The Rainbow and the Rose Part 7

Out there the world is cruel and loud, It strikes at the beaten man; Come out of the press of the stranger crowd To the place where your life began.

The best robe lies in the cedar chest, And your father's ring is here; You have known the worst, come home to the best-- You will pay for it, never fear!

In every kiss of your sister's mouth, In each tear from your mother's eyes, You will pay the price of the days in the South Where the far-off country lies.

DESPAIR.

SMILE on me, mouth of red--so much too red, Shine on me, eyes which darkened lashes shade, Turn, turn my way, oh glorious golden head, My soul is lost, then let the price be paid!

Amid rich flowers your rosy lamplight gleams, Amid rich hangings pa.s.s your scented hours, And woods and fields are green but in my dreams, And only in my dreams grow meadow-flowers.

I have forgotten everything but you-- The apple orchard where the whitethroat sings, The quiet fields, the moonlight, and the dew, The virgin's bower that in wet hedgerow clings.

I have forgotten how the cool gra.s.s waves Where clean winds blow, and where good women pray For happy, honest men, safe in their graves; And--oh, my G.o.d! I would I were as they!

THE TEMPTATION.

YOU bring your love too late, dear, I have no love to buy it, I spent my love on worthless toys, at fairs you do not know; I am a bankrupt trader--dear eyes, do not deny it, I could have bought your love, dear, but that was long ago.

My soul has left me widowed, my heart has made me orphan, Leave me--all good things, dear, have left me--leave me too!

For here is ice no tears of yours, no smiles of yours can soften: Leave me, leave me, leave me, I have no love for you!

I have no flowers to give you, they grow not in my garden; I have no songs to sing you, my songs have all been sung; I have no hope of heaven, no faith in any pardon, I might have loved you once, dear, when I was good and young.

I will not steal, nor cheat you; take back the heart you lent me.

O G.o.d, whom I have outraged, now teach me how to pray, That love come never again so near me to torment me, Lest I be found less faithful than, by Thy grace, to-day.

SECOND NATURE.

WHEN I was young how fair the skies, Such folly of cloud, such blue depths wise, Such dews of morn, such calms of eve, So many the lure and the reprieve-- Life seemed a toy to break and mend And make a charm of in the end.

Then slowly all the dew dried up And only dust lay in the cup; And since, to slake his thirst, man must, I sought a cup that had no dust, And found it at the Goat and Vine-- Mingled of brandy, beer and wine.

The goat-cup, straight, drew down the skies And lit them in lunatick wise: What had been rose went scarlet red, And the pearl tints grew like the dead.

And the fresh primrose of the morn Was the wet red of rain-spoiled corn.

Now, with a head that aches and nods I hold weak hands out to the G.o.ds; And oh! forgiving G.o.ds and kind, They give me healing to my mind, And show me once again the lawn Green and clear-gemmed with dews of dawn.

O G.o.ds, who look down from above Upon our tangle of l.u.s.t and love, And, in your purity, perceive The worth of what our follies leave: Give us but this, and sink the rest-- To know that dew and dawn are best.

DE PROFUNDIS.

NOW I am cast into the serpent pit And, catching difficult breath From the writhing, loathsome, ceaseless stir of it, The venomous whispers of curling, clasping Death, I lift my soul out of the pit to Thee And reaching with my soul to where Thou art Look down, seeing with free heart The beast G.o.d gave my soul for company Lie with companions fit; And bid, with a good will, The serpent-fangs of ill Take their foul fill Of the foul fell it wore.

Though a thousand serpent heads were raised to slay, A thousand twisting coils writhed where it lay, There lies the beast, there let it lie for me And agonize and rave; For Thou has raised my soul, Thy soul, to Thee!

Thy soul, dear Lord, Thou hast been strong to save!

VIII.

AT THE GATE.

THE monastery towers, as pure and fair As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven; The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer, Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven; And there came holy men, by world's woe driven; And all about the gold-green meadows lay Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday.

"Here," said the Abbot, "let us spend our days, Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer, Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise; And, lest the World should enter with her snare-- Enter and laugh and take us unaware With her red rose, her purple and her gold-- Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold."

They chose a beggar from the world outside To keep their worldward door for them, and he, Filled with a humble and adoring pride, Built up a wall of proud humility Between the monastery's sanct.i.ty And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name.

For when the poor crept to the guarded gate To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest, When weary souls, bereft and desolate, Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest, The porter bade such take their griefs away, And at some other door their bane and burden lay.

"For this," he said, "is the white house of prayer, Where day and night the holy voices rise Through the chill trouble of our earthly air, And enter at the gate of Paradise.

Trample no more our flower-fields in such wise, Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough; The prayers of holy men are alms enough, I trow."

So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk Came ever to be healed or comforted, The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke: "G.o.d has accepted our poor prayers," he said; "Over our land His answering smile is spread.

He has put forth His strong and loving hand, And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land.

"So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise, Warm we our prayers against our happy heart.

Since G.o.d hath taken the gift of all our days To make a spell that bids all wrong depart, Has turned our praise to balm for the world's smart, Fulfilled of prayer and praise be every hour, For G.o.d transfigures praise, and trans.m.u.tes prayer, to power."

So went the years. The flowers blossomed now Untrampled by the dusty, weary feet; Unbroken hung the green and golden bough, For none came now to ask for fruit or meat, For ghostly food, or common bread to eat; And dreaming, praying, the monks were satisfied, Till, G.o.d remembering him, the beggar-porter died.

When they had covered up the foolish head, And on the foolish loving heart heaped clay, "Which of us, brothers, now," the Abbot said, "Will face the world, to keep the world away?"

But all their hearts were hard with prayer, and "Nay,"

They cried, "ah, bid us not our prayers to leave; Ah, father, not to-day, for this is Easter Eve".

And, while they murmured, to their midst there came A beggar saying, "Brothers, peace, be still!

I am your Brother, in our Father's name, And I will be your porter, if ye will, Guarding your gate with what I have of skill".

So all they welcomed him and closed the door, And gat them gladly back unto their prayers once more.

But, lo! no sooner did the prayer arise, A golden flame athwart the chancel dim, Then came the porter crying, "Haste, arise!

A sick old man waits you to tend on him; And many wait--a knight whose wound gapes grim, A red-stained man, with red sins to confess, A mother pale, who brings her child for you to bless".

The brothers hastened to the gate, and there With unaccustomed hand and voice they tried To ease the body's pain, the spirit's care; But ere the task was done, the porter cried: "Behold, the Lord sets your gate open wide, For here be starving folk who must be fed, And little ones that cry for love and daily bread!"

And, with each slow-foot hour, came ever a throng Of piteous wanderers, sinful folk and sad, And still the brothers ministered, but long The day seemed, with no prayer to make them glad; No holy, meditative joys they had, No moment's brooding-place could poor prayer find, Mid all those heart to heal and all those wounds to bind.

And when the crowded, sunlit day at last Left the field lonely with its trampled flowers, Into the chapel's peace the brothers pa.s.sed To quell the memory of those hurrying hours.

"Our holy time," they said, "once more is ours!

Come, let us pay our debt of prayer and praise, Forgetting in G.o.d's light the darkness of man's ways!"

But, ere their voices reached the first psalm's end, They heard a new, strange rustling round their house; Then came the porter: "Here comes many a friend, Pushing aside your budding orchard boughs; Come, brothers, justify your holy vows.

Here be G.o.d's patient, poor, four-footed things Seek healing at G.o.d's well, whence loving-kindness springs."

Then cried the Abbot in a vexed amaze, "Our brethren we must aid, if 'tis G.o.d's will; But the wild creatures of the forest ways Himself G.o.d heals with His Almighty skill.

And charity is good, and love--but still G.o.d shall not look in vain for the white prayers We send on silver feet to climb the starry stairs;