Eidolon, or The Course of a Soul Part 4

Ay! she made all things beautiful to me, Drawing, with youth's pure privilege, the sting Of guilt and wrong from life--'twas as the sun Rose on a sphere seen but by night before.

Ah! bitter image of a transient thing, That s.h.i.+neth with Promethean glory, then Sinks 'neath the shadow of Eternity!

Oh Spirit! day by day I saw her fade, The life within her grew more spiritual, Triumphing in the weakness of the flesh, And in her eyes supernal brightness shone, As from the glory of approaching heaven.

Dear child! that kisses could not keep awake, Or woo from the sweet love of Mother-land.

She lay within these arms, and angels came And whispered her away with them to Heaven, So softly, that I knew it not, but still Murmured my heart to her. To sense she lay Upon my breast, and yet she was in heaven; This but the earthly mantle she had shed.

There were those silken locks that curtained her, And her sweet lips that I had kissed but now; From whence, as from a living spring of love, Trickled pure heaven streams o'er my life's dull waste.

But Oh! I kissed the soft lids from her eyes, And knew my desolation, for the soul That was their soul, as light is day's, no more Stood in their dewy portals, like a queen Swaying true-hearted mult.i.tudes. Oh heaven!

'Twas wonderful to fold her thus unto me, With life's ripe bloom upon her cheeks, and grace Clinging round her like a bridal robe, Yet feel that she, the verity, the self, Was floating, worlds-off, on the stream of souls To G.o.d. Oh mind! 'tis ever thus with thee!

Thou graspest at material shadowings, Whilst that the immaterial substance of all good Flies from thee like a vapour from the wind; So that thou hast a clod within thine hand, Life seems eternal, till the crumbling dust Runs through thy clenching fingers, and thy gage Mocks thee up from the mould'ring frame of Earth.

There is no mystery like Death; it comes Sightless as the first breath of infant life, And goes to an unsearched Eternity-- The End and the Beginning are alike.

SPIRIT.

Death strikes upon the soul the last deep chime, That tells it Time's short hour has pa.s.sed away, Eternity's undialled course begun; There is a trackless ocean round this life Whose tide is tremulous with unseen gales, And storms that lash it off to fury--shades Of deep chaotic darkness ever hang Above it, like the thunder crags of heaven, And sounds, as of the swooning of a blast Through time-worn caverns, flap their heavy wings On the white foam crest of the surging waves.

O man! that standest on the pinnacle Of life's abysmal heights with failing heart And reeling brain, gaze on that troubled gulf-- It is thy pathway to the Better-Land, Which thou must traverse with a sea-bird's flight, Whose rest is on the bosom of the storm.

Ay! 'tis a fearful plunge! Now think of Death-- There is an angel merciful and strong, Hovering ever o'er the weary world, That foldeth in his arms the weak, whose feet Totter upon the brink of the Inane, And, like a mother, wafts them from Earth's strife Into the bosom of eternal rest; Is he not merciful who spares so long The guilty for repentance, and the pure Transplants in all their purity to heaven?

Death harms not aught that's lovely, that poor frame Is mere corruption, which the soul makes fair By luminous infusion, and the soul Feels not Death's breathing on its healthful bloom, But like a virgin doffs its earthly veil, And gives its fullest beauty to the light.

MAN.

O Spirit! tell me, shall we meet again As those who have loved well in Time; or drop All memories of Earth with the sad dust The soul shakes from it at the gate of heaven?

'Twere bitter to regard her angel there, Unknown, and lost amid the myriad host Of spirits glorified!

SPIRIT.

The soul is wrought In an eternal mould, which still remains Unscathed 'mid the vicissitudes of flesh; And the same power that makes ident.i.ty 'Twixt man and man, being the soul within, That const.i.tutes the _Self_ of every man, Bears its distinctive features when it sheds The crysalis of frail humanity; They who have loved on Earth will love in Heaven, Through each the current flowing unto G.o.d, Thence shed again in blessing on their souls, As from clear tided springs a summer cloud Gathers its dewy freight to yield again, In sunny showers upon the native earth.

True Love is Earth's blest blessedness. All else, Wealth, fame, n.o.bility, and the poor gauds Wherewith man trinkets out his little life, End with the dust that rattles on his bier; But Love, like a rich heritage, ascends With the freed spirit to the throne of G.o.d, There to be perfected and purified To commune with the Children of the Light.

Therefore love much on Earth, keeping the heart Pure from the rank pollutions of the flesh, That like a mould'ring bank hangs loose above To launch its filth upon each errant wave; Let thy love circle wider with all time, Like the light ripple round a pebble plunge, Wider, and wider till the swells subside In the calm fulness of Eternity.

The love of heaven flows in _one_ stream to G.o.d, As from a fountain'd unison of soul Wherein all spirits blend inseparably; There is no isolation but in Time, For Death that units out mortality Like minutes on a dial, now, will break His arrows 'mid the ruins of the Earth, Proclaiming _everlasting_ life and love, The consummation of all unity.

SCENE. _Hill and Dale--Morning._

MAN.

The breath of morn is stealing o'er my brow All redolent of life, and health, and joy, As the first breeze that fans the prisoner's cheeks, And welcomes him to Liberty. The Earth Is yet in her sweet childhood innocence, Ere the dark cloud of worldly interests Obscure her taintless heavens, and the blue mist, Which is the spirit of the rising dew, Hangs o'er it like the sadness of first love, That makes youth beautiful. The lark is up And singing like a disembodied soul Within the brightness of the blessed sun, Telling of naught but heaven and happiness; There is no dew upon her bosom now, For the young beams have kissed it utterly; Yet over flower, and bud, and blade there lies The crystal tissue, trembling with soft light, As the young day moves gaily up the sky, And sheds his guerdon o'er the waiting Earth.

O what a charm there is in purity, Of morn, life, love, and nature all. This scene, So clear and calm and peaceful, that it fills The soul with its o'erflowing blessedness, Pales 'neath the glare of noon, and man's rude l.u.s.t, To scarce the semblance of its former self.

But with the heart--O G.o.d! Thy richest gift Is Innocence, that like a quenchless spring Of everlasting light, encircles life With beauty and unfading radiance, Keeping all sense and feeling fresh and sweet As the untainted breathing of the morn.

How lovely is all nature, separate From man! There is no whispering of strife Or sorrow here, naught to inform the soul Of man's deep wretchedness and sin. No l.u.s.t To justify the wretch who binds his soul In the drear darkness of a murky cell, Sc.r.a.ping for gold as beasts do in the earth For carrion, and counting life-time out By ducats; closing house and heart alike To the benignant suns.h.i.+ne. If our hearts Could lave in Lethe's cleansing stream sometimes, Till evil vanished from its memory, And left a virgin tablet for the pen Of Nature, life would be as sweet as love.

What far extremes of woe and blessedness This earth can yield! The woe create, the joy Begotten from a never failing womb; Woe! fas.h.i.+oned out of craft, and guile, and sin, That hungereth for prey, till, as it were, The mother eats the babe that sucks her breast; The joy! inherent and diffused like light From the eternal glory of the sun, Gather'd from all things, sight, and sound, and sense, E'en from the very breeze that whispers us Of yielded sweetness and unh.o.a.rded gifts.

O G.o.d! preserve my heart emanc.i.p.ate From all world feelings that must die with Time, Like things unworthy of Eternity; Sow in my spirit seed that may spring up And bud and increase throughout life, until It blossom fully in the light of heaven, Grant that the evil of the world may ne'er Harden my heart against the sweet impress Of Beauty, that beholding there, she see No mirror'd image of her loveliness!

Methinks life were a curse if separate From loving of the Good and Beautiful!

To gaze upon that azure dome, so blue And penetrate with suns.h.i.+ne through and through, As lover's eyes with fondness--the far hills, And sun-green meadows sloping to the stream With tints of bosky shadows, yet not feel A motion in the spirit, like the tide Of waving woodlands rippled by a breeze; Better return to dust from which we sprang, And bid the winds of heaven scatter it!

SPIRIT.

Love Beauty: let it be an atmosphere Above thee and around, whence comes the breath Of life and health and gladness. Yet beware Thy love be not an ideality, That, like the smile upon a sculptur'd lip, Freezes upon the stone nor sheds abroad The genial influence of a loving heart.

There is an aim still n.o.bler than the love Of Beauty; to show Beauty forth in _act_, And _life_, that like some fertilizing stream It glide flower-margined to Eternity.

Beauty quiescent loseth half its charms, As a blue eye when sleep hath closed its lid; But in its operation, 'tis a star That leaves a track of glory on the sky; Worst miser he who h.o.a.rds up in his soul The blessed wealth of Beauty and repels Unbenison'd the weary at his gate.

There is a way to make life glorious, And n.o.bler than the heritage of kings, Though thy path lie along a vale in life, With mountain pride reared up on either side-- To make thy march triumphant, trailing not The colours of thy Purpose in the dust-- And be received as victor into heaven.

Set Beauty in thy soul like a sea-light To warn thee from the rocks and shoals of wrong, And guide thee surely to thy journey's end; Let her pure promptings stablish in thy heart A living spring of motive, that may flow Through thought and action, like the veined life Through man and all his members; not for praise Let thy work be, nor gain, but heaven and right, And for the feeling of that sweetest sense, That from thy sowing springeth up no tare Of grief or bitterness, but goodly fruit That nourisheth the heart, and gives it strength To combat manfully for life and truth; Look manhood in the face unblanchingly, With no rose-coloured veil 'twixt it and thee-- With pure integrity to match the great, And humbleness to poize thee with the small; Look at its guilt and shame, as on deep wounds Wherefrom a life is flowing; seek thou then To staunch them in thy measure; mark its wrongs, The burden of oppression and the toil That grind the sand of life down till it run Like water through the mighty gla.s.s of Time, And let thy voice come like a trump to call The faithful to the rescue. Find the weak, And weary, and the desolate of heart, Faint with the sorrows and the cares of life, And let no act add to their bitter cup One drop of gall, but like a priest do thou Tell them of hope and peace, and gladden them With that blest balm, pure kindness, which transforms, With more than Magian art, the meanest act Into the brightness of the summer sun!-- Doth not this quiet hour fall on thy soul Like music dropping from the spheres?

MAN.

Ay! sooth It is most sweet! Methinks that such a time Were meeter far for lover's tryst than eve, When the dark night must sadden o'er their vows, And hide them from each other. Now, all things Are pure and beautiful as love should be, The dew of youth fresh on them, and though life Should darken o'er with clouds as it roll on, Still love would light them on, like the bright guide Of Israel, to the promised land of rest.

'Tis beautiful, love plighted in the morn Of life, when not a shadow dims its heaven-- Plighted for good or ill, as fate may rule, Enduring alike true through sun and storm, Save when the cold blast sweeps across the way, It knits them only closer heart to heart.

SPIRIT.

Love is no faint exotic made to bloom In the close summer of a gla.s.sy frame, That at the first breath of the unquelled air Shrivels up like a parchment in the flame.

No! let it stand upon the mountain's brow, And bid the untamed winds make sport of it; Yet though they drive it 'fore them in their might, 'Twill be like the strong eagle that exults In the wild rapture of his headlong swoop; The strongest and the tenderest is Love!

MAN.

Now as I gaze upon this cloudless sky, So soft and tranquil, mem'ry paints to me One whose life bid as fair--that my heart said Beholding her--"O flower! so bright and sweet, "With the pure dew of maidenhood bestrewn, "Thy life will be unfolded like the rose, "That leaf by leaf adds sweetness to the spring!"

She was most beautiful! but more in this, That she moved like an angel, minist'ring To joy and peace and charity. The weak Rejoiced before her as the embodied smile Of Providence, and sadden'd when she pa.s.s'd; And yet one short, short year and she was gone, Her heart pierced through with thorns, who ne'er had borne The semblance of a sorrow into life.

Is there no armour against sorrow's sting?

SPIRIT.

The highway of this world is set with thorns, O'er which poor pilgrims still must journey on; There are who walk it shod with iron sense, That crushes opposition like a vice, And puts aside the ready points like twigs Pressed backward in the woodlands by a child.

There are who seem buoyed upward by some power Above the level of affliction's range, Until their term be run, and then they fall Into the bosom of the angel Death.

And there are some whose tender feet are pierced Evermore deeper by the rugged path, Whose softness and whose beauty nigh invite The cruel spoiler to his unarmed prey, As the swift hawk high poized in the sky, Swoops when the dove floats past on silv'ry wings.

There is a veil upon the eyes of men, That makes all things show dimly, but if rent Would work like resurrection on the mind, Bringing to life thoughts dead in doubt and error; Thus, standing on the bridge of Time, which spans The gulf 'twixt two eternities through which Flows ever on the tide of human life, That troubled stream would seem a sea of gla.s.s, And all its thick impurities appear Clear as the outline of a floating corpse; Gaze down upon it though it sicken thee.

There cometh one beneath whose ermined pride Stalks the corruption of a charnel-house, Where fest'ring flesh lies in its cloth of gold, E'en yet the wonder of the gaping crowd.

Upon his brow the jewelled circlet rests, His only t.i.tle to n.o.bility; But that, unto the vulgar, symbols still The orbit of the everlasting sun, That fills and glorifies a universe--of clay.

Where is the mind that should have overtopp'd, Saul-like, the level of the mult.i.tude?

Where the bold front that in the breach of wrong Stemm'd the fierce current of insidious foes, Flas.h.i.+ng Truth's falchion in the van of Time?

Shame! it hath rusted in its scabbard, till The nerveless arm can scarce withdraw it thence.

O Earth! rejoice that at his side there comes An undimm'd light to beacon on the world; One who upholds the honour of his line Unsullied as the glory of the stars; Whose voice rings clear above the battle strife, And shakes oppression from his iron throne; And for the purple, round his heaving breast Folds like a vesture manly Honesty.

Is it not glorious the light that gilds The h.o.a.ry summits of the giant hills, Spread like the standard of eternal Truth O'er many phalanxed Ages--blazoning The stalwart band that barrier'd from the world The bitter fury of Heaven's huricanes!

Onward there come a thick'ning ma.s.s who drown Defects and vices in a shower of gold; Who crush report, like Rome the Sabine maid, Beneath the burden of their molten wealth, And 'neath their gilding flaunt them in the sun Brightly as though there were no dross within; So the eye sees them, but search thou the soul, And part the sterling from the counterfeit.

Oh! for the sighing of the desolate, The widow and the orphan in their woe, Drown'd 'neath the clink of gold wrung from their need, Like moisture from the crus.h.i.+ng of the grape.

Oh! for the fruitless cry of misery, The Tantalus of stern reality, That feebly perisheth in Famine's grasp, Whilst plenty moulders for the l.u.s.t of pride, And adds its rottenness to the hot-bed Of wantonness and subtle infamy.

And yet the worker wears as fair a port As he whose life is holy Charity, Setting his footprints on the way of life Like suns.h.i.+ne rippling o'er the summer sea.

Some wear their little merit on their sleeve, Which 'neath the friction of Time's troublous waves, Grows threadbare as the coat of beggary.

Some under rugged lineaments enclose Treasures of truth and goodness, that like gems s.h.i.+ne through the fissures of the strong Time-quake, Showing more perfect as affliction works, And sorrow rends the earthy covering.

Some are there with the sight turned inwards still, Beholding but the narrow sphere of self, And trampling under foot the weak who stand Betwixt them and the goal of their desire.

Blessed the few who unto fellow men Turn with the fervent grasp of Brotherhood, Breasting the surges of tempestuous fate, With souls fulfilled with kindliness and Faith-- Raising the ensign of prophetic Hope Like the clear rainbow on the thunder-cloud; And 'mid the darkness of impending care, Pouring the cheerful daylight of the soul!

There are sweet spirits mingling with the throng, Marked out with suns.h.i.+ne, like the pouting waves When heaven looks down in sun and shadow, hearts So leaven'd through with grace and purity, That though sin warp and sift them at its will, Some hidden sweetness lingers yet to tell The perfectness of Nature's handy-work.