 
 36 SABBATH EVENING LONG AGO. 
 
 So those high orthodoxies came to be 
 Quick seeds in me of heterodox opinion, 
 
 And ere I wist, my thoughts were all at sea, 
 And drifted, holder) by no wise dominion. 
 
 I knew not how those Westminster Divines 
 
 To Scots beyond the Tweed their faith had given, 
 
 But I rebelled to travel on those lines 
 
 Which made so hard and dark a way to Heaven. 
 
 Still the small mind chafed at the strenuous thought 
 Of those stern Puritans who faced, unwincing, 
 
 The darkest problems of our human lot, 
 
 And solved them with a text, as all-convincing. 
 
 But while the grave old father questioned on, 
 I marked his dome of forehead, time had wrinkled, 
 
 And to myself I kept my thoughts alone, [twinkled. 
 And the dog dreamed on, and the rushlight
 
 SABBA TH E VENING L ONG AGO. 37 
 
 In him there was a faith serene and strong, 
 In me an unrest, like the rush of water; 
 
 Without, there was a Credo hard and long, 
 Within, there was a resolute Negatur. 
 
 Yet in his stern creed lay a tender heart, 
 
 That husk o'erlaid a wealth of human kindness 
 
 And love, that fain their wisdom would impart 
 To purge the young soul of its earthly blindness. 
 
 And it did store the mind with furniture — 
 In forms antique, forbidding peaceful slumber, 
 
 But morticed well, and fashioned to endure, 
 Hard to get into, or out of heads they cumber. 
 
 I wot not what our later faiths may do 
 
 For us, what time our troubled lives may need them, 
 
 But through that stern old creed a nation grew 
 Toughest and staunchest in the fight of freedom.
 
 33 
 
 (Hxzziis. 
 
 Ah ! these old creeds 
 Who can believe them to-day ? 
 
 Yet were brave deeds 
 Inspired by them once, too ; and they 
 Made men of heroic mould 
 
 In the great fighting ages of old. 
 
 Is it the wounds 
 Which science has given ? or the sap 
 
 On critical grounds, 
 Which has brought about their mishap ? 
 Nay, these touched not a vital spot, 
 Though they brag of the wreck they have wrought.
 
 CREEDS. 39 
 
 But the spirit has risen 
 From the hard, narrow letter which kept 
 
 Men's thoughts in a prison, 
 Where they struggled or languished or slept; 
 And now we can soar high above 
 All the creeds but the Credo of Love. 
 
 They are things of the past, 
 Survivals, and now out of date ; 
 
 The men were not cast 
 In our moulds, who endured such a weight, 
 So linked and compact : let them go, 
 They who wore them had no room to grow. 
 
 All too complete, 
 They were subtly and skilfully wrought 
 
 With logic neat ; 
 But they are not in touch with our thought; 
 And they will not allow they have found 
 Any spot where they have not sure ground.
 
 4 o CREEDS. 
 
 They are ever so far 
 From the days we are living in now, 
 
 From our work and our war, 
 And the thoughts that are aching our brow ; 
 And yet though they be but part true, 
 Vain to patch up the old, or make new. 
 
 Creed-making now 
 In these latter ages of time 
 Would yield stuff, I trow, 
 Thin and loose as a small poet's rhyme — 
 
 Tags and thrums, hints and guesses, no more, 
 With a deep, settled doubt at the core. 
 
 What not to believe, 
 That now is the stage we are at ; 
 
 And how shall we weave 
 Any faith to live on out of that? 
 
 There must go to the making of creeds 
 Sure hearts, girded up for high deeds.
 
 CREEDS 41 
 
 But ours is an age 
 Of unmaking, taking things down : 
 
 For the warfare we wage 
 We must swarm from the fortified town, 
 And spread out to find air and room 
 Beyond the old walls and their gloom. 
 
 Yet we have faith 
 In the Right and the True and the Good, 
 
 And in Him whose last breath 
 Was the prayer of a pitiful mood, 
 
 Which smites the meek spirit with awe, 
 And with Love, the true life of all Law.
 
 42 
 
 Who was the man that found out God ? 
 
 And what the method that he took ? 
 
 Did he with patient travail look 
 For footprints on the sand or sod, 
 
 Making it plain that, on a time, 
 A mighty architect stood here 
 Building the earth up, tier on tier, 
 
 And working out a plan sublime? 
 
 Or did he trace, with curious skill, 
 Nice-fashioning touches on the clay 
 That man was made of, and the way 
 
 That it was modelled to fulfil
 
 THE DISCOVERY OF GOD. 45 
 
 The artist's purpose, when at length 
 The pulses of its life should beat, 
 And find the eye and ear complete, 
 
 And hand with delicate touch and strength? 
 
 And as he traced the facts and laws, 
 Close-linking the high argument 
 Of reason, was the great event — 
 
 An infinite all-designing Cause ? 
 
 Thus, step by step, did he go on, 
 
 Groping through darkness toward light, 
 Until the vision of glory bright 
 
 Dawned on his soul, and doubt was gone, 
 
 And in the splendour of the day 
 The universe revealed its sense, 
 And throbbed with clear intelligence, 
 
 And bade him worship now and pray,
 
 44 THE DISCOVERY OF GOD. 
 
 For lo ! the wondrous Book, no more 
 Anonymous, disclosed to view 
 Its Author and its meaning too, 
 
 Which were a secret heretofore ? 
 
 Ah ! what a moment that had been, 
 
 When such a thought first broke on him, 
 And filled his being to the brim 
 
 With awe of what his mind had seen ! 
 
 Who was the grand discoverer? 
 What age was honoured to contain 
 This man of subtle and daring brain — 
 
 The one divine philosopher? 
 
 Could mortals e'er forget his name, 
 Or history fail to note the day 
 When that dread veil was rent away, 
 
 And God a proven Truth became ?
 
 THE DISCOVERY OF GOD. 45 
 
 One finds a new world, one, a star 
 Undreamt of hitherto, and men 
 Hold high their names in honour then 
 
 Through all the ages near and far. 
 
 But what are these to him who found 
 The truth in which all others meet, 
 The central thought which makes complete, 
 
 And clears up all the glorious round, 
 
 The will which shapes what may befall, 
 
 The power that wrought whate'er hath been, 
 The light wherein all light is seen, 
 
 The life that is the life of all? 
 
 Nay, no Columbus here may boast 
 That, plunging in an unknown sea, 
 He made this grand discovery, 
 
 Being sore-spent and tempest-tossed.
 
 46 THE DISCOVERY OF GOD. 
 
 No seeker sought, till he did find 
 The secret hid from ages past, 
 The mystery of the First and Last, 
 
 The Peace that filleth heart and mind, 
 
 By links of patient reason brought 
 Out of the sum of finite things. 
 He reasons ill whose reason brings 
 
 Such outcome from his partial thought — 
 
 From light and shadow perfect light, 
 Pure good from mingled good and ill, 
 From tokens of mechanic skill 
 
 Illimitable glory and might. 
 
 Vain dreamer of an idle dream 
 In logic forms ! Did any one 
 Discover by his quest the sun, 
 
 That seeks us with his searching beam ?
 
 THE DISCOVERY OF GOD. 47 
 
 Who pries about the world to find 
 
 Proof that he is in heaven? who mines 
 The earth in search of frequent signs 
 
 That shall suffice to clear his mind, 
 
 And certify the wondrous power, 
 That burns upon the morning cloud, 
 And makes the song-bird glad and loud, 
 
 And paints the shining leaf and flower? 
 
 Thou did'st not find God hidden there 
 In problem of his acts and days ; 
 But He reveals himself, and lays 
 
 To the pure heart his glory bare.
 
 4S 
 
 %\u Enbcntion oi (Bob. 
 
 Some tell us that, in evil hour, 
 Our fears invented God, the dread 
 Of our forefathers lying dead, 
 
 Or of some dark, malignant Power 
 
 That sendeth pestilence and drought, 
 And storms and desolating wars, 
 And horrid glare of baleful stars. 
 
 And grief and pain, and fear and doubt 
 
 Wherefore the troubled spirit dreamed 
 A Phantom stood upon its path, 
 And hastened to appease his wrath 
 
 By whatsoe'er it most esteemed.
 
 THE INVENTION OF GOD. 49 
 
 Man did not know the law that binds 
 Whatever is with all that was, 
 And in the sum of complex cause 
 
 A deep unconscious wisdom finds. 
 
 A savage without science, he 
 Sat shivering in his dirty rag, 
 And deemed some godhead held a bag 
 
 Filled full of pain and misery, 
 
 Which he let loose on hapless men, 
 What time, an hungered, he would dine 
 On ample flesh, and bread, and wine, 
 
 And found his altar stinted then. 
 
 And so man's fear invented God; 
 For thunder-clap and stormy blast, 
 And fire-stream from the mountain cast 
 
 Seemed the fell strokes of his angry rod ; 
 
 D
 
 5° 
 
 THE INVENTION OF GOD. 
 
 And pestilence his deadly breath, 
 And war a game he loved to play 
 For pastime of an idle day, 
 
 That gambled with our life and death : 
 
 Wherefore men crept up to his feet, 
 And licked the dust in abject fear, 
 And howled their prayers into his ear, 
 
 Or gashed them, and their bosoms beat. 
 
 Strange savage, in the nutting wood, 
 
 Who, just emerged from apehood, framed 
 Articulate speech, and all things named, 
 
 And brooding in a troubled mood, 
 
 Invented God ! Our triumphs are 
 But trifles it were best to hide, 
 But poor mechanic toys beside 
 
 The trophies of thy fruitful war.
 
 5i 
 
 THE INVENTION OF GOD. 
 
 O semi-brute ! thou had'st a dream 
 Transcending all that we can reach, 
 For thou invented'st God and Speech, 
 
 And we have only compassed — Steam. 
 
 And Thou dark Phantom of our fears, 
 How comes the heart to cling to Thee 
 For comfort in its misery, 
 
 And drying of its blinding tears? 
 
 The stream that from the height comes down 
 And foams along the rock-strewn course, 
 Can never rise above its source, 
 
 But creepeth down by grange and town ; 
 
 Yet from that spring of coward dread, 
 That phantom born of wrath and death, 
 Come holy love, brave-hearted faith, 
 
 And hope with heavenly visions fed !
 
 5 2 
 
 ^he Vision oi (Bol. 
 
 O the silences of heaven, 
 
 How they speak to me of God, 
 Now the veil in twain is riven 
 
 That concealed where He abode ! 
 Yet its clouds were once around Him, 
 
 And I sought Him in despair, 
 And never there I found Him, 
 
 Till I brought Him with me there. 
 
 Not the optic glass revealed Him, 
 
 No mechanical device 
 Pierced the darkness that concealed Him 
 
 With a vision more precise :
 
 THE VISION OF GOD. 53 
 
 Only lowliness can merit 
 
 That His secret He should tell; 
 Only spirit seeth spirit, 
 
 And the heart that loveth well. 
 
 Never till His love hath found thee, 
 
 Shall the cloud and mist depart; 
 Vain to seek Him all around thee, 
 
 Till He dwell within thy heart. 
 Not without thee, but within thee 
 
 Must the oracle be heard, 
 As He seelceth still to win thee, 
 
 And to guide thee by His word. 
 
 When I found Him in my bosom, 
 Then I found Him everywhere, 
 
 In the bud and in the blossom, 
 In the earth and in the air;
 
 54 
 
 THE VISION OF GOD. 
 
 And He spake to me with clearness 
 From the silent stars that say, 
 
 As ye find Him in His nearness, 
 Ye shall find Him far away.
 
 55 
 
 I bore a load of doubt and care, 
 And could not reason it away; 
 It might have no right to be there, 
 
 Yet clung to me by night and day. 
 And I was fain to be alone, 
 
 A stranger in a far off land, 
 Where friend and helper I had none, 
 
 Nor any that could understand. 
 O for a glad, entrancing faith ! 
 
 O for an all-controlling thought 
 To fill my soul, as with a breath 
 
 That from the Eternal life is brought ! 
 Let me but be alone with God 
 A little while on some high place,
 
 5 6 THE BURDEN OF GOD 
 
 Where rarely foot of man hath trod, 
 That I may see Him face to face. 
 
 So did they long of old, who built 
 High altars on the hill-tops bare, 
 
 To leave their load of sin and guilt, 
 
 And find the peace they hoped for there. 
 
 Then I went toiling up the glen, 
 
 Like one that wanders in a dream, 
 Past broad-eaved homes of toiling men, 
 
 Along the swiftly rushing stream, 
 Past the white kirk with ruddy spire, 
 
 And solitary wayside shrine, 
 Where peasant mothers did admire 
 
 The mother of the Babe divine, 
 Past orchards where the tawny steer, 
 
 Black-muzzled, stood and whisked his tail, 
 While men sat in the tavern near, 
 
 With flask of wine or mug of ale.
 
 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 57 
 
 I heard the sharp whisk of the scythe, 
 
 And dragging of the patient rake, 
 I heard the children singing blithe, 
 
 And felt as if my heart would break. 
 They sang the song of Bethlehem, 
 
 And glad their voices were and clear; 
 And oh that I could sing like them, 
 
 And only knew that God would hear ! 
 
 Still on, I bore my burden on, 
 
 Finding no help in kirk or shrine, 
 Or crucifix of carven stone, 
 
 Or picture of the babe divine : 
 Alone, I must be all alone, 
 
 Beyond the mighty wooded slopes ; 
 I would have company with none, 
 
 But those vast, silent mountain tops 
 Which held me with their snowy spell, 
 
 And bade me come to where they stood,
 
 53 
 
 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 
 
 And in their white robes worshipped well 
 The Everlasting Pure and Good. 
 
 I took the steep rock-path that winds 
 
 Through the pine wood above the stream,- 
 High up the grey-green glacier grinds, 
 
 Far down its grey-green waters gleam, 
 A torrent from a neighbouring cliff 
 
 Leaped down, and disappeared half way, 
 To fall in tremulous mist, as if 
 
 Nature to me was fain to say — 
 See how the rush of lofty thought, 
 
 The higher that its way appears, 
 The deeper that its rest is sought, 
 
 Still vanishes in mist and tears. 
 
 Still up the rugged path I went, 
 
 With panting breath and trembling knees, 
 And weary limb, and back low bent, 
 
 Till, past the belt of great pine trees,
 
 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 59 
 
 I came upon a sunny glade 
 
 Open and green, with brooks and wells, 
 And crocus fields where cattle wade, 
 
 With noise of many jangling bells, 
 And flat-roofed chalets, piled with stone, 
 
 For winds are boisterous there and wild, 
 But kirk or steeple there was none, 
 
 Only the Virgin and her Child, 
 Kept in some homely box for shrine, 
 
 And sheltered in a quiet nook, 
 Where humble worship might incline 
 
 With bended knee and lowly look. 
 But all these fond traditions stood — 
 
 How sweet soe'er their tender grace — 
 Between me and the Pure and Good, 
 
 And I must see Him face to face. 
 
 A little speech, a little rest, 
 
 A cup of goat's milk at the door ;
 
 60 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 
 
 Bid me not stay and be your guest, 
 
 There are a good eight hours and more, 
 Before the sun dips in the west, 
 
 And I must on at any price, 
 To see his evening glories rest 
 
 Upon the pale green glacier ice, 
 And on the web of pallid snow, 
 
 That wraps the hills in raiment white, 
 And on the changing clouds below, 
 
 That catch the fringes of His light. 
 I did not tell my inmost thought : 
 
 Those neat-herds could not well divine 
 How I, in search of God, was brought 
 
 Away from kirk and cross and shrine. 
 
 Still up and up ; the Alpen-stock 
 
 Oft buried in the turf before, 
 Now smote upon the living rock, 
 
 And from its heart the fire-spark tore ;
 
 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 61 
 
 And as I trod the gradual slope 
 
 'Neath some snow-crested precipice, 
 And glanced round with a passing hope 
 
 Of chamois fleet or Edelweiss, 
 Lo ! then my step grew lightsomer, 
 
 And cheerily I sped along, 
 And in the brisk and tingling air 
 
 I could have broken into song. 
 And this I took for omen true, 
 
 That I was on the way of peace, 
 That doubts were where the pine-woods grew 
 
 And with the haunts of man would cease. 
 
 And so at length I trod the snow 
 
 On the hill-top that afternoon, 
 And saw it in the evening glow, 
 
 And in the sheen o' th' pallid moon, 
 And saw the wondrous morning dawn 
 
 All rosy on the white-robed peaks
 
 62 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 
 
 That, ranged like priest-forms in their lawn, 
 
 Served through eternal holy weeks 
 About the altar of the Lord, 
 
 Awful in their blanch beauty there, 
 Silent as if with one accord 
 
 Wrapt in the hush of speechless prayer. 
 There was no sound of man or beast, 
 
 Nor hum of bee, nor song of bird, 
 And more the silence seemed increased 
 
 What time the avalanche was heard. 
 
 Once they had held me with a spell, 
 
 And drawn me with a mystic force, 
 Those hills, as deeming God must dwell 
 
 There where the waters had their source, 
 Which made the vales and meadows glad ; 
 
 There where in majesty sublime 
 The changeless snow-clad summits had 
 
 No reckoning of the passing time.
 
 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 63 
 
 There 'mid the everlasting snow 
 
 Should I not see the eternal right, 
 And look down on the mists below, 
 
 And gaze up to the fount of light, 
 And find my burden fall away, 
 
 And feel at last the perfect calm, 
 That broods in the unchanging day, 
 
 And vision of the great I Am ? 
 
 But as I stood upon the height, 
 
 I did not find what I had sought, 
 I did not find the perfect light, 
 
 That answered to my wistful thought ; 
 It did not ease me of my load, 
 
 That I had left the world behind ; 
 I was not any nearer God 
 
 By being far from human kind. 
 And up amid the bands of ice 
 
 And silent fields of clinging snow,
 
 6 4 THE BURDEN OF GOD. 
 
 I could have purchased with a price 
 
 The Virgin and the Babe below. 
 For not in nature's awfulness, 
 
 And majesty and purity, 
 And not in her dread silences 
 
 Shall God reveal His depths to thee ; 
 But in a heart that throbs to thine, 
 
 And tongue that speaks a human speech : 
 The human is the one divine, 
 
 That yearning human souls can reach. 
 There is no scene of earth fulfils 
 
 The high hope of the soaring mind, 
 And in the quiet of the hills 
 
 The peace of God I did not find ; 
 And sweet it was with weary limbs, 
 
 Ere long to sit i' the kirk, and hear 
 The children singing in their hymns, 
 
 That Christ was come, and God was near.
 
 65 
 
 mhzt #Uate c oTh0ucjlit at It. 
 
 What would you have, my Lucius? Here our wits, 
 Which you in Rome keep ever sharp and bright 
 By constant use, are blunted, and the sword 
 Clings to the scabbard, only to be drawn 
 Too late. Oh, thus and thus I should have spoken 
 And thus I should have done. How cleverly 
 We manage, when we sit down by the fire, 
 And, having all the dialogue to ourselves, 
 We find the answer pat, which does not come 
 P th' strain of acting ! But you do not know 
 This people — Would I were like you in that ! 
 
 E
 
 66 
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT 
 
 " Are they dull-brained, these Jews, then ? Are there 
 
 none 
 To whet your wits upon, and keep them keen ? 
 No crafty priest to fence with — demagogue 
 To trip up in his talk — no politic 
 Schemer to countermine — or wily lawyer 
 To follow through his trick and artifice 
 Of rhetoric, and exercise the brain 
 We used to think a good one?" Plenty of them. 
 Priests, plotters, demagogues as thick as flies 
 In Egypt, and like flies they settle on 
 Your eyes to sting and blind them. But they are 
 
 not 
 Like other men. You cannot count upon 
 Their motives, or their methods, or their aims. 
 What they may love, and what they may abhor, 
 The oaths that bind them, or the gods they fear, 
 All are most strange and baffling. 'Tis as if 
 You dealt with beings of another world
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 67 
 
 Whose passions are not ours, whose ways of thinking 
 
 Are alien to our modes. The strangest people ! 
 
 So pious and so wicked ! methodical 
 
 In lying, with a reason always ready, 
 
 Yet full of contradictions, as the way 
 
 Of lying is apt to be even in adepts, 
 
 And they are deep practitioners. Then, too, Caesar 
 
 Distrusts me, and when I have served him best, 
 
 Lo ! comes a deputation of these Jews, 
 
 Whose women throng the backstairs of the palace, 
 
 Backed by their money-lending Trastiveres, 
 
 And every one a traitor at his heart, 
 
 Impeaching me of rapine and of blood, 
 
 And thereon comes a rescript. What can I, 
 
 But let them plot, looking as if I saw 
 
 Mere loyal service, till the plot be ripe, 
 
 Then crush them with my legions ? Only force 
 
 Can rule this beastly Plebs, and their worse leaders, 
 
 And Caesar, if he knew them as I do,
 
 68 WHAT PILA TE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 Would leave the Gauls and Britons, and let loose 
 The sword upon these Hebrews. Oh to be — 
 But for my hungry creditors — once more 
 P the Campus Martius on unruliest steed, 
 Or scouring the Campania, rather than 
 Managing these cursed Jews ! I've lost my nerve 
 Among them — yet their daughters are most fair. 
 
 But of this prophet Jesus. You must know, 
 I had been supping late with Rufus Naso, 
 And young Cornelius, and the Advocate 
 Publius Julius, and some other wits, 
 Visitors here from Rome : all full of spirits, 
 That hardly needed my best Cyprian wine, 
 Just smacking of the goatskin, to let loose 
 The sparkling jest, the latest story told 
 About the Augurs, Seneca's neat phrase, 
 And your quick repartee, Nerissa's strokes 
 Of wit, and Lydia's languishing, and all
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 69 
 
 The pleasant life about the Mammertine, 
 
 For which one longs in this Jerusalem. 
 
 This growing slack, i' th' hush we heard a song, 
 
 A great " Hal-lal " about the Temple gate, 
 
 Repeated here and there all through the town 
 
 Pleasantly, for these Jews are musical, 
 
 And have a better choir than you in Rome, 
 
 With antiphones and linked melodies 
 
 That toss the sweet strains to and fro i' th' air, 
 
 And pick them up again, and blend their notes 
 
 To catch the soul with rapture. I alone 
 
 Knew 'twas their Pascha, chief of all their Feasts, 
 
 Joyful, yet solemn, not like the wild riot 
 
 Of booths and bonfires in the Autumn when 
 
 They hold their Lupercalia, and go mad. 
 
 We had well drunk, and were in merry humour; 
 
 So nought would serve but we must travesty 
 
 The rite. By Bacchus, 'twas the rarest prank, 
 
 Though it may cost me dear. About midnight
 
 7o 
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 Each girt his coat about him, donned his sandals 
 
 As ready for a journey, with a staff 
 
 Handy, for so their Priests had ordered it ; 
 
 And thereupon the slaves brought in the feast. 
 
 But for a lamb we had a roasted swine, 
 
 Which is abomination to the Jew, 
 
 And sweet baked fruits instead of bitter herbs, 
 
 And flagons of rare Cyprus, and we sang 
 
 Some ribald songs to the air of their Hal-lal, 
 
 Till far into the morning. As day broke, 
 
 We heard the loud tramp of a throng of men 
 
 Fast hurrying through the streets. That sobered us. 
 
 Were those fierce Jews, then, mustering to avenge 
 
 The insult? How could I so play the fool, 
 
 Knowing the crafty Annas had his spies 
 
 About me — that they tell him all I do, 
 
 Who visits me, what letters I have writ, 
 
 Even what I eat and drink, and all my dallying 
 
 With that witch, Leila, whom I half suspect
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 71 
 
 To be the chief tale bearer ? O crass fool ! 
 
 To fall into his power for this poor jest. 
 
 "Ho ! man the walls, draw up the guard in arms !" 
 
 Pshaw ! 'tis no riot, only some mad prophet 
 
 The priests are haling to their courts. He must be 
 
 An honest one, for they'd have let him preach 
 
 Truculent lies till doomsday. 
 
 Well ; my head 
 Was not so clear as it had need to be 
 After that bout, nor were my nerves well strung, 
 When there rose clamorous outcry at the gate, 
 And I must to the Judgment Hall, where stood 
 A lonely prisoner, bound, and faint, and weary. 
 Some poor men — fishers, as I deemed, or shepherds — 
 Flitted about i' th' shadow, looking scared, 
 As loath to leave him, yet afraid to stand 
 Right at his side. All his accusers were 
 Clamouring outside the court. It would have tainted 
 Their sanctity at such a sacred time,
 
 7 2 WHA T PILA TE THO UGHT OF IT. 
 
 And barred them from the worship of their God, 
 
 To cross our unclean threshold ; for we all — 
 
 Csesar and all his Praetors and their courts — 
 
 Are in their eyes defiling and unholy. 
 
 They might be forging lies : no doubt, they were 3 
 
 They seldom do aught else. They might embrue 
 
 Their hands in innocent blood ; that mattered not ; 
 
 Such things are trifles to your grim fanatic. 
 
 But they must not be tainted by the touch 
 
 Of Romans ! O my Lucius, how the gods, 
 
 If any gods there be, must laugh at us 
 
 Who hold them bound by such nice ceremony, 
 
 And free from conscience — Would I were a god ! 
 
 I found my prisoner was the Prophet, Jesus, 
 
 Whom I had sometime heard of as a kind 
 
 Of Hebrew Stoic, like our Seneca, 
 
 But practising as well as preaching that 
 
 Hard and high doctrine. Certain words of his
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 73 
 
 Had reached me now and then, like thistledown 
 
 Blown i' th' air, which had the ring in them 
 
 Of true philosophy : but other some 
 
 Were dreamy; part, good coin, and part too fine 
 
 A metal for this world to traffic in. 
 
 I'd heard too that he had the singular art 
 
 Of healing men by faith, imagination, — 
 
 Whate'er it be — which filled their minds with wonder, 
 
 So that some deemed a god had come to earth. 
 
 Half curiously I scanned him. Homely clad, 
 
 Like those his fellow workmen ; broken, too, 
 
 By toil and travel and poverty and sorrow, 
 
 And all unlike the Immortals, as our Poets 
 
 Conceive them, and our sculptors fashion them. 
 
 Yet there was something in his look and bearing 
 
 That overawed me. As I looked on him, 
 
 There rose in me a memory of my mother 
 
 White as a lily and sweet, and of the days 
 
 When I was like a white bud on her bosom,
 
 74 
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 That now am so bedraggled. What could it mean? 
 
 Those women of the Court who rave about him 
 
 Cry up his beauty; but whom they admire 
 
 They clothe with loveliness, and Socrates 
 
 Himself should walk in guise of bright Apollo, 
 
 Not like a Satyr, were he but their hero. 
 
 And this man's beauty, if beautiful he were, 
 
 Was not like th' young Augustus. This, at least, 
 
 I could have sworn, that he was innocent, 
 
 Whate : er these Jews might say. But here was I 
 
 In this mad tragi-comedy of life 
 
 Playing the part of Judge, while he stood there 
 
 To plead with me for life ! — But that he did not. 
 
 No, not so much as one word did he utter 
 
 To win our grace, but looked me in the face, 
 
 Silently searching me, as who should say, 
 
 "Thou, my Judge, Thou !" until I quailed before him, 
 
 Feeling the mockery of justice, where 
 
 The power was mine, the righteousness was his.
 
 WHA T PI LA TE THO UGHT OF IT. 75 
 
 But how to save him, guiltless, from their guile? 
 So I went forth, and asked them : 
 
 "What have ye 
 Against this man?" He called himself a King, 
 And they would have no king but only Caesar. 
 The lying rogues had plotted against Csesar, 
 Raised tumults, broke into rebellions, cursed 
 His Praetors, Publicans, and legionaries, 
 And at that very hour were scheming treasons : 
 Yet they would have no king but only Caesar ! 
 I could not hide my scorn. Since when had they 
 Become so loyal to the imperial throne? 
 So deep devoted to the power they cursed 
 At all their feasts ? Thereon they clenched their 
 
 teeth, 
 And muttered something about blasphemy, 
 And making himself God. Therefore I bade them 
 Take him away, and judge him by their law — 
 They had no power o'er life — because our law
 
 7 6 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 Held it no crime for one to be a god ; 
 
 Caesar was one, so were the great twin-brethren, 
 
 And Hercules, and other mighty men. 
 
 I had no jurisdiction o'er the gods, 
 
 And this man might be one of them, for aught 
 
 I knew or cared. Then rose a yell of rage, 
 
 Deep-throated, fierce, malignant, from the pit 
 
 Of Acheron ; " Thou art not Cassar's friend, 
 
 If thou let this man go." 
 
 So I went back, 
 Knowing that I had raised a storm might dash me 
 A broken wreck at Annas' feet. And there 
 He stood, this King o' th' Jews, bent low and bound, 
 Yet with that lofty, overawing look 
 Which made my eyes droop — Majesty uncrowned 
 Of noble manhood, not yet stained by falls 
 In the arena. 
 
 "Art thou, then, a King?" 
 But not a syllable he answered, only
 
 WHA T PI LA TE THO UGHT OF IT. 77 
 
 Gazed on me with a look of pity. It was 
 
 A foolish question ; for of course I knew, 
 
 Not for such crime had Annas brought him here, 
 
 Who would have prayed and sacrificed and poured 
 
 The consecrating oil on any head 
 
 That in brief triumph had been lifted up 
 
 Against great Caesar. Oh, I know the man. 
 
 Nothing were less a crime among these Jews 
 
 Than treason against Rome. I've had to crush 
 
 A score of their rebellions, and this Annas 
 
 Was in them all, although his hand was hidden; 
 
 Chief plotter he of all. A foolish question ! 
 
 Better if I had frankly asked him, why 
 
 Do these your countrymen so hate you that 
 
 They do accuse you falsely ? But somehow, 
 
 Seeing that broken, poor, and pitiful 
 
 Rival of Csesar, I must say to him : 
 
 "A King, then, are you?" He despised me for it, 
 
 And held his peace, which partly fretted me,
 
 7 8 WHA T PI LA TE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 And partly my own sense of being wrong, 
 So that I said : " Dost thou not know that I 
 Have power to take thy life ? " But calmly he : 
 :< Thou hast no power, but as 'tis given to thee ; 
 So much the more their guilt who brought me here." 
 What could he mean ? These Jews are cunning dogs ; 
 Of course, I had no power but what I got 
 From Caesar. What, if Annas meant to drive me 
 To stretch my large commission till it rent? 
 I must be wary. 
 
 Just then came a note, 
 Sent by my wife, and bidding me take heed, 
 Nor harm this man. She had some dream about 
 
 him, 
 And dreams are from the gods. Pshaw ! let the 
 
 women 
 See to their own affairs, not meddle with 
 The course of justice. No doubt, Chusa's wife — 
 She's wild about this prophet — came to her,
 
 WHA T PI LA TE THO UGHT OF IT. 7 9 
 
 And they between them had conspired to stay 
 The law by this device. I'd half a mind 
 To do the very thing they wished me not, 
 Just for their meddling ; but thought better of it. 
 My wife has a sharp tongue. 
 
 Then I went forth 
 Once more to face these Jews : " I find no fault 
 Worthy of death, by our law, or of bonds 
 In this your King, or God, or whatsoe'er 
 The poor man calls himself. So, I will scourge him, 
 And let him go " — though why he should be scourged 
 'Twere hard to tell, except to humour those 
 Who should have had the scourge on their own 
 
 backs 
 Laid roundly ; but a man who is accused, 
 We come to think has reason to be thankful, 
 If he escape with scourging. Anyhow, 
 More bitterly malignant than before, 
 The mob of smiths and cobblers roared at me, 
 
 ■* ■<-
 
 80 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 And my weak plan. My nerves had been unstrung, 
 I tell you, or I had not heeded them. 
 Pilate was never coward. 
 
 Then some one said 
 Something about the Nazarene, whereat 
 I grasped as any drowning man. " He is 
 A Galilean then, King Herod's subject, 
 And Herod is in town to keep the feast ; 
 'Tis his affair : A letter shall be writ ; 
 A guard ho ! take him to the king ; let Herod 
 Settle this business. It is none of mine." 
 A happy thought that ! Herod had been cool 
 Of late, or worse than cool ; and this would please 
 The old fox's vanity, delivering me 
 From the so tangled hank, and let me break 
 My fast in peace. — I saw the meal laid out 
 In tempting grapes, and dates, and figs, and melons, 
 And old Falernian, and I longed to grasp 
 The silver cup and quaff it. — Laughing, then,
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 8 1 
 
 At this rare stroke, I hurried them away, 
 
 But scarce came from the bath refreshed, when lo ! 
 
 The wave rolled back. Herod had been well pleased 
 
 With our sweet courtesy, but could not think 
 
 Of meddling with the Imperial jurisdiction 
 
 In treasonable affairs; so sent the man, 
 
 After some rough and ribald jesting, back, 
 
 Robed in a mockery of regal purple, 
 
 And crowned with thorns. O irony of Fate ! 
 
 Whom even the gods escape not : what fell spite 
 
 Led thee to bind this burden now on me? 
 
 I was a fool to look for any help 
 
 From Herod. He not long ago had killed 
 
 Another of their prophets — a brave man, 
 
 And eloquent, and true. I heard him preach 
 
 At the King's Court once, and he made us all 
 
 Willing, for half an hour at least, to strip 
 
 Our purple and fine linen off, and send 
 
 The banquet, getting ready, to feed the poor. 
 
 F
 
 82 WHA T PI LA TE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 And since that deed, his conscience pricking him, 
 
 The crafty Idumean had turned coward, 
 
 And thought this Jesus might be John come back 
 
 From Hades to amaze his murderer, 
 
 And haunt him. 
 
 As I turned to Jesus now 
 Weary he looked and broken, as a man 
 Done with the world ; and half in pity I said, 
 " So thou art come back crowned ? A king then 
 
 truly?" 
 "Thou say'st," he answered; "Yea, I am a king; 
 Only my kingdom is not of this world, 
 But therefore am I come, to witness of 
 The truth, and who are of the truth hear me." 
 " Truth ! what is truth ? " I asked. " Where is it ? 
 
 Can 
 I see, or touch, or taste, or smell it?" Was 
 This man a dreamer, being no longer boy, 
 But wearing beard unblemished, that he spake
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 83 
 
 Of truth as of his kingdom where he reigned 
 
 Supreme? — an airy realm, ungrudged, I ween, 
 
 By Caesar ! We were youths, my Lucius, once, 
 
 And wasted many a night in barren talk 
 
 About the truth ; when in the Agora 
 
 We breathed the air that Plato used to breathe 
 
 While Athens still was Queen, and wore her crown 
 
 With majesty; but, since we came to manhood, 
 
 We've had to act, not dream. Nor did this man 
 
 Look like a dreamer; and I must admit 
 
 These Jews, whate'er they be, are not like some 
 
 Of those strange Eastern peoples whom I've seen, 
 
 Squatting for years in some uneasy posture, 
 
 Fed on a lettuce or a stalk of garlic, 
 
 Talking of truth, and dreaming in the sun 
 
 That blistered them by day, and in the moon 
 
 That all the night bedewed them, being held 
 
 Divinely wise because most mad. The Jew 
 
 Is shrewd, and has a bottom of good sense
 
 84 WHA T P1LA TE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 Beneath his superstitions, like the stones 
 
 And gravel over which a river runs. 
 
 He trades, and lends on usury, and gains 
 
 Shekels where you'd scarce find an obolus; 
 
 Keen at a bargain, hard as any flint, 
 
 And nowise given to dreaming. Yet this man 
 
 Could speak of truth, and of a kingdom there ! 
 
 "Truth — what is truth?" So I went forth again. 
 
 " I find no fault in this man. He has broken 
 
 No law of Caesar's, nor may Caesar dread 
 
 His schemes, or be he Prophet, King, or God. 
 
 But you've a custom, good or bad — most part 
 
 Bad I should say, or only good for rogues — 
 
 To get release of some offender now 
 
 At Pascha. There's Barabbas, thief and rebel 
 
 And murderer too, him take and crucify, 
 
 This Christ I will have scourged, and let him go."
 
 WHA T PI LA TE THO UGH T OF IT. 85 
 
 So I had done my utmost, tried all ways 
 
 To save him though he uttered not a word, 
 
 Nor sought for mercy, nor encouraged me 
 
 In my endeavours, nor approved my deed. 
 
 What happened then? A growl of sullen wrath, 
 
 Low murmur of petition unto Caesar : 
 
 " Not this man, but Barabbas ! Crucify, 
 
 Crucify this one, or"— I saw the old Priest 
 
 Writing upon his tablets, with a cold 
 
 Clear eye, and half a smile upon the thin 
 
 And bloodless lips of him. What could I do? 
 
 He knew of last night's frolic, and other things 
 
 I need not name, which might look bad in Rome 
 
 Even to one's friends, and worse when told by those 
 
 Who hungered for my post — they would not be 
 
 So eager if they knew it. It was hard 
 
 To do, for he had interested me ; 
 
 But yet if I should free him, they would rend 
 
 The man in pieces, such was their fierce temper ;
 
 86 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 And if he died now, while his dreams had still 
 
 The sweet breath of young innocence, better so 
 
 Than after that bad schooling he will get 
 
 Among this people; like enough at heart 
 
 He was a traitor also — all Jews are — 
 
 And only got his due ; but that thought called 
 
 A blush up in my soul, for secretly 
 
 I knew it was a lie. At any rate. 
 
 If one must die, 'twere better he than I, 
 
 And for a little more or less of blood 
 
 Upon my hands, that did not trouble me, 
 
 Although I washed them there before the mob 
 
 In token of my innocence, while they 
 
 Cried, " Yea, his blood on us and on our children ! " 
 
 The thing was done so, not to be undone : 
 
 I wish it were to do, and my head cool 
 
 As it is now; no matter, it is done. 
 
 There was not one to say a word for him ; 
 
 He was alone, not backed by any man,
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 87 
 
 And yet he had for years been healing them, 
 
 I wot not by what power, only the fact 
 
 Was clear, however fancy coloured it. 
 
 Their deaf and dumb, their lepers and theii 
 
 blind, 
 Their fevered and bed-ridden had been cured, 
 And some averred their very dead been raised 
 By him ; but that, of course, was all a dream 
 Of fond imagination, or, it may be, 
 A trick to catch their faith : at any rate, 
 The land was ringing with his mighty deeds, 
 And yet there came not one to speak for him. 
 Had any man stood up and said to me, 
 " Lo ! I was blind, and now I see," or " I 
 Was mad, and am in my right mind again," 
 Or "I was cripple, and behold I walk, 
 And this man did it," then it would have been 
 A case to send to Caesar for decision, 
 Being past my wits, and needing a divine
 
 88 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 Insight like his. But no ! these grateful Jews 
 Said nought but, " Crucify him ! Crucify ! " 
 
 They say that he died sweetly, and they talk 
 About his having risen again, and spoken 
 To certain of his followers, and the priests 
 Would have these stories silenced by the law. 
 Nay, let the poor fools have such comfort as 
 They find in these fond dreams. I know he's dead. 
 My fellows never leave their work half done ; 
 Their lives should answer for it, if they did. 
 No doubt, he's dead ; a spear-thrust in the heart 
 Made sure of that ; he'll trouble us no more. 
 'Tis a strange thirst these priests have still for blood ; 
 If they had shed as much of it as we, 
 They'd hate the smell of it. And yet I'd give 
 Something to learn if Annas' blood is like 
 What flows in other men. I hear them shouting 
 " The Lord is risen indeed ! " I wish he were ;
 
 WHAT PILATE THOUGHT OF IT. 89 
 
 'Twould take a load off me to see Him living, 
 And what I did, undone. But that's past hope ; 
 The dead are dead for ever. 
 
 Speak well of me, 
 My Lucius, to Sylvia and Nerissa, 
 What time you sup in the old tavern by 
 The Pincian, and the wine and mirth are free. 
 Caesar will hardly trouble himself about 
 This prophet's death, since it has pleased the Jews, 
 But you might say a good word for him truly, 
 And strike that old rogue, Annas. A good deed ! 
 O that I could but squeeze from these hard Jews 
 Some certain talents, and get back to Rome ! 
 But they have sucked me rather, leaving only 
 The dry rind o' the orange. Fare thee well !
 
 9 o 
 
 JL pulpiteer. 
 
 Sat in his inn after breakfast a lean little man 
 
 with the look, 
 Withered and shrunk, of one whose moisture was 
 
 dried, like a brook 
 Where the sun burns hot in the tropics ; but now 
 
 he was home once more 
 In the place where he first drew breath near the 
 
 sands of the North Sea shore : 
 And he held in his hand a "poster," big-lettered 
 
 in black and red, 
 Which he read with a cynical sneer; then low to 
 
 himself he said :
 
 A PULPITEER. 9I 
 
 "Service begins at eleven, but the door will be 
 
 open at ten : " 
 That means a crush to get in, with screaming of 
 
 women, and men 
 Barely just kept from swearing by dread of the 
 
 Sabbath day, 
 And swearing the more in their hearts, it were 
 
 better for women to stay 
 At home, and see to their children, instead of 
 
 losing their wits 
 Crushed in a trampling crowd, till they go off in 
 
 fainting fits. 
 
 No, I'll not face it. How should I sit still in a 
 
 narrow pew 
 For an hour, with my legs a-cramp, and with 
 
 nothing on earth to do 
 But stare at the white-washed walls, and gasp for 
 
 a mouthful of air,
 
 9 2 
 
 A PULPITEER. 
 
 And smell the hot peppermint breaths, and the oil 
 
 in the young buck's hair, 
 And watch how faces grow purple, and bald heads 
 
 are smoking like censers ? 
 Nay, I will sit by the fire here, and read that last 
 
 volume of Spencer's. 
 There's more in a sentence of his than in all that 
 
 this fellow can say, 
 Though he preach for an hour by the clock." So 
 
 he kicked his boots out of the way. 
 
 That was his first thought. But hardly had he 
 
 reached out for his book, 
 And settled him down in an easy chair in the 
 
 cosiest nook, 
 With a big cigar in his mouth, and the cloud-smoke 
 
 round his head 
 Curling in wavy rings, when once more he looked 
 
 up and said ; —
 
 A PULPITEER. 93 
 
 "Yet we were fellows at College together, and 
 
 friends too once, 
 This famous preacher and I, and he was not a bit 
 
 of a dunce, 
 But fairly well up in his classics, though Logic was 
 
 always his forte ; 
 A rare, good hand at debate, ever prompt with a 
 
 clever retort; 
 Not very strong in science, but skilled with his 
 
 pen to write, 
 And making his half-dark thinking clearer than 
 
 other men's light; [his head, 
 
 A smart rhetorician truly, with a ready tongue in 
 Though he looked so clumsy and loutish and 
 
 homespun and country-bred. 
 He is starring it here, as I learn ; has come to 
 
 revive their faith, 
 To stir up the fire whose embers were smouldering 
 
 nigh unto death
 
 94 A PULPITEER. 
 
 I care not much for your stars ; and for starring 
 
 parsons least ; 
 The better they are at that, they have less the 
 
 true heart of a priest. 
 But they say that he gave up a living to be free 
 
 to go here and there, 
 Where a boat was wrecked, or the Devil broke 
 
 loose at a rural Fair, 
 Or where the state of religion needed a trumpet 
 
 blast 
 To rouse them up from the sleep into which their 
 
 souls had been cast 
 By the abundance of bread. — A queer sort of life 
 
 no doubt ; 
 But everyone to his taste. — So, freely he goes about, 
 And passes now for a great man. That means 
 
 not much, I allow ; 
 Once great men took to the Church, but they are 
 
 somewhat scarce there now —
 
 A PULPITEER. 95 
 
 One-eyed men among blind folk. Still he is fol- 
 lowed by throngs, 
 And speaks, they say, to the age of its duties, its 
 
 rights and its wrongs ; [mint 
 
 Not pulpit commonplaces — the leaden tokens they 
 For everyday use — but sayings newspapers are fain 
 
 to print, 
 Eloquent, flowing periods balanced and pointed like 
 
 sonnets, 
 And his pews are crowded with heads too, not 
 
 with mere ribbons and bonnets. 
 That's what they tell me, at least, and they say 
 
 that you even shall grin, 
 Now and then, at the hits which he makes when 
 
 describing a popular sin. 
 I do not much care for humour or wit in the 
 
 house of prayer; 
 Tis so easy with smallest of jokes to spread ripples 
 
 of laughter there :
 
 9 6 A PULPITEER. 
 
 But yes ! I must go after all, and hear what the 
 
 man has to say : 
 He was not a fool, and I daresay it will be as 
 
 good as a play. 
 'Twill be very bad if it is not, as plays go now. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 How the bloom and the gloss get rubbed off 
 
 everything here that we see ! " 
 So he threw down his book with a grumble, and 
 
 out of the room he strode, 
 Not quite in the mood for a mortal to go to the 
 
 house of God. 
 
 A brilliant midsummer day, with a glorious sun in 
 
 the blue, 
 Though clouds were massing all round it, lurid 
 
 and sultry in hue, 
 And there was not a breath to stir the thirsty and 
 
 drooping leaves,
 
 A PULPITEER. 97 
 
 And all the wild flowers were alive with the hum 
 
 of the honey thieves, 
 And the larks were hurrying fast through their 
 
 morning songs, as if they 
 Dreaded that something might mar them before high 
 
 noon of the day. 
 There was more than a Sabbath hush in the listless 
 
 fields as he passed 
 Leisurely into the town, whither groups were 
 
 hurrying fast 
 By twos and threes and dozens, like rills and streams 
 
 that flowed 
 Together at last in a river along the great high 
 
 road. 
 
 It turned out all as he pictured — the crush at the 
 
 narrow door, 
 The screaming and fainting of women — but nobody 
 
 cursed or swore —
 
 98 A PULPITEER. 
 
 The squeeze in the strait high pews, the crowd packed 
 close in the aisles, 
 
 The blaze of peony faces, and glimmer of ghastly 
 smiles, 
 
 The reeking and mopping of bald heads, the cough- 
 ing and taking of snuff: 
 
 Yet were they grave too, and patient. It was God's 
 house : that was enough. 
 
 How well he remembered it all — that quaint old 
 
 chapel of ease, 
 With its high-pitched pulpit facing the high deep 
 
 galleries, 
 And the sounding-board overhead, and the dove 
 
 with the olive branch, 
 And the votive ship that was hung up in memory 
 
 of the launch 
 Of the first of the Greenland whalers that out ot 
 
 the harbour sailed.
 
 A PULPITEER. 
 
 99 
 
 Proud was the gallant skipper of the port from which 
 
 he hailed, 
 And the kirk where he had been christened, and 
 
 the ship where he held command, 
 And the minister whom he reckoned the foremost 
 
 in all the land : 
 And he modelled his ship, and hung it, hull and 
 
 rigging and block — 
 He had married the minister's daughter — right over 
 
 the gilded clock. 
 They were sturdy Protestants all there, yet they 
 
 saw not the deadly sin 
 Of a votive ship in the Church, nor the evils it 
 
 might bring in. [limbs 
 
 It was not like vowing candles, or hanging up waxen 
 In honour of healing saints, with chaunting of 
 
 prayers and hymns ; 
 And it grew to be almost sacred in all men's 
 
 memories,
 
 ioo A PULPITEER. 
 
 When ship and skipper were crushed in the ice- 
 packed Greenland seas. 
 
 But more than the high-pitched pulpit and the dove 
 
 and the olive twig, 
 And more than the many-sparred whaler so neat 
 
 and trim in its rig, 
 And the great square pew where the elders spread 
 
 out their long coat-tails — 
 It was lined with green baize, handsome, and studded 
 
 with bright brass nails — 
 More than all to the stranger was the pew where 
 
 he used to sit — 
 They filled it once with a household, now he knew 
 
 not a face in it. 
 But as he looked, he saw there brothers and sisters 
 
 true 
 All in their order duly ranged in the old Church 
 
 pew;
 
 A PULPITEER. ioi 
 
 Here at the door the father guiding his flock with 
 
 a look, 
 Each in his Sunday raiment, each with a well- 
 clasped book, 
 While the pale mother sat at the further end, 
 
 and he, 
 The youngest, cuddled beside her, or nestled him 
 
 on her knee. 
 Wet or dry, they must be there, morning and 
 
 afternoon, 
 Ere the bell had ceased to tinkle, or the clerk gave 
 
 out the tune; 
 And woe to him that came late, or who drowsily 
 
 slept a wink, 
 Or lost a head of the sermon, or dared of his play 
 
 to think, 
 Or fidgetted for a moment, weary of stiff constraint ! 
 It all came back on him now, with humour and 
 
 pathos blent,
 
 102 A PULPITEER. 
 
 And a something moist in his eye that somehow 
 
 dimmed his view, 
 As he thought where now are they all that sat in 
 
 the old church pew? 
 Some at the ends of the earth, some farther even 
 
 than they, 
 Low in the quiet graves by the surf-beaten sandy bay. 
 Then he drew himself up, and muttered, Pshaw ! 
 
 why should I yield to this? 
 I am a man of the world, and not a sentimental 
 
 miss? 
 
 I tell the tale as he told it me in the inn parlour 
 
 at night, 
 As we sat and smoked together by a guttering 
 
 candle light. 
 
 After sitting well nigh for an hour, he said, with 
 a mind to go,
 
 A PULPITEER. 10% 
 
 Could I only have seen my way, but the close- 
 packed throng said No ; 
 There was not room for an eel to wriggle itself 
 
 outside, 
 So I shifted and shifted my legs, and a change of 
 
 torture tried; 
 That was the most you could hope for, one side 
 
 or other must be 
 Prickly and stinging, or cramped and dead from the 
 
 foot to the knee ; 
 At last the minister entered, a handsome fellow 
 
 enough, 
 Not like the country lout I had known in his 
 
 homespun rough, 
 Butterfly is not less like its caterpillar than he 
 Looked like the memory of him I'd carried about 
 
 with me. 
 Then he was ruddy and strong, and now he was 
 
 pale and thin —
 
 I0 4 A PULPITEER. 
 
 Was it with brooding of thought, or penance 
 
 endured for sin? 
 Spectacled too, though once he had seen like a 
 
 bird of prey 
 That from its rock-nest watches the near and the 
 
 far away; 
 Whiskers trimmed to a hair, and hair in a wavy curl, 
 While every tooth in his mouth was white as a 
 
 several pearl. 
 He had the cleverest hands, too, alive to their 
 
 finger-tips, 
 Could make them speak to you plainly as ever he 
 
 did with his lips : 
 And his voice was mellow and deep, and clear and 
 
 full as a bell, 
 And touched in the higher tones a passionate thrill 
 
 and swell. 
 Perfect in rhetoric truly, verging on something 
 
 more,
 
 A PULPITEER. 105 
 
 Could he only have boldly ventured, and cut right 
 
 into the core; 
 Not much amiss with the thought too, or wrong in 
 
 the argument, 
 Could he only have once forgotten he had to be 
 
 eloquent. 
 
 He read like a man who well had conned the 
 
 words that he read, 
 Giving the meaning clear; and his prayers were 
 
 fine, they said : 
 Likely I am no judge, but I thought them a shade 
 
 too fine; 
 Rhetoric is not for God, any more than are pearls 
 
 for swine. 
 The voice, too, was more than the thought ; and 
 
 I asked myself sometimes, What 
 Can any one find there, now, for his voice to be 
 
 quavering at?
 
 106 A PULPITEER. 
 
 But prayers, I allow, are not a kind of literature 
 In which I can boast any skill, or quite of my 
 
 taste be sure ; 
 Only one fancies if earth and its praise could be 
 
 left out of view, 
 And the soul looked straight up to God — well, its 
 
 words would be simple and few, 
 While his were many and dainty, and every one 
 
 said they were fine. 
 Perhaps they were real: who knows? but I could 
 
 not quite use them as mine. 
 Then he gave out his text from the Psalm : " The 
 
 fool hath said in his heart, 
 No God ! " and after a pause, with a stroke of 
 
 excellent art, 
 Repeated the three words " Fool ! — No God ! " 'mid 
 
 a breathless awe — 
 An orator's trick, of course, yet a palpable hit, one 
 
 saw.
 
 A PULPITEER. 107 
 
 Pity he did not stop there ; just that look, that tone ! 
 Why, they were in themselves a sermon, had they 
 
 only been left alone 
 To hint their many suggestions. But some men 
 
 have a way 
 Of not knowing when to stop, and of unsaying 
 
 what they say. 
 
 That would have been the effect of his eloquence 
 then upon me, 
 
 Had the sermon ever been finished, which it was 
 not fated to be. [Paul, 
 
 For mainly it was but a weft of Paley and woof of 
 
 Calico-printed with anecdotes, wholly Apocryphal, 
 
 Of Shelley and Hume and Voltaire, set forth with 
 manifest trick, 
 
 Clever enough in its way, of artfulest rhetoric. 
 
 Not that there were not at times touches of some- 
 thing higher,
 
 I0 g A PULPITEER. 
 
 When the man's own soul broke out, with gleams 
 
 of a central fire, 
 Through the crust of his pulpiteering; also there 
 
 were some strokes 
 Of a grim satirical humour — they were not exactly 
 
 jokes, 
 More like Elijah's biting scorn of the Prophets of Baal, 
 Or the ring of the spear of Ithuriel, smiting the 
 
 steel-clasped mail 
 Of Satan. They were the bits of the sermon that 
 
 I liked best: 
 I seemed to look on the devil discomfited then with 
 
 a jest 
 Wholly sincere and natural. But that only came 
 
 now and then; 
 And after a while I was wishing me home at mine 
 
 inn again, 
 With that latest volume of Spencer's, and wondering 
 
 what came next,
 
 A PULPITEER. I09 
 
 When something went crack ! somewhere, as the 
 
 minister quoted his text 
 To clench a paragraph with ; and surely the gallery 
 
 swayed 
 Forward a bit, and the startled crowd rose up dis- 
 mayed. 
 A horrible moment that, when murderous panic appears, 
 That tramples on pity, and heeds not grey hairs or 
 
 the tenderest years, 
 Nor kith nor kin nor aught but the wretched self 
 
 it would save, 
 At the cost of its better self, from the coward- 
 dreaded grave ! 
 They had sprung to their feet, and stood a moment 
 
 in breathless fear, 
 So silent that out on the roof the rain was plain 
 
 to hear 
 Which now was heavily falling, and then there 
 arose a scream
 
 no A PULPITEER. 
 
 That curdled the blood in the heart, and I saw as 
 
 it were in a dream, 
 Faces of men and women ghastly with terror, and 
 
 all 
 The galleries swaying, I fancied, away from the 
 
 solid wall. 
 
 But ere the fatal rush, the minister lifted high 
 
 A tremulous hand to heaven — a jewelled one, by 
 
 the by — 
 And sang, in a loud, clear voice, one verse of a 
 
 well-known psalm, 1 
 Joined in by some few near, which brought back a 
 
 moment's calm; 
 Then he cried out, "Do not fear; not a hair of 
 
 your heads shall fall 
 
 1 1 once witnessed this expedient tried with happiest results 
 by a famous preacher, and effectually arresting a panic which 
 in another minute would have been followed by disastrous 
 consequences. 

 
 A PULPITEER. ill 
 
 If you do as I bid; for God has given me the 
 
 lives of all. 
 Let no one stir, till I tell you the doors are opened 
 
 wide, 
 Then silently go, while I pray that the Lord may 
 
 meet with us outside." 
 That wrought like a spell on them ; he was not 
 
 like a man inspired, 
 Yet the people gravely and silently did as he had 
 
 desired, 
 Slow moving along the aisles, and down by the 
 
 narrow stair, 
 Out by the several doors, and into the open air, 
 In the disciplined self-command which their faith 
 
 to them had given. 
 Meanwhile in the pulpit he kept praying for them 
 
 to heaven, 
 Not at all "fine prayers" now, but the downright 
 
 honest cry
 
 112 A PULPITEER. 
 
 Of a man who longed and hoped that the poor 
 folk might not die. 
 
 I did not hurry myself, for I did not lose my head, 
 
 But when the last had vanished, I drew a long 
 breath, and said, 
 
 " Weil done, Parson and people ! That was a 
 sight to see, 
 
 And better than any preachment the man could 
 have preached to me." 
 
 For as they stood outside, ere taking their home- 
 ward ways, 
 
 They sang to the Shepherd whose mercy had 
 followed them all their days. 
 
 Then, when the Church was empty, straight into 
 
 the vestry he went 
 By the door behind the pulpit, and I followed 
 
 him, for I meant 
 Partly to compliment him on the ready wit he had shown,
 
 A PULPITEER. 
 
 "3 
 
 Partly to claim acquaintance, as a friend in the 
 
 days long gone. 
 But he hailed me at once by name, for mine was 
 
 the one face he knew, 
 So he said, in the thronging crowd, as he glanced 
 
 from pew to pew ; 
 And where had I been? and had I come back to 
 
 the old Home again, 
 After long years of wandering far in the sun and 
 
 the rain ? 
 And was he not glad to meet me, and to recall the 
 
 times 
 When we pored over Homer and Euclid, or ham- 
 mered our brains for rhymes? 
 It was pleasant to get such a greeting — so cordial, 
 
 cheery, and frank — 
 Like what you may find in your banker, when your 
 
 balance is good at the Bank. 
 
 H
 
 H4 
 
 A PULPITEER. 
 
 I was yielding then to the kindly feeling we have 
 
 for those 
 We have known at school or at college ; and, think- 
 ing of hardish blows 
 And rough horse-play he had borne from some of 
 
 us then, I felt 
 Some twinges of sharp regret, and my heart was 
 
 beginning to melt, [of self-content, 
 
 When there passed across his features a smile as 
 And I stayed the relenting mood, till I found out 
 
 what it meant. 
 " Now, tell me," he said, " was that not a right smart 
 
 stroke of mine, 
 To sing that verse of a Psalm which they all knew, 
 
 line by line? 
 It saved some score of their lives, and will be a 
 
 good thing too for me, 
 For the crowds will be bigger than ever wherever 
 
 I happen to be.
 
 A PULPITEER. 115 
 
 It was quite an impromptu thought, an inspiration 
 
 plain, 
 Like a burst of sunshine gleaming out of the 
 
 clouds and rain ; 
 A minute more, and the throng would have trampled 
 
 the old and the weak, 
 Though I was not very much frightened — old 
 
 joisting is apt to creak, 
 And seats will crack with a weight they have not 
 
 borne for years; 
 But how people lose their heads, to be sure, in 
 
 their panic fears! 
 It is lucky for me, however. Somehow, I was 
 
 losing my hold 
 Of the folk, and my tellingest hits seemed to fall 
 
 on them lifeless and cold; 
 And there needed much advertising — which means 
 
 a heavy expense — [bath. Hence 
 
 To gather a crowd worth speaking to even on Sab-
 
 1 1 6 A PULPITEER. 
 
 I was thinking what could be done — it must be 
 
 striking and new — 
 To waken their interest in the things that are right 
 
 and true. 
 But this now will set me up quite ; they will talk 
 
 of it all through the week, 
 And I shall have congratulations, and invitations 
 
 to speak 
 Every evening at meetings in town and village, 
 
 when they 
 Read in the morning paper what happened in 
 
 Church to-day. 
 
 I never could settle down to a mill-horse round, 
 
 he said, 
 Of writing a weekly sermon, and visiting each sick 
 
 bed, 
 Catechizing the children, and comforting them that 
 
 mourn,
 
 A PULPITEER. 117 
 
 Blessing the young folk's weddings, and christening 
 
 their babes when born. 
 I tried it, of course, for a while ; but I very soon 
 
 came to see, 
 Though it might be all right for some folk, it was 
 
 not the work for me. 
 Would you yoke your race-horse to a plough ? My 
 
 calling was clearly to preach, 
 To put new fire in our pulpits, and rouse every 
 
 heart I could reach 
 By the art of the Orator, skilled to move now, 
 
 and now to persuade, [moner grade. 
 
 Leaving the task of the pastor to men of a com- 
 Therefore, I have to be popular, have to be fol- 
 lowed by throngs, 
 And to hit at the sins of Dives, cry out at the 
 
 poor man's wrongs, 
 And drop the hum-drum of the pulpit, and maybe 
 
 to startle men's ears —
 
 1 1 8 A PULPITEER. 
 
 For no one would heed what I said, if I did not 
 
 bring laughter or tears. 
 Does it win any souls for God ? you are fain to 
 
 know ; does it make 
 Men's lives any purer or truer? or souls from their 
 
 bondage break, 
 And walk in the freedom of Right? Who knows? 
 
 It is ours to sow 
 The seed of the kingdom; and God, He only can 
 
 make it to grow. 
 I leave that to Him. Now and then, in the heat 
 
 or the hush of a crowd, 
 One will go off in a faint, and one will take to 
 
 screaming aloud ; 
 But if their lives are bettered, I wot not. In 
 
 every fight 
 There are scores of bullets that miss, for one that 
 
 kills outright. [rife ; 
 
 No doubt the vanities flourish, and sins are not less
 
 A PULPITEER. u 9 
 
 I plant and water, but man cannot quicken to 
 
 newness of life. 
 Why do 1 yet hold on to a fruitless task? But 
 
 is it 
 So fruitless, sir, after all? These folk will remember 
 
 my visit 
 Here now, and talk of that Psalm, I believe, till 
 
 the day they die. 
 You would wonder how many things happen to 
 
 make them reckon that I 
 Am surely a chosen vessel whom it will be good 
 
 to hear. 
 So, God has often sustained me, when my heart 
 
 was faint with fear, 
 And made me feel that He means me still to be 
 
 doing His work, 
 Dealing out bread to the hungry, and rousing a 
 
 slumbering Kirk.
 
 120 A PULPITEER. 
 
 Yet I admit there are times when doubts do trouble 
 
 me sore. 
 'Tis not like a full day's work, this preaching an 
 
 hour or more, [as well 
 
 And I don't write sermons often — the old ones do 
 When the place is new, and it's likely there's no 
 
 one there could tell 
 If they be old or new. Much study is hard on 
 
 me, too, 
 And I have to be careful of health. Life is precious. 
 
 But if you knew 
 My thoughts now and then, you would not envy 
 
 this popular fame 
 Which musters its thousands just at the trumpet-call 
 
 of my name. 
 For oft when I take up one of these sermons so 
 
 carefully writ, 
 All of them yellow with use, and glance at an 
 
 eloquent bit,
 
 A PULPITEER. 121 
 
 Meant for some passing event, which told very well 
 
 at the time, 
 The pathos seems to have vanished, and it sounds 
 
 without reason or rhyme, 
 And I ask myself, How will it look, when the 
 
 reckoning comes, to say, 
 There, that's all the fruit of my vineyard — the 
 
 harvest of my poor day? 
 Three score, more or less, of old sermons ! And 
 
 then, when my spirits were low, 
 I have wished I had stuck to the croft where my 
 
 father made barley to grow 
 Instead of the rush and the ling. But of course, 
 
 that was foolish, and came 
 Of a jaded mind, and the strong recoil of an o'er- 
 
 tasked frame [repent 
 
 Strained by emotional fervour. No, I can never 
 Choosing the grandest of missions on which the 
 
 Apostles were sent
 
 122 , A PULPITEER. 
 
 To preach the great gospel of peace. — I know not 
 
 if you will care 
 To wait on the afternoon sermon ? " 
 
 I told him I could not be there; 
 But I would remember the plate — The workman 
 
 was worthy his hire — 
 So we parted, never to meet, at least if I get my 
 
 desire. 
 
 What a life that fellow must live ! half knowing 
 
 himself for the lie 
 That he is, like the old Roman augurs that joked 
 
 at their craft on the sly ; 
 But he has not even that help to relieve his troubled 
 
 mind, 
 He must try to believe he believes, and therein his 
 
 comfort find. 
 Hard for a small pretender to be preaching a faith 
 
 that hates
 
 A PULPITEER. 123 
 
 Hypocrites more than downright sinners, and no- 
 thing abates 
 For one's poor circumstances, but will have a man 
 
 to play 
 The hero, who has not a touch of the hero to 
 
 moisten his clay. 
 Yes, I am sorry for him. How well now he 
 
 managed that job — 
 The singing and praying, and slow clearing out of 
 
 the terrified mob ! 
 I wish that I had not gone after him into the 
 
 vestry ; so 
 I might have believed in him now, — -for it is not 
 
 good to know [after all. 
 
 That your very worst thoughts of men are the truest 
 And when you've painted a hero, 'twere best turn 
 
 his face to the wall : 
 You made him, and, if you would keep him, you 
 
 must not look closely at him,
 
 124 A PULPITEER. 
 
 Though, I grant you, that life feels poor when the 
 
 glow and the glory grow dim. 
 Ah well! I gave him his hire — to put in the plate, 
 
 no doubt — 
 But I'd give it him ten times over not to have 
 
 found him out.
 
 I2 5 
 
 fhujgles, the (Salbationiat. 
 
 Nay, nobody converted me ; 
 
 I was not struck down by a sermon, 
 And brought my evil way to see, 
 
 And on the better way determine. 
 
 I did not drop by happy chance 
 Into some Bethel or " little Salem," 
 
 To be arrested all at once, 
 
 And get up in the pew, and tell 'em. 
 
 Nor did some precious preacher meet 
 My arguments with words in season, 
 
 And bring me home in triumph sweet, 
 The trophy of his cogent reason.
 
 126 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. 
 
 Good Christians did not sing nor say 
 
 Their joyful hallelujahs o'er me, 
 Nor did their magazines display 
 
 The work of grace that did restore me. 
 
 I did not feel the sin of doubt, 
 
 Nor haunt, like daws, the church and steeple, 
 I did not turn me inside out 
 
 For pleasure of the pious people. 
 
 I could not do it. Why should one, 
 With open wound, be fain to show it, 
 
 And spread his heart out in the sun, 
 
 That folk may stare, and flies may blow it? 
 
 I don't deny that some may find 
 
 Their sure way home in such a manner ; 
 
 But I was never of a mind 
 
 To march beneath that kind of banner. 8
 
 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. 127 
 
 I had not sinned the common way, 
 
 I never was a base deceiver, 
 I ne'er was in a drunken fray : 
 
 I simply was an unbeliever. 
 
 But look here ; had you loved a maid, 
 Sweet-natured and sweet nurtured, saintly, 
 
 Who lowly to the Father prayed, 
 
 And told him all her troubles quaintly, 
 
 And had you set yourself to sap 
 
 The faith by which she lived serenely, 
 
 And round her shrinking soul to wrap 
 
 Poor rags of doubt, that clothed her meanly, 
 
 How would you feel, if one day she 
 
 Gave back your thoughts in harder fashion, 
 
 Of saintly things made mockery, 
 
 And fired your doubts with eager passion ?
 
 I 2 8 A UGGLES, THE SAL VA TIONIS T. 
 
 Would it not give you pause, at least. 
 And make your faithless purpose falter, 
 
 If you should hear the white-robed priest 
 Break out blaspheming at the altar ? 
 
 Yes, you had worked for that, perhaps ; 
 
 Yet now 'tis come, you feel it shocking, 
 And shudder at so strange a lapse, 
 
 As if some fiend your soul were mocking. 
 
 I had not thought how much her faith 
 Had gone to make her perfect beauty, 
 
 Nor what a change would come by death 
 Of that which was her soul of duty. 
 
 And I who loved her so, by way 
 
 Of mending, marred God's fairest daughter, 
 Who lately on His bosom lay 
 
 Like water-lily on its water.
 
 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. I2 g 
 
 She echoed now my thoughts, and I, 
 
 The more she spake them, shrank to hear them; 
 She thought to pleasure me thereby, 
 
 And made me only loathe, and fear them. 
 
 And then she sickened, and so died, 
 
 Without a word of better cheering, 
 As drifting on a sunless tide, 
 
 And in a black cloud disappearing. 
 
 God ! what horror fell on me ! 
 What anguish of a heart still aching, 
 
 Hidden by day that none might see, 
 But when the night came, like to breaking ! 
 
 1 knew what Hell was then, all night 
 As I lay sleepless, moaning, sighing, 
 
 And could not wish to dwell in light, 
 
 If she were in the darkness lying. 
 
 i
 
 I3 o RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. 
 
 And in that passion of grief I felt 
 
 What shallow thoughts I had been airing, 
 
 Seeing them now like snowflakes melt 
 In depths of infinite despairing. 
 
 I had deserved this ; — it was right ; 
 
 A wrecker, I had served my Master, 
 And piled up high a blazing light 
 
 For luring souls on to disaster. 
 
 And she whom I had loved so well, 
 For whom my life I would have given, 
 
 False-beaconed by that light of Hell, 
 Had lost the guiding star of Heaven. 
 
 Therefore I took my lonely way, 
 
 Through clouds of thunder-darkness groping, 
 And often like one dead I lay, 
 
 Alike unfeeling and unhoping.
 
 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. X t,\ 
 
 Some tried to comfort me and spake 
 
 Of healing for the chief of sinners ; 
 Some fain my settled gloom would break, 
 
 By bidding me to balls and dinners. 
 
 What matter whether false or true 
 
 The word I heard from each new comer? 
 
 Their fleeces might be dank with dew, 
 But mine must be as dust in summer. 
 
 In vain they reasoned with my mood, 
 
 In vain a better hope uplifted, 
 On one thing only I could brood — 
 
 The soul that into darkness drifted. 
 
 I clung unto my sharp remorse, 
 
 And would not have its anguish lighter, 
 
 But ever as it stung me worse, 
 I clasped it to my bosom tighter.
 
 132 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. 
 
 Still wrapt in dismal thought I stood, 
 
 And from its gloom my light would borrow ; 
 
 It seemed my only sign of good, 
 
 That I could feel such bitter sorrow. 
 
 And so I took my lonely way 
 
 In utter sadness and forsaking, 
 I could not hope, I could not pray, 
 
 I could not see a dim day-breaking. 
 
 How could I for my sin atone, 
 
 Except by suffering and dying? 
 How could I think of her, alone 
 
 And wretched, with the outcast lying ? 
 
 If she were there, there I must be, 
 
 And by her side my soul must languish, 
 Draining her cup of misery, 
 
 And wringing out its dregs of anguish.
 
 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. 133 
 
 I ought to die, and die in sin, 
 
 Without a gleam of light to cheer me, 
 
 My only hope that I might win 
 
 A place where she would still be near me. 
 
 And one night, sitting by the hearth, 
 
 Which had no fire, but ashes only, 
 A wet wind wailing o'er the earth, 
 
 Eerie and dreary, and bleak and lonely, 
 
 I thought to make an end of this, 
 
 And know the worst that could befall me ; 
 
 When, lo ! I seemed to feel her kiss, 
 And hear her fond voice softly call me : 
 
 "Be still, although thy heart may bleed, 
 Take up thy load of life and bear it, 
 
 Christ did not come to frame a creed, 
 But to reveal the Father's Spirit."
 
 l 3 4 RUGGLES, THE SALVATIONIST. 
 
 And as I heard, that message dropt 
 
 Dewy and sweet on my heart's throbbing ; 
 
 And ere its tender accents stopt 
 I like a little child was sobbing. 
 
 I've not been deemed a saint since then, 
 Well found in orthodox opinion, 
 
 But I have loved my fellow men, 
 
 And o'er my thoughts held strict dominion, 
 
 And hope that somehow all is well, 
 That all will one day yet be righted, 
 
 That none in hopeless darkness dwell 
 Who may not yet with joy be lighted. 
 
 For God is greater than His Word, 
 
 His love is like a flowing river, 
 His voice in all things good is heard, 
 
 His Mercy doth endure for ever.
 
 *35 
 
 H)en: finrfeserrr Hittpfcr-nkkcl. 
 
 The lecture hall was filled with youth — 
 
 Pencil and note-book ready — some 
 Still, as in thoughtful search of truth, 
 
 Some noisy as an empty drum ; 
 Here one was bearded like a goat. 
 
 Another was some mother's pet, 
 With gay cravat and dandy coat, 
 
 And face smooth as a baby's yet. 
 A seed-plot this of fruitful thought, 
 
 A graveyard, too, of hopes and schemes, 
 Where some shall grow, and some shall rot, 
 
 And some shall prove but idle dreams.
 
 136 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 I sat me down ; and by and by 
 
 Came from behind the bema, brisk, 
 A little man with clear blue eye, 
 
 And giving his stiff gown a whisk, 
 Tripped up, and spread his lecture out 
 
 On the low desk ; then all was hushed, 
 As he, complacent, looked about, 
 
 And we expectant were, and crushed. 
 
 A small, brisk man, with little head, 
 
 But yet compact, well-shaped, and round ; 
 And in his face there was no shade, 
 
 And in his voice no tremulous sound ; 
 Features well chiselled, not one blunt, 
 
 Thin-lipped, and with a fighting air, 
 As keen to bear the battle's brunt, 
 
 And nothing for his foeman care, 
 With scorn for all who might resist 
 
 His confident thoughts, and daring flights
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 Into the realm of cloud and mist, 
 
 To fill it with new patent lights : 
 An able little man, and yet 
 
 Not able quite for what he tried, 
 Who had no doubt, and no regret, 
 
 Nor haunting shadow at his side : 
 Unconscious of the Mystery — 
 
 The cross-light of a higher will — 
 His ableness was plain to see, 
 
 His littleness was plainer still. 
 
 So standing there, he said, " Our course 
 
 Of scientific search has been 
 To purge you first without remorse 
 
 Of cobwebs, and to sweep them clean, 
 And let the daylight in. But man 
 
 Must have some faith on which to live, 
 Some purpose in his thoughts and plan, 
 
 Which clearness to his world shall give. 
 
 i37
 
 138 HERE PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 I call it faith ; but 'tis, indeed, 
 
 Only large reason bodying forth 
 What lies enfolded in the seed 
 
 We have been sowing. From the earth 
 We clear away the former wreck. 
 
 And cart the rubbish out of sight, 
 Then straightway to our tools we take, 
 
 To build anew, and build aright. 
 No soul can stay on vacancy, 
 
 Or on mere blank negations feed, 
 And though we cease to bow the knee, 
 
 We may not cease to have a Creed: 
 And this is how I shape to me 
 
 The new faith from the novel seed. 
 
 " We grow from less to more ; we rise 
 From vital cells, by ordered schisms, 
 
 To intricate complexities 
 
 Of fine and subtle organisms —
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 139 
 
 A tadpole now with breathing gills, 
 
 Then lizard fit for land or lake, 
 And by and by an ape that skills 
 
 The husk of milky nut to break. 
 And just as if great Nature kept 
 
 Her moulds, that we might learn her ways, 
 And how she wrought, and never slept, 
 
 But grew through all the years and days, 
 These phases of the coming race, 
 
 These stages of the shaping Past, 
 We in the unborn babe may trace 
 
 That cheers some lonely home at last. 
 So doth she keep her records true, 
 
 Repeating in each life on earth 
 What man hath been, and how he grew 
 
 To fulness of his higher birth. 
 
 "Why should we be ashamed to own 
 Our humble kindred in the Past?
 
 140 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-N1CKEL. 
 
 Why scorn the seedling that hath grown 
 
 Into so great a tree at last ? 
 Shall we not love all creatures more 
 
 That they are of our flesh and blood, 
 And that our ancestors of yore 
 
 Squatted upon the oozy mud, 
 Or floated, pulsing, in the sea 
 
 Which brought forth every living thing, 
 Or chattered on the cocoa tree, 
 
 And nestled where the palm-leaves spring? 
 For life is one and manifold, 
 
 And all spring from the self-same roots, 
 And we are ripe and growing old, 
 
 And these are but the tender shoots. 
 
 " Our Eden — 'twas some moor or ten, 
 
 Or rolling prairie at the best, 
 The savage haunt of savage men 
 
 Homeless and naked, like the rest
 
 HERE PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 Of Nature's products ; only they 
 
 Were creatures of a larger brain, 
 Fitter on earth to make their way. 
 
 And from the earth its wealth to gain. 
 So, scheming brain and cunning hand 
 
 Fashioned the flint-tool sharp and good, 
 And smote the wild beast on the land, 
 
 And hewed the oak tree in the wood. 
 They made them snares for fish and bird, 
 
 For hunger sharpened all their wits, 
 And imitating sounds they heard 
 
 For lures — the shrewdest of their hits — 
 They framed at length articulate speech 
 
 From owls and cats and wolves and 
 rooks, 
 Or seamew shrilling on the beach, 
 
 Or song-bird by the murmuring brooks. 
 Then from the flint one stole the fire, 
 
 And blew the spark into a flame 
 
 141
 
 i 4 2 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 Which gave him all his heart's desire, 
 
 And shaped his path to power and fame. 
 
 " He found the wild spark in the flint, 
 
 And tinder in the dry rush-pith, 
 He found that thorns would burn by dint 
 
 Of blowing, and he was — a smith, 
 And wrenched the iron from the stone, 
 
 And fused it with his subtle spark, 
 Or lit the lamp, when day was done, 
 
 And made a new day in the dark. 
 With fire he offered sacrifice, 
 
 When he his gods would please or thank, 
 And baked the flesh, and boiled the rice, 
 
 And with the gods he ate and drank. 
 He worshipped it, yet made it work, 
 
 And be his slave, and serve him well ; 
 He did not shut it in a kirk, 
 
 And call men to it with a bell ;
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 143 
 
 But made it sail upon the sea, 
 
 And snort along the iron road, 
 And weave and knit for him ; and be 
 
 The lifter of his heavy load, 
 Until he learned at length, that he 
 
 Himself was Lord of all, and God. 
 
 A long and troubled way he had 
 
 Ere thus he came to clearest light ; 
 At times, his fancies drove him mad, 
 
 And he was in an evil plight : 
 At times through swamps of pious slush 
 
 The ague-stricken soul must wade ; 
 Or hew a path through briar and bush 
 
 By tangling metaphysics made; 
 At times his leaders led him wrong, 
 
 Or only right a mile or twain ; 
 But still the instinct, deep and strong, 
 
 Unconscious brought him back again —
 
 144 
 
 HERR PROFESSOR K'UPFER-NICk'EL. 
 
 Back to the bellows and the fire, 
 
 Back to the anvil and the tool, 
 Back to his inner heart's desire, 
 
 And to the force that gave him rule. 
 They fabled he was chained to rocks, 
 
 And tortured by the frost and ice, 
 And beaten by the tempest shocks 
 
 On the sharp pointed precipice, 
 And torn by hungry birds of prey, 
 
 And bleached and blanched by sun and rain, 
 As he in proud defiance lay 
 
 Through days and nights of racking pain. 
 Yet is he lord of earth and air, 
 
 And that high power to him was given 
 To reign as Master everywhere, 
 
 By stealing of the fire from heaven. 
 So true .the fable which averred 
 
 Fire made him rival of the gods, 
 For where the bickering flame is heard,
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 145 
 
 Man rules, and Jove supinely nods. 
 The Greek saw deeper than the Jew, 
 
 In myth of high far-reaching kind 
 He shadowed forth the grand and true 
 
 Discoveries of the modern mind. 
 
 Materialist ? why not ? Who knows 
 
 What subtle powers of life and thought 
 Lie in an atom, hidden close 
 
 To-day, but ere long to be brought, 
 Like music, from it by the touch 
 
 Of the night-wind upon a string ? 
 Words frighten fools, like ghosts, but such 
 
 No terrors to the wise can bring. 
 Lo ! matter is a crystal here, 
 
 A self-made rhomb, or octagon, 
 And there a dewdrop, like a tear 
 
 Wept, silent, when the day is done, 
 A flower, an odour in the air, 
 
 K
 
 I4 6 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 A gleam of light, blue-vaulted skies, 
 A rainbow arching high and fair — 
 
 Why not a thought, too, good and wise? 
 Why should not brain deposit thought ? 
 
 They're not more alien and unlike 
 Than what from many a gland is got, 
 
 Or fire that from the flint we strike, 
 Or currents of electric force, 
 
 That acids make with metals twain. 
 No need to seek another source 
 
 Of thought beyond the thinking brain. 
 We deal with facts; there's no such thing 
 
 As spirit ; that is out of date ; 
 Molecular tremors clearly bring 
 
 The light which metaphysics hate. 
 Who ever saw a soul? or who 
 
 Can tell its strength or shape or size 
 Or weight or taste or smell or hue? 
 
 And who its parts can analyze?
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 Enough that we have larger brain, 
 
 And that we are no longer dumb, 
 And that the furnace burns amain, 
 
 And that we have a proper thumb. 
 And for the rest, a man must die : 
 
 Yet man shall live for evermore, 
 His growing purpose soaring high, 
 
 The only God he can adore 
 Humanity ! — the noblest growth 
 
 Of nature, and its lord and king, 
 Its servant and its master both, 
 
 The sum and crown of everything." 
 Musing, I rose, as he once more 
 
 Tripped from the bema, looking brisk, 
 And as he vanished through the door 
 
 Giving his gown another whisk, 
 Self-satisfied that he had shed 
 
 A light that left no shadows, no 
 Unanswered questions in the head, 
 
 No aching in the heart to know, 
 
 147
 
 I4 8 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 
 
 Whence all the longing of the mind 
 
 For more than hard material gain, 
 And clinging of the nobler kind 
 
 To mysteries even of grief and pain, 
 That fruit in spiritual riches, far 
 
 Transcending wealth of wine and oil, 
 Ingot of gold, and silver bar, 
 
 And corn and all results of toil. 
 Did Shakspeare's pregnant utterance bring 
 
 Its wealth of words from owls and cats ? 
 Did Dante's musical pathos spring 
 
 From squeaking of the mice and rats? 
 And whence the life that from the cell 
 
 Grows up in forms so manifold ? 
 And what, if earth whereon we dwell 
 
 Shall be burnt up, as sages hold? 
 Where then the man that shall be God, 
 
 The God that must be man alone, 
 When he and all whereon he trod,
 
 HERR PROFESSOR KUPFER-NICKEL. 149 
 
 And all his homes and graves are gone? 
 I heed not of a creed like this ; 
 
 It is too shallow even to hold 
 The great facts of the life that is, 
 
 And fit them in its little mould ; 
 And how much less its glimmering light 
 
 Can pierce the unfathomed depths within, 
 Or search for us the Infinite, 
 
 Or mysteries of death and sin ! 
 It leaves more questions on the mind 
 
 Than all it seems to answer clear ; 
 And darker is the cloud behind 
 
 From the sharp light that shineth near. 
 I know the life which now we live 
 
 Is still becoming something more, 
 Yet must I evermore believe 
 
 In One to love and to adore, 
 Who unto all did Being give, 
 
 And Law they were created for.
 
 *5° 
 
 Jl §tam. 
 
 I dreamt a dream. I dreamt that God was dead, 
 And that we all met for His burial — 
 
 Angels and men and devils — and sang or said 
 
 An awestruck requiescat o'er the head 
 Of Him who was the Father of us all. 
 
 Dreams have their logic and congruities ; 
 
 Granted the starting-point, and all the rest 
 Flows, like our fables of the birds and trees, 
 In speech of reason, and the dreamer sees 
 
 No strangeness, even when they are eeriest.
 
 A DREAM. 151 
 
 Methought all lights of heaven were quenched, yet 
 light 
 
 There was, but coming from another sphere, 
 A lurid glimmer, and a ghastly sight; 
 And horrid moanings filled the dismal night, [near. 
 
 And there were earthquakes shuddering far and 
 
 A while we sat in silence, as the way 
 
 At funerals is, or whispered 'neath our breath, 
 With furtive glance, and faces hard and grey, 
 And silent wonder who was meet to pray 
 
 A fitting prayer at this world-darkening death. 
 
 Then Satan strode to the chief mourner's place, 
 Though Michael frowned, and Gabriel blocked 
 his path, 
 And Moses lifted up his grand, meek face, 
 As on that day of shame and deep disgrace 
 When he the tables brake in holy wrath.
 
 152 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 "Silence!" the tempter cried; "is this a time 
 For family quarrels? Tis my rightful due, 
 I am the eldest born. Is it a crime 
 That I should sorrow most for that sublime 
 
 First Cause whom I have grieved far more than 
 you? 
 
 " I am the Prodigal, 'tis true. What then ? 
 
 Must I be always of the same wrong mind? 
 Is there repentance for the sons of men, 
 And fatted calves when they come back again, 
 
 And only swine's husks still for me to find ? 
 
 " I have more cause for sorrow than you all 
 
 Who stayed at home, and did as you were 
 bid, 
 But, ever since my most unhappy fall, 
 I've always meant some day up here to call, 
 And be forgiven for all the ill I did.
 
 A DREAM. 153 
 
 "And now it is too late. I've often heard 
 
 That said by some poor fool at my suggestion, 
 But never quite knew how his heart was stirred, 
 Till now; and really 'tis an ugly word, 
 Sour in the mouth, and bitter of digestion. 
 
 "Your grief is not like mine. You've lost a 
 friend 
 
 Who loved you, but you never vexed his heart, 
 As I have done. Can you not then extend 
 Pity for one who has some ways to mend, 
 
 And some bad memories of a guilty Past? 
 
 " That's the worst of a day like this ; they buzz 
 Like wasps — these memories — and their sting is 
 sore, 
 And like the Patriarch when he came from Uz, 
 They won't go back — nothing unpleasant does — 
 But cling to you, and sting you more and more.
 
 i54 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 " I can't deny that I have told some lies, 
 
 And done some things I never should have 
 done ; 
 
 But is there any who is always wise? 
 
 And I was wroth to forfeit such a prize, 
 
 And, when you lose your temper, all is gone. 
 
 "You have believed me sometimes when I lied, 
 Can't you believe me now I speak the truth ? 
 You ought to know how hard it is for pride 
 To say, I'm sorry. But I wish to bide 
 
 Once more among the old friends of my youth. 
 
 " Have you no kindness for me ? Yes, I know, 
 I am blunt-spoken, have not your smooth 
 tongues, 
 Am out of the way of singing hymns that flow 
 Like rippling waters murmuring soft and low; — 
 In our place we have need of all our lungs.
 
 A DREAM. 155 
 
 " You will not ? You Impeccables ! But you, 
 At least, who were my friends and followers- 
 once, 
 Ye men of faith who now are good and true, 
 Though all my arts and wiles ye one time knew, 
 Ah ! ye will not refuse me this last chance ? 
 
 " What ! not a word ? you're all in the same boat,. 
 
 And none of you believe I can repent? 
 Well; it is somewhat hard, and might be thought 
 Scarce creditable to those of you who taught 
 
 Some tricks to me, for which I now relent. 
 
 " But I am sorry none the less, I say, 
 
 For what has happened to the Great First 
 Cause, 
 Who never lost faith in the righteous way, 
 Nor in the Love which was His light of day 
 
 Where'er he walked, and Lord and Master was.
 
 i56 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 " It might be weak, but surely it was good — 
 
 Most goodness is a trifle weak, no doubt, 
 Especially if longer than you should 
 You still persist in your so virtuous mood, 
 And will not trim your sail, and veer about. 
 
 "Well; he was truly better than you all, 
 
 For he could pity one when at the worst, 
 Though pity, I confess, brings comfort small 
 To one whose back is fairly at the wall, 
 Beaten and baffled and hated and accursed. 
 
 " No matter ; now my way of life is dim, 
 
 Stupid and without interest any more. 
 'Twas he that kept you— cherub and seraphim — 
 Out of my toils, and were it not for him 
 
 I should have trapped you daily by the score.
 
 A DREAM. 157 
 
 " There's no use for a Devil now, since He 
 
 Is gone ; 'twould be like shadow without light ; 
 Only where light is can the shadow be, 
 It was his presence that occasioned me, 
 And by my wrong I perfected his right. 
 
 " But now my task is done. Tis not worth 
 while 
 Planning and plotting for the like of you. 
 What gives its zest to any clever wile 
 Is the uncertain match of truth with guile ; 
 
 That gone, there's nothing worth one's while 
 to do. 
 
 " The prize once sure is nothing — let it go, 
 
 The fisher cares not for the fish he snares; 
 Only to find if he can master so 
 The cunning that contends with his, or no, 
 He throws his line, and pities not nor spares.
 
 158 A DREAM. 
 
 " But you without Him ! 'Tis poor sport indeed 
 
 Gulling what comes so ready to one's hand, 
 Wasting fine wit where wit you do not need, 
 And plying arts to sow the wild rank weed, 
 Which, without art, grows native in the land. 
 
 " Life will not be worth living any more, 
 
 And for a change, what if I preached to you, 
 And told you to be good, and to adore 
 His memory whom you trembled at before? 
 That would be rare sport now, and something 
 new. 
 
 * ( It's not the first time that I've preached in- 
 deed, 
 
 Very good preaching too and orthodox, 
 Exalting still the faith above the deed ; 
 And how men did devour my words with greed, 
 
 And went away, and sinned like other folks !"
 
 A DREAM. I59 
 
 He stood erect, a mocking spirit bold, 
 
 Having no faith in aught but craft and lies, 
 And full of scorn that bitter was and cold, 
 And good and bad in like contempt did hold, 
 And even himself did fitfully despise. 
 
 Then a voice cried, There shall be no more 
 light, 
 The war is ended, evil is supreme ; 
 But I was fain to wrestle for the right, 
 And beaded drops of anguish dimmed my 
 sight — 
 Then I awoke, and lo ! it was a dream. 
 
 I woke up, with a trembling sense of guilt 
 Upon me, as if that wild dream, profane 
 And blasphemous, must surely have been built 
 Of some vile matter in my heart that dwelt, 
 By some base spirit lurking in my brain.
 
 160 A DREAM. 
 
 But as I brooded on it, there appeared 
 
 Another meaning slowly breaking through 
 The lurid light, and horrid sounds, and weird 
 Wild phantasms of my dream ; and as it cleared 
 Peace came to me again, and comfort grew. 
 
 I had been reading far into the night 
 
 That "ultimate analysis of things 
 Can find no need of God, nor any light 
 Shed by the thought of Infinite wisdom and 
 might 
 
 On the large world which Law to order brings." 
 
 " No need of this hypothesis," one writ ; 
 
 And the free fancy, roving like the wind 
 Untrammelled, shaped my dream, and guided it 
 With strange, unconscious reason, and flash of 
 wit 
 
 Too daring for the common day o' th' mind.
 
 A DREAM. X 6i 
 
 No need of God for science ! But our life 
 
 Is more than knowledge, and hath other needs, 
 
 When sorrows come, and troubles too are rife, 
 
 Or good and evil wrestle in hot strife, 
 
 And the heart fails, and wounded virtue bleeds. 
 
 Truly he said, though he that said it still 
 Is father of all lies, that we should be 
 
 The easy victims of his crafty skill, 
 
 Were there no God to strengthen heart and will, 
 And guide the soul through its perplexity. 
 
 'Tis not the making of the worlds alone 
 
 That calls for His wise thought, and shaping 
 hand, 
 To frame the atom, and compact the stone, 
 And breathe a mystic life through flesh and 
 bone, 
 And stretch the heavens above the solid land. 
 
 L
 
 1 6 A DREAM. 
 
 There be more lawless and rebellious powers 
 Than ordered matter, which need government 
 
 And guidance more than growth of plants and 
 flowers, 
 
 Even these same wayward, wilful hearts of ours, 
 Deceitful, that on evil ways are bent. 
 
 And when our steps have spurned the appointed 
 course 
 
 Of duty, and sunk in miry slough of sin, 
 And guilty fears rush on us with the force 
 Of billows, who shall heal our keen remorse, 
 
 And speaking mercy, bring back peace within ? 
 
 With lightsome heart, as if it were a thing 
 Too trifling to regret, one says to me, 
 
 I have no prayer to pray, no praise to sing, 
 
 Nor sacrifice nor offering do I bring, 
 
 There is no living God, and man is free.
 
 A DREAM. 163 
 
 Ah ! better to be smitten day by day — 
 
 For there is comfort in His staff and rod — 
 Than wander in that mist, and lose thy way 
 Among the crags and chasms that grimly say, 
 No need so great now as thy need of God.
 
 164 
 
 #Toral-<Sitblimc. 
 
 Sakya-mounie one day saw a tiger, 
 
 Shrunk i' the flanks, his staring rib-bones bare, 
 Creep from the jungle, shuddering as if rigor 
 
 Of famine-stricken death had seized him there. 
 
 A splendid creature, but for pinching hunger, [jaws, 
 With huge fore-arm, and ravenous white-toothed 
 
 Branded with beauty, when his days were younger, 
 But age had somewhat blunted teeth and claws. 
 
 Then said the Buddha ; "Lo! this beast ferocious, 
 Devouring me, shall straight grow mild and meek, 
 
 And turn with horror from his deeds atrocious, 
 His spirit gentle as his skin grows sleek.
 
 MORAL-SUBLIME. j 6 5 
 
 " For now he is a fell man-eating villain, 
 Watching for women going to the well, 
 
 Waiting the lonely traveller to kill in 
 The quiet evening in the lonely dell. 
 
 "But I shall be a graff in his wild nature, 
 
 To sweeten all his blood, and change his ways : 
 
 Wherefore I gladly offer the Creator 
 This ransom to redeem his evil days. 
 
 " If he go on as now, he'll grow still wilder ; 
 
 In him there is no spirit of sacrifice; 
 But, me devouring, he will soon turn milder, 
 
 And part with all his fierce blood-thirsty vice." 
 
 Laughing I read, half thinking that he jested, 
 Though he was nowise of the jesting kind; 
 
 And to the fancy which his thought suggested 
 Awhile I yielded up a willing mind.
 
 1 6 6 MORAL-SUBLIME. 
 
 I pictured him, then, and the jungle-tyrant, 
 Who scrupled not to smite him to the ground, 
 
 And bear him off, lest haply some aspirant 
 
 Might claim a share in that which he had found. 
 
 Tigers, of course, have solitary habits, [strewn : 
 
 And haunt where brown and yellow leaves are 
 
 They're not companionable beasts like rabbits, 
 And much prefer to eat their meals alone. 
 
 Weak as he was, and perishing with hunger, 
 I saw him, with my mind's eye, take a leap, 
 
 And, with a snort of pleasure or of anger, 
 Bear off the Buddha to the nullah deep. 
 
 Did the poor victim feel the great fangs in him, 
 As they tore through the jungle to his lair? 
 
 And only think, What matter, if I win him 
 To pity those whom now he would not spare?
 
 MORAL-SUBLIME. 167 
 
 Or did he now repent, when it was plainly 
 Too late to think of anything but death? 
 
 Or did he think of nothing, but was mainly 
 Concerned to get a gasp of hurried breath ? 
 
 The tiger had his meal — I'll not describe it; 
 
 These creatures are not nice — then laid him down, 
 With good digestion slowly to imbibe it 
 
 Into his system well from claw to crown. 
 
 But there were some odd fragments — not to harrow 
 Your feelings, for your flesh might creep at this — 
 
 Them first he hid for breakfast on the morrow, 
 Then stretched him out in perfect tiger-bliss. 
 
 And as he slept, he dreamed — I do not wonder, 
 Sure such a meal would set one dreaming fast — 
 
 He dreamed another Buddha had fallen under 
 His fangs, to be devoured too like the last.
 
 1 68 MORAL-SUBLIME. 
 
 He dreamed of crunching bones to reach the marrow, 
 Of his head buried in the softer part, 
 
 Of spurting blood that shot forth like an arrow, 
 And of some dainty morsels near the heart. 
 
 A horrid dream for one who had been grafted 
 With a meek nature meant to sweeten him ; 
 
 But he had tasted blood, and now he quaffed it 
 At pleasure in a dream-world wild and grim. 
 
 And on the morrow, not to waste his treasure, 
 He raked it up, and had another feast, 
 
 And then another dream, so doubling pleasure, 
 As if he were a mere cud-chewing beast. 
 
 No thought had he of growing soft and tender, 
 Of sparing women going to the well, 
 
 Or being the poor traveller's defender 
 From other cats that in the jungle dwell.
 
 MORAL-SUBLIME. 169 
 
 He had no touch of Buddha's gentle spirit, 
 
 Nor any taste of chivalry at all ; 
 That ghastly murder seemed a deed of merit, 
 
 To be repeated, nowise to appal. 
 
 The brute, no doubt, was hopelessly ferocious, 
 To eat a Buddha full of love and ruth, 
 
 And only feel how much the deed atrocious 
 Had reinforced the fierceness of his youth. 
 
 So did I picture, as my fancy willed it, 
 The good man and his fruitless sacrifice — ■ 
 
 The blood he wasted, and the brute that spilled it, 
 Having no thought of virtue or of vice : 
 
 Having no wit, but just to staunch his hunger 
 With juicy meat that pleased his unspoilt taste, 
 
 And gave him pleasant sleep, and made him stronger 
 To hunt for prey about the jungle waste.
 
 170 MORAL-SUBLIME. 
 
 That was the touch too much — that tiger story — 
 Which makes a caricature ridiculous, 
 
 Rubbing the tinsel pathos off and glory, 
 To tickle mirthful humour born in us. 
 
 Saint Francis preaching to the birds and fishes, 
 That gathered to his sermon or his crumbs, 
 
 And Buddha fain to gratify the wishes 
 
 Of the fierce brute that from the jungle comes, 
 
 Were one an owl upon the high barn rafter 
 
 Staring in serious gravity, or Nun 
 That had forsworn the wanton trick of laughter — 
 
 Then one might read, and fail to see the fun. 
 
 But though I would behold with reverence fitting 
 What sacred is to any soul on earth, 
 
 Yet this mad fooling of a mind, unwitting 
 The humour of it, wakens mocking mirth.
 
 MORAL-SUBLIME. 171 
 
 Moral-sublime ! nay, but the brain-sick dreaming 
 Of mind diseased, which we could pity, indeed, 
 
 Were we not challenged to admire the seeming 
 Virtue that propped up a fantastic creed. 
 
 And yet, perchance, like other tales that wander 
 Down through the ages, this too has been changed; 
 
 Buddha may ne'er have thought his life to squander 
 On the fierce brute that through the jungle ranged. 
 
 *But some poor scribbler, fain to exalt his merit, 
 Some plodding dullard, guiltless of a jest, 
 
 Thus fondly hoped to shew the Master's spirit, 
 And only his own folly well expressed. 
 
 * I find this incident mentioned in that beautiful poem, 
 "The Light of Asia." But I need hardly say this description 
 does not apply to its author, though I do wonder how a man 
 of such fine genius could take it seriously.
 
 172 MORAL-SUBLIME. 
 
 So are the great and good ill understanded, 
 What time their Faith a dead tradition grown, 
 
 And on the doctors and the schoolmen stranded, 
 Breaks up, a wreck upon the sand and stone. 
 
 They were not fools, those men, who earth's dis- 
 tractions 
 
 Left for an aim that still our spirit stirs : 
 Enough, to answer only for their actions, 
 
 Not for the stories of biographers.
 
 J 73 
 
 Jttirrcn. 
 
 She was but a maid of all work, 
 
 For she could not bear to see 
 Idle sluts about her kitchen 
 
 Slopping tables with their tea ; 
 And besides, she had a habit 
 
 Of speaking out her mind 
 Which might not look respectful 
 
 If another stood behind ; 
 For she'd scold a wasteful mistress 
 
 Very roundly to her face, 
 But would not let another 
 
 Think a thought to her disgrace
 
 174 
 
 MIRREN. 
 
 She had seen her fifty winters, 
 
 But was always trim and tight 
 In her printed cotton bodice, 
 
 And her apron clean and white : 
 Never knew her head a bonnet, 
 
 But a cap of muslin thin 
 With a bit of simple ribbon 
 
 Tied in bows beneath her chin : 
 And her features, small and puckered, 
 
 Looking tempery and tart, 
 Did not truly tell the secret 
 
 Of her true and faithful heart. 
 
 All the folk that did not know her — 
 And there were not many did, 
 
 For her faults were somewhat patent, 
 And her virtues mainly hid — 
 
 Much disliked her prim preciseness, 
 And her stiff unchanging ways,
 
 MIRREN. 
 
 And the tartness of her sayings, 
 And the scrimpness of her praise. 
 
 But the children, whom she rated 
 If their boots had soiled her floor, 
 
 Knew how fain she was to cheer them, 
 When their little hearts were sore. 
 
 She had never left the city, 
 
 Rarely seen the growing corn, 
 Never been a five-miles' journey 
 
 From the spot where she was born, 
 Never voyaged in a steam-boat, 
 
 Never travelled by the mail, 
 And nothing could persuade her 
 
 To go jaunting on the rail: 
 But she knew the streets and closes, 
 
 And the harbour and the boats, 
 And the kindly fishers' houses, 
 
 And their creels and nets and floats. 
 
 175
 
 176 M1RREN. 
 
 And all the grand old mansions 
 
 Where the gentry once would dwell, 
 With their cork-screw stairs and turrets, 
 
 And their chambers panelled well, 
 And the stately Lords and Ladies 
 
 Who had ridden from their doors, 
 And the fateful tragic dramas 
 
 Oft enacted on their floors, 
 She could tell you stories of them, 
 
 Till a feeling in you woke 
 That the nobles must have sorrows 
 
 Not allowed to common folk. 
 
 Going weekly to the market, 
 You might safely trust her care 
 
 Not to squander one half penny 
 Of your thrifty monies there ; 
 
 She would have the best and cheapest, 
 Yet she would not chaffer long;
 
 MIR REN. I77 
 
 They might cheat a young housekeeper, 
 But they feared her caustic tongue ; 
 
 Nor would she for a moment 
 Linger in the sun or rain ■ 
 
 She had gone to do her business, 
 And must home to work again. 
 
 Going weekly to the kirk too, 
 
 Be the Sunday dry or wet, 
 With her Bible in her kerchief, 
 
 And her features primly set, 
 There she sat in tireless patience, 
 
 Thinking less about her sin 
 Than about her common duties, 
 
 And the frets she had therein, 
 Not unpleased that she had done them 
 
 With some credit to herself, 
 
 And with visions of her saucepans 
 
 All in order on their shelf. 
 M
 
 i 7 8 MIR REN. 
 
 One clay she told her mistress, 
 
 She must find another maid : 
 No, she had no fault to find with 
 
 Any thing they did or said, 
 And she was not like the fickle 
 
 Fools that wanted just a change. 
 Nor did she much rebel at 
 
 That new-fangled kitchen range ; 
 And she had not made her mind up 
 
 To take a place or no ; 
 There was nothing she was sure of, 
 
 Only just that she must go. 
 
 Plainly there was something hidden ; 
 
 There was mystery in her look ; 
 But she pursed her lips, and held it 
 
 Tight as in a close-sealed book. 
 They wist not, when she left them, 
 
 What had wiled her thus away,
 
 MIRREN. 
 
 Puzzling over it, and guessing 
 Twenty different things a day; 
 
 They were angry, for they missed her, 
 Nothing seeming .to go smooth ; 
 
 But the pathos of it touched them, 
 When they came to know the truth. 
 
 She had served a gentlewoman, 
 
 When they both were fresh and young 
 They had smiled and sighed together, 
 
 And together wept and sung. 
 Proud was Mirren of her mistress 
 
 While her beauty was in bud, 
 Yet prouder to remember 
 
 She was come of gentle blood, 
 Having Lords to her forefathers, 
 
 With Ladies by their side, 
 And loves and wars to tell of, 
 
 And tragic tales to hide. 
 
 179
 
 1S0 MIRREN. 
 
 But the lady, when her beauty 
 
 'Gan to have a faded look, 
 Mated with a man beneath her, 
 
 Which her handmaid could not brook. 
 Why could she not live single? 
 
 Maidenhood was clean and sweet ; 
 If wed she must, why pick him 
 
 From the gutter on the street? 
 She had never served but gentles, 
 
 And she trowed she never would, 
 So they quarrelled, and they parted, 
 
 Both of them in angry mood. 
 
 So the lady had her wedding, 
 
 Though a stranger dressed her hair, 
 
 And a hand she had not proven 
 Robed her in her garments fair. 
 
 But the marriage-bed was barren, 
 And the wedded life was shame,
 
 MIR REN. 181 
 
 For he wasted all her substance, 
 
 And he soiled a noble name ; 
 Till friendless and forsaken, 
 
 With a hot and fevered eye, 
 In weariness and sickness 
 
 She prayed that she might die. 
 
 But as she sat despairing 
 
 The door was opened wide, 
 Then closed again in silence, 
 
 And one stood by her side, 
 As of old so trim and tidy, 
 
 As of old with bodice bright, 
 With the dainty cap of muslin, 
 
 And the apron clean and white ; 
 As of old so peppery tempered, 
 
 As of old so prim and tart ; 
 But also underneath it 
 
 Lay the old, true, faithful heart.
 
 ^2 MIR REN. 
 
 And she pushed a bag of something 
 
 Right into the lady's hand, 
 Saying, "Not a word, Miss Elsie, 
 
 It is by the Lord's command; 
 I've been toiling, scrimping, saving, 
 
 Till my bones and joints would ache, 
 And I've put my soul in peril 
 
 All for filthy lucre's sake. 
 Save me now from that temptation, 
 
 Give my soul a chance of life, 
 For I've just been self-deceiving, 
 
 Though I have been no man's wife. 
 
 " Now get you to the parlour, 
 This is not the place for you, 
 
 I am mistress of my kitchen, 
 And I have my work to do ; 
 
 Take your seat beside the window ; 
 There you'll see the breezy bay,
 
 MIR REN. 183 
 
 And the brown sails of the fishers 
 
 Dipping in the white sea-spray, 
 And the children pulling sea-weed, 
 
 And the old men gathering bait, 
 And lads the old boats mending 
 
 That are in a leaky state, 
 And the lighthouse on the skerry, 
 
 And the red lamp on the pier, 
 And the lass that's always waiting 
 
 For the ship that comes not here. 
 
 Oh, you'll never weary watching 
 
 The ships that come and go, 
 Or to hear the sailors singing 
 
 As they turn the capstan slow; 
 Some are bound for far Archangel, 
 
 Some for Greenland's snow and ice, 
 Some, it's likely, for a harbour 
 
 In the land of Paradise.
 
 ^4 MIR REN. 
 
 But the hand of God is o'er them, 
 And behind them and before. 
 
 And the gate of Heaven as near them 
 On the sea as on the shore. 
 
 " my bonnie, sweet Miss Elsie, 
 
 My blessing and my care, 
 You'll break my heart now, sitting 
 
 With that look of hard despair; 
 Rouse ye up, there's work to do yet, 
 
 And peace for you to win, 
 And the web of life is never 
 
 Only sorrow warped with sin. 
 There's sunshine in the rain-cloud, 
 
 And heat in wreaths of snow, 
 And God's love is in all things 
 
 That happen here below."
 
 MIRREN. 
 
 So Mirren pleaded fondly, 
 
 And her plea prevailed at last, 
 And they lived together loving, 
 
 As they had done in the past. 
 The lady broidered garments, 
 
 Or darned the dainty lace, 
 Which her handmaid washed as no one 
 
 Could wash in all the place ; 
 And if their fare was scanty, 
 
 No eye was there to see, 
 As they held themselves aloof still 
 
 In pride of poverty. 
 
 Trim was still the lady's raiment, 
 Never seeming to grow worse, 
 
 And she never lacked the glitter 
 Of a gold-piece in her purse ; 
 
 And on the Bishop's visit 
 
 She could give him rare old tea — 
 
 185
 
 1 86 MIR REN. 
 
 For of course she went to Chapel 
 
 Duly with the Quality. 
 The Bishop for her lady 
 
 Was the fitting minister; 
 But the Kirk was still to Mirren 
 
 The house of God for her. 
 
 So the weeks went by in patience, 
 
 And the Sabbaths brought their peace, 
 And the years sped lightly o'er them, 
 
 Though their labours did not cease; 
 And in the summer mornings 
 
 They saw the sun rise red, 
 And the sea a golden pavement, 
 
 Whereon his feet might tread ; 
 And in the winter evenings 
 
 O'er their needles and their frames 
 They told most tragic stories 
 
 Of the old-world knights and dames.
 
 MIR REN. i8y 
 
 And their way of life was tranquil, 
 
 And their thoughts were pure and sweel. 
 And the poor that lived beside them 
 
 Thought the better of the street, 
 When the gentry came to see them, 
 
 And the great world, in the pride 
 Of its carriages and horses, 
 
 Drew the children to its side; 
 Though a grander world was inside 
 
 If they had but eyes to see 
 The faith and love that dwelt there, 
 
 And true-hearted piety.
 
 i88 
 
 Jt Park ©boning. 
 
 The night is darkening, and the tide is leaping 
 Upon the narrow stretch of lessening shore, 
 
 Soon to engulph it, while the mists are creeping, 
 And folding round behind me and before. 
 
 My world is growing small and dim and lonely, 
 And its brief day of brightness closing fast, 
 
 I have for comrades ghostly shadows only, 
 Whose voices are but echoes from the past. 
 
 They went before me, some in youthful pride, 
 In manhood some, or noble womanhood, 
 
 And none may take their places by my side, 
 Or make this life, as they did, full and good.
 
 A DARK EVENING. 189 
 
 Much love was given me, far beyond my merit ; 
 
 And its fond service, and its tender touch, 
 And words and sweet caressings haunt my spirit — 
 
 O God, that I had only loved as much ! 
 
 'Tis not the love we get, but that we give, 
 
 Which leaves glad memories for the coming years,— 
 
 Rich after-glows of sunset, and we live, 
 And scarce feel any sorrow in our tears. 
 
 I've lived my life ; its task of work is ended. 
 
 And there is little more for me to do ; 
 O that its ill done job might yet be mended ! 
 
 That I could make it loving, brave, and true ! 
 
 There ! wrap it up — I dare not look upon it, 
 The wretched failure ! put it clean away ; 
 
 Nothing can mend it, nothing will atone it, — 
 Bury the poor dead product of my day.
 
 190 
 
 Jottnb anb |£ost. 
 
 I knew him the moment he came 
 
 Past the screen by the folding door, 
 Though I could not remember his name, 
 
 Or where I had seen him before : 
 And me, too, he knew at a glance, 
 
 For a light kindled up in his eye 
 When I stept a short step in advance, 
 
 And greeted him as he passed by. 
 
 Yet it was not a notable face; — 
 Just what you may meet any day 
 
 Note. — I had this incident fromM. Lempriere, to whom it was 
 communicated by one of the parties concerned in it.
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 191 
 
 At the hunt or the ball or the race, 
 
 Or the club or a country seat; 
 Somewhat ruddy, high-featured, and full, 
 
 With well chiselled nostrils and chin, 
 Eye blue, like a clear crystal pool, 
 
 And the hair on his temples was thin. 
 
 A forgetable face in this land, 
 
 Where so many are cast in its mould, 
 Nothing striking about it, or grand, 
 
 Only handsome and manly and cold. 
 I was over with Soult, and had seen 
 
 "The Duke" and "Sir Peel" and the rest, 
 At the time when they crowned their young Queen, 
 
 Yet this was the face I knew best. 
 
 Each feature stood clear in my mind, 
 And how in his moods it would look, 
 
 When troubled or fretful or kind, 
 Or chastened by pain and rebuke.
 
 192 
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 'Twas strange how familiar I seemed 
 
 With the trick of that face and its truth : 
 
 Was he some one of whom I had dreamed? 
 Or perhaps an old friend of my youth ? 
 
 But where had I seen him ? and when ? 
 
 And his name, too, what could it be ? 
 I had mixed in the world among men, 
 
 I had travelled by land and by sea ; 
 Could I hope, in the vanishing throng 
 
 Of memories fast growing dim, 
 To pick out this one man among 
 
 The crowd, and identify him? 
 
 You have felt how a name or a word 
 At the tip of your tongue shall appear, 
 
 And you know it so well, 'tis absurd 
 That you cannot lay hold of it clear ; 
 
 So I seemed to be still on the nick 
 Of finding out who he could be,
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 193 
 
 When lo ! by some cozening trick 
 
 He was gone like a shadow from me. 
 
 As I gazed after him, too, I caught 
 
 A look 'twas not hard to divine ; 
 It was plain that the very same thought 
 
 Was brooding in his head as mine. 
 For he knit his brows hard as he cast 
 
 A swift, searching glance now and then 
 At the face he had known in the past — 
 
 But where had he seen it, and when ? 
 
 Then he whispered to Soult, and I knew 
 
 That my general told him my name ; 
 But my name did not give him the clue 
 
 That he wished, and he still looked the same. 
 I did as he did, too, and heard 
 
 His name from the man at the door ; 
 But it was like a strange foreign word, 
 
 And I never had heard it before. 
 
 N
 
 194 
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 So we stood there apart in the throng, 
 
 A wonder and puzzle to each, 
 Nor heeded the harp or the song, 
 
 Or the hiss of their sibilant speech, 
 Though he chatted with Soult of the wars, 
 
 While I waited on, silent of course — 
 He was a milord, and had stars, 
 
 And I but a captain of Horse. 
 
 But he tired of this puzzling, and soon 
 
 Had put it quite out of his head; 
 For I marked him keep time to a tune, 
 
 And laugh when a good thing was said. 
 These Islanders are not like us ; 
 
 Quite patient of mystery they; 
 But a secret that fascinates thus 
 
 We must search, till we clear it away. 
 
 I could not, then, rid me of it, 
 But brooded in silence apart,
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 195 
 
 Nor laughed at their humour and wit, 
 
 Nor praised what they showed of their Art. 
 
 They thought me a churl, no doubt, 
 For my answers were not to the point ; 
 
 And I thought they were talking about 
 Merest nothings, and all out of joint. 
 
 Not once did he cross me again, 
 
 I am sure, for a week and a day; 
 But still in the sun and the rain, 
 
 In the season of work and of play, 
 He haunted me all day and night, 
 
 And this way and that way I went 
 Ever groping about for the light, 
 
 Like a hound that is seeking the scent. 
 
 *e 
 
 I searched out my memories all, 
 Went over the Past like a book, 
 
 Page by page, even dared to recall 
 
 Things that covered my soul with rebuke-
 
 I9 6 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 Whom I'd gambled with, drunk with, or fought, 
 Who were rivals in old love affairs, 
 
 Who was owing me money, or ought 
 To be paid what I owed, unawares. 
 
 Strange things by that search were revealed. 
 
 Old stories not good to recall, 
 Things that Fate, too, for ever had sealed, 
 
 Wrongs that could not be righted at all. 
 Who shall ope all his cupboards, and find 
 
 Nothing there to repent or regret, 
 No scraps of old writing that blind 
 
 With tears the dim eyes that they wet? 
 
 Yet 'twas good for me so to review 
 My former life, scene after scene ; 
 
 It gave me some thoughts that were new, 
 And revived better thoughts that had been. 
 
 If it shamed me no less, here and there, 
 ft set me to putting things right ;
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 But on this one perplexing affair 
 It shed not a glimmer of light. 
 
 Not a drop of his blood had I shed, 
 
 Not a livre was he in my debt, 
 Not a card with him e'er had I played, 
 
 Nor as rivals in love had we met. 
 I was baffled, and threw myself down 
 
 On the close-shaven grass of their Park, 
 And heard the far hum of the town, 
 
 And the clear even-song of the lark. 
 
 Then all of a sudden, when I 
 
 With long, fruitless searching was spent, 
 Half-minded no longer to try, 
 
 Lo ! one unconnected event, 
 Which neither before nor behind 
 
 Had linked itself on to my thought, 
 Broke clear as a star on my mind, 
 
 And I knew I had found what I sought. 
 
 197
 
 ig8 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 One moment the curtain concealed 
 
 Every hint of the scene and the play ; 
 Then Phew ! all the stage was revealed 
 
 In the blaze of a bright summer day ; 
 And I knew that I had him at last, 
 
 Knew, without any doubt, it was he — 
 That face in the far away Past 
 
 That lay so long staring at me. 
 
 We had had a brisk skirmish one day 
 
 Of outposts, when Soult was in Spain, 
 And wounded and bleeding I lay, 
 
 Thinking ne'er to do battle again ; 
 And the vultures were soaring up high, 
 
 And the lean dogs were creeping about, 
 And the grey-hooded crow, hopping nigh, 
 
 Kept watch for the life to ebb out. 
 
 I lay on the bank of a stream, 
 
 A brooklet some yard or two wide,
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 199 
 
 That whispered to me like a dream 
 As it slowly lapsed on by my side — 
 
 A dream of our beautiful France, 
 
 With its white orchard bloom and its grain, 
 
 And the vintages gay in Provence, 
 I was never to look on again. 
 
 And right on the opposite bank 
 
 A handsome young English face 
 Kept gazing at me with a blank, 
 
 Vague look from his red resting place. 
 " He is plainly dying," I said, 
 
 " But gallant and stout for his years ;" 
 For close by his side, and stark dead, 
 
 Lay one of our brave cuirassiers. 
 
 So hour after hour there we lay, 
 
 And looked at each other across 
 The brook that went trickling away, 
 
 Slowly licking our blood from the moss ;
 
 200 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 Now we heard the loud bugle-calls clear, 
 Then the noise of the fighting grew weak, 
 
 And the lean dogs came snarling up near, 
 And the hooded crow whetted his beak. 
 
 And all those long hours I perused 
 
 His features there, line upon line, 
 Half-conscious and dim and confused, 
 
 As he, too, lay reading at mine ; 
 I scanned him again and again, 
 
 He was the one thing I could see, 
 And he printed himself on my brain, 
 
 Till he seemed like a portion of me. 
 
 If I closed my eyes, still he was there 
 As plain as he had been before ; 
 
 If I lifted my eyelids to stare, 
 
 He was lying there dabbled in gore. 
 
 " He is plainly dying," I thought, 
 " And better for me he were dead,
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 2 oi 
 
 Those pain-stricken features will not 
 Be blotted e'er out of my head." 
 
 And never a word could we speak ; 
 
 I was lying half-choked with my blood, 
 Slow-gasping and fainting and weak, 
 
 And grasping a handful of mud ; 
 While he from the opposite brink 
 
 Looked across, as if looking his last ; 
 And O for some water to drink 
 
 From the brook that went rippling past ! 
 
 Then there fell, as it were, a great mist 
 
 On my eyes, and I saw him no more, 
 Nor thought of him even, nor wist 
 
 Was he living or dead, till the door 
 Of the guest-hall opened, and he 
 
 Strode stately into the room, 
 And that face flashed out upon me 
 
 Like a face from the shades of the tomb.
 
 202 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 Now it all came back, and I rushed 
 
 To his club to remind him again 
 Of the day when our life-blood had gushed, 
 
 And mixed in the brooklet in Spain : 
 But I found he had gone, as they said 
 
 Was his way, whither nobody knew, 
 Perhaps, where the icebergs are bred, 
 
 Perhaps, to Japan or Peru. 
 
 A traveller, restless and bold, 
 
 He would turn now his wandering feet 
 To seas that were frozen with cold, 
 
 Now to plains that were blasted with heat 
 He knew the Red man of the West, 
 
 Had rid with the wild Bedaween, 
 And oft been the African's guest, 
 
 Where the spoor of the lion was seen. 
 
 Yet would he come back, they averred, 
 And take his old seat by the fire,
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 20; 
 
 As if nothing meanwhile had occurred 
 
 To make foolish people admire. 
 But I never have seen him again ! 
 
 And to know what it could mean, 
 That printing of him on my brain 
 
 Who was only once more to be seen. 
 
 We are tricked by illusory light, 
 
 Are we mocked by realities too? 
 Is our life but a dream of the night 
 
 Whose facts have no purpose in view? 
 So strangely my path he had crossed ! 
 
 So strongly my mind had impressed ! 
 If he must like a shadow be lost, 
 
 Why passed he not light as the rest? 
 
 You paint a likeness with care, 
 
 Yet smudge it all out the next day, 
 
 For you feel that the soul was not there, 
 And the soul is the man, as you say :
 
 204 FOUND AND LOST. 
 
 But what if your picture were all 
 
 You had hoped e'er to make it, and then 
 
 You turned the face back to the wall 
 Which was touching the spirits of men ? 
 
 Do you grudge them the joy they have 
 found ? 
 
 Do you mean but to mock and to spite ? 
 Why sow the quick seed in the ground 
 
 But to trample it next out of sight ? 
 God or Nature, that shapes each event, 
 
 Does he labour to quicken desire, 
 Just to disappoint hopes he has sent, 
 
 Just to quench his own fresh-kindled fire? 
 
 It is dark to me, dark as the night 
 That moonless and starless moves on, 
 
 With only such glimmer of light, 
 
 As to shew the clouds brooding thereon.
 
 FOUND AND LOST. 205 
 
 And I never shall see him again, 
 
 Or know what was meant by the look 
 
 That was printed so deep on my brain 
 As we lay by the slow Spanish brook.
 
 206 
 
 "Hhz pttre ie <Eadut. 
 
 In the days when France snapt her old chains, 
 
 And rose up, and swore; 
 " We are men, we have hearts, we have brains, 
 
 We will slaves be no more 
 To king or to noble or priest, 
 
 But all men shall be 
 As brothers from bondage released, 
 
 All equal and free : " 
 And some stood in wonder amazed, 
 
 Their wits of no use; 
 And some said the people were crazed, 
 
 And Bedlam broke loose ;
 
 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 
 
 And some, in pure terror, aghast 
 
 In troops ran away ; 
 But some held it safer to cast 
 
 Them into the fray ; 
 While others took snuff with a smile, 
 
 As they tramped through the mud, 
 Saying, " Time we should teach this Canaille 
 
 By the letting of blood." 
 Well, the people were mad, if you will, 
 
 In those days of hot rage, 
 Yet the shout of their multitudes still 
 
 Was the pulse of the age, 
 And the hope of the nations around, 
 
 Who waited on, dumb, 
 Thinking, " We too are fettered and bound : 
 
 Let us see what will come." 
 But their kings and their nobles and priests 
 
 Gnashed their teeth when they saw, 
 And screamed at their altars and feasts, 
 
 207
 
 2o8 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 
 
 " Ho ! for God and the law ! 
 Did He not make us lords of the world, 
 
 And these for our slaves ? 
 Let our armies be mustered, and hurled 
 
 On their heads like sea-waves." 
 
 In those days, then, when bold spirits ran 
 
 From prison to prison, 
 They came on a squalid old man, 
 
 Half-reft of his reason, 
 Who had been shut up for long years 
 
 In a stone-vaulted cell 
 Wet-walled with his sweat and his tears — 
 
 Why, no one could tell. 
 No record there was of his crime, 
 
 If crime he had done ; 
 No trial had he at the time 
 
 When they shut out the sun 
 From his life, and alone there he lay,
 
 THE LETTRE BE CACHET. 
 
 And heard not a sound, 
 Save the grating of bolts once a day 
 
 In the silence profound, 
 Or the fall of a drop on the floor 
 
 From the roof overhead, 
 Though the streets might be all in a roar 
 
 To have wakened the dead ; 
 And he dreamed, as he lay on his straw, 
 
 Of the sun and the lark, 
 And day followed day, and he saw 
 
 But the dusk and the dark ; 
 For at noon it was gloaming down there, 
 
 And at evening, as death ; 
 And still in the close, foetid air 
 
 He was gasping for breath. — 
 So our shepherds took care that their flocks 
 
 Should not stray from the fold, 
 
 If stone walls and strong bars and locks 
 
 Might be trusted to hold. 
 
 o 
 
 209
 
 210 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 
 
 But the bands of that mighty revolt 
 
 Flung open his door, 
 And cried, as they shattered the bolt, 
 
 " Thou art free, as of yore 
 When, a schoolboy, thy wont was to play 
 
 By the wood and the brook, 
 And the trout in the ripple would play 
 
 With the gay-feathered hook; 
 Or when, as a man thou would'st go 
 
 To the tryste in the glen, 
 And love whispered, tender and low, 
 
 What is dearest to men. 
 Come forth from thy wet-walled cell, 
 
 Where the damp and the mould 
 And the dusk and the dark ever dwell 
 
 With the cramp and the cold ; 
 Be merry, the land now is free, 
 
 And thy gaoler, the king, 
 Is where all wicked kings ought to be — 
 
 Go dance, then, and sing."
 
 THE LETT RE DE CACHET. 2 II 
 
 They were rough, coarse fellows \ and yet 
 
 They were touched to the quick 
 By the pale, bloodless spectre that met 
 
 Their gaze, and the sick 
 Wan flicker of light in his eye, 
 
 Which had not any hope, 
 Nor a longing to live or to die, — 
 
 Content just to mope, 
 Without converse of things unseen 
 
 To sweeten his pain, 
 Or remembrance of things that had been, 
 
 To restore hope again. 
 
 So dazed, and uncertain he crept 
 
 From his cell and his straw, 
 And they marked that he trembled and wept 
 
 When the sunlight he saw ; 
 And blinked, bewildered and blind, 
 
 Like an owl or a bat,
 
 212 THE LETT RE BE CACHET. 
 
 Feeling out with his lean hands to find 
 
 What he wished to be at ; 
 For he had not seen daylight for years, 
 
 Only dim, pallid gleams 
 Through stanchions and cobwebs and tears, 
 
 Or at night in his dreams. 
 And it was not a joy, but a pain 
 
 To look on the light, 
 Or to see human faces again, 
 
 Or to stand straight upright. 
 So, dazed and amazed, forth he went 
 
 Through the iron-nailed gate, 
 All tremulous, shrinking, and bent, — 
 
 A man out of date. 
 
 He passed through the iron-nailed door, 
 
 For they said he was free 
 To do as he had done of yore, 
 
 When the hill and the sea
 
 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 213 
 
 And the wood and the heath and the stream 
 
 Knew his coming so well — 
 Unless it was only a dream 
 
 He had dreamt in his cell. 
 Was he not once a lord, and had lands, 
 
 And a chateau somewhere, 
 And serfs who obeyed his commands, 
 
 And a wife passing fair — 
 Too fair — or was all that again 
 
 A dream and no more? 
 There were so many passed through his brain 
 
 As he lay on the floor 
 'Mong the straw, and had nothing to do. 
 
 Yea, a dream it had been, 
 For a king must be loyal and true 
 
 To his peers and his queen. 
 Then he smote his thin palm on his brow, 
 
 As if striving to see 
 What would never come clear to him now —
 
 214 
 
 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 
 
 Best never to be ! 
 Just a glimmer of light broke on him 
 
 With a spasm of pain, 
 Then the grey look, sodden and dim. 
 
 Settled on him again. 
 
 O the horror and terror of that 
 
 Aimless walk up the street S 
 Was he sleeping or waking? and what 
 
 At next turn should he meet? 
 Now his ear was jarred with the strain 
 
 Of the wild Marseillaise ; 
 Then his heart was smit with the pain 
 
 Of some wolf-hungry gaze. 
 And why were the workmen abroad 
 
 In the hours of their toil ? 
 And where were the good priests of God 
 
 With the pyx and the oil ? 
 And where was his light-hearted France,
 
 THE LETT RE DE CACHET. 
 
 215 
 
 And its wit-loving soul? 
 And who were those dames in the dance 
 
 Of the mad Carmagnole ? 
 And O the fell rush and the tramp 
 
 Of the hurrying throng ! 
 And the sights here and there by the lamp, 
 
 As they bore him along, 
 Where they'd hoisted a noble perhaps, — 
 
 As the nobles of yore 
 Nailed the vermin they caught in their traps 
 
 To the big barn door, — 
 With maybe a priest by his side 
 
 In his old black soutaine — 
 They were fain to have priests, when they died, 
 
 So they coupled the twain. 
 And then, as he shuddered and stared, 
 
 The tumbril drove past 
 With the victims that law had ensnared — 
 
 Some pale and aghast,
 
 2 1 6 THE LE TTRE DE CA CHE T. 
 
 Some gay as to wedding they rode, 
 
 Some mocking with scorn 
 The crowd that was raging for blood 
 
 Of the high and well-born. 
 There were matrons and maidens fair, 
 
 Who bent their heads low ; 
 No powder they need for their hair, 
 
 It is while now as snow. 
 There were old men and boys doomed to die ; 
 
 What could it all mean? 
 And lo ! in the distance rose high 
 
 The black guillotine. 
 
 As they hurried him onward, at first 
 
 He would shout like the rest, 
 As if some fell demon accursed 
 
 Had got into his breast. 
 But at length on the skirt of the crowd 
 
 The madness was quelled,
 
 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 217 
 
 And his soul within him was bowed 
 
 At the sights he beheld. 
 Could that be the pulse and the throb 
 
 Of a great-thoughted age — 
 That hoarse, fierce yell of a mob 
 
 In its masterless rage ? 
 How they jostled and struggled and plashed 
 
 Through the mire and the mud, 
 The frantic Unbreeched and Unwashed, 
 
 In their craving for blood ! 
 
 Once more for a moment his brain 
 
 Had clearness and power, 
 And the soul of his youth came again 
 
 In that terrible hour. 
 He had fain closed his eyes at the sight 
 
 He was looking on there ; 
 But so strong was the spell in its might 
 
 That he could not but stare,
 
 2 1 8 THE LETTRE DE CA CHE T. 
 
 While he sickened to gaze on that hell 
 
 Of the fiend and the brute, 
 Which was holding him fast in its spell, 
 
 Tongue-tied there and mute. 
 And where were the nobles of France, 
 
 And the knight and the squire? 
 And where were the sword and the lance, 
 
 And the cord and the fire? 
 And where was the king and the throne 
 
 And the order of state? 
 And where all the world he had known, 
 
 And forgotten of late? 
 Flashed a light in his eye, and a frown 
 
 On his forehead was plain ; 
 Then the dull grey look settled down 
 
 Apathetic again. 
 
 Next day he came back to his gaol, 
 Looking weary and sore,
 
 THE LETT RE DE CACHET. 219 
 
 And prayed with a pitiful wail 
 
 They would open its door. 
 No, he had not committed a crime; 
 
 He had just lost his head, 
 And he did not belong to the time, 
 
 And his friends were all dead. 
 Would they not let him back to his cell, 
 
 And its straw and its peace? 
 And there for the rest he would dwell, 
 
 Till death brought release. 
 " For it pains me, the glare of the light, 
 
 And it fills me with fear, 
 The horrors that meet me by night, 
 
 And the sounds that I hear. 
 Still the tocsin is ringing and ringing, 
 
 And women are seen 
 That song of the Marseillaise singing 
 
 Round the black guillotine; 
 And princes and nobles are killed
 
 220 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 
 
 By the axe and the cord, 
 And orgies of darkness are held 
 
 In the courts of the Lord ; 
 And there is not a priest to confess. 
 
 Nor a monk begging alms, 
 Nor a pyx for a soul in distress, 
 
 Nor a nun singing psalms. 
 And all in confusion is whirled, 
 
 And strangeness and fear ; 
 And I have but one friend in the world, 
 
 And lo ! he is here." 
 So they let him go back to his cell, 
 
 And the straw and the mat. 
 And his friend, who could he be ? Ah ! well ; 
 
 The friend was a rat. 
 
 Do you mock at my story because 
 Thus lamely it ends,
 
 THE LETTRE DE CACHET. 22 i 
 
 But the man in a prison-cell has 
 
 Small choice of his friends : 
 Just turns from the hard stones to aught 
 
 That has life in it — now 
 To a seedling flower, chance blown, and 
 taught 
 
 In his window to grow ; 
 And now to a spider whose web 
 
 Was devouring his light, 
 For life clings to life in the ebb 
 
 And dead hour of its night ; 
 And there is a pathos where such 
 
 Fond clinging appears, 
 A something human to touch 
 
 The deep fount of tears. 
 So, I deem that his instinct was true 
 
 When he turned back to that 
 Which was the one friend that he knew, 
 
 Were it only a rat.
 
 222 
 
 THE LETT RE DE CACHET. 
 
 It was something that trusted in him, 
 
 Something to love, 
 And it shed on his darkness a dim 
 
 Feeble light from above.
 
 223 
 
 Jt Calm. 
 
 Yesterday the wind blew high, 
 
 Tore the Minch in tatters small, 
 Drove us back to dripping Skye 
 
 Wrapped up in a black cloud-pall : 
 And we saw upon the strand, 
 
 Broken boat and shattered oar, 
 Women wailing on the land, 
 
 Terror stalking on the shore. 
 Then the fickle waters, spent, 
 
 Stretched them out and lay supine- 
 Samson resting now, content 
 
 To have wrecked the Philistine.
 
 2 24 A CALM - 
 
 Rocking in a summer calm. 
 
 Making not an inch of way, 
 While the air is soft as balm, 
 
 And the hills in loch and bay 
 Wrap them in a purple haze 
 
 Whereon the lingering sun doth lean, 
 And the clouds are all ablaze, 
 
 And the waters catch their sheen, 
 Every rag of canvas spread, 
 
 With flapping sail and creaking boom, 
 Pennon at the tall mast head 
 
 Drooping like a draggled plume, 
 We have rolled here to and fro 
 
 All the long, hot August day, 
 Till the westering sun is low, 
 
 Making not an inch of way. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 
 Keen-eyed screaming seagulls come,
 
 A CALM. 
 
 Touch the sea with light wing-tip, 
 
 And skim away the floating crumb : 
 Guillemots are calling low 
 
 To their chicks that wander far, 
 And rising, flap their wings to show 
 
 The too bold swimmers where they are ; 
 Hungry cormorants hurry by, 
 
 Snorts the porpoise here and there, 
 And not a ripple can we spy 
 
 Stirring to the moving air. 
 Blue the cloudless sky o'erhead, 
 
 Blue the waveless sea below, 
 Only the tide low-pulsing made 
 
 A lazy rocking to and fro. 
 
 So basking in the purple light, 
 
 One said, " Lo ! this is heaven, indeed ; 
 
 Yesterday we had the fight, 
 
 Now we get the rest we need, 
 p 
 
 225
 
 226 A CALM. 
 
 Happy creatures round us be, 
 Joy is in our hearts and love, 
 
 Peace is on the earth and sea, 
 Glory in the heaven above." 
 
 Gruffly then our skipper; "Stuff! 
 
 This may be a heaven to you ; 
 As for me I've had enough 
 
 Of those oily waters blue. 
 Here have we been all the day 
 
 Listening to that creaking spar, 
 While the sea-gulls fly away, 
 
 And the dab-chicks wander far. 
 Let me have a good stiff breeze, 
 
 Hear a rushing at the prow, 
 Now and then be shipping seas, 
 
 Lurching in the hollow now : 
 Anything — a wind ahead, 
 
 Racking cloud and driving rain-
 
 A CALM. 
 
 Sooner than these waters dead, 
 
 And watching for a breeze in vain. 
 Heaven ! there's only one thing worse 
 
 Than to lie here like a log ; 
 That is not to know your course, 
 
 Sounding in a dismal fog. 
 Vain to keep the helm aport, 
 
 Vain to spread the topsail high ; 
 Better like a porpoise snort, 
 
 Better be a gull and fly, 
 Better to have flat, webbed feet, 
 
 Bad to walk, but good to swim, 
 Than be drifting in the heat, 
 
 Till the gloaming light is dim. 
 
 He who made the worlds, they say, 
 When His busy work was done, 
 
 Rested on the Sabbath day, 
 Till its listless hours were run.
 
 228 A CALM. 
 
 I've been in the East, and know 
 That is still the bliss they crave, 
 
 Just to lie, and let the slow- 
 Hours go dreaming to the grave. 
 
 Well ; if that was all the heaven 
 The Devil had to be happy in, 
 
 I do not wonder much that even 
 By way of change he took to sin. 
 
 There's that creaking boom again ! 
 How the lazy shadows float ! 
 
 'Tis enough to turn one's brain 
 To hear that croaking guillemot !
 
 229 
 
 Spring Jftotning. 
 
 In the spring when the cuckoo calls 
 
 From the shade of the fresh green leaves, 
 
 And the young lambs leap on the grass, 
 And the swallows are brisk on the eaves, 
 
 And things with glittering wings 
 
 Bask in the sunshine it brings ; 
 
 In the morning when glad birds sing, 
 And flowers on their dewdrops close, 
 
 And the meadow is breathing its sweets 
 Where the bee-loved clover grows, 
 
 And the gleams and the ripple of streams 
 
 Are like joys that come to us in dreams ;
 
 2tO 
 
 SPRING MORNING. 
 
 O the sweet, bright mornings of spring, 
 
 With the dew and the song and the flower, 
 
 And the glad young life of the world, 
 As it laughs in the glory of power, 
 
 It is good for the spirit as food, 
 
 The tender green leaf of the wood. 
 
 Ah ! well that the heart, growing cold 
 With the frosts of the wintry years, 
 
 Can still be made glad as of old, 
 
 When the spring in its beauty appears, 
 
 And the light, coming forth in its might, 
 
 Drives away the sad ghosts of the night.
 
 231 
 
 (DrtotU. 
 
 I stand on the shore of the lake, 
 
 Where the small wave ripples and frets ; 
 
 O the land has its weeds, and the lake has its reeds, 
 And the heart has its vain regrets. 
 
 Hark ! how the skylarks sing, 
 
 Far up about God's own feet, 
 And the click of the loom is in each little room, 
 
 Of the long, bare village street. 
 
 Yonder the old home stands, 
 
 With the little grey kirk behind ; 
 There are children at play on the sunny brae, 
 
 And their shouts come down the wind,
 
 232 
 
 ORWELL. 
 
 With the smell of the old sweet flowers 
 
 We planted there long ago ; 
 And the red-moss rose still buds and blows 
 
 By the door, where it used to grow. 
 
 All of it still unchanged, 
 
 Yet all so changed to me ; 
 For love then was sweet, and its bliss complete, 
 
 And there was no cloud to see. 
 
 But the light is quenched and gone 
 
 That brightened the place of yore, 
 And all the suns and the shining ones 
 
 Shall bring back that light nevermore. 
 
 Ah me ! for the shore and the lake 
 Where the small wave ripples and frets ! 
 
 The land has its weeds, and the lake has its reeds, 
 And the heart has its vain regrets.
 
 *33 
 
 ]h\\i in tarsus. 
 
 It should seem that, after his first interview with the Apostles 
 in Jerusalem, Paul for a season returned to Tarsus, for it was 
 there Barnabas sought for him when at last the way was clear 
 for his great mission. 
 
 So, I have drifted back to the old home, 
 
 And now am stranded here ; the tide flows past, 
 
 Bearing upon its bosom soaring hopes 
 
 And daring ventures, some to reach the haven, 
 
 And some to suffer shipwreck ; but for me, 
 
 I must lie warping in the sun, who yet 
 
 Am full, as Springtide, of a living force 
 
 That tingles in me, eager to break forth 
 
 In labours manifold and fruitfulness
 
 234 
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 To the glory of His grace. I would be patient; 
 I tell myself a hundred times a day, 
 "Be still, and wait; God's time is best; when He 
 Has need of thee, lo ! He will give the word; 
 Then see that thou art ready." So I try 
 To calm this restless heart, what time I seem 
 To hear far off the hum of them that watch 
 The runner panting onward in the race, 
 Or wrestler wrestling fur a fading wreath ; 
 Meanwhile, I sit with folded hands, and dream 
 The hours away in aching idleness, 
 Which eats my heart like rust. 
 
 What must I do, 
 Weary awaiting, eyed with scorn by all 
 The townsmen thronging in the streets and marts? 
 A prophet hath no honour, the Master said, 
 In his own country. My old schoolmates now 
 Will pass me with a sneer upon their lips, 
 Or scowl upon their brows. I heard one say,
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 235 
 
 By chance, unto his neighbour, "Lo! the man 
 Who found no sphere in Tarsus large enough 
 For his ambition ! We might shoulder our packs, 
 And peddle among the villagers, and have 
 Some day a shop in the bazaar, or ship 
 Trading to Antioch \ but he would ride 
 O' th' top o' th' wave in High Jerusalem. 
 Now see him lounging idly half the day 
 About the doors, or basking like a dog 
 In some hot patch of sunshine ; a traitor too, 
 And faithless to the God of Abraham, 
 Unless the letters from the Holy City 
 Belie him. So his pride has got a fall." 
 That's how they do regard me ; and they would 
 Be right, were I the man that once I was. 
 But Thou, my God, the searcher of all hearts, 
 Knowest that what I counted once for gain 
 I reckon now but loss for Him whose love 
 Redeemed me with His life. I blame them not ;
 
 236 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 They do but scorn the Saul whom I, too, loathe 
 Far more than they; but he is dead and gone. 
 
 I do not eat the bread of idleness ; 
 
 I have my trade, and earn my daily wage, 
 
 Enough to live on — that is all I need, • 
 
 And more would be a cumber and a snare. 
 
 But when I've 1 done my task, and fain would read 
 
 The book o' the Law, the Prophets or the Psalms, 
 
 And gather what those treasures of the wisdom 
 
 Which is Eternal tell us of the Christ 
 
 That was to come, and has come, even Jesus 
 
 Whom the Jews killed, and whom I saw in heaven, 
 
 Then do I find my father watching me, 
 
 With sad, pathetic look in his old eyes, 
 
 And oft entreating me ; " Behold, my son, 
 
 Those Christians you are fain to traffic with 
 
 In their accursed heresy and schism, [would ; 
 
 Have cast you off. You might have known they
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 237 
 
 Those who are faithful to their father's God 
 Are faithful to their brethren, and only they; 
 But these self-willed, have snared you in their net, 
 And thrown you then away. They boast of you 
 In their assemblies, that they have converted 
 The man who was their scourge; but do they trust 
 
 you ? 
 Why have they found no post for you? and why 
 Have you no visitors, no urgent letters 
 Beseeching you to serve their cause ? You have 
 Eloquence, genius, learning, gifts which they 
 Are greatly needing — but they need not you, 
 Because they do not trust you, and never will. 
 Will you not write Gamaliel? you were ever 
 His favourite scholar ; it would make him slad 
 More than when wine and oil do most abound, 
 To learn that this brief madness now is past, 
 And you a child o' th' law again. Once more 
 A place among the Rabbis might be yours,
 
 238 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 A high seat in the Synagogue, for he 
 
 Hath still the ear o' the Scribes and Pharisees. 
 
 Arise, my son, and do not waste your life 
 
 On Publicans and sinners, and foolish dreams 
 
 Of fisher folk. You need not turn again 
 
 To persecute those people : you might even 
 
 Protect them, as Gamaliel did, with pleas 
 
 Of patience, till the end o' the Lord was seen 
 
 In their confusion. Certainly they are 
 
 A pestilent sect : and O, to think that one 
 
 Born of my loins should have his part with them 
 
 Even for a day ! But yet I do not love 
 
 Shedding of blood. Even Moses might have been 
 
 More pitiful to the erring, though his were times 
 
 That called for sterner treatment than our days 
 
 Of civil order. There are some good heathens 
 
 Whom I have found it easier dealing with 
 
 Than with some brethren of our Synagogue, 
 
 And hold them not accursed. But, indeed,
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 2 39 
 
 'Tis different when a son of Israel 
 
 Forsakes the God who brought His people of old, 
 
 By signs and wonders, from the house of bondage ; 
 
 Him the law judges rightly. As for this Jesus, 
 
 Surely the High Priest justly said, ' 'Twere better 
 
 That one man die than all the people perish ; ' 
 
 Though, I confess, I could have wished He had not 
 
 Been crucified, nor yet that any one 
 
 Should die for mere opinion, being always 
 
 Obedient to the law. I heard him once, 
 
 When I was at the Feast, preach in the Porch 
 
 Called Beautiful ; and truly what He said 
 
 Was quickening doctrine, with a ring in His words 
 
 Like the old prophets, flashing light on you, 
 
 And searching you, and humbling you, until 
 
 You felt the shame of sin, and beauty of truth 
 
 And holiness. I marvel not, my son, 
 
 That you were taken with the glamour of it, 
 
 Though it be held most deadly. We must trust
 
 2 4 o PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 The rulers and the scribes — the unerring Law, 
 Not our own judgments. Say that you will write 
 Gamaliel now, and leave it all to him. 
 So might you get again both place and power, 
 To shield the guiltless, and maintain the cause 
 Of charity and peace, until the Lord 
 Cast forth the heathen from his heritage, 
 And come to reign in glory." 
 
 What can I do, 
 As day by day, and all day long, such words 
 Are thrust on me by one whom I must honour, 
 Even when he doth provoke me to that shame? 
 I may not give my heart vent, may not utter 
 The thoughts that burn in me. I've done it some- 
 times, 
 And then he raged with curse and blasphemy 
 Of that so holy name ; but if I'm silent 
 He has some drop to sweeten the bitter potion, 
 Something that shews his own more kindly nature,
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 241 
 
 Like that remembrance of the sermon in 
 
 The Porch o' the Temple. Am I doing right 
 
 To hold my peace, when love is hot in me 
 
 To testify for Jesus, but being fain 
 
 To save his soul from sin, I bite my tongue, 
 
 And seal my lips in silence? Lord, Thou knowest 
 
 It is not lack of faith, but that I shrink 
 
 To see my father shamed in shaming Thee. 
 
 A good, kind-hearted son of Israel, 
 
 But for his priest, who crams him with the lies 
 
 That pilgrims bring back from Jerusalem 
 
 Where lies are bred like gnats. My father's house, 
 
 All save my sister's son — a likely youth, 
 
 Who does not understand, but cleaves to me — 
 
 All, blinded by tradition of the Scribes, 
 
 Look for another Christ to come and reign, 
 
 Not by the might of love and sorrow in 
 
 The hearts of men, but by the sword of wrath 
 
 Which hath devoured too long, and sunders those 
 
 Q
 
 242 
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 Who should be brothers. None of them will heed 
 My gospel, or the wonder that befel me 
 On the Damascus road, when He I hated 
 Turned hate to love, and showed me all my sin, 
 And gave me that grand thought of God which 
 
 brightens 
 The darkness with its glory. O, 'tis sad ! 
 But neither did His brethren Christ believe ; 
 Enough, then, for the servant that he be 
 Even as his Master. But I will not cease 
 To pray for them, although they heed me not. 
 Who knows but God may give them yet to me, 
 As James was given to Jesus? 
 
 Yet that James, 
 Although he seemed a pillar of the Church 
 With John and Peter, did not help me greatly 
 When I took counsel with them. They were hard, 
 And eyed me with suspicion when I came 
 With Barnabas, and told the grace of God
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 243 
 
 Which found me when I sought it not. And yet 
 
 I blame them not. I had been very mad 
 
 Against the Church, and haled the saints to prison, 
 
 And stood by those who stoned the dying Stephen, 
 
 And saw his face shine like an angel's, yet 
 
 Went on my evil way; but God had mercy 
 
 Upon me, for I did it in ignorance 
 
 And unbelief. And now I marvel not 
 
 That it clung to me, shadowing my name 
 
 With taint of deep suspicion, as if I 
 
 Had cloaked me with a lie to work more harm. 
 
 Ah me ! we little think how our misdeeds 
 
 Do trammel up our future, and make it hard 
 
 To do the right when we are minded right. 
 
 How could I dare to fault those holy men 
 
 Who companied with Jesus, and drank in 
 
 His spirit like the common air, that they 
 
 Shrank from a persecuting Pharisee, 
 
 And scarce could take my word for it, that I
 
 244 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 Was a new man, nor that of Barnabas, 
 Who knew but what I told him ? Those who have 
 The care o' the Churches on them needs must pick 
 Their steps with care. 
 
 And yet I asked not much ; 
 Only their sanction to go forth among 
 The heathen and the dispersed of Israel, 
 And preach the faith of Him who died for us 
 That we might live in Him. There was none else 
 To do this work. I would not enter on 
 The labours of another, or reap the field 
 Which he had sown. But my soul burned in me 
 To travel on this errand, and behold 
 Strange lands and wonders, and to tell them 
 Yet stranger wonders. Often, as a youth, 
 I watched the wild men driving to the plain, 
 Through the Cilician gates, their sheep and goats, 
 Themselves in sheepskin and goatskin rudely clad; 
 And I did think that some day I should thread
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 245 
 
 The dismal pass among the clouds and rocks, 
 And see them in their homes, and tell them all 
 About the living God, who made the world, 
 And giveth all things richly to enjoy. 
 I've heard that there are cities beyond those hills, 
 Full of strange peoples, having customs strange, 
 Who worship not the gods of Greece or Rome, 
 Or Tyre or Babylon, and among them some 
 Who serve Jehovah. Fain am I to see 
 Those cities which awoke my boyish wonder 
 And love of travel, and to walk along 
 Their streets, and cry like Jonah; but my burden 
 Would be the love of God and grace of Christ. 
 
 Yet here am I in this slow eddy caught, 
 Eating my heart in very powerlessness, 
 With all my powers upon me. Surely, Lord, 
 Thou hast some work for me to do, some task 
 That might be to the glory of Thy name.
 
 4 
 
 246 PAUL IN TARSUS. 
 
 I'm not a worn out tool to throw away, 
 And rust among the rubbish. I am young 
 And strong, and eager to redeem the time 
 Which once I spent in service of the flesh ; 
 But now so much the more would I devote 
 All that I am, or have to Thee. I know 
 I cannot by the duty of to-day 
 Atone for failure of duty yesterday; 
 But when the fight is raging, and I long 
 To play the man for Christ, must I be doomed 
 Just to look on? Thy ways are not as ours, 
 Neither Thy thoughts as our thoughts. Yet, behold, 
 The heathen are wholly given unto their idols, 
 And walk in darkness, and Thy servant asks 
 Only the right to take his cross, and bear it 
 Into the midst of them, in certain faith 
 01 its victorious power. I will be patient. 
 Thy will be done, not mine. And yet I think 
 It would become Thee to bring back Thy sons
 
 PAUL IN TARSUS. 247 
 
 From shame to glory, Lord ; and I am ready 
 To suffer for them, if they may be healed 
 Of their sore plagues. But yet Thy will be done. 
 For Thou canst save by many or by few, 
 Without me or with me ; I have done much evil, 
 And maybe am not meet to serve the Lord 
 Whom once I hated. So, Thy will be done. 
 
 Whose voice is that I hear, which at the door 
 Asks if one Saul be here ? My Barnabas ! 
 He was to seek me when a door was opened, 
 And now he cometh. God, I give thee thanks; 
 And now I live indeed. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE, UNIVERSITY 1'RESS, GLASGOW.
 
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