[Illustration:
"... he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there."]
Once more, this is how he uses the gospel-tale: Mary has returned home
from the sepulchre, with Lazarus so late its prey, and her sister and
Jesus:--
XXXII.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there.
Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,
And rests upon the Life indeed.
All subtle thought, all curious fears,
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
With costly spikenard and with tears.
Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,
Or is there blessedness like theirs?
* * * * *
I have thus traced--how slightly!--the course of the religious poetry of
England, from simple song, lovingly regardful of sacred story and legend,
through the chant of philosophy, to the full-toned lyric of adoration. I
have shown how the stream sinks in the sands of an evil taste generated
by the worship of power and knowledge, and that a new growth of the love
of nature--beauty counteracting not contradicting science--has led it by
a fair channel back to the simplicities of faith in some, and to a holy
questioning in others; the one class having for its faith, the other for
its hope, that the heart of the Father is a heart like ours, a heart that
will receive into its noon the song that ascends from the twilighted
hearts of his children.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337