Thy mantle, pierced with gaping, ghastly wounds,
From daggers clutched by ingrate hands. O Truth!
How many, in thy sacred name, have slain
Humanity, thinking they did God service!
Rome, and not Cæsar-Doctrines, and not Men.
I cannot count the wounds which lust for power, And wealth, and place, and precedence have made. But, O! the keenest, deepest, deadliest stabs Of all, were made by false Philosophy
And false Theology combined
Philosophy, that knew not what it did;
Theology, that did not what it knew.
See here! This rent made by the fear of God,
That gracious God, whose "mercy seasons justice,"
Who feeds the raven, clothes the lilies, heeds
The sparrow when it falls, and sends his rain
Alike upon the evil and the good.
And yet they were all "honorable men
Who taught this doctrine
Whose failing was a lack of common sense.
And, lo! here is another- Fear of Truth Blind Superstition made this horrid rent,
And Bigotry quick followed up the thrust.
O, 'tis an eye weeping great tears of blood!
An eagle eye, that dared to love the light.
Which Bigotry and Superstition feared,
Lest it should make their deeds of evil plain.
Thus is it, he who dares to see a Truth
Not recognized in creeds, must die the death.
But noon-day never stayed for bats and owls,
And Truth's clear light shall yet arise and shine.
See here: another wound-The fear of DeathThat blesséd consummation of this life, Which soothes all pain, makes good all loss, revives The weak, gives rest and peace, makes free the
Levels all past distinctions, and doth place
The beggar on a footing with the king.
O, poor Humanity! those who conspired
To slay thee, through exceeding love for God,
And for the glory of His mighty name,
Smote at the very centre of thy peace,
And damning doubts, like daggers' thrusts, attest
How zealously they aimed each cruel blow.
And yet, this rent and bloody mantle is not thee.
Slain, but not dead-thy spirit shall arise
And face thy startled enemies again,
As royal Cæsar's ghost appeared to Brutus,
In Sardis' and Philippi's tented plains.
Thou royal heir to kingdoms yet unknown!
A mightier than Cæsar is thy Friend.
He stays the hand of Cassius, Brutus, all
Who aim their weapons at thy life, and dulls
Their daggers' points against thy deathless soul.
From every gaping wound of fear or doubt,
Murder or malice, sorrow or despair,
Thy spirit leaps as from a prison door.
It laughs at death and daggers, as it flies
To hold companionship with spirits blest;
And having thus informed itself of life,
The question then, "To be, or not to be?" —
Is swallowed up in Immortality.
O WORLD! Somewhat I have to say to thee.
O sin-sick, heart-sick, soul-sick, love-sick World!
So ailing art thou, both in part and particle,
That solid truth thy stomach ill digests.
Yet, since thou art my mother, I will love thee,
And heedless of thy frowns, "will speak right on."
That which belongs to all men is least prized; The thing most common is least understood. That which is deep and silent is divine; And there is nought on earth so craved, so common, So misunderstood, or so divine, as Love. When meted in proportion to man's need, "Measure for measure" it doth purify,
Exalt, and make him equal with the gods.
He feeds upon ambrosia, and his drink
Is nectar; high Olympus cannot yield
Delights more grateful to his soul and sense.
Parnassus fails his rapture to express,
And Helicon hath less of inspiration.
But, prithee, should he chance to drink too deep
Of the exhilarating draught, — should plunge
Him head and ears into this 'wildering flood,-
Mark, then, what marvellous diversions
From the centre of his gravity ensue.
Judgment is scouted — sober common sense
Yields to imagination's airy flights;
Upon a swift-winged hippogriff he mounts,
To seek the fair Arcadia of his dreams.
He builds him castles - - basks in moonshine
Among the lilies-pours his passion forth
In amorous canticles and burning sighs -
Makes him a bed of roses, and lies down
To revel in his rainbow-colored dreams
Until some turn, some ill-begotten chance,
Most unexpectedly invades his peace,
And castles, moonshine, roses, rainbows fly,
And leave him to the stern realities of life.
|