Part 86 (1/2)

7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below Tempests and winds and winter nights!

Vex not that but One sees thee grow, That One made all these lesser lights.

8 If those bright joys he singly sheds On thee, were all met in one crown, Both sun and stars would hide their heads; And moons, though full, would get them down.

9 Let glory be their bait whose minds Are all too high for a low cell: Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, The poor bee in her hive must dwell.

10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still To what most takes them is a drudge; And they too oft take good for ill, And thriving vice for virtue judge.

11 What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself an outward test?

Who breaks his gla.s.s to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest.

12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, Till the white-winged reapers come!

CHILDHOOD.

I cannot reach it; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity.

Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven.

Why should men love A wolf more than a lamb or dove?

Or choose h.e.l.l-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and G.o.d's own beams?

Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living (fie on men!) Are, when dead, medicinal then.

If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise, Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still?

Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself, Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled?

Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul.

And yet the practice worldlings call Business and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping virtue parts with man; Where love without l.u.s.t dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would G.o.d's face see; Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away.

How do I study now, and scan Thee more than ere I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light!

Oh for thy centre and mid-day!

For sure that is the narrow way!

ABEL'S BLOOD.

Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye Did first against a murderer cry; Whose streams, still vocal, still complain Of b.l.o.o.d.y Cain; And now at evening are as red As in the morning when first shed.

If single thou, Though single voices are but low, Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, What thunders shall those men arraign Who cannot count those they have slain, Who bathe not in a shallow flood, But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, But deep still calleth upon deep; Whose urgent sound, like unto that Of many waters, beateth at The everlasting doors above, Where souls behind the altar move, And with one strong, incessant cry Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High?

Almighty Judge!

At whose just laws no just men grudge; Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour Comforts and joys and hopes each hour On those that keep them; oh, accept Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept From b.l.o.o.d.y men! and grant I may That sworn memorial duly pay To thy bright arm, which was my light And leader through thick death and night!

Aye may that flood, That proudly spilt and despised blood, Speechless and calm as infants sleep!

Or if it watch, forgive and weep For those that spilt it! May no cries From the low earth to high heaven rise, But what, like his whose blood peace brings, Shall, when they rise, speak better things Than Abel's doth! May Abel be Still single heard, while these agree With his mild blood in voice and will, Who prayed for those that did him kill!

RIGHTEOUSNESS.

1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades The old, white prophets planted first and dressed; Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest;