ANY SAINT
His shoulder did I hold Too high that I, o'erbold Weak one, Should lean thereon.
But He a little hath Declined His stately path And my Feet set more high;
That the slack arm may reach His shoulder, and faint speech Stir His unwithering hair.
And bolder now and bolder I lean upon that shoulder, So dear He is and near.
And with His aureole The tresses of my soul Are blent In wished content.
Yea, this too gentle Lover Hath flattering words to move her To pride By His sweet side.
Ah, Love! somewhat let be! Lest my humility Grow weak When Thou dost speak!
Rebate Thy tender suit, Lest to herself impute Some worth Thy bride of earth!
A maid too easily Conceits herself to be Those things Her lover sings;
And being straitly wooed, Believes herself the Good And Fair He seeks in her.
Turn something of Thy look, And fear me with rebuke, That I May timorously
Take tremors in Thy arms, And with contrivèd charms Allure A love unsure.
Not to me, not to me, Builded so flawfully, O God, Thy humbling laud!
Not to this man, but Man,— Universe in a span; Point Of the spheres conjoint;
In whom eternally Thou, Light, dost focus Thee!— Didst pave The way o' the wave,
Rivet with stars the Heaven, For causeways to Thy driven Car In its coming far
Unto him, only him; In Thy deific whim Didst bound Thy works' great round
In this small ring of flesh; The sky's gold-knotted mesh Thy wrist Did only twist
To take him in that net.— Man! swinging-wicket set Between The Unseen and Seen,
Lo, God's two worlds immense, Of spirit and of sense, Wed In this narrow bed;
Yea, and the midge's hymn Answers the seraphim Athwart Thy body's court!
Great arm-fellow of God! To the ancestral clod Kin, And to cherubin;
Bread predilectedly O' the worm and Deity! Hark, O God's clay-sealed Ark,
To praise that fits thee, clear To the ear within the ear, But dense To clay-sealed sense.
Thee God's great utterance bore, O secret metaphor Of what Thou dream'st no jot!
Cosmic metonymy; Weak world-unshuttering key; One Seal of Solomon!
Trope that itself not scans Its huge significance, Which tries Cherubic eyes.
Primer where the angels all God's grammar spell in small, Nor spell The highest too well.
Point for the great descants Of starry disputants; Equation Of creation.
Thou meaning, couldst thou see, Of all which dafteth thee; So plain, It mocks thy pain;
Stone of the Law indeed, Thine own self couldst thou read, Thy bliss Within thee is.
Compost of Heaven and mire, Slow foot and swift desire! Lo, To have Yes, choose No;
Gird, and thou shalt unbind; Seek not, and thou shalt find; To eat, Deny thy meat;
And thou shalt be fulfilled With all sweet things unwilled: So best God loves to jest
With children small—a freak Of heavenly hide-and-seek Fit For thy wayward wit,
Who art thyself a thing Of whim and wavering; Free When His wings pen thee;
Sole fully blest, to feel God whistle thee at heel; Drunk up As a dew-drop,
When He bends down, sun-wise, Intemperable eyes; Most proud, When utterly bowed,
To feel thyself and be His dear nonentity— Caught Beyond human thought
In the thunder-spout of Him, Until thy being dim And be Dead deathlessly.
Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fear The nettle's wrathful spear, So slight Art thou of might!
Rise; for Heaven hath no frown When thou to thee pluck'st down, Strong clod! The neck of God.
From "THE VICTORIAN ODE"
Written for the Queen's Golden Jubilee Day, 1897
Lo, in this day we keep the yesterdays, And those great dead of the Victorian line. [D] They passed, they passed, but cannot pass away, For England feels them in her blood like wine. She was their mother, and she is their daughter, This lady of the water, And from their loins she draws the greatness which they were. And still their wisdom sways, Their power lives in her. Their thews it is, England, that lift thy sword, They are the splendour, England, in thy song, They sit unbidden at thy council-board, Their fame doth compass all thy coasts from wrong, And in thy sinews they are strong. Their absence is a presence and a guest In this day's feast; This living feast is also of the dead, And this, O England, is thine All Souls' Day. And when thy cities flake the night with flames, Thy proudest torches yet shall be their names.
Come hither, proud and ancient East, Gather ye to this Lady of the North, And sit down with her at her solemn feast, Upon this culminant day of all her days; For ye have heard the thunder of her goings-forth, And wonder of her large imperial ways. Let India send her turbans, and Japan Her pictured vests from that remotest isle Seated in the antechambers of the Sun: And let her Western sisters for a while Remit long envy and disunion, And take in peace Her hand behind the buckler of her seas, 'Gainst which their wrath has splintered; come, for she Her hand ungauntlets in mild amity.
Victoria! Queen, whose name is victory, Whose woman's nature sorteth best with peace, Bid thou the cloud of war to cease Which ever round thy wide-girt empery Fumes, like to smoke about a burning brand, Telling the energies which keep within The light unquenched, as England's light shall be; And let this day hear only peaceful din. For, queenly woman, thou art more than woman; Thy name the often-struck barbarian shuns: Thou art the fear of England to her foemen, The love of England to her sons. And this thy glorious day is England's; who Can separate the two? Now unto thee The plenitude of the glories thou didst sow Is garnered up in prosperous memory; And, for the perfect evening of thy day, An untumultuous bliss, serenely gay, Sweetened with silence of the after-glow.
Nor does the joyous shout Which all our lips give out Jar on that quietude; more than may do A radiant childish crew, With well-accordant discord fretting the soft hour, Whose hair is yellowed by the sinking blaze Over a low-mouthed sea. Exult, yet be not twirled, England, by gusts of mere Blind and insensate lightness; neither fear The vastness of thy shadow on the world. If in the East Still strains against its leash the unglutted beast Of war; if yet the cannon's lip be warm; Thou, whom these portents warn but not alarm, Feastest, but with thine hand upon the sword, As fits a warrior race. Not like the Saxon fools of olden days, With the mead dripping from the hairy mouth, While all the South Filled with the shaven faces of the Norman horde.