FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD."
AT BETHLEHEM.
So many hills arising, green and gray,
On Earth's large round, and that one hill to say:
"I was his bearing-place!" On Earth's wide breast
So many maids! and she—of all most blest—
Heavily mounting Bethlehem, to be
His Mother!—Holy Maid of Galilee!
Hill, with the olives, and the little town!
If rivers from their crystal founts flow down,
If 'twas the dawn which did day's gold unbar,
Ye were beginnings of the best we are,
The most we see, the highest that we know,
The lifting heavenward of man's life below.
Therefore, though better lips ye shall not lack,
Suffer if one of modern mood steals back—
Weary and wayworn from the desert-road
Of barren thought; from Hope's Dead Sea, which glowed
With Love's fair mirage; from the poet's haunt,
The scholar's lamp, the statesman's scheme, the vaunt,
The failure, of all fond philosophies,—
Back unto Thee, back to thy olive-trees,
Thy people, and thy story, and thy Son,
Mary of Nazareth! So long agone
Bearing us Him who made our christendom,
And came to save the earth, from heav'n, His home.
So many hill-sides, crowned with rugged rocks!
So many simple shepherds keeping flocks
In many moonlit fields! but, only they—
So lone, so long ago, so far away—
On that one winter's night, at Bethlehem,
To have white angels singing lauds for them!
They only—hinds wrapped in the he-goat's skin—
To hear heaven's music, bidding peace begin!
Only for those, of countless watching eyes,
The "Glory of the Lord" glad to arise;
The skies to blaze with gold and silver light
Of seraphs by strong joy flashed into sight;
The wind, for them, with that strange song to swell,—
By too much happiness incredible—
That tender anthem of good times to be,
Then at their dawn—not daylight yet, ah me!
"Peace upon earth! Good-will!" sung to the strings
Of lutes celestial. Nay, if these things
Too blessëd to believe have seemed, or seem,
Not ours the fault, dear angels! Prove the dream
Waking and true! sing once again, and make
Moonlight and starlight sweet for earth's sad sake!
Or, if heaven bids ye lock in silence still
Conquest of peace, and coming of good-will,
Till times to be, then—oh, you placid sheep!
Ah, thrice-blest shepherds! suffer if we creep
Back through the tangled thicket of the years
To graze in your fair flock, to strain our ears
With listening herdsmen, if, perchance, one note
Of such high singing in the fine air float;
If any rock thrills yet with that great strain
We did not hear, and shall not hear, again;
If any olive-leaf at Bethlehem
Lisps still one syllable vouchsafed to them;
If some stream, conscious still—some breeze—be stirred
With echo of th' immortal words ye heard.
What was it that ye heard? the wind of night
Playing in cheating tones, with touches light,
Amid the palm-plumes? or, one stop outblown
Of planetary music, so far flown
Earthwards, that to those innocent ears 'twas brought
Which bent the mighty measure to their thought?
Or, haply, from breast-shaped Beth-Haccarem,
The hill of Herod, some waft sent to them
Of storming drums and trumps, at festival
Held in the Idumæan's purple hall?
Or, it may be, some Aramaic song
Of country lovers, after partings long
Meeting anew, with much "good will" indeed,
Blown by some swain upon his Jordan reed?
Nay, nay! your abbas back ye did not fling,
From each astonished ear, for swains to sing
Their village-verses clear; for sounds well-known
Of wandering breeze, or whispering trees, or tone
Of Herod's trumpets. And ye did not gaze
Heart-startled on the stars (albeit the rays
Of that lone orb shot, sparkling, from the east
Unseen before), for these, largest and least,
Were fold-lamps, lighted nightly: and ye knew
Far differing glory in the night's dark blue
Suddenly lit with rose, and pierced with spike
Of golden spear-beam. Oh, a dream, belike!
Some far-fetched vision, new to peasant's sleep,
Of paradise stripped bare!—But, why thus keep
Secrets for them? This bar, which doth enclose
Better and nobler souls, why burst for those
Who supped on the parched pulse, and lapped the stream,
And each, at the same hour, dreams the same dream!
Or, easier still, they lied! Yet, wherefore, then
"Rise, and go up to Bethlehem," and unpen
To wolf and jackal all their hapless fold
So they might "see these things which had been told
In heaven's own voice"? And heaven, whate'er betide,
Spreads surely somewhere, on death's farther side!
And, truly, if joy's music once hath rung
Prom lips of bands invisible, if any—
(Be they the dead, or of the deathless many)—
Love and serve man, angelical befrienders,
Glad of his weal, and from his woe defenders,—
If such, in heaven, have pity on our tears,
Forever falling with the unmending years,
High cause had they, at Bethlehem, that night,
To lift the curtain of hope's hidden light,
To break decree of silence with love's cry,
Foreseeing how this Babe, born lowlily,
Should—past dispute, since now achieved is this—
Bring earth great gifts of blessing and of bliss;
Date, from that crib, the dynasty of love;
Strip his misusëd thunderbolts from Jove;
Bend to their knee Rome's Cæsars, break the chain
From the slave's neck; set sick hearts free again
Bitterly bound by priests, and scribes, and scrolls;
And heal, with balm of pardon, sinking souls:
Should mercy to her vacant throne restore,
Teach right to kings, and patience to the poor;
Should, from that bearing-cave, outside the khan,
Amid the kneeling cattle, rise, and be
Light of all lands, and splendor of each sea,
The sun-burst of a new morn come to earth,
Not yet, alas! broad day, but day's white birth
Which promiseth; and blesseth, promising.
These from that night! What cause of wondering
If that one silence of all silences
Brake into music? if, for hopes like these
Angels, who love us, sang that song, and show
Of time's far purpose made the "great light" glow?
Wherefore, let whosoever will drink dry
His cup of faith; and think that, verily,
Not in a vision, no way otherwise
Than those poor shepherds told, there did arise
This portent. Being amidst their sheep and goats,
Lapped careless in their pasture-keeping coats,
Blind as their drowsy beasts to what drew nigh,
(Such the lulled ear, and such th' unbusied eye
Which ofttimes hears and sees hid things!) there spread
The "Glory of the Lord" around each head:
Broke, be it deemed, o'er hill and over hollow,
On the inner seeing, the sense concealed, unknown,
Of those plain hinds—glad, humble, and alone—
Flooding their minds, filling their hearts; around,
Above, below, disclosing grove and ground,
The rocks, the hill, the town, the solitude,
The wondering flocks,—agaze with grass half-chewed,—
The palm-crowns, and the path to Bethlehem,
As sight angelic spies. And, came to them
The "Angel of the Lord," visible, sure,
Known for the angel by his presence pure
Whereon was written love, and peace, and grace,
With beauty passing mortal mien and face.
So when the Angels were no more to see,
Re-entering those gates of space,—whose key
Love keeps on that side, and on this side death—
Each shepherd to the other whispering saith,
Lest he should miss some lingering symphonies
Of that departing music, "Let us rise
And go even now to Bethlehem, and spy
This which is come to pass, shewed graciously
By the Lord's angels." Therewith hasted they
By olive-yards, and old walls mossed and gray
Where, in close chinks, the lizard and the snake,
Thinking the sunlight come, stirred, half-awake:
Across the terraced levels of the vines,
Under the pillared palms, along the lines
Of lance-leaved oleanders, scented sweet,
Through the pomegranate-gardens sped their feet;
Over the causeway, up the slope, they spring,
Breast the steep path, with steps not slackening;
Past David's well, past the town-wall they ran,
Unto the House of Chimham, to the khan,
Where mark them peering in, the posts between,
Questioning—all out of breath—if birth hath been
This night, in any guest-room, high or low?
The drowsy porter at the gate saith, "No!"—
Shooting the bars; while the packed camels shake
Their bells to listen, and the sleepers wake,
And to their feet the ponderous steers slow rise,
Lifting from trampled fodder large mild eyes;—
"Nay! Brothers! no such thing! yet there is gone
Yonder, one nigh her time, a gentle one!
With him that seemed her spouse—of Galilee;
They toiled at sundown to our doors—but, see!
No nook was here! Seek at the cave instead;
We shook some barley-straw to make their bed."
Then to the cave they wended, and there spied
That which was more, if truth be testified,
Than all the pomp seen thro' proud Herod's porch
Ablaze with brass, and silk, and scented torch,
High on Beth-Haccarem; more to behold,
If men had known, than all the glory told
Of splendid Cæsar in his marbled home
On the white Isle; or audience-hall at Rome
With trembling princes thronged. A clay lamp swings
By twisted camel-cords, from blackened rings,
Shewing with flickering gleams, a Child new-born
Wrapped in a cloth, laid where the beasts at morn
Will champ their bean-straw: in the lamp-ray dim
A fresh-made Mother by Him, fostering Him
With face and mien to worship, speaking naught;
Close at hand Joseph, and the ass, hath brought
That precious twofold burden to the gate;
With goats, sheep, oxen, driven to shelter late:
No mightier sight! Yet all sufficeth it—
If we will deem things be beyond our wit—
To prove heaven's music true, and show heaven's way,
How, not by famous kings, nor with array
Of brazen letters on the boastful stone,
But "by the mouth of babes," quiet, alone,
Little beginnings planning for large ends,
With other purpose than fond man attends,
Wisdom and love, in secret fellowship
Guide our world's wandering with a finger-tip;
And how, that night, as these did darkly see,
They sealed the first scrolls of earth's history,
And opened what shall run till death be dead.
Which babe they reverenced, bending low the head,
First of all worshippers; and told the things
Done in the plain, and played on angel's strings.
Then those around wondered and worshipped, too,
And Mary heard—but wondered not—anew
Hiding this in her heart, the heart which beat
With blood of Jesus Christ, holy and sweet.