TO F. W. FABER.
Amico, io vivendo cercava conforto
Nel monte Parnasso;
Tu, meglio consigliato, cercalo
Nel Calvario.
—Chiabrera’s epitaph at Savona. From the title-page of Father Faber’s Poems.
I.
True poet of all mountain sight and sound,
Of barren glen where mighty echoes wake,
Of eagle-haunted, crag-o’ershadowed lake
Where loneliness in silent state sits crowned
And shares her kingdom with no shallow heart:
True lover of all nature’s solemn ways,
The columned forest’s wind-waked song of praise—
Sad chords wherein all deepest joy hath part—
True reader of the primrose’ golden tale,
Finding its glow but shadow of a light
Wherein who seeks may find the Infinite,
That doth its mystery so in least things veil—
A seer thou seem’st in thy high mountain place,
E’er with all holiest visions face to face.
II.
Yet wandering content in lowlier ways,
By brambly lane and lawn-embroidered mere,
By quiet river in whose waters clear
The clustering willows and tall towers gaze
Of minster-town whose ancient bells ring out
And trail their music through thy thoughtful rhyme
Like far-off echoes of an older time
When trembled in their peal no note of doubt.
Landless, yet holder of a royal fief
In all the beauty by rich nature wrought—
Each blossoming hedge-row with an earldom fraught,
Wide duchies bound in every golden sheaf—
Thine the unchallenged tenure of the whole,
By right divine of unstained poet-soul!
III.
Still hearkening ever to that low heart-beat
Of sorrowing earth, whose flowers fade in death,
Whose silver-threaded rills grow faint for breath,
Whose wounded birds cry out beneath thy feet.
Not deaf thy human ear to any plaint
Of our sad mother whom her sons make weep—
Breaking with cries of hate her quiet sleep,
Crowding in sunless ways their brothers faint.
Nor dumb thy poet-voice to speak her woe—
She that hath shivered when mankind stood mute
Or flung harsh words of evilest repute,
Veiling her face her Maker’s cross below.
With filial love thy heart ’gainst hers is laid
Who rears the hills, in keeping holds the dead.
IV.
Like cleansing waters touched with heavenly grace
Thy mountain-consecrated words are shed,
Lifting our souls to light unshadowèd,
Guiding our footsteps in the holy trace
Of Him who yet shall make the hills a way—
Exalted paths trod by the clean of heart,
Shrines for the holy-minded set apart
Wherein profaner feet unheeding stray.
All nature wins true loving from thy song—
Fair not alone with her e’er-changing grace,
But, lighting each dear feature of her face
The thought of love enduring, pure and strong—
True poet, in Parnassus’ shadow still
Feeling the loadstone of blessed Calvary’s hill.
V.
To that sad mount how eloquent a guide!
Not Hybla’s blossoms could so fair beguile
The wandering bees as thy entreating wile
Faint souls to climb that seeming arid side.
With strength thou lead’st from seraph-haunted cave
Where Infinite Might with infinite loving smiled
From frail, sweet lips of Holy Mary’s Child;
Anon where pitying palm-trees shadow gave
To ease the weary exile of their Lord;
On through the humble toil of patient years—
Till, mingling with the Magdalen our tears,
Our heart’s poor vase of precious ointment poured—
We stand, God’s Mother near, with woe beside
The love-pierced feet of Jesus Crucified.
VI.
The sweetest refuge any soul can know!
Where all complaining stills its idle voice,
And trembling joy bids sorrow soft rejoice
Finding the living wand, whose staff below
The living waters lie like mountain spring
Defiled not in its source, whose shining face
Gives to e’en homely herbs a resting-place,
With heaven’s blue for their bright shadowing.
Pure, living source! wherein who drinks shall thirst
Not any more. Blest cup of Love Divine!
About whose stem the thorny wreath doth twine,
Grown soft for us since He hath borne it first.
Cool draught! wherein no hidden drop of gall
Makes heaven bitter, and earth’s promise all.
VII.
Shall poets change for bay the crown divine
Wreathing the head of Him about whom throng
Life’s tenderest flowers, who holds art’s perfect song
In his pierced hands?—pure gift in holiest shrine!—
From whose rent side the consecrating flood
Doth cleanse the poet’s thought from earthly stain,
Him king anointed o’er a grand domain
By true inheritance of royal blood;
In whose wide heart, broken for very love,
Lies master-key to all true harmonies,
So tuned, no base, discordant melodies
Shall jar earth’s music saints shall sing above;
So tuned, may wake in sweetness weakest string,
Immortal anthems loyal echoing.
VIII.
So keyed thy sacred song, O poet true!
With holy joy its very sorrow light,
So glorified with that love infinite
That shines as stars in heaven’s darkest blue:
Washed clean thy earth-born lays in that pure flood—
Thy cloudy mountains hide no fear save one
Of loving awe; though in dark gorge the sun
Falls not, e’en there the Eternal Dove doth brood.
Thy mountain springs are pure, wherein we dare
Drink as we will, not fearing, so bent down,
We shall lose sight of heaven’s fairer crown
And find but our own likeness resting there.
Fresh with a dew bearing no stain of earth,
Thy hill-paths lead unto our Father’s hearth.
IX.
With thee, my poet, lie our souls at rest
In the soft glory of our Mother’s smile—
The Maid Immaculate, who could beguile
Her God to be a child on her pure breast.
With thee we labor that our little life
Shall learn to lose itself, that it be found
In that far, other life eternal crowned
‘Mid hero-saints whose prayers were ours in strife;
Humbly with thee, our dearest Lord before,
Veiled in the little, pale, and helpless round
Wherewith on earth he chooseth to be crowned,
We bend with love that yearneth to love more.
Fond children, at the Father’s feet we kneel,
Finding the love his Spirit doth reveal.
X.
O poet! more than Crashaw, saint! forgive,
If break my singing in unworthy praise;
Pardon, if uncouth love in stammering lays,
Seeking to thank, but give thee cause to grieve.
Unspoken gratitude is burden sore
When debt so passing strong of love is owed;
Unworthy speaking but augments the load,
Forgiveness making so love’s burden more.
So much to thee I owe! Along my life
Thy words like patient, wingèd seeds are sown,
So long amid the dark and brambles grown,
Yet winning bloom at last despite the strife.
As once for him of Ars thy heart was shrine,
So mine holds thee, O blessed of Love Divine!