SMALL, fragile, and dark-eyed was Alan’s mother,
Of Highland blood; her solemn Saxon mate
Had ne’er been able quite to quench or smother
The poet-flame within her breast innate;
She had been wont, to Alan and no other,
Strange tales of wraith and kelpie to relate,
And wondrous legends of the second sight,
Claimed by her race as its ancestral right.
She told her tales in rapid whispers, sitting
Over the fire, with changeful glances wild,
And quick dramatic hands, that wove unwitting
A spiritual garment for her child,
Who all the while, his bright eyes never quitting
Her face, beside her crouched, enrapt, beguiled:
But these were secret pleasures: when she heard
A slow step, hushed was the half-spoken word
For Alan’s father, tall, large-boned, and grim,
Considered works of fiction merely lies,
And banned all poetry except the hymn;
His creed forbade him earthly gifts to prize,
Calling mirth, folly–love, a sinful whim:
Such faith at once contracts and satisfies
The constant soul; that one ideal spark
Shows all the world around blank, cold, and dark.
Each day he opened with a prayer, and singing;
The prayer a little sermon in disguise,
Teaching the Lord His own designs, and slinging
Smooth pebbles at unwise and overwise;
The hymn was loud, aggressive, as though flinging
Contemptuous pearls to neighbours or to spies;
Like a big drum he sang, beat with small skill;
Alan, more low; the mother, clear and shrill.
That morning, Alan sang with fervour double;
His inner exaltation overbore
All sad presentiment of toil and trouble
And severance of old friendships, and welled o’er
In natural song: the hymn said, “Life’s a bubble,
A wave that breaks in foam upon the shore,
A fading leaf:” but Alan’s voice rang out
As though its burden were a triumph-shout.
And after prayer, and hymn, and frugal meal,
He spoke, and all his glorious Vision told;
At first with painful strivings to reveal
His secret heart: but soon he grew more bold,
And e’en his father’s look could not congeal
His ardour; as the petrifying cold
That binds the dull stream, Winter’s prisoned vagrant,
Freezes not generous wine, nor ether fragrant.
The old man heard with bony brows drawn down,
And keen eyes watchful, and thin lips compressed;
The anxious mother shivered at his frown,
And trembled for her son, yet unconfessed
Shared in the new belief; she plucked her gown
With nervous fingers, while her loving breast
Was rent with fear, and hope, and awe-struck joy
That Heaven had found a Prophet in her boy.
The story ended; then with look austere,
And speech deliberate, calm, the father spoke:
“I understand you well; your words are clear;
You fain would cast away the ancient yoke,
Renounce the Lord of Hosts, whom devils fear
And angels worship; and, forsooth, invoke
Some newer God, who dwells in rogue and thief,
Yet speaks by you, of his apostles chief.
“Call on your Baal! Try what he can do–
Surely he is a god, though he begins
With blasphemy–doubt not–your course pursue;
Shout, leap, and wound your soul, till suffering wins
Success; and then remember, that while you
Are feasting, I am fasting for my sins,
And wishing Heaven had blotted out the morn
On which a man-child to the world was born.”
He broke off with a sob; Alan, aghast
At such emotion, hastened to his side,
Crying, “My father!” But he roughly cast
His son away, with gestures that defied
Sorrow and pity, and in silence passed
Out from the house, in his unbending pride
That did brave battle with a love and grief
More deep than aught except his stern belief.
And now the son and mother, each to each
The best-loved thing on earth, were left alone;
Then on his knees beside her, without speech
He fell, and took her cold hands in his own;
And she, all trembling, weeping the new breach
Between her dear ones, spoke in faintest tone,
Pleadingly, brokenly, as though she prayed
For grace, that some hard sentence might be stayed.
“My Alan, my dear son! my heart will break–
Although I always knew that God would send
His Spirit–that some morning you would wake
And feel that strength was granted you to spend
In some great service–only, for my sake
And for your father’s, wait a little–bend
Awhile, before his anger–who can tell?
This wrathful mood may pass–he loves you well.”
But he replied, “My mother, tempt me not!
For you I would do all things–all, save this–
Nay, I could wish my father’s wish, to blot
My hour of birth, rather than idly miss
My birthright: grieve you that my zeal is hot?
You taught me, by your songs, your tales, your kiss
That human love, that heed of Wisdom’s ray,
By which the heavenly Voice I now obey.
“Ah, do not weep, dear mother! Even those
Who cast me forth, shall hear the Word divine;
To-morrow, in the face of friends and foes,
My charge, once held so dear, I must resign–
But weep not!” He embraced her and arose
And went forth, that the April sun might shine
Into his heart, and quiet grief and wrath
And exultation, and make plain his path.
‘Twas in an English town that Alan dwelt,
A town marked Liberal both by creeds and votes,
Where every individual voice did melt
In the loud hum of Progress; jarring notes
Of small exclusive sects were merely felt
Like nettle-stings when dock-leaf antidotes
Are plenteous; there, the party-leader’s cue
Was to hope all things, and believe a few.
Turning a corner sharply, Alan met
George, an old school-mate, strong in politics,
Ruddy and fair, short-statured and thick-set,
Well versed in all the rhetorician’s tricks;
An eye he had that you could ne’er forget,
Blue, humorous, clear; not steady to transfix
The erring, but most skilful to detect
A meeting’s mood, and watch a word’s effect.
“‘Tis you!” he cried–” we have not met for long;
In truth, I wonder you are still alive,
Pacing your treadmill round with weary song,
Seeking rich honey in a dronish hive,
Boring deep wells Artesian in the wrong
Strata, whence you may dig, till you arrive
At the earth’s core, yet no refreshing drop
You find, till at the central fire you stop.
“Some day, your friends will leave you in the lurch,
For what know you about the selfish springs
That move them to condemn all true research?
Like Gallio, I care nothing for such things–
And yet I care for you–I know a church
Where you might fearlessly unfold your wings,
Read, think, and labour, and perchance do good–
A free church, in a crowded neighbourhood.
“They want a parson now–the salary
Is poor, but better than your present pay;
And what is worse than the dull destiny
Of one condemned, year after year, to stay
Shut in a sect, and preach incessantly
The same old doctrines in the same old way?
Come forth, nor heed how bigots may abuse
The step–shake off their dry dust from your shoes.”
The words, though kindly meant–the flippant cavil–
The confident suggestions, like commands,
Jarred upon Alan; then, he fain would travel,
And scatter the good seed in many lands;
Yet might he not, by George’s aid, unravel
Present perplexities, and set his hands
To the Lord’s plough? And would not God enlarge
His field, if true he were in one small charge?
Therefore he answered– “Come to-morrow night,
And tell me of this church–my trust I leave
Not for its dulness, nor for any spite
Against the people, who in faith receive
My words, and to their utmost power requite
My service; nay, I willingly would cleave
To this old home; but God has called me thence,
Granting me sight of his Omnipotence.”
“Well,” said the other–“so that you come out
I care not why. On Sunday evening, late,
When none of your good friends will be about,
And your last sermon will have fixed your fate,
Expect me. Now, good-bye; I have to spout
To-night, at a political debate,
And must begin to think what I shall say–
So, till to-morrow!” And he went his way.
Then Alan wandered far, beyond the town,
Past budding hedge-rows, where the spider weaves
Her tracery; past trees with branches brown
Seen through their April robe of light green leaves;
And past bright gardens, where the tulip-crown
And fruit-buds pink, are spoiled by wing?d thieves;
Such common sights, and the soft wind’s caress
Filled all his soul with strength and happiness.
Farther he rambled; on through country lanes
And copses where the ferns their fronds unrolled,
And pastures where the gentle spring-tide rains
Jewelled anemone and marigold;
Thrushes and blackbirds carolled joyful strains,
And all things sang, in cadence manifold–
“Rejoice, rejoice, with bird and tree and flower!
Rejoice, rejoice, in plenitude of power!”
Homeward he turned, his ardent mind sincere
Feasting on this glad gospel; soon, ah soon!
The trembling mother must forget her fear,
The steadfast father must accept that boon
Dearer than rubies; all should see and hear
With souls undimmed, exultant in the noon
Of cloudless Truth; Faith, Hope, and Love, these three,
At last should blend in perfect trinity.
(Constance Naden)
More Poetry from Constance Naden:
Constance Naden Poems based on Topics: Love, Light, Fairness, Hope, Soul, Flowers, Sadness, Night, God, Heaven, Man- A Modern Apostle V (Constance Naden Poems)
- A Modern Apostle IV (Constance Naden Poems)
- A Modern Apostle III (Constance Naden Poems)
- A Modern Apostle VI (Constance Naden Poems)
- The Story Of Clarice II (Constance Naden Poems)
- The Story Of Clarice III (Constance Naden Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, God Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Sadness Poems, Soul Poems, Faces Poems, Heaven Poems, Fairness PoemsBased on Keywords: strivings, carolled, treadmill, satisfies, aggressive, undimmed, awe-struck, tracery, alan, salary, quitting