The Crystal.

At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time,     When far within the spirit's hearing rolls     The great soft rumble of the course of things -     A bulk of silence in a mask of sound, -     When darkness clears our vision that by day     Is sun-blind, and the soul's a ravening owl     For truth and flitteth here and there about     Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft     Is minded for to sit upon a bough,     Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree     And muse in that gaunt place, - 'twas then my heart,     Deep in the meditative dark, cried out:     "Ye companies of governor-spirits grave,     Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news     From steep-wall'd heavens, holy malcontents,     Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all     That brood about the skies of poesy,     Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars;     Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none     With total lustre blazeth, no, not one     But hath some heinous freckle of the flesh     Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks     His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist     Of defect; yea, you masters all must ask     Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give,     We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet     Your largesse so with love, and interplight     Your geniuses with our mortalities.     Thus unto thee, O sweetest Shakespeare sole,     A hundred hurts a day I do forgive     ('Tis little, but, enchantment! 'tis for thee):     Small curious quibble; Juliet's prurient pun     In the poor, pale face of Romeo's fancied death;     Cold rant of Richard; Henry's fustian roar     Which frights away that sleep he invocates;     Wronged Valentine's unnatural haste to yield;     Too-silly shifts of maids that mask as men     In faint disguises that could ne'er disguise -     Viola, Julia, Portia, Rosalind;     Fatigues most drear, and needless overtax     Of speech obscure that had as lief be plain;     Last I forgive (with more delight, because     'Tis more to do) the labored-lewd discourse     That e'en thy young invention's youngest heir     Besmirched the world with.         Father Homer, thee,     Thee also I forgive thy sandy wastes     Of prose and catalogue, thy drear harangues     That tease the patience of the centuries,     Thy sleazy scrap of story, - but a rogue's     Rape of a light-o'-love, - too soiled a patch     To broider with the gods.         Thee, Socrates,     Thou dear and very strong one, I forgive     Thy year-worn cloak, thine iron stringencies     That were but dandy upside-down, thy words     Of truth that, mildlier spoke, had mainlier wrought.     So, Buddha, beautiful! I pardon thee     That all the All thou hadst for needy man     Was Nothing, and thy Best of being was     But not to be.         Worn Dante, I forgive     The implacable hates that in thy horrid hells     Or burn or freeze thy fellows, never loosed     By death, nor time, nor love.             And I forgive     Thee, Milton, those thy comic-dreadful wars     Where, armed with gross and inconclusive steel,     Immortals smite immortals mortalwise     And fill all heaven with folly.              Also thee,     Brave Aeschylus, thee I forgive, for that     Thine eye, by bare bright justice basilisked,     Turned not, nor ever learned to look where Love     Stands shining.          So, unto thee, Lucretius mine     (For oh, what heart hath loved thee like to this     That's now complaining?), freely I forgive     Thy logic poor, thine error rich, thine earth     Whose graves eat souls and all.              Yea, all you hearts     Of beauty, and sweet righteous lovers large:     Aurelius fine, oft superfine; mild Saint     A Kempis, overmild; Epictetus,     Whiles low in thought, still with old slavery tinct;     Rapt Behmen, rapt too far; high Swedenborg,     O'ertoppling; Langley, that with but a touch     Of art hadst sung Piers Plowman to the top     Of English songs, whereof 'tis dearest, now,     And most adorable; Caedmon, in the morn     A-calling angels with the cow-herd's call     That late brought up the cattle; Emerson,     Most wise, that yet, in finding Wisdom, lost     Thy Self, sometimes; tense Keats, with angels' nerves     Where men's were better; Tennyson, largest voice     Since Milton, yet some register of wit     Wanting; - all, all, I pardon, ere 'tis asked,     Your more or less, your little mole that marks     You brother and your kinship seals to man.     But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time,     But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue,     But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love,     O perfect life in perfect labor writ,     O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, -     What `if' or `yet', what mole, what flaw, what lapse,     What least defect or shadow of defect,     What rumor, tattled by an enemy,     Of inference loose, what lack of grace     Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's, -     Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee,     Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?"     Baltimore, 1880.