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NOVEMBER, 1857
[First published 1867.]
COLDLY, sadly descends | |
| The autumn evening. The Field | |
| Strewn with its dank yellow drifts | |
| Of wither’d leaves, and the elms, | |
| Fade into dimness apace, | 5 |
| Silent;—hardly a shout | |
| From a few boys late at their play! | |
| The lights come out in the street, | |
| In the school-room windows; but cold, | |
| Solemn, unlighted, austere, | 10 |
| Through the gathering darkness, arise | |
| The Chapel walls, in whose bound | |
| Thou, my father! art laid. | |
| |
| There thou dost lie, in the gloom | |
| Of the autumn evening. But ah! | 15 |
| That word, gloom, to my mind | |
| Brings thee back in the light | |
| Of thy radiant vigour again! | |
| In the gloom of November we pass’d | |
| Days not of gloom at thy side; | 20 |
| Seasons impair’d not the ray | |
| Of thine even cheerfulness clear. | |
| Such thou wast; and I stand | |
| In the autumn evening, and think | |
| Of bygone autumns with thee. | 25 |
| |
| Fifteen years have gone round | |
| Since thou arosest to tread, | |
| In the summer morning, the road | |
| Of death, at a call unforeseen, | |
| Sudden. For fifteen years, | 30 |
| We who till then in thy shade | |
| Rested as under the boughs | |
| Of a mighty oak, have endured | |
| Sunshine and rain as we might, | |
| Bare, unshaded, alone, | 35 |
| Lacking the shelter of thee. | |
| O strong soul, by what shore | |
| Tarriest thou now? For that force, | |
| Surely, has not been left vain! | |
| Somewhere, surely, afar, | 40 |
| In the sounding labour-house vast | |
| Of being, is practised that strength, | |
| Zealous, beneficent, firm! | |
| |
| Yes, in some far-shining sphere, | |
| Conscious or not of the past, | 45 |
| Still thou performest the word | |
| Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, | |
| Prompt, unwearied, as here! | |
| Still thou upraisest with zeal | |
| The humble good from the ground, | 50 |
| Sternly repressest the bad. | |
| Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse | |
| Those who with half-open eyes | |
| Tread the border-land dim | |
| ’Twixt vice and virtue; reviv’st, | 55 |
| Succourest;—this was thy work, | |
| This was thy life upon earth. | |
| |
| What is the course of the life | |
| Of mortal men on the earth?— | |
| Most men eddy about | 60 |
| Here and there—eat and drink, | |
| Chatter and love and hate, | |
| Gather and squander, are raised | |
| Aloft, are hurl’d in the dust, | |
| Striving blindly, achieving | 65 |
| Nothing; and, then they die— | |
| Perish; and no one asks | |
| Who or what they have been, | |
| More than he asks what waves | |
| In the moonlit solitudes mild | 70 |
| Of the midmost Ocean, have swell’d, | |
| Foam’d for a moment, and gone. | |
| |
| And there are some, whom a thirst | |
| Ardent, unquenchable, fires, | |
| Not with the crowd to be spent, | 75 |
| Not without aim to go round | |
| In an eddy of purposeless dust, | |
| Effort unmeaning and vain. | |
| Ah yes, some of us strive | |
| Not without action to die | 80 |
| Fruitless, but something to snatch | |
| From dull oblivion, nor all | |
| Glut the devouring grave! | |
| We, we have chosen our path— | |
| Path to a clear-purposed goal, | 85 |
| Path of advance! but it leads | |
| A long, steep journey, through sunk | |
| Gorges, o’er mountains in snow! | |
| Cheerful, with friends, we set forth; | |
| Then, on the height, comes the storm! | 90 |
| Thunder crashes from rock | |
| To rock, the cataracts reply; | |
| Lightnings dazzle our eyes; | |
| Roaring torrents have breach’d | |
| The track, the stream-bed descends | 95 |
| In the place where the wayfarer once | |
| Planted his footstep—the spray | |
| Boils o’er its borders; aloft, | |
| The unseen snow-beds dislodge | |
| Their hanging ruin;—alas, | 100 |
| Havoc is made in our train! | |
| Friends who set forth at our side | |
| Falter, are lost in the storm! | |
| We, we only, are left! | |
| With frowning foreheads, with lips | 105 |
| Sternly compress’d, we strain on, | |
| On—and at nightfall, at last, | |
| Come to the end of our way, | |
| To the lonely inn ’mid the rocks; | |
| Where the gaunt and taciturn Host | 110 |
| Stands on the threshold, the wind | |
| Shaking his thin white hairs— | |
| Holds his lantern to scan | |
| Our storm-beat figures, and asks: | |
| Whom in our party we bring? | 115 |
| Whom we have left in the snow? | |
| Sadly we answer: We bring | |
| Only ourselves; we lost | |
| Sight of the rest in the storm. | |
| Hardly ourselves we fought through, | 120 |
| Stripp’d, without friends, as we are. | |
| Friends, companions, and train | |
| The avalanche swept from our side. | |
| |
| But thou would’st not alone | |
| Be saved, my father! alone | 125 |
| Conquer and come to thy goal, | |
| Leaving the rest in the wild. | |
| We were weary, and we | |
| Fearful, and we, in our march, | |
| Fain to drop down and to die. | 130 |
| Still thou turnedst, and still | |
| Beckonedst the trembler, and still | |
| Gavest the weary thy hand! | |
| If, in the paths of the world, | |
| Stones might have wounded thy feet, | 135 |
| Toil or dejection have tried | |
| Thy spirit, of that we saw | |
| Nothing! to us thou were still | |
| Cheerful, and helpful, and firm. | |
| Therefore to thee it was given | 140 |
| Many to save with thyself; | |
| And, at the end of thy day, | |
| O faithful shepherd! to come, | |
| Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. | |
| |
| And through thee I believe | 145 |
| In the noble and great who are gone; | |
| Pure souls honour’d and blest | |
| By former ages, who else— | |
| Such, so soulless, so poor, | |
| Is the race of men whom I see— | 150 |
| Seem’d but a dream of the heart, | |
| Seem’d but a cry of desire. | |
| Yes! I believe that there lived | |
| Others like thee in the past, | |
| Not like the men of the crowd | 155 |
| Who all round me to-day | |
| Bluster or cringe, and make life | |
| Hideous, and arid, and vile; | |
| But souls temper’d with fire, | |
| Fervent, heroic, and good, | 160 |
| Helpers and friends of mankind. | |
| |
| Servants of God!—or sons | |
| Shall I not call you? because | |
| Not as servants ye knew | |
| Your Father’s innermost mind, | 165 |
| His, who unwillingly sees | |
| One of his little ones lost— | |
| Yours is the praise, if mankind | |
| Hath not as yet in its march | |
| Fainted, and fallen, and died! | 170 |
| |
| See! in the rocks of the world | |
| Marches the host of mankind, | |
| A feeble, wavering line. | |
| Where are they tending?—A God | |
| Marshall’d them, gave them their goal.— | 175 |
| Ah, but the way is so long! | |
| Years they have been in the wild! | |
| Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks, | |
| Rising all round, overawe. | |
| Factions divide them; their host | 180 |
| Threatens to break, to dissolve. | |
| Ah, keep, keep them combined! | |
| Else, of the myriads who fill | |
| That army, not one shall arrive! | |
| Sole they shall stray; in the rocks | 185 |
| Labour for ever in vain, | |
| Die one by one in the waste. | |
| |
| Then, in such hour of need | |
| Of your fainting, dispirited race, | |
| Ye, like angels, appear, | 190 |
| Radiant with ardour divine. | |
| Beacons of hope, ye appear! | |
| Languor is not in your heart, | |
| Weakness is not in your word, | |
| Weariness not on your brow. | 195 |
| Ye alight in our van; at your voice, | |
| Panic, despair, flee away. | |
| Ye move through the ranks, recall | |
| The stragglers, refresh the outworn, | |
| Praise, re-inspire the brave. | 200 |
| Order, courage, return. | |
| Eyes rekindling, and prayers, | |
| Follow your steps as ye go. | |
| Ye fill up the gaps in our files, | |
| Strengthen the wavering line, | 205 |
| Stablish, continue our march, | |
| On, to the bound of the waste, | |
| On, to the City of God. | |
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