POETRY.
CHRISTITS CUNCTATOR.
So far beyond the things of Space—
So high above the things of Time— And yet, how human is thy face, How near, how neighbourly, thy clime:!
Thou wast not born to fill our skies With lustre from some alien zone : Thy light, thy love, thy sympathies, Thy very essence, are our own.
Thy mission, thy supreme estate, Thy life among the pious poor, Thy lofty language to the great ; Thy touch, so tender and so sure ; Thine eyes, whose looks are with us yet; Thy voice, whose echoes do not die; Thy words, which none who hear forget, So piercing are they, and so nigh; Thy balanced nature, always true And always dauntless and serene, Which did the deeds none else could do And saw the sights none else had seen, And ruled itself from first to last
Without an effort or a pause By no traditions of the Past—
By nothing, save its own pure laws : All this, and thousand traits beside, Unseen till these at least are known, May serve to witness far and wide That thou art He, and thou alone.
But oh, how high thy spirit soars Above the men who tell thy tale ! They labour with their awkward cars And try to show thee—and they fail.
They saw thee; yet they fail like us, Who also strive to limn thee out, And say that thou art thus or thus, And carve our crumbling creeds with Doubt, Or build theni up with such a Faith And such a narrow, niggard Love As clings to what some other saith, Or moves not, lest some other move.
Ah, none shall see thee as thou art, Or know thee for himself at all, Until he has thee in his heart, And heeds thy whisper or thy call, And feels that in thy sovran will Eternal Manhood grows not old, But keeps its prime, that all may fill Thy large, illimitable fold.
ARTHUR MTh/1Y.
Previous page
