The Rainbow and the Rose Part 8

"For, of all worthy things, prayer has most worth, It rises like sweet incense up to heaven, And from G.o.d's hand falls back upon the earth, Being of heavenly bread the accepted leaven.

Through prayer is virtue saved and sin forgiven; In prayer the impulse and the force are found That bring in purple and gold the fruitful seasons round.

"For prayer comes down from heaven in the sun That giveth life and joy to all things made; Prayer falls in rain to make broad rivers run And quickens the seeds in earth's brown bosom laid; By prayer the red-hung branch is earthward weighed, By prayer the barn grows full, and full the fold, For by man's prayer G.o.d works his wonders manifold."

The porter seemed to bow to the reproof; But when the echo of the night's last prayer Died in the mystery of the vaulted roof, A whispered memory in the hallowed air, The Abbot turned to find him standing there.

"Brother," he said, "I have healed the woodland things And they go happy and whole--blessing Love's ministerings,

"And, having healed them, I shall crave your leave To leave you--for to-night I journey far.

But I have kept your gate this Easter Eve, And now your house to heaven s.h.i.+nes like a star To show the Angels where G.o.d's children are; And in this day your house has served G.o.d more Than in the praise and prayer of all its years before.

"Yet I must leave you, though I fain would stay, For there are other gates I go to keep Of houses round whose walls, long day by day, Shut out of hope and love, poor sinners weep-- Barred folds that keep out G.o.d's poor wandering sheep-- I must teach these that gates where G.o.d comes in Must not be shut at all to pain, or want, or sin.

"The voice of prayer is very soft and weak, And sorrow and sin have voices very strong; Prayer is not heard in heaven when those twain speak, The voice of prayer faints in the voice of wrong By the just man endured--oh, Lord, how long?-- If ye would have your prayers in heaven be heard, Look that wrong clamour not with too intense a word.

"But when true love is shed on want and sin, Their cry is changed, and grows to such a voice As clamours sweetly at heaven to be let in-- Such sound as makes the saints in heaven rejoice; Pure gold of prayer, purged of the vain alloys Of idleness--that is the sound most dear Of all the earthly sounds G.o.d leans from heaven to hear.

"Oh, brother, I must leave thee, and for me The work is heavy, and the burden great.

Thine be this charge I lay upon thee: See That never again stands barred thy abbey gate; Look that G.o.d's poor be not left desolate; Ah me! that chidden my shepherds needs must be When my poor wandering sheep have so great need of me.

"Brother, forgive thy Brother if he chide, Thy Brother loves thee--and has loved--for see The nails are in my hands, and in my side The spear-wound; and the thorns weigh heavily Upon my brow--brother, I died for thee-- For thee, and for my sheep that are astray, And rose to live for thee, and them, on Easter Day!"

"My Master and my Lord!" the Abbot cried.

But, where that face had been, shone the new day; Only on the marble by the Abbot's side, Where those dear feet had stood, a lily lay-- A lily white for the white Easter Day.

He sought the gate--no sorrow clamoured there-- And, not till then, he dared to sink his soul in prayer.

And from that day himself he kept the gate Wide open; and the poor from far and wide, The weary, and wicked, and disconsolate, Came there for succour and were not denied; The sick were healed, the repentant sanctified; And from their hearts rises more prayer and praise Than ever the abbey knew in all its prayer-filled days.

And there the Heavenly vision comes no more, Only, each Easter now, a lily sweet Lies white and dewy on the chancel floor Where once had stood the beloved wounded feet; And the old Abbot feels the nearing beat Of wings that bring him leave at last to go And meet his Master, where the immortal lilies grow.

VIA AMORIS.

I.

IT is not Love, this beautiful unrest, This tremor of longing that invades my breast: For Love is in his grave this many a year, He will not rise--I do not wish him here.

It is not memory, for your face and eyes Are not reflected where that dark pool lies: It is not hope, for life makes no amends, And hope and I are long no longer friends: It is a ghost out of another Spring It needs but little for its comforting-- That I should hold your hand and see your face And muse a little in this quiet place, Where, through the silence, I can hear you sigh And feel you sadden, O Virgin Mystery, And know my thought has in your thought begot Sadness, its child, and that you know it not.

II.

If this were Love, if all this bitter pain Were but the birth-pang of Love born again, If through the doubts and dreams resolved, smiled The prophetic promise of the holy child, What should I gain? The Love whose dream-lips smiled Could never be my own and only child, But to Love's birth would come, with the last pain, Renunciation, also born again.

III.

If this were Love why should I turn away?

Am I not, too, made of the common clay?

Is life so fair, am I so fortunate, I can refuse the capricious gift of Fate, The sudden glory, the unhoped-for flowers, The transfiguration of my earthly hours?

Come, Love! the house is garnished and is swept, Washed clean with all the tears that I have wept, Washed from the stain of my unworthy fears, Hung with the splendid spoils of wasted years, Lighted with lamps of hope, and curtained fast Against the gathered darkness of the past.

I draw the bolts! I throw the portals wide, The darkness rushes s.h.i.+vering to my side, Love is not here--the darkness creeps about My house wherein the lamps of hope die out.

Ah Love! it was not then your hand that came Beating my door? your voice that called my name?

IV.

"It is not Love, it is not Love," I said, And bowed in fearful hope my trembling head.

"It is not Love, for Love could never rise Out of the rock-hewn grave wherein he lies."

But as I spake, the heavenly form drew near Where close I clasped a hope grown keen as fear, Upon my head His very hand He laid And whispered, "It is I, be not afraid!"

V.

And this is Love, no rose-crowned laughing guest By whom my pa.s.sionate heart should be caressed, But one re-risen from the grave; austere, Cold as the grave, and infinitely dear, To follow whom I lay the whole world down, Take up the cross, bind on the th.o.r.n.y crown; And, following whom, my bleeding pilgrim feet Find the rough pathway sure and very sweet.

The august environment of mighty wings Shuts out the snare of vain imaginings, For by my side, crowned with Love's death-white rose, The Angel of Renunciation goes.

RETRO SATHANAS.

"REFUSE, refrain: for this is not the love The Annunciation Angel warned you of; This is the little candle, not the sun; It burns, but will not warm, unhappy one!"

"But ah! suppose the sun should never s.h.i.+ne, Then what an anguish of regret were mine To know that even from this I turned away!

Candles may serve, if there should be no day."

"Nay, better to go cold your whole life long Than do the sun, than do your soul such wrong: And if the sun s.h.i.+ne not, be life's the blame And yours the pride, who scorned the meaner flame."

THE OLD DISPENSATION.

O THOU, who, high in heaven, To man hast given This clouded earthly life All storm and strife, Blasted with ice and fire, Love and desire, Filled with dead faith, and love That change is master of--

O Thou, who mightest have given To all Thy heaven, But who, instead, didst give This life we live-- Who feedest with blood and tears The hungry years-- I make one prayer to Thee, O Great G.o.d! grant it me.

Some day when summer shows Her leaf, her rose, G.o.d, let Thy sinner lie Under Thy sky, And feel Thy sun's large grace Upon his face; Then grant him this, that he May not believe in Thee!

THE NEW DISPENSATION.

OUT in the sun the b.u.t.tercups are gold, The daisies silver all the gra.s.sy lane, And spring has given love a flower to hold, And love lays blindness on the eyes of pain.

Within are still, chill aisles and blazoned panes And carven tombs where memory weeps no more.

And from the lost and holy days remains One saint beside the long-closed western door.

Outside the world goes laughing lest it weep, With here and there some happy child at play; A mother wors.h.i.+pping the babe asleep, Or two young lovers dreaming 'neath the May.

Within, the soul of love broods o'er the place; The carven saint forgotten many a year Still lifts to heaven his rapt adoring face To pray, for those who leave him lonely here,

That once again the silent church may ring With songs of joy triumphant over pain-- Ah! G.o.d, who makest the miracle of spring Make Thou dead faith and love to rise again.

THE THREE KINGS.