Caro factus est.
XXIX.
When from beneath the Almighty Hand
The suns and systems rushed abroad,
Like coursers which have burst their band,
Or torrents when the ice is thawed;
When round in luminous orbits flung
The great stars gloried in their might;
Still, still, a bridgeless gulf there hung
'Twixt Finite things and Infinite.
That crown of light creation wore
Was edged with vast unmeasured black;
And all of natural good she bore
Confessed her supernatural lack.
For what is Nature at the best?
An arch suspended in its spring;
An altar-step without a priest;
A throne whereon there sits no king.
[{120}]
As one stone-blind that fronts the morn,
The world before her Maker stood,
Uplifting suppliant hands forlorn—
God's creature, yet how far from God!
He came. That world His priestly robe;
The Kingly Pontiff raised on high
The worship of the starry globe:—
The gulf was bridged, and God was nigh.
[{121}]
XXX.
A woman "clothed with the sun," [Footnote 8]
Yet fleeing from the Dragon's rage!—
The strife in Eden-bowers begun
Swells upward to the latest age.
[Footnote 8: Rev. xii. 1.]
That woman's Son is throned on high;
The angelic hosts before Him bend:
The sceptre of His empery
Subdues the worlds from end to end.
Yet still the sword goes through her heart,
For still on earth His Church survives.
In her that woman holds a part:
In her she suffers, wakes, and strives.
Around her head the stars are set;
A dying moon beneath her wanes:
But he that letteth still must let:
The Power accurst awhile remains.
Break up, strong Earth, thy stony floors,
And snatch to penal caverns dun
That Dragon from the pit that wars
Against the woman and her Son!
[{122}]
XXXI.
No ray of all their silken sheen
The leaves first fledged have lost as yet
Unfaded, near the advancing queen
Of flowers, abides the violet.
The rose succeeds—her month is come:—
The flower with sacred passion red:
She sings the praise of martyrdom,
And Him for whom His martyrs bled.
The perfect work of May is done:
Hard by a new perfection waits:—
The twain, a sister and a nun,
A moment parley at the grates.
The whiter Spirit turns in peace
To hide her in the cloistral shade:—
'Tis time that you should also cease,
Slight carols in her honour made.