Passion-Flowers (Howe)/Visions
VISIONS.
I have read in old narrationsHow the Godhood came to men;Led in war the ancient nations,Taught the arts of peace and gain.
Now a virgin, helmet shielded,Points from clouds her warrior spear;Now the torch by Ceres wielded,Sheds the blessing of the year.
Now, amid Olympian thunders,Jove's portentous bolts are hurled;Vulcan works his dingy wonders,Cypris' smile enslaves the world.
Dearer visions show the gestureOf a God who deigns to hideTraits divine in homely vesture,At the peasant's fireside;
Fathoms secrets without asking,Sees the thought confessed to none,Heavenly largesse ends his masking,Men discern him, when he's gone.
Sometimes when alone I ponderOn that outlet of the soul,Hid in Northern night and wonderArmed with sunken reef and shoal;
Fear lest evil should betide meOn that wide and viewless sea,Lest some flattering light misguide me,That I perish utterly:
Gentlest harmony breathes o'er me,Bringing answer to my prayer;Through the eyelids closed before me,Shadowed, the Divine is there.
In the guise of human natures,Folded round his deep heart now,Manhood gracious in his features,Godhood glorious on his brow.
Still he sits beside the embers,Fills serene the ancient chair,Which my orphaned heart remembersSilvered by an old man's hair.
Hist! the household all is sleeping—I'm in trances deeper far,'Didst thou hear my distant weeping,'Cristo, che son misera?'
'By these eyes' unbidden filling,'By this love that passeth fear,By this silence, soul-enthrilling,I discerned that thou wert near.
'Felt the holy grace and goodnessThat vouchsafed thee to my sight,Quieting Life's rush and rudenessWith a calm and pure delight.
'Bless me with those hands that scatteredFulness to the fainting crowd,Speak, as from the bark, storm-shattered,To the demon of the cloud.
'Nay, my Cristo, help me onlyTo a striving after good;Faints my heart in love so lonely,'Fails the earnest, hopeful mood.
'Hold in check these nerves so frantic,When the current counter runs,Give me patience with each anticOf the wild and thoughtless ones.
'If Displeasure, sourly lookingFrom stern eyelids, wounds my pride,Let me hear thy mild rebuking,And the pang in silence hide.
'Clearer vision, joys ecstaticI resign for humbler state;But let Life be emblematicOf the soul's immortal fate.'
Oftener, my confession sighing,Sobbing, struggles from my breast,And that gentle One, replying,Calms me to unearthly rest.
Dimly though my soul discernethWhat those pure lips smile or say,With a glad consent she turnethWhere the raised hand points the way;Hopefully the pilgrim learnethShe must walk to meet the day.
Then Life rises to entomb me,Waking I am all alone;Half I feel, Christ passes from me,Half I deem, he is not gone.