Poems by John Hay Part 10

Sinai and Calvary

There are two mountains hallowed By majesty sublime, Which rear their crests unconquered Above the floods of Time.

Uncounted generations Have gazed on them with awe,-- The mountain of the Gospel, The mountain of the Law.

From Sinai's cloud of darkness The vivid lightnings play; They serve the G.o.d of vengeance, The Lord who shall repay.

Each fault must bring its penance, Each sin the avenging blade, For G.o.d upholds in justice The laws that He hath made.

But Calvary stands to ransom The earth from utter loss, In shade than light more glorious, The shadow of the Cross.

To heal a sick world's trouble, To soothe its woe and pain, On Calvary's sacred summit The Paschal Lamb was slain.

The boundless might of Heaven Its law in mercy furled, As once the bow of promise O'erarched a drowning world.

The Law said, As you keep me, It shall be done to you; But Calvary prays, Forgive them; They know not what they do.

Almighty G.o.d! direct us To keep Thy perfect Law!

O blessed Saviour, help us Nearer to Thee to draw!

Let Sinai's thunders aid us To guard our feet from sin; And Calvary's light inspire us The love of G.o.d to win.

The Vision of St. Peter

To Peter by night the faithfullest came And said, "We appeal to thee!

The life of the Church is in thy life; We pray thee to rise and flee.

"For the tyrant's hand is red with blood, And his arm is heavy with power; Thy head, the head of the Church, will fall, If thou tarry in Rome an hour."

Through the sleeping town St. Peter pa.s.sed To the wide Campagna plain; In the starry light of the Alban night He drew free breath again:

When across his path an awful form In luminous glory stood; His thorn-crowned brow, His hands and feet, Were wet with immortal blood.

The G.o.dlike sorrow which filled His eyes Seemed changed to a G.o.dlike wrath, As they turned on Peter, who cried aloud, And sank to his knees in the path.

"Lord of my life, my love, my soul!

Say, what wilt Thou with me?"

A voice replied, "I go to Rome To be crucified for thee."

The apostle sprang, all flushed, to his feet,-- The vision had pa.s.sed away; The light still lay on the dewy plain, But the sky in the east was gray.

To the city walls St. Peter turned, And his heart in his breast grew fire; In every vein the hot blood burned With the strength of one high desire.

And st.u.r.dily back he marched to his death Of terrible pain and shame; And never a shade of fear again To the stout apostle came.

Israel

When by Jabbok the patriarch waited To learn on the morrow his doom, And his dubious spirit debated In darkness and silence and gloom, There descended a Being with whom He wrestled in agony sore, With striving of heart and of brawn, And not for an instant forbore Till the east gave a threat of the dawn; And then, as the Awful One blessed him, To his lips and his spirit there came, Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him, The cry that through questioning ages Has been wrung from the hinds and the sages, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

Most fatal, most futile, of questions!

Wherever the heart of man beats, In the spirit's most sacred retreats, It comes with its sombre suggestions, Unanswered forever and aye.

The blessing may come and may stay, For the wrestler's heroic endeavor; But the question, unheeded forever, Dies out in the broadening day.

In the ages before our traditions, By the altars of dark superst.i.tions, The imperious question has come; When the death-stricken victim lay sobbing At the feet of his slayer and priest, And his heart was laid smoking and throbbing To the sound of the cymbal and drum On the steps of the high Teocallis; When the delicate Greek at his feast Poured forth the red wine from his chalice With mocking and cynical prayer; When by Nile Egypt worshiping lay, And afar, through the rosy, flushed air The Memnon called out to the day; Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire; In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades, Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire Through art's highest miracles higher, This question of questions invades Each heart bowed in worship or shame; In the air where the censers are swinging, A voice, going up with the singing, Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

No answer came back, not a word, To the patriarch there by the ford; No answer has come through the ages To the poets, the seers, and the sages Who have sought in the secrets of science The name and the nature of G.o.d, Whether cursing in desperate defiance Or kissing his absolute rod; But the answer which was and shall be, "My name! Nay, what is it to thee?"

The search and the question are vain.

By use of the strength that is in you, By wrestling of soul and of sinew The blessing of G.o.d you may gain.

There are lights in the far-gleaming Heaven That never will shine on our eyes; To mortals it may not be given To range those inviolate skies.

The mind, whether praying or scorning, That tempts those dread secrets shall fail; But strive through the night till the morning, And mightily shalt thou prevail.

Crows at Washington

Slow flapping to the setting sun By twos and threes, in wavering rows.

As twilight shadows dimly close, The crows fly over Washington.

Under the crimson sunset sky Virginian woodlands leafless lie, In wintry torpor bleak and dun.

Through the rich vault of heaven, which shines Like a warmed opal in the sun, With wide advance in broken lines The crows fly over Washington.

Over the Capitol's white dome, Across the obelisk soaring bare To p.r.i.c.k the clouds, they travel home, Content and weary, winnowing With dusky vans the golden air, Which hints the coming of the spring, Though winter whitens Washington.

The dim, deep air, the level ray Of dying sunlight on their plumes, Give them a beauty not their own; Their hoa.r.s.e notes fail and faint away; A rustling murmur floating down Blends sweetly with the thickening glooms; They touch with grace the fading day, Slow flying over Washington.

I stand and watch with clouded eyes These dim battalions move along; Out of the distance memory cries Of days when life and hope were strong, When love was prompt and wit was gay; Even then, at evening, as to-day, I watched, while twilight hovered dim Over Potomac's curving rim, This selfsame flight of homing crows Blotting the sunset's fading rose, Above the roofs of Washington.

Remorse

Sad is the thought of sunniest days Of love and rapture perished, And shine through memory's tearful haze The eyes once fondliest cherished.

Reproachful is the ghost of toys That charmed while life was wasted.

But saddest is the thought of joys That never yet were tasted.

Sad is the vague and tender dream Of dead love's lingering kisses, To crushed hearts haloed by the gleam Of unreturning blisses; Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride For the pitiless death that won them,-- But the saddest wail is for lips that died With the virgin dew upon them.

Esse Quam Videri

The knightly legend of thy shield betrays The moral of thy life; a forecast wise, And that large honor that deceit defies, Inspired thy fathers in the elder days, Who decked thy scutcheon with that st.u.r.dy phrase, _To be rather than seem_. As eve's red skies Surpa.s.s the morning's rosy prophecies, Thy life to that proud boast its answer pays.

Scorning thy faith and purpose to defend The ever-mutable mult.i.tude at last Will hail the power they did not comprehend,-- Thy fame will broaden through the centuries; As, storm and billowy tumult overpast, The moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas.