Songs Unsung

by Lewis Morris

"Son, thou com'st
To seek the Lord of Life. There is no way
But through yon cruel river. Thou wert strong;
Take rest and thought till thy strength come to thee.
Arise, the dawn is near."

Then they twain went,
And there that sick soul rested many days.

And when the strong man's strength was come again,
His old guide led him forth to where the road
Sank in that black swift stream. The hills were dark,
There was no city to see, nought but thick cloud,
And still that black flood roaring. Then he heard
The old voice whisper, "Not of strength alone
Come they who find the Master, but cast down
And weak and wandering. Oftentimes with feet
Wayworn and weary limbs, they come and pass
The deeps and are transformed; but he who comes
Of his own strength from him long time the King
Hides him as erst from thee. Yet, because strength
Well used is a good gift, I bid thee plunge
In yon cold stream, and seek to wash from thee
The stains of life. No harm shall come to thee,
Nor in those chill dark waters shall thy feet
Slip, nor thy life be swallowed. It is thine
To bear in thy strong arms the fainting souls
Of pilgrims who press onward day and night
Seeking the Lord of Light. Thou, who so long
Didst serve the Lord of Evil, now shalt serve
A higher; and because great penances
Are fitting for great wrong, here shalt thou toil
Long time till haply thou shalt lose the stain
Of sense and of the world, then shall thy eyes
See that thou wouldst.
Go suffer and be strong."

Then that strong soul, treading those stony ways,
Went down into the waters. Painful souls
Cried to him from the brink; sad lives, which now
Had reached their toilsome close; worn wayfarers,
Who after lifelong strivings and great pain
And buffetings had gained the perilous stream
With heaven beyond; wan age and budding youth
And childhood fallen untimely. He stooped down
With wonder mixed with pity, raising up
The weakling limbs, and bearing in his arms
The heavy burden, through the chill dark depths
Of those cold swirling waters without fear
Strode onward. Oftentimes the dreadful force
Of that resistless current, which had whelmed
A lower soul, bore on him; oftentimes
The icy cold, too great for feebler hearts,
Assailed him, yet his mighty stature still
Strode upright through the deep to the far shore,
And those poor pilgrims with reviving souls
Blessed him, and left the waters and grew white
And glorified, and in their eyes he knew
A wonder and a rapture as they saw
The palace of the King, the domes, the spires,
The shining oriels sunlit into gold,
The white forms on the brink to welcome them,
And the clear heights, and the discovered heaven.

But never on his eyes for all his toil
That bright sun broke, nor those fair palace roofs
As erst upon his weakness. Day and night
The selfsame cloud hung heavy on the hills,
Blotting the glorious vision. Day and night
He laboured unrewarded, with no gleam
Of that eternal glory, which yet shone
Upon those fainting souls, whom his strong arms
Bore upward. Day and night he laboured still,
Amid the depths of death. Ay, he would rise
At midnight, when the cry of fainting souls
Called to him on the brink, and so go down
Without one thought of fear. Yea, though the floods
Roared horribly, and deep called unto deep,
Through all those hidden depths he strode unmoved,
A strong, laborious, unrewarded soul.

Was it because the stain and blot of wrong
Were on him still uncleansed? I cannot tell.
The stain of ill eats deep, and nought can cleanse it,
Nay hardly tears of blood. But to my thought
Not thus the legend runs; rather I deem
That what of good he loved was only strength,
The pride of conscious Power—that which had led him
To strong rude wrong, the same sense, working on him,
Led him through weariness of wrong to use
His strength for goodness. Oftentimes Remorse
Comes not of hatred of the wrong, nor love
Of the good, but rather from the shame which Pride
Knows which has gone astray and spent itself
Upon unworthy ends. So this strong soul
Laboured on unfulfilled. Yet who shall trace
By what hidden processes of waste and pain
The great Will is fulfilled, and doth achieve
The victory of Good?

So the slow years
Passed, till the giant strength at times would flag
A little, yet no feebleness was there,
But still the strong limbs carried him unmoved
Through those black depths of death. Till one still night,
At midnight when the world was sunk in sleep,
The summons came, "A Pilgrim!" and he saw
With a new-born compassion, on the shore
A childish form await him; a soft smile
Was on the lips, a sweet sad glance divine
Within the eyes, as in a child's eyes oft
Knowledge not earthly, infinite weakness, strive
For mastery. As the strong man stooped and took
The weakling to his breast, through the great might
Of Pity, grown to strength, he took the deep
With that light load in his arms.

But as he went,
The strength greater than human, the strong limbs
Which bore long time unfaltering the great pain
And burden of our life; the fearless heart
Which never blenched before, though the winds beat
And all the night was blind; these failed him now,
And as by some o'erwhelming load dragged down,
His flagging footsteps tottered; the cold wave
Rose higher around him, the once mighty head
Bowed-down, the waters rising to his lip
Engulfed in the depths; the weight of all the earth
Seemed on his shoulders—all the sorrow, the sin,
The burden of the Race—and a great cry
Came from him, "Help! I sink, I faint, I die,
I perish beneath my burden! Help, O King
Of Heaven, for I am spent and can no more!
My strength is gone, the waters cover me,
I stand not of myself. Help, Lord and King!"

Then suddenly from his spent life he felt
The great load taken; through the midnight gloom
There burst the glorious vision of his dream—
The palace of the King, the domes, the spires,
The shining oriels sunlit into gold,
The heaven of heavens discovered; then a voice,
"Rise, Christopher! thou hast found thy King, and turn
Back to the earth, for I have need of thee.
Thou hast sustained the whole world, bearing me
The Lord of Earth and Heaven. Rise, turn awhile
To the old shore of Time; I am the Prince
Thou seekest; I a little child, the King
Of Earth and Heaven. I have marked thy toils,
Labours, and sorrows; I have seen thy sins,
Thy tears, and thy repentance. Rise and be
My Servant always. And if thou shalt seek
A sign of me, I give this sign to thee:
Set thou thy staff to-night upon the verge
Of these dark waters, and with early dawn
Seek it, and thou shalt find it blossomed forth
Into such sweet white blooms as year by year
The resurrection of the springtide brings
To clothe the waste of winter. This shall be
The sign of what has been."

And that strong soul,
Vanquished at length, obeyed, and with the dawn
Where stood his staff there sprung the perfumed cup
And petals of a lily: so the tale.
Nay, but it was the rude strength of his soul
Which blossomed into purity, and sprang
Into a higher self, beneath the gaze
Of a little child! Nay, but it was the might
Of too great strength, which laid its robes of pride
Down on the ground, and stood, naked, erect,
Before its Lord, shamefast yet beautiful!
Nay, but it was the old self, stripped and purged
Of ingrained wrong, which from the stream of Death
Stood painful on the stable earth again,
And was regenerate through humility!