ALAN had preached his sermon–grave, devout,
Yet full of lightnings and electric shocks
For tender souls who reckoned even doubt
Less damnable than faith unorthodox;
Henceforth the young apostle stood without
Their iron gates, made fast with bars and locks,
Till his last banishment to realms beneath,
Where scoffers ever weep and gnash their teeth.
But now he sat and chatted in his room
With his friend George, who comfortably smoked
His pipe, unthinking of so dread a doom,
And talked in worldly tone, that half-provoked
Alan to wrath; yet on the tranquil fume
Floated kind wishes, clad in words that joked,
And many a scheme, by friendly warmth begot,
And pictures quaint of Alan’s future lot.
“The people, chiefly poor and ignorant,
Will be a stony field for you to plough;
What thoughts they spare from misery and from want
May they be yours! But let me show you now
Another aspect: you will have a scant
Sprinkling of better hearers, to allow
Scope for your genius–men of moderate wealth,
Whose tonic for their spiritual health
“Has been to found a church where all is free,
The seats, the service, and the preacher’s thought,
Where e’en the poorest may behold the Tree
Of Life, and taste, and eat his fill for nought:
A fine idea, though such things to me
Are nothings: well, their cleverest member caught
Directly, at your name; for he had heard
You once, and had remembered every word.
“Their cleverest, not their richest: though he rules
The others, he is but a dilettante;
(Our thirty millions, true, are ‘mostly fools,’
Wisdom is rare, and men of mind are scanty!);
They reverence him, with faith that never cools
For having meant to write a book on Dante–
All, save his helpmate; commonplace and keen,
Through her sage lord her wifely eyes have seen.
“Then their one daughter–did you meet her ever?
Slim shape, and soft brown hair, and dark-blue eyes,
So gentle, that you scarce believe her clever,
And quite entrancing, were she not so wise:
But oh, beware of Ella’s beauty! never
Let that Madonna fairness win your sighs;
Or, if you should address her, use your tact,
And study first the sciences exact.
“The heavenly host she watches from her attics,
She knows the name and place of every star;
True incarnation of Pure Mathematics,
She cares for all that is abstruse or far:
Go, woo her with Dynamics and with Statics,
And term your love a force molecular;
She then, perchance, may fathom your intention–
Plain language is beneath her comprehension.
“Enough of this! you are a son of God,
And do not haunt the daughters of the earth–
Yet who can tell? you are no frozen clod;
Perchance fair Venus, whose celestial worth
You long have slighted, may prepare a rod
To torture you, or else a cup of mirth
To tempt you–Well, I hope ’twill be the latter:
As to the church, be easy, for that matter
“Is practically settled. Now, good-night,
And happy dreams of–whatsoe’er you choose!”
They parted. Alan, by the fire’s dim light
Long meditated on the hopeful news,
And felt that he unthankfully should slight
Heaven’s leading, could he hesitate to use
A proffered chance of free unfettered work,
Came it from Jew, or Infidel, or Turk.
And then he looked from out his window high,
As though the fresh night air could put to proof
His purity of heart: against the sky
Each house stood black, distinct, and each wet roof
Gleamed in the moonlight; tapering slenderly
Rose many a spire: the city seemed aloof
From care and toil; and said, by silence deep–
“Doubt not nor ponder, but in gladness sleep.”
Why should I weary the long-suffering Muse
And listener patient-souled, with tedious telling
Of letters, of official interviews,
Of change of ministry, and change of dwelling,
And how the fond proud mother wept to lose
Her son, and how the father’s heart was knelling
The death of hope, or how the elders prayed
In vigorous language for the renegade?
Enough, that Alan found himself installed
In his new church, and gloried in the sense
Of working unimpeded, unenthralled;
Here was no sentinel, demanding “Whence
Come you, and whither go?” A town unwalled
Was that society, with no defence
Save the united force of Faith and Science–
In truth, a somewhat perilous alliance.
Here he proclaimed the Brotherhood of Men–
God lives in all; by Him are all inspired,
And so are equal; to the Prophet’s ken
The king is level with the drudge o’ertired,
And what he is, should seem: with tongue and pen
He preached Equality, until he fired
His people; and ere long, the novel schism
Was christened “Pantheistic Socialism.”
Such was his lot, when first I bade you look,
Kind listener, at his study, where he wrote
His deep thoughts in a world-convincing book;
But that was night–his days he would devote
To patient work in many a squalid nook,
Amid such sights and odours, as denote
The homes of women dulled in heart and eye,
Mothers of starveling babies, born to die,
Or for worse fates. Such wretches he would aid
From his own scanty income; sometimes even
They ventured in to hear him, half afraid,
And did not understand, but felt near heaven:
Of motley stuff his little flock was made,
Rich men, poor men, and beggars, with a leaven
Of gentle women; but for him, the place
Contained but one, with sweet Madonna-face.
The blue eyes gleamed with quivering light, as though
Some lamp within had just begun to shine,
The pale cheeks flushed, as ‘mid the latest snow
Bloom faint pink almond blossoms–welcome sign
Of coming Spring–he deemed this changeful glow
Enkindled by an intuition fine
That pierced through speech and symbol, ne’er content
Until it knew the soul of what he meant.
He watched the face on Sundays, dreamed of it
Through all the week; in haunts of dark distress
And sordid shame, he saw its beauty flit,
Now, for a moment, calm and passionless,
And now again with sudden radiance lit,
Like some new-born diviner consciousness
Evolving from completed human grace
The future parent of a nobler race.
No Raphaelite Madonna has a brow
Like Ella’s, nor could e’er have learnt the use
Of sciences to which by voiceless vow
Her strength was dedicate; in themes abstruse
She locked herself, and scarce had craved till now
A truth not yielded by her life recluse;
As little children, miserably fed,
Grow faint, but are not hungry for their bread.
For she, with innocent clear sight, had found
That those about her merely thought of thinking,
And felt they ought to feel; with quick rebound
She drew her life away from theirs, and shrinking
From windy verbiage, craved some solid ground,
Trying to satisfy her soul by linking
Truths abstract; no vague talk of liberal views
Can alter cosine and hypotenuse.
Her mother, with shrewd mind of meaner class
Laughed inly, when she heard some “thinker” draw
The wonted music from his sounding brass,
Showing that with approval Christ foresaw
This nineteenth century of steam and gas,
And Mammon, and “Inexorable Law,”
Or wresting from St. Paul a strong opinion
In favour of the theory Darwinian.
But Ella grieved; her father’s lucubration
On Dante (which, in sooth, till Doomsday comes
Shall never be writ down)–the declamation
Of pseudo-scientific Chrysostoms
Rejoiced her not; she gained a reputation
For gentle chillness; and, since nought benumbs
The heart so much as when our friends suppose
It cold, poor Ella slowly, sadly froze.
Yet Ella was a woman, and the frost
Bound not her inmost nature; still she kept
The natural love for children; she had lost
A baby sister once, and when she slept
Often the little child’s white image crossed
Her dreams, and nearer stole to her, and crept
Close to her heart; then, piercing through her sleep
Remembrance thrilled, and she would wake and weep.
When Alan came, at first she only smiled
At his fresh ardour; yet she oft would check
Her satire; for he seemed a very child,
Pure, single-minded, with no marring fleck
Of self-conceit, although by dreams beguiled;
And she would sigh, to think how time must wreck
His hopes, and all his fancies disenchant;
So mused the girl, like some old maiden aunt.
But soon, a strange new light began to break
Upon her mind, and dubiously to fall
O’er thought and feeling: what if the mistake
In truth, were hers; and what if after all
This visionary seer were more awake
Than she, the sage and mathematical?
‘Twas thus she pondered, as in church she sate
Listening, with changeful colours delicate.
From pitying, she began to sympathise,
From sympathising, almost to revere;
The inner light grew radiant in her eyes,
And she forgot her wise predictions drear,
And she forgot to carp and criticise,
And all things she forgot, except to hear,
And hope, and with willing mind receive
The mystic word–and lastly, to believe.
Her face grew fairer, and her step more light,
As though she entertained, not unaware,
An angel: as some holy anchorite,
When heavenly visitants have deigned to share
His hut and food, will feel a sweet delight
Henceforth, in water pure and meagre fare;
So Ella found new pleasures in her home,
And fresh gradations in Life’s monochrome.
More bright and blithe she was, than any yet
Had known her; all around might well discern
The change, much marvelling what amulet
Transformed the gentle maiden taciturn
So gladsomely. When she and Alan met,
As soon they must meet, haply might she learn
The spirit of all prophets who have dwelt
On earth, and dream what Christ’s apostles felt.
(Constance Naden)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, God Poems, Life Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Soul Poems, Nature Poems, Faces Poems, Youth PoemsBased on Keywords: miserably, sympathise, meditated, abstruse, alan, joked, thinker, practically, comfortably, recluse, renegade