Supposed Confessions of a second-rate sensitive mind not in unity with itself

Oh God! my God! have mercy now.

I faint, I fall. Men say that thou

Did'st die for me, for such as me,

Patient of ill, and death, and scorn,

And that my sin was as a[errata 1] thorn

Among the thorns that girt thy brow,

Wounding thy soul.—That even now,

In this extremest misery

Of ignorance, I should require

A sign! and if a bolt of fire

Would rive the slumbrous summernoon

While I do pray to thee alone,

Think my belief would stronger grow!

Is not my human pride brought low?

The boastings of my spirit still?

The joy I had in my freewill

All cold, and dead, and corpselike grown?

And what is left to me, but thou,

And faith in thee? Men pass me by;

Christians with happy countenances—

And children all seem full of thee!

And women smile with saintlike glances

Like thine own mother's when she bowed

Above thee, on that happy morn

When angels spake to men aloud,

And thou and peace to earth were born.

Goodwill to me as well as all—

—I one of them: my brothers they:

Brothers in Christ—a world of peace

And confidence, day after day;

And trust and hope till things should cease,

And then one Heaven receive us all.

How sweet to have a common faith!

To hold a common scorn of death!

And at a burial to hear

The creaking cords which wound and eat

Into my human heart, whene'er

Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!

A grief not uninformed, and dull,

Hearted with hope, of hope as full

As is the blood with life, or night

And a dark cloud with rich moonlight.

To stand beside a grave, and see

The red small atoms wherewith we

Are built, and smile in calm, and say—

"These little motes and grains shall be

"Clothed on with immortality

"More glorious than the noon of day.

"All that is pass'd into the flowers,

"And into beasts, and other men,

"And all the Norland whirlwind showers

"From open vaults, and all the sea

"O'erwashes with sharp salts, again

"Shall fleet together all, and be

"Indued with immortality."

Thrice happy state again to be

The trustful infant on the knee!

Who lets his waxen fingers play

About his mother's neck, and knows

Nothing beyond his mother's eyes.

They comfort him by night and day

They light his little life alway;

He hath no thought of coming woes;

He hath no care of life or death,

Scarce outward signs of joy arise,

Because the Spirit of happiness

And perfect rest so inward is;

And loveth so his innocent heart,

Her temple and her place of birth,

Where she would ever wish to dwell,

Life of the fountain there, beneath

Its salient springs, and far apart,

Hating to wander out on earth,

Or breathe into the hollow air,

Whose chillness would make visible

Her subtil, warm, and golden breath,

Which mixing with the infant's blood,

Fullfills him with beatitude.

Oh! sure it is a special care

Of God, to fortify from doubt,

To arm in proof, and guard about

With triplemailéd trust, and clear

Delight, the infant's dawning year.

Would that my gloomed fancy were

As thine, my mother, when with brows

Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld

In thine, I listened to thy vows,

For me outpoured in holiest prayer—

For me unworthy!—and beheld

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew

The beauty and repose of faith,

And the clear spirit shining through.

Oh! wherefore do we grow awry

From roots which strike so deep? why dare

Paths in the desart? Could not I

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt,

To th' earth—until the ice would melt

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?

What Devil had the heart to scathe

Flowers thou had'st reared—to brush the dew

From thine own lily, when thy grave

Was deep, my mother, in the clay?

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I

So little love for thee? But why

Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray

To one who heeds not, who can save

But will not? Great in faith, and strong

Against the grief of circumstance

Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive

Through utter dark a fullsailed skiff,

Unpiloted i'the echoing dance

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low

Unto the death, not sunk! I know

At matins and at evensong,

That thou, if thou wert yet alive,

In deep and daily prayers would'st strive

To reconcile me with thy God.

Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still—

"Bring this lamb back into thy fold,

"My Lord, if so it be thy will."

Would'st tell me I must brook the rod,

And chastisement of human pride;

That pride, the sin of devils, stood

Betwixt me and the light of God!

That hitherto I had defied,

And had rejected God—that grace

Would drop from his o'erbrimming love,

As manna on my wilderness,

If I would pray—that God would move

And strike the hard hard rock, and thence,

Sweet in their utmost bitterness,

Would issue tears of penitence

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas!

I think that pride hath now no place

Nor sojourn in me. I am void,

Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

Why not believe then? Why not yet

Anchor thy frailty there, where man

Hath moored and rested? Ask the sea

At midnight, when the crisp slope waves

After a tempest, rib and fret

The broadimbaséd beach, why he

Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?

Wherefore his ridges are not curls

And ripples of an inland meer?

Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can

Draw down into his vexéd pools

All that blue heaven which hues and paves

The other? I am too forlorn,

Too shaken: my own weakness fools

My judgment, and my spirit whirls,

Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

"Yet," said I, in my morn of youth,

The unsunned freshness of my strength,

When I went forth in quest of truth,

"It is man's privilege to doubt,

"If so be that from doubt at length,

"Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,

"An image with profulgent brows,

"And perfect limbs, as from the storm

"Of running fires and fluid range

"Of lawless airs, at last stood out

"This excellence and solid form

"Of constant beauty. For the Ox

"Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills

"The hornéd valleys all about,

"And hollows of the fringed hills

"In summerheats, with placid lows

"Unfearing, till his own blood flows

"About his hoof. And in the flocks

"The lamb rejoiceth in the year,

"And raceth freely with his fere,

"And answers to his mother's calls

"From the flowered furrow. In a time,

"Of which he wots not, run short pains

"Through his warm heart; and then, from whence

"He knows not, on his light there falls

"A shadow; and his native slope,

"Where he was wont to leap and climb,

"Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,

"And something in the darkness draws

"His forehead earthward, and he dies.

"Shall men live thus, in joy and hope

"As a young lamb, who cannot dream,

"Living, but that he shall live on?

"Shall we not look into the laws

"Of life and death, and things that seem,

"And things that be, and analyse

"Our double nature, and compare

"All creeds till we have found the one,

"If one there be?" Ay me! I fear

All may not doubt, but every where

Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God,

Whom call I Idol? let thy dove

Shadow me over, and my sins

Be unremembered, and thy love

Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet

Somewhat before the heavy clod

Weighs on me, and the busy fret

Of that sharpheaded worm begins

In the gross blackness underneath.

Oh weary life! oh weary death!

Oh spirit and heart made desolate!

Oh damnéd vacillating state!