Christmas-Eve

I.     Out of the little chapel I burst     Into the fresh night air again.     I had waited a good five minutes first     In the doorway, to escape the rain     That drove in gusts down the commons centre,     At the edge of which the chapel stands,     Before I plucked up heart to enter:     Heaven knows how many sorts of hands     Reached past me, groping for the latch     Of the inner door that hung on catch,     More obstinate the more they fumbled,     Till, giving way at last with a scold     Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled     One sheep more to the rest in fold,     And left me irresolute, standing sentry     In the sheepfolds lath-and-plaster entry,     Four feet long by two feet wide,     Partitioned off from the vast inside     I blocked up half of it at least.     No remedy; the rain kept driving:     They eyed me much as some wild beast,     The congregation, still arriving,     Some of them by the mainroad, white     A long way past me into the night,     Skirting the common, then diverging;     Not a few suddenly emerging     From the commons self thro the paling-gaps,     They house in the gravel-pits perhaps,     Where the road stops short with its safeguard border     Of lamps, as tired of such disorder;     But the most turned in yet more abruptly     From a certain squalid knot of alleys,     Where the towns bad blood once slept corruptly,     Which now the little chapel rallies     And leads into day again, its priestliness     Lending itself to hide their beastliness     So cleverly (thanks in part to the mason),     And putting so cheery a whitewashed face on     Those neophytes too much in lack of it,     That, where you cross the common as I did,     And meet the party thus presided,     Mount Zion, with Love-lane at the back of it,     They front you as little disconcerted,     As, bound for the hills, her fate averted     And her wicked people made to mind him,     Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him. II.     Well, from the road, the lanes or the common,     In came the flock: the fat weary woman,     Panting and bewildered, down-clapping     Her umbrella with a mighty report,     Grounded it by me, wry and flapping,     A wreck of whalebones; then, with a snort,     Like a startled horse, at the interloper     Who humbly knew himself improper,     But could not shrink up small enough,     Round to the door, and in, the gruff     Hinges invariable scold     Making your very blood run cold.     Prompt in the wake of her, up-pattered     On broken clogs, the many-tattered     Little old-faced, peaking sister-turned-mother     Of the sickly babe she tried to smother     Somehow up, with its spotted face,     From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place;     She too must stop, wring the poor suds dry     Of a draggled shawl, and add thereby     Her tribute to the door-mat, sopping     Already from my own clothes dropping,     Which yet she seemed to grudge I should stand on;     Then stooping down to take off her pattens,     She bore them defiantly, in each hand one,     Planted together before her breast     And its babe, as good as a lance in rest.     Close on her heels, the dingy satins     Of a female something, past me flitted,     With lips as much too white, as a streak     Lay far too red on each hollow cheek;     And it seemed the very door-hinge pitied     All that was left of a woman once,     Holding at least its tongue for the nonce.     Then a tall yellow man, like the Penitent Thief,     With his jaw bound up in a handkerchief,     And eyelids screwed together tight,     Led himself in by some inner light.     And, except from him, from each that entered,     I had the same interrogation     What, you, the alien, you have ventured     To take with us, elect, your station?     A carer for none of it, a Gallio?     Thus, plain as print, I read the glance     At a common prey, in each countenance,     As of huntsman giving his hounds the tallyho:     And, when the doors cry drowned their wonder,     The draught, it always sent in shutting,     Made the flame of the single tallow candle     In the cracked square lanthorn I stood under,     Shoot its blue lip at me, rebutting,     As it were, the luckless cause of scandal:     I verily thought the zealous light     (In the chapels secret, too!) for spite,     Would shudder itself clean off the wick,     With the airs of a St. Johns Candlestick.     There was no standing it much longer.     Good folks, said I, as resolve grew stronger,     This way you perform the Grand-Inquisitor,     When the weather sends you a chance visitor?     You are the men, and wisdom shall die with you,     And none of the old Seven Churches vie with you!     But still, despite the pretty perfection     To which you carry your trick of exclusiveness,     And, taking Gods word under wise protection,     Correct its tendency to diffusiveness,     Bidding one reach it over hot ploughshares,     Still, as I say, though youve found salvation,     If I should choose to cry as now Shares!     See if the best of you bars me my ration!     Because I prefer for my expounder     Of the laws of the feast, the feasts own Founder:     Mines the same right with your poorest and sickliest,     Supposing I don the marriage-vestiment;     So, shut your mouth, and open your Testament,     And carve me my portion at your quickliest!     Accordingly, as a shoemakers lad     With wizened face in want of soap,     And wet apron wound round his waist like a rope,     After stopping outside, for his cough was bad,     To get the fit over, poor gentle creature,     And so avoid disturbing the preacher,     Passed in, I sent my elbow spikewise     At the shutting door, and entered likewise,     Received the hinges accustomed greeting,     Crossed the thresholds magic pentacle,     And found myself in full conventicle,     To wit, in Zion Chapel Meeting,     On the Christmas-Eve of Forty-nine,     Which, calling its flock to their special clover,     Found them assembled and one sheep over,     Whose lot, as the weather pleased, was mine. III.     I very soon had enough of it.     The hot smell and the human noises,     And my neighbours coat, the greasy cuff of it,     Were a pebble-stone that a childs hand poises,     Compared with the pig-of-lead-like pressure     Of the preaching-mans immense stupidity,     As he poured his doctrine forth, full measure,     To meet his audiences avidity.     You needed not the wit of the Sybil     To guess the cause of it all, in a twinkling     No sooner had our friend an inkling     Of treasure hid in the Holy Bible,     (Whenever it was the thought first struck hin     How Death, at unawares, might duck him     Deeper than the grave, and quench     The gin-shops light in Hells grim drench)     Than he handled it so, in fine irreverence,     As to hug the Book of books to pieces:     And, a patchwork of chapters and texts in severance,     Not improved by the private dogs-ears and creases,     Having clothed his own soul with, hed fain see equipt yours,     So tossed you again your Holy Scriptures.     And you picked them up, in a sense, no doubt:     Nay, had but a single face of my neighbours     Appeared to suspect that the preachers labours     Were help which the world could be saved without,     Tis odds but I had borne in quiet     A qualm or two at my spiritual diet;     Or, who can tell? had even mustered     Somewhat to urge in behalf of the sermon:     But the flock sate on, divinely flustered,     Sniffing, methought, its dew of Hermon     With such content in every snuffle,     As the devil inside us loves to ruffle.     My old fat woman purred with pleasure,     And thumb round thumb went twirling faster     While she, to his periods keeping measure,     Maternally devoured the pastor.     The man with the handkerchief, untied it.     Showed us a horrible wen inside it,     Gave his eyelids yet another screwing.     And rocked himself as the woman was doing.     The shoemakers lad, discreetly choking,     Kept down his cough. Twas too provoking!     My gorge rose at the nonsense and stuff of it,     And saying, like Eve when she plucked the apple,     I wanted a taste, and now theres enough of it,     I flung out of the little chapel. IV.     There was a lull in the rain, a lull     In the wind too; the moon was risen,     And would have shone out pure and full,     But for the ramparted cloud-prison,     Block on block built up in the west,     For what purpose the wind knows best,     Who changes his mind continually.     And the empty other half of the sky     Seemed in its silence as if it knew     What, any moment, might look through     A chance-gap in that fortress massy:     Through its fissures you got hints     Of the flying moon, by the shifting tints,     Now, a dull lion-colour, now, brassy     Burning to yellow, and whitest yellow,     Like furnace-smoke just ere the flames bellow,     All a-simmer with intense strain     To let her through, then blank again,     At the hope of her appearance failing.     Just by the chapel, a break in the railing     Shows a narrow path directly across;     Tis ever dry walking there, on the moss     Besides, you go gently all the way uphill:     I stooped under and soon felt better:     My head grew light, my limbs more supple,     As I walked on, glad to have slipt the fetter;     My mind was full of the scene I had left,     That placid flock, that pastor vociferant,     How this outside was pure and different!     The sermon, now what a mingled weft     Of good and ill! were either less,     Its fellow had coloured the whole distinctly;     But alas for the excellent earnestness,     And the truths, quite true if stated succinctly,     But as surely false, in their quaint presentment,     However to pastor and flocks contentment!     Say rather, such truths looked false to your eyes,     With his provings and parallels twisted and twined,     Till how could you know them, grown double their size,     In the natural fog of the good mans mind?     Like yonder spots of our roadside lamps,     Haloed about with the commons damps.     Truth remains true, the faults in the prover;     The zeal was good, and the aspiration;     And yet, and yet, yet, fifty times over,     Pharaoh received no demonstration     By his Bakers dream of Baskets Three,     Of the doctrine of the Trinity,     Although, as our preacher thus embellished it,     Apparently his hearers relished it     With so unfeigned a gust who knows if     They did not prefer our friend to Joseph?     But so it is everywhere, one way with all of them!     These people have really felt, no doubt,     A something, the motion they style the Call of them;     And this is their method of bringing about,     By a mechanism of words and tones,     (So many texts in so many groans)     A sort of reviving or reproducing,     More or less perfectly, (who can tell? )     Of the mood itself, that strengthens by using;     And how it happens, I understand well.     A tune was born in my head last week,     Out of the thump-thump and shriek-shriek     Of the train, as I came by it, up from Manchester;     And when, next week, I take it back again,     My head will sing to the engines clack again,     While it only makes my neighbours haunches stir,     Finding no dormant musical sprout     In him, as in me, to be jolted out.     Tis the taught already that profit by teaching;     He gets no more from the railways preaching,     Than, from this preacher who does the rails office, I,     Whom therefore the flock casts a jealous eye on.     Still, why paint over their door Mount Zion,     To which all flesh shall come, saith the prophecy? V.     But wherefore be harsh on a single case?     After how many modes, this Christmas-Eve,     Does the selfsame weary thing take place?     The same endeavour to make you believe,     And much with the same effect, no more:     Each method abundantly convincing,     As I say, to those convinced before,     But scarce to he swallowed without wincing,     By the not-as-yet-convinced. For me,     I have my own church equally.     And in this church my faith sprang first!     (I said, as I reached the rising ground,     And the wind began again, with a burst     Of rain in my face, and a glad rebound     From the heart beneath, as if, God speeding me,     I entered His church-door, Nature leading me)     In youth I looked to these very skies,     And probing their immensities,     I found God there, His visible power;     Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense     Of that power, an equal evidence     That His love, there too, was the nobler dower.     For the loving worm within its clod,     Were diviner than a loveless god     Amid his worlds, I will dare to say.     You know what I mean: Gods all, mans nought:     But also, God, whose pleasure brought     Man into being, stands away     As it were, an handbreadth off, to give     Room for the newly-made to live,     And look at Him from a place apart,     And use his gifts of brain and heart,     Given, indeed, but to keep for ever.     Who speaks of man, then, must not sever     Mans very elements from man,     Saying, But all is Gods whose plan     Was to create man and then leave him     Able, His own word saith, to grieve Him,     But able to glorify Him too,     As a mere machine could never do,     That prayed or praised, all unaware     Of its fitness for aught but praise and prayer,     Made perfect as a thing of course.     Man, therefore, stands on his own stock     Of love and power as a pin-point rock,     And, looking to God who ordained divorce     Of the rock from His boundless continent,     Sees in His Power made evident,     Only excess by a million fold     Oer the power God gave man in the mould.     For, see: Mans hand, first formed to carry     A few pounds weight, when taught to marry     Its strength with an engines, lifts a mountain,     Advancing in power by one degree;     And why count steps through eternity?     But Love is the ever springing fountain:     Man may enlarge or narrow his bed     For the waters play, but the water head     How can he multiply or reduce it?     As easy create it, as cause it to cease:     He may profit by it, or abuse it;     But tis not a thing to bear increase     As power will: be love less or more     In the heart of man, he keeps it shut     Or opes it wide as he pleases, but     Loves sum remains what it was before.     So, gazing up, in my youth, at love     As seen through power, ever above     All modes which make it manifest,     My soul brought all to a single test     That He, the Eternal First and Last,     Who, in His power, had so surpassed     All man conceives of what is might,     Whose wisdom, too, showed infinite,     Would prove as infinitely good;     Would never, my soul understood,     With power to work all love desires,     Bestow een less than man requires:     That He who endlessly was teaching,     Above my spirits utmost reaching,     What love can do in the leaf or stone,     (So that to master this alone,     This done in the stone or leaf for me,     I must go on learning endlessly)     Would never need that I, in turn,     Should point him out a defect unheeded,     And show that God had yet to learn     What the meanest human creature needed,     Not life, to wit, for a few short years,     Tracking His way through doubts and fears,     While the stupid earth on which I stay     Suffers no change, but passive adds     Its myriad years to myriads,     Though I, He gave it to, decay,     Seeing death come and choose about me,     And my dearest ones depart without me.     No! love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it,     Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it,     The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it,     Shall arise, made perfect, from deaths repose of it!     And I shall behold Thee, face to face,     O God, and in Thy light retrace     How in all I loved here, still wast Thou!     Whom pressing to, then, as I fain would now,     I shall find as able to satiate     The love, Thy gift, as my spirits wonder     Thou art able to quicken and sublimate,     Was this sky of Thine, that I now walk under,     And glory in Thee as thus I gaze,     Thus, thus! oh, let men keep their ways     Of seeking Thee in a narrow shrine     Be this my way! And this is mine! VI.     For lo, what think you? suddenly     The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky     Received at once the full fruition     Of the moons consummate apparition.     The black cloud-barricade was riven,     Ruined beneath her feet, and driven     Deep in the west; while, bare and breathless,     North and south and east lay ready     For a glorious Thing, that, dauntless, deathless,     Sprang across them, and stood steady.     Twas a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect,     From heaven to heaven extending, perfect     As the mother-moons self, full in face.     It rose, distinctly at the base     With its seven proper colours chorded,     Which still, in the rising, were compressed,     Until at last they coalesced,     And supreme the spectral creature lorded     In a triumph of whitest white,     Above which intervened the night.     But above night too, like the next,     The second of a wondrous sequence,     Reaching in rare and rarer frequence,     Till the heaven of heavens be circumflext,     Another rainbow rose, a mightier,     Fainter, flushier, and flightier,     Rapture dying along its verge!     Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge,     Whose, from the straining topmost dark,     On to the keystone of that arc? VII.     This sight was shown me, there and then,     Me, one out of a world of men,     Singled forth, as the chance might hap     To another, if in a thunderclap     Where I heard noise, and you saw flame,     Some one man knew God called his name.     For me, I think I said, Appear!     Good were it to be ever here.     If Thou wilt, let me build to Thee     Service-tabernacles Three,     Where, for ever in Thy presence,     In extatic acquiescence,     Far alike from thriftless learning     And ignorances undiscerning,      I may worship and remain!     Thus, at the show above me, gazing     With upturned eyes, I felt my brain     Glutted with the glory, blazing     Throughout its whole mass, over and under,     Until at length it burst asunder,     And out of it bodily there streamed     The too-much glory, as it seemed,     Passing from out me to the ground,     Then palely serpentining round     Into the dark with mazy error. VIII.     All at once I looked up with terror.     He was there.     He Himself with His human air,     On the narrow pathway, just before:     I saw the back of Him, no more     He had left the chapel, then, as I.     I forgot all about the sky.     No face: only the sight     Of a sweepy Garment, vast and white,     With a hem that I could recognise.     I felt terror, no surprise:     My mind filled with the cataract,     At one bound, of the mighty fact.     I remembered, He did say     Doubtless, that, to this worlds end,     Where two or three should meet and pray,     He would be in the midst, their Friend:     Certainly He was there with them.     And my pulses leaped for joy     Of the golden thought without alloy,     That I saw His very Vestures hem.     Then rushed the blood back, cold and clear     With a fresh enhancing shiver of fear,     And I hastened, cried out while I pressed     To the salvation of the Vest,     But not so, Lord! It cannot be     That Thou, indeed, art leaving me     Me, that have despised Thy friends.     Did my heart make no amends?     Thou art the Love of God above     His Power, didst hear me place His Love,     And that was leaving the world for Thee!     Therefore Thou must not turn from me     As if I had chosen the other part.     Folly and pride oercame my heart.     Our best is bad, nor bears Thy test     Still it should be our very best.     I thought it best that Thou, the Spirit,     Be worshipped in spirit and in truth,     And in beauty, as even we require it     Not in the forms burlesque, uncouth,     I left but now, as scarcely fitted     For Thee: I knew not what I pitied:     But, all I felt there, right or wrong,     What is it to Thee, who curest sinning?     Am I not weak as Thou art strong?     I have looked to Thee from the beginning,     Straight up to Thee through all the world     Which, like an idle scroll, lay furled     To nothingness on either side:     And since the time Thou wast descried,     Spite of the weak heart, so have I     Lived ever, and so fain would die,     Living and dying, Thee before!     But if Thou leavest me IX.     Less or more,     I suppose that I spoke thus.     When, have mercy, Lord, on us!     The whole Face turned upon me full.     And I spread myself beneath it,     As when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it     In the cleansing sun, his wool,     Steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness     Some defiled, discoloured web     So lay I, saturate with brightness.     And when the flood appeared to ebb,     Lo, I was walking, light and swift,     With my senses settling fast and steadying,     But my body caught up in the whirl and drift     Of the Vestures amplitude, still eddying     On, just before me, still to be followed,     As it carried me after with its motion:     What shall I say? as a path were hollowed     And a man went weltering through the ocean,     Sucked along in the flying wake     Of the luminous water-snake.     Darkness and cold were cloven, as through     I passed, upborne yet walking too.     And I turned to myself at intervals,     So He said, and so it befals.     God who registers the cup     Of mere cold water, for His sake     To a disciple rendered up,     Disdains not His own thirst to slake     At the poorest love was ever offered:     And because it was my heart I proffered,     With true love trembling at the brim,     He suffers me to follow Him     For ever, my own way, dispensed     From seeking to be influenced     By all the less immediate ways     That earth, in worships manifold,     Adopts to reach, by prayer and praise,     The Garments hem, which, lo, I hold! X.     And so we crossed the world and stopped.     For where am I, in city or plain,     Since I am ware of the world again?     And what is this that rises propped     With pillars of prodigious girth?     Is it really on the earth,     This miraculous Dome of God?     Has the angels measuring-rod     Which numbered cubits, gem from gem,     Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem,     Meted it out, and what he meted,     Have the sons of men completed?     Binding, ever as he bade,     Columns in this colonnade     With arms wide open to embrace     The entry of the human race     To the breast of . . . what is it, yon building,     Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding,     With marble for brick, and stones of price     For garniture of the edifice?     Now I see: it is no dream:     It stands there and it does not seem;     For ever, in pictures, thus it looks,     And thus I have read of it in books,     Often in England, leagues away,     And wondered how those fountains play,     Growing up eternally     Each to a musical water-tree,     Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon,     Before my eyes, in the light of the moon,     To the granite lavers underneath.     Liar and dreamer in your teeth!     I, the sinner that speak to you,     Was in Rome this night, and stood, and knew     Both this and more! For see, for see,     The dark is rent, mine eye is free     To pierce the crust of the outer wall,     And I view inside, and all there, all,     As the swarming hollow of a hive,     The whole Basilica alive!     Men in the chancel, body, and nave,     Men on the pillars architrave,     Men on the statues, men on the tombs     With popes and kings in their porphyry wombs,     All famishing in expectation     Of the main-altars consummation.     For see, for see, the rapturous moment     Approaches, and earths best endowment     Blends with heavens: the taper-fires     Pant up, the winding brazen spires     Heave loftier yet the baldachin:     The incense-gaspings, long kept in,     Suspire in clouds; the organ blatant     Holds his breath and grovels latent,     As if Gods hushing finger grazed him,     (Like Behemoth when He praised him)     At the silver bells shrill tinkling,     Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling     On the sudden pavement strewed     With faces of the multitude.     Earth breaks up, time drops away,     In flows heaven, with its new day     Of endless life, when He who trod,     Very Man and very God,     This earth in weakness, shame and pain,     Dying the death whose signs remain     Up yonder on the accursed tree,     Shall come again, no more to be     Of captivity the thrall,     But the one God, all in all,     King of kings, and Lord of lords,     As His servant John received the words,     I died, and live for evermore! XI.     Yet I was left outside the door.     Why sate I there on the threshold-stone,     Left till He returns, alone     Save for the Garments extreme fold     Abandoned still to bless my hold?     My reason, to my doubt, replied,     As if a book were opened wide,     And at a certain page I traced     Every record undefaced,     Added by successive years,     The harvestings of truths stray ears     Singly gleaned, and in one sheaf     Bound together for belief.     Yes, I said that He will go     And sit with these in turn, I know.     Their faiths heart beats, though her head swims     Too giddily to guide her limbs,     Disabled by their palsy-stroke     From propping me. Though Romes gross yoke     Drops off, no more to be endured,     Her teaching is not so obscured     By errors and perversities,     That no truth shines athwart the lies:     And He, whose eye detects a spark     Even where, to mans, the whole seems dark,     May well see flame where each beholder     Acknowledges the embers smoulder.     But I, a mere man, fear to quit     The clue God gave me as most fit     To guide my footsteps through lifes maze,     Because Himself discerns all ways     Open to reach Him: I, a man     He gave to mark where faith began     To swerve aside, till from its summit     Judgment drops her damning plummet,     Pronouncing such a fatal space     Departed from the Founders base:     He will not bid me enter too,     But rather sit, as now I do,     Awaiting His return outside.     Twas thus my reason straight replied,     And joyously I turned, and pressed     The Garments skirt upon my breast,     Until, afresh its light suffusing me,     My heart cried, what has been abusing me     That I should wait here lonely and coldly,     Instead of rising, entering boldly,     Baring truths face, and letting drift     Her veils of lies as they choose to shift?     Do these men praise Him? I will raise     My voice up to their point of praise!     I see the error; but above     The scope of error, see the love.     Oh, love of those first Christian days!     Fanned so soon into a blaze,     From the spark preserved by the trampled sect,     That the antique sovereign Intellect     Which then sate ruling in the world,     Like a change in dreams, was hurled     From the throne he reigned upon:     You looked up, and he was gone!     Gone, his glory of the pen!     Love, with Greece and Rome in ken,     Bade her scribes abhor the trick     Of poetry and rhetoric,     And exult, with hearts set free,     In blessed imbecility     Scrawled, perchance, on some torn sheet,     Leaving Livy incomplete.     Gone, his pride of sculptor, painter!     Love, while able to acquaint her     With the thousand statues yet     Fresh from chisel, pictures wet     From brush, she saw on every side,     Chose rather with an infants pride     To frame those portents which impart     Such unction to true Christian Art.     Gone, Music too! The air was stirred     By happy wings: Terpanders bird     (That, when the cold came, fled away)     Would tarry not the wintry day,     As more-enduring sculpture must,     Till a filthy saint rebuked the gust     With which he chanced to get a sight     Of some dear naked Aphrodite     He glanced a thought above the toes of,     By breaking zealously her nose off.     Love, surely, from that musics lingering,     Might have filched her organ-fingering,     Nor chose rather to set prayings     To hog-grunts, praises to horse-neighings.     Love was the startling thing, the new;     Love was the all-sufficient too;     And seeing that, you see the rest.     As a babe can find its mothers breast     As well in darkness as in light,     Love shut our eyes, and all seemed right.     True, the worlds eyes are open now:     Less need for me to disallow     Some few that keep Loves zone unbuckled,     Peevish as ever to be suckled,     Lulled by the same old baby-prattle     With intermixture of the rattle,     When she would have them creep, stand steady     Upon their feet, or walk already,     Not to speak of trying to climb.     I will be wise another time,     And not desire a wall between us,     When next I see a church-roof cover     So many species of one genus,     All with foreheads bearing Lover     Written above the earnest eyes of them;     All with breasts that beat for beauty,     Whether sublimed, to the surprise of them,     In noble daring, steadfast duty,     The heroic in passion, or in action,     Or, lowered for the senses satisfaction,     To the mere outside of human creatures,     Mere perfect form and faultless features.     What! with all Rome here, whence to levy     Such contributions to their appetite,     With women and men in a gorgeous bevy,     They take, as it were, a padlock, and clap it tight     On their southern eyes, restrained from feeding     On the glories of their ancient reading,     On the beauties of their modern singing,     On the wonders of the builders bringing,     On the majesties of Art around them,     And, all these loves, late struggling incessant,     When faith has at last united and bound them,     They offer up to God for a present!     Why, I will, on the whole, be rather proud of it,     And, only taking the act in reference     To the other recipients who might have allowed of it     I will rejoice that God had the preference! XII.     So I summed up my new resolves:     Too much love there can never be.     And where the intellect devolves     Its function on love exclusively,     I, as one who possesses both,     Will accept the provision, nothing loth,     Will feast my love, then depart elsewhere,     That my intellect may find its share.     And ponder, O soul, the while thou departest,     And see thou applaud the great heart of the artist,     Who, examining the capabilities     Of the block of marble he has to fashion     Into a type of thought or passion,     Not always, using obvious facilities,     Shapes it, as any artist can,     Into a perfect symmetrical man,     Complete from head to foot of the life-size,     Such as old Adam stood in his wifes eyes,     But, now and then, bravely aspires to consummate     A Colossus by no means so easy to come at,     And uses the whole of his block for the bust,     Leaving the minds of the public to finish it,     Since cut it ruefully short he must:     On the face alone he expends his devotion;     He rather would mar than resolve to diminish it,     Saying, Applaud me for this grand notion     Of what a face may be! As for completing it     In breast and body and limbs, do that, you!     All hail! I fancy how, happily meeting it,     A trunk and legs would perfect the statue,     Could man carve so as to answer volition.     And how much nobler than petty cavils,     A hope to find, in my spirit-travels,     Some artist of another ambition,     Who having a block to carve, no bigger,     Has spent his power on the opposite quest,     And believed to begin at the feet was best     For so may I see, ere I die, the whole figure! XIII.     No sooner said than out in the night!     And still as we swept through storm and night,     My heart beat lighter and more light:     And lo, as before, I was walking swift,     With my senses settling fast and steadying,     But my body caught up in the whirl and drift     Of the Vestures amplitude, still eddying     On just before me, still to be followed,     As it carried me after with its motion,     What shall I say? as a path were hollowed,     And a man went weltering through the ocean     Sucked along in the flying wake     Of the luminous water-snake. XIV.     Alone! I am left alone once more     (Save for the Garments extreme fold     Abandoned still to bless my hold)     Alone, beside the entrance-door     Of a sort of temple, perhaps a college,     Like nothing I ever saw before     At home in England, to my knowledge.     The tall, old, quaint, irregular town!     It may be . . though which, I cant affirm . . any     Of the famous middle-age towns of Germany;     And this flight of stairs where I sit down,     Is it Halle, Weimar, Cassel, or Frankfort,     Or Gttingen, that I have to thank fort?     It may be Gttingen, most likely.     Through the open door I catch obliquely     Glimpses of a lecture-hall;     And not a bad assembly neither     Ranged decent and symmetrical     On benches, waiting whats to see there;     Which, holding still by the Vestures hem,     I also resolve to see with them,     Cautious this time how I suffer to slip     The chance of joining in fellowship     With any that call themselves His friends,     As these folks do, I have a notion.     But hist a buzzing and emotion!     All settle themselves, the while ascends     By the creaking rail to the lecture-desk,     Step by step, deliberate     Because of his craniums over-freight,     Three parts sublime to one grotesque,     If I have proved an accurate guesser,     The hawk-nosed, high-cheek-boned Professor.     I felt at once as if there ran     A shoot of love from my heart to the man     That sallow, virgin-minded, studious     Martyr to mild enthusiasm,     As he uttered a kind of cough-preludious     That woke my sympathetic spasm,     (Beside some spitting that made me sorry)     And stood, surveying his auditory     With a wan pure look, well nigh celestial,     Those blue eyes had survived so much!     While, under the foot they could not smutch,     Lay all the fleshly and the bestial.     Over he bowed, and arranged his notes,     Till the auditorys clearing of throats     Was done with, died into silence;     And, when each glance was upward sent,     Each bearded mouth composed intent,     And a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence,     He pushed back higher his spectacles,     Let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells,     And giving his head of hair a hake     Of undressed tow, for colour and quantity     One rapid and impatient shake,     (As our own young England adjusts a jaunty tie     When about to impart, on mature digestion,     Some thrilling view of the surplice-question)     The Professors grave voice, sweet though hoarse,     Broke into his Christmas-Eves discourse. XV.     And he began it by observing     How reason dictated that men     Should rectify the natural swerving,     By a reversion, now and then,     To the well-heads of knowledge, few     And far away, whence rolling grew     The life-stream wide whereat we drink,     Commingled, as we needs must think,     With waters alien to the source:     To do which, aimed this Eves discourse.     Since, where could be a fitter time     For tracing backward to its prime,     This Christianity, this lake,     This reservoir, whereat we slake,     From one or other bank, our thirst?     So he proposed inquiring first     Into the various sources whence     This Myth of Christ is derivable;     Demanding from the evidence,     (Since plainly no such life was liveable)     How these phenomena should class?     Whether twere best opine Christ was,     Or never was at all, or whether     He was and was not, both together     It matters little for the name,     So the Idea be left the same:     Only, for practical purpose sake,     Twas obviously as well to take     The popular story, understanding     How the ineptitude of the time,     And the penmans prejudice, expanding     Fact into fable fit for the clime,     Had, by slow and sure degrees, translated it     Into this myth, this Individuum,     Which, when reason had strained and abated it     Of foreign matter, gave, for residuum,     A Man! a right true man, however,     Whose work was worthy a mans endeavour!     Work, that gave warrant almost sufficient     To his disciples, for rather believing     He was just omnipotent and omniscient,     As it gives to us, for as frankly receiving     His word, their tradition, which, though it meant     Something entirely different     From all that those who only heard it,     In their simplicity thought and averred it,     Had yet a meaning quite as respectable:     For, among other doctrines delectable,     Was he not surely the first to insist on,     The natural sovereignty of our race?     Here the lecturer came to a pausing-place.     And while his cough, like a drouthy piston,     Tried to dislodge the husk that grew to him,     I seized the occasion of bidding adieu to him,     The Vesture still within my hand. XVI.     I could interpret its command.     This time He would not bid me enter     The exhausted air-bell of the Critic.     Truths atmosphere may grow mephitic     When Papist struggles with Dissenter,     Impregnating its pristine clarity,     One, by his daily fares vulgarity,     Its gust of broken meat and garlic;     One, by his souls too-much presuming,     To turn the frankincenses fuming     And vapours of the candle starlike     Into the cloud her wings she buoys on:     And each, that sets the pure air seething,     Poisoning it for healthy breathing     But the Critic leaves no air to poison;     Pumps out by a ruthless ingenuity     Atom by atom, and leaves you vacuity.     Thus much of Christ, does he reject?     And what retain? His intellect?     What is it I must reverence duly?     Poor intellect for worship, truly,     Which tells me simply what was told     (If mere morality, bereft     Of the God in Christ, be all thats left)     Elsewhere by voices manifold;     With this advantage, that the stater     Made nowise the important stumble     Of adding, he, the sage and humble,     Was also one with the Creator.     You urge Christs followers simplicity:     But how does shifting blame, evade it?     Have wisdoms words no more felicity?     The stumbling-block, His speech who laid it?     How comes it that for one found able,     To sift the truth of it from fable,     Millions believe it to the letter?     Christs goodness, then does that fare better?     Strange goodness, which upon the score     Of being goodness, the mere due     Of man to fellow-man, much more     To God, should take another view     Of its possessors privilege,     And bid him rule his race! You pledge     Your fealty to such rule? What, all     From Heavenly John and Attic Paul,     And that brave weather-battered Peter     Whose stout faith only stood completer     For buffets, sinning to be pardoned,     As the more his hands hauled nets, they hardened,     All, down to you, the man of men,     Professing here at Gttingen,     Compose Christs flock! So, you and I     Are sheep of a good man! and why?     The goodness, how did he acquire it?     Was it self-gained, did God inspire it?     Choose which; then tell me, on what ground     Should its possessor dare propound     His claim to rise oer us an inch?     Were goodness all some mans invention,     Who arbitrarily made mention     What we should follow, and where flinch,     What qualities might take the style     Of right and wrong, and had such guessing     Met with as general acquiescing     As graced the Alphabet erewhile,     When A got leave an Ox to be,     No Camel (quoth the Jews) like G,     For thus inventing thing and title     Worship were that mans fit requital.     But if the common conscience must     Be ultimately judge, adjust     Its apt name to each quality     Already known, I would decree     Worship for such mere demonstration     And simple work of nomenclature,     Only the day I praised, not Nature,     But Harvey, for the circulation.     I would praise such a Christ, with pride     And joy, that he, as none beside,     Had taught us how to keep the mind     God gave him, as God gave his kind,     Freer than they from fleshly taint!     I would call such a Christ our Saint,     As I declare our Poet, him     Whose insight makes all others dim:     A thousand poets pried at life,     And only one amid the strife     Rose to be Shakespeare! Each shall take     His crown, Id say, for the worlds sake     Though some objected Had we seen     The heart and head of each, what screen     Was broken there to give them light,     While in ourselves it shuts the sight,     We should no more admire, perchance,     That these found truth out at a glance,     Than marvel how the bat discerns     Some pitch-dark caverns fifty turns,     Led by a finer tact, a gift     He boasts, which other birds must shift     Without, and grope as best they can.     No, freely I would praise the man.     Nor one whit more, if he contended     That gift of his, from God, descended.     Ah, friend, what gift of mans does not?     No nearer Something, by a jot,     Rise an infinity of Nothings     Than one: take Euclid for your teacher:     Distinguish kinds: do crownings, clothings,     Make that Creator which was creature?     Multiply gifts upon his head,     And what, when alls done, shall be said     But . . . the more gifted he, I ween!     That ones made Christ, another, Pilate,     And This might be all That has been,     So what is there to frown or smile at?     What is left for us, save, in growth,     Of soul, to rise up, far past both,     From the gift looking to the Giver,     And from the cistern to the River,     And from the finite to Infinity,     And from mans dust to Gods divinity? XVII.     Take all in a word: the Truth in Gods breast     Lies trace for trace upon ours impressed:     Though He is so bright and we so dim,     We are made in His image to witness Him;     And were no eye in us to tell,     Instructed by no inner sense.     The light of Heaven from the dark of Hell,     That light would want its evidence,     Though Justice, Good and Truth were still     Divine, if by some demons will,     Hatred and wrong had been proclaimed     Law through the worlds, and Right misnamed.     No mere exposition of morality     Made or in part or in totality,     Should win you to give it worship, therefore:     And, if no better proof you will care for,     Whom do you count the worst man upon earth?     Be sure, he knows, in his conscience, more     Of what Right is, than arrives at birth     In the best mans acts that we bow before:     This last knows better true; but my fact is,     Tis one thing to know, and another to practise;     And thence I conclude that the real God-function     Is to furnish a motive and injunction     For practising what we know already.     And such an injunction and such a motive     As the God in Christ, do you waive, and heady     High minded, hang your tablet-votive     Outside the fane on a finger-post?     Morality to the uttermost,     Supreme in Christ as we all confess,     Why need we prove would avail no jot     To make Him God, if God He were not?     What is the point where Himself lays stress     Does the precept run Believe in Good,     In Justice, Truth, now understood     For the first time? or, Believe in ME,     Who lived and died, yet essentially     Am Lord of Life? Whoever can take     The same to his heart and for mere loves sake     Conceive of the love, that man obtains     A new truth; no conviction gains     Of an old one only, made intense     By a fresh appeal to his faded sense. XVIII.     Can it be that He stays inside?     Is the Vesture left me to commune with?     Could my soul find aught to sing in tune with     Even at this lecture, if she tried?     Oh, let me at lowest sympathise     With the lurking drop of blood that lies     In the desiccated brains white roots     Without a throb for Christs attributes,     As the Lecturer makes his special boast!     If loves dead there, it has left a ghost.     Admire we, how from heart to brain     (Though to say so strike the doctors dumb)     One instinct rises and falls again,     Restoring the equilibrium.     And how when the Critic had done his best,     And the Pearl of Price, at reasons test,     Lay dust and ashes levigable     On the Professors lecture-table;     When we looked for the inference and monition     That our faith, reduced to such a condition,     Be swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,     He bids us, when we least expect it,     Take back our faith, if it be not just whole,     Yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it,     Which fact pays the damage done rewardingly,     So, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly!     Go home and venerate the Myth     I thus have experimented with     This Man, continue to adore him     Rather than all who went before him,     And all who ever followed after!     Surely for this I may praise you, my brother!     Will you take the praise in tears or laughter?     Thats one point gained: can I compass another?     Unlearned love was safe from spurning     Cant we respect your loveless learning?     Let us at least give Learning honour!     What laurels had we showered upon her,     Girding her loins up to perturb     Our theory of the Middle Verb;     Or Turklike brandishing a scimetar     Oer anapests in comic-trimeter;     Or curing the halt and maimed Iketides,     While we lounged on at our indebted ease:     Instead of which, a tricksy demon     Sets her at Titus or Philemon!     When Ignorance wags his ears of leather     And hates Gods word, tis altogether;     Nor leaves he his congenial thistles     To go and browze on Pauls Epistles.     And you, the audience, who might ravage     The world wide, enviably savage     Nor heed the cry of the retriever,     More than Herr Heine (before his fever),     I do not tell a lie so arrant     As say my passions wings are furled up,     And, without the plainest Heavenly warrant,     I were ready and glad to give this world up     But still, when you rub the brow meticulous,     And ponder the profit of turning holy     If not for Gods, for your own sake solely,     God forbid I should find you ridiculous!     Deduce from this lecture all that eases you,     Nay, call yourselves, if the calling pleases you,     Christians, abhor the Deists pravity,     Go on, you shall no more move my gravity,     Than, when I see boys ride a-cockhorse     I find it in my heart to embarrass them     By hinting that their sticks a mock horse,     And they really carry what they say carries them. XIX.     So sate I talking with my mind.     I did not long to leave the door     And find a new church, as before,     But rather was quiet and inclined     To prolong and enjoy the gentle resting     From further tracking and trying and testing.     This tolerance is a genial mood!     (Said I, and a little pause ensued).     One trims the bark twixt shoal and shelf,     And sees, each side, the good effects of it,     A value for religions self,     A carelessness about the sects of it.     Let me enjoy my own conviction,     Not watch my neighbours faith with fretfulness,     Still spying there some dereliction     Of truth, perversity, forgetfulness!     Better a mild indifferentism,     To teach that all our faiths (though duller     His shines through a dull spirits prism)     Originally had one colour     Sending me on a pilgrimage     Through ancient and through modern times     To many peoples, various climes,     Where I may see Saint, Savage, Sage     Fuse their respective creeds in one     Before the general Fathers throne! XX.     . . . T was the horrible storm began afresh!     The black night caught me in his mesh     Whirled me up, and flung me prone.     I was left on the college-step alone.     I looked, and far there, ever fleeting     Far, far away, the receding gesture,     And looming of the lessening Vesture,     Swept forward from my stupid hand,     While I watched my foolish heart expand     In the lazy glow of benevolence,     Oer the various modes of mans belief.     I sprang up with fears vehemence.     Needs must there be one way, our chief     Best way of worship: let me strive     To find it, and when found, contrive     My fellows also take their share.     This constitutes my earthly care:     Gods is above it and distinct!     For I, a man, with men am linked,     And not a brute with brutes; no gain     That I experience, must remain     Unshared: but should my best endeavour     To share it, fail subsisteth ever     Gods care above, and I exult     That God, by Gods own ways occult,     May doth, I will believe bring back     All wanderers to a single track!     Meantime, I can but testify     Gods care for me no more, can I     It is but for myself I know.     The world rolls witnessing around me     Only to leave me as it found me;     Men cry there, but my ear is slow.     Their races flourish or decay     What boots it, while yon lucid way     Loaded with stars, divides the vault?     How soon my soul repairs its fault     When, sharpening senses hebetude,     She turns on my own life! So viewed,     No mere motes-breadth but teems immense     With witnessings of providence:     And woe to me if when I look     Upon that record, the sole book     Unsealed to me, I take no heed     Of any warning that I read!     Have I been sure, this Christmas-Eve;     Gods own hand did the rainbow weave,     Whereby the truth from heaven slid     Into my soul? I cannot bid     The world admit He stooped to heal     My soul, as if in a thunder-peal     Where one heard noise, and one saw flame,     I only knew He named my name.     And what is the world to me, for sorrow     Or joy in its censures, when to-morrow     It drops the remark, with just-turned head     Then, on again That man is dead?     Yes, but for me my name called, drawn     As a conscripts lot from the laps black yawn,     He has dipt into on a battle-dawn:     Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,     Stumbling, mute-mazed, at natures chance,     With a rapid finger circled round,     Fixed to the first poor inch of ground,     To light from, where his foot was found;     Whose ear but a minute since lay free     To the wide camps buzz and gossipry     Summoned, a solitary man,     To end his life where his life began,     From the safe glad rear, to the dreadful van!     Soul of mine, hadst thou caught and held     By the hem of the Vesture . . . XXI.     And I caught     At the flying Robe, and unrepelled     Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught     With warmth and wonder and delight,     Gods mercy being infinite.     And scarce had the words escaped my tongue,     When, at a passionate bound, I sprung     Out of the wandering world of rain,     Into the little chapel again. XXII.     How else was I found there, bolt upright     On my bench, as if I had never left it?     Never flung out on the common at night     Nor met the storm and wedge-like cleft it,     Seen the raree-show of Peters successor,     Or the laboratory of the Professor!     For the Vision, that was true, I wist,     True as that heaven and earth exist.     There sate my friend, the yellow and tall,     With his neck and its wen in the selfsame place;     Yet my nearest neighbours cheek showed gall,     She had slid away a contemptuous space:     And the old fat woman, late so placable,     Eyed me with symptoms, hardly mistakeable,     Of her milk of kindness turning rancid:     In short a spectator might have fancied     That I had nodded betrayed by a slumber,     Yet kept my seat, a warning ghastly,     Through the heads of the sermon, nine in number,     To wake up now at the tenth and lastly.     But again, could such a disgrace have happened?     Each friend at my elbow had surely nudged it;     And, as for the sermon, where did my nap end?     Unless I heard it, could I have judged it?     Could I report as I do at the close,     First, the preacher speaks through his nose:     Second, his gesture is too emphatic:     Thirdly, to waive whats pedagogic,     The subject-matter itself lacks logic:     Fourthly, the English is ungrammatic.     Great news! the preacher is found no Pascal,     Whom, if I pleased, I might to the task call     Of making square to a finite eye     The circle of infinity,     And find so all-but-just-succeeding!     Great news! the sermon proves no reading     Where bee-like in the flowers I may bury me,     Like Taylors, the immortal Jeremy!     And now that I know the very worst of him,     What was it I thought to obtain at first of him?     Ha! Is God mocked, as He asks?     Shall I take on me to change His tasks,     And dare, despatched to a river-head     For a simple draught of the element,     Neglect the thing for which He sent,     And return with another thing instead?     Saying . . . Because the water found     Welling up from underground,     Is mingled with the taints of earth,     While Thou, I know, dost laugh at dearth,     And couldest, at a word, convulse     The world with the leap of its river-pulse,     Therefore I turned from the oozings muddy,     And bring thee a chalice I found, instead:     See the brave veins in the breccia ruddy!     One would suppose that the marble bled.     What matters the water? A hope I have nursed,     That the waterless cup will quench my thirst.     Better have knelt at the poorest stream     That trickles in pain from the straitest rift!     For the less or the more is all Gods gift,     Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite-seam.     And here, is there water or not, to drink?     I, then, in ignorance and weakness,     Taking Gods help, have attained to think     My heart does best to receive in meekness     This mode of worship, as most to His mind,     Where earthly aids being cast behind,     His All in All appears serene,     With the thinnest human veil between,     Letting the mystic Lamps, the Seven,     The many motions of His spirit,     Pass, as they list, to earth from Heaven.     For the preachers merit or demerit,     It were to be wished the flaws were fewer     In the earthen vessel, holding treasure,     Which lies as safe in a golden ewer;     But the main thing is, does it hold good measure?     Heaven soon sets right all other matters!     Ask, else, these ruins of humanity,     This flesh worn out to rags and tatters,     This soul at struggle with insanity,     Who thence take comfort, can I doubt,     Which an empire gained, were a loss without.     May it be mine! And let us hope     That no worse blessing befal the Pope,     Turnd sick at last of the days buffoonery,     Of his posturings and his petticoatings,     Beside the Bourbon bullys gloatings     In the bloody orgies of drunk poltroonery!     Nor may the Professor forego its peace     At Gttingen, presently, when, in the dusk     Of his life, if his cough, as I fear, should increase,     Prophesied of by that horrible husk;     And when, thicker and thicker, the darkness fills     The world through his misty spectacles,     And he gropes for something more substantial     Than a fable, myth, or personification,     May Christ do for him, what no mere man shall,     And stand confessed as the God of salvation!     Meantime, in the still recurring fear     Lest myself, at unawares, be found,     While attacking the choice of my neighbours round,     Without my own made I choose here!     The giving out of the hymn reclaims me;     I have done! And if any blames me,     Thinking that merely to touch in brevity     The topics I dwell on, were unlawful,     Or, worse, that I trench, with undue levity,     On the bounds of the Holy and the awful,     I praise the heart, and pity the head of him,     And refer myself to THEE, instead of him;     Who head and heart alike discernest,     Looking below light speech we utter,     When the frothy spume and frequent sputter     Prove that the souls depths boil in earnest!     May the truth shine out, stand ever before us!     I put up pencil and join chorus     To Hepzibah Tune, without further apology,     The last five verses of the third section     Of the seventeenth hymn in Whitfields Collection,     To conclude with the doxology.