|
Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ASH WEDNESDAY (AFTER HEARING A LECTURE ON THE ORIGIN OF RELIGION), by JOHN ERSKINE First Line: Here in the lonely chapel I will wait Last Line: Strong with new love where thou dost kneel, the cross whereon christ died. Subject(s): Ash Wednesday; Christianity; Faith; Prayer; Solitude; Belief; Creed; Loneliness | |||
Here in the lonely chapel I will wait, Here will I rest, if any rest may be; So fair the day is, and the hour so late, I shall have few to share the blessed calm with me. Calm and soft light, sweet inarticulate calls! One shallow dish of eerie golden fire By molten chains above the altar swinging, Draws my eyes up from the shadowed stalls To the warm chancel-dome; Crag-like the clustered organs loom, Yet from their thunder-threatening choir Flows but a ghostly singing Half-human voices reaching home In infinite, tremulous surge and falls. Light on his stops and keys, And pallor on the player's face, Who, listening rapt, with finger-skill to seize The pattern of a mood's elusive grace, Captures his spirit in an airy lace Of fading, fading harmonies. Oh, let your coolness soothe My weariness, frail music, where you keep Tryst with the even-fall; Where tone by tone you find a pathway smooth To yonder gleaming cross, or nearer creep Along the bronzèd wall, Where shade by shade thro' deeps of brown Comes the still twilight down. Wilt thou not rest, my thought? Wouldst thou go back to that pain-breeding room Whence only by strong wrenchings thou wert brought? O weary, weary questionings, Will ye pursue me to the altar rail Where my old faith for sanctuary clings, And back again my heart reluctant hale Yonder, where crushed against the cheerless wall Tiptoe I glimpsed the tier on tier Of faces unserene and startled eyes Such eyes as on grim surgeon-work are set, On desperate outmaneuverings of doom? Still must I hear The boding voice with cautious rise and fall Tracking relentless to its lair Each fever-bred progenitor of faith, Each fugitive ancestral fear? Still must I follow, as the wraith Of antique awe toward a wreck-making beach Drives derelict? Nay, rest, rest, my thought, Where long-loved sound and shadow teach Quietness to conscience overwrought. Harken! The choristers, the white-robed priest Move thro' the chapel dim Sounding of warfare and the victor's palm, Of valiant marchings, of the feast Spread for the pilgrim in a haven'd calm. How on the first lips of my steadfast race Sounded that battle hymn, Quaint heaven-vauntings, with God's gauntlet flung, To me bequeathed, from age to age, My challenge and my heritage! "The Lord is in His holy place" How in their ears the herald voice has rung! Now will I make bright their sword, Will pilgrim in their ancient path, Will haunt the temple of their Lord; Truth that is neither variable nor hath Shadow of turning, I will find In the wise ploddings of their faithful mind; Of finding not, as in this frustrate hour By question hounded, waylaid by despair, Yet in these uses shall I know His power As the warm flesh by breathing knows the air. O futile comfort! My faith-hungry heart Still in your sweetness tastes a poisonous sour; Far off, far off I quiver 'neath the smart Of old indignities and obscure scorn Indelibly on man's proud spirit laid, That now in time's ironic masquerade Minister healing to the hurt and worn! What are those streams that from the altar pour Where goat and ox and human captive bled To feed the blood-lust of the murderous priest? I cannot see where Christ's dear love is shed, So deep the insatiate horror washes red Flesh-stains and frenzy-sears and gore. Beneath that Cross, whereon His hands outspread, What forest shades behold what shameful rites Of maidenhood surrendered to the beast In obscene worship on midsummer nights! What imperturbable disguise Enwraps these organs with a chaste restraint To chant innocuous hymns and litanies For sinner and adoring saint, Which yet inherit like an old blood-taint Some naked caperings in the godliest tune, Goat-songs and jests strong with the breath of Pan, That charmed the easy cow-girl and her man In uncouth tryst beneath a scandalous moon! Ah, could I hearken with their trust, Or see with their pure-seeing eyes Who of the frame of these dear mysteries Were not too wise! Why cannot I, as in a stronger hour, Outface the horror that defeats me now? Have I not reaped complacent the rich power That harvest from this praise and bowing low? On this strong music have I mounted up, At yonder rail broke bread, and shared the holy cup, And on that cross have hung, and felt God's pain Sorrowing, sorrowing, till the world shall end. Not from these forms my questionings come That serving truth are purified, But from the truth itself, the way, the goal, One challenge vast that strikes faith dumb If truth be fickle, who shall be our guide? "Truth that is neither variable, nor hath Shadow of turning?" Ah, where turns she not! Where yesterday she stood, Now the horizon empties lo, her steps Where yonder scholar woos, are hardly cold, Yet shall he find her never, but the thought Mantling within him like her blood Shall from his eloquence fade, and leave his words Flavor'd with vacant quaintness for his son. What crafty patience, scholar, hast thou used, Useless ere it was begun What headless waste of wing, Beating vainly round and round! In no one Babel were the tongues confused, But they who handle truth, from sound to sound Master another speech continuously. Deaf to familiar words, our callous ear Will quiver to the edge of utterance strange; When truth to God's truth-weary sight draws near, Cannot God see her till she suffer change? Must ye then change, my vanished youth, Home customs of my dreams? Change and farewell! Farewell, your lost phantasmic truth That will not constant dwell, But flees the passion of our eyes And leaves no hint behind her Whence she dawns or whither dies, Or if she live at all, or only for a moment seems. Here tho' I only dream I find her, Here will I watch the twilight darken. Yonder the scholar's voice spins on Mesh upon mesh of loveless fate; Here will I rest while truth deserts him still. What hath she left thee, Brother, but thy voice? After her, have thy will, And happy be thy choice! Here rather will I rest, and harken Voices longer dead but longer loved than thine. Yet still my most of peace is more unrest, As one who plods a summer road Feels the coolness his own motion stirs, But when he stops the dead heat smothers him. Here in this calm my soul is weariest, Each question with malicious goad Pressing the choice that still my soul defers To visioned hours not thus eclipsed and dim, Lest in my haste I deem That truth's invariable part Is her eluding of man's heart. Farewell, calm priest who pacest slow After the stalwart-marching choir! Have men thro' thee taught God their dear desire? Hath God thro' thee absolvèd sin? What is thy benediction, if I go Sore perplexed and wrought within? Open the chapel doors, and let Boisterous music play us out Toward the flaring molten west Whither the nerve-racked day is set; Let the loud world, flooding back, Gulf us in its hungry rout; Rest? What part have we in rest? Boy with the happy face and hurrying feet, Who with thy friendly cap's salute Sendest bright hail across the college street, If thou couldst see my answering lips, how mute, How loth to take thy student courtesy! What truth have I for thee? Rather thy wisdom, lad, impart, Share thy gift of strength with me. Still with the past I wrestle, but the future girds thy heart. Clutter of shriveled yesterdays that clothe us like a shell, Thy spirit sloughs their bondage off, to walk newborn and free. All things the human heart hath learned God, heaven, earth, and hell Thou weighest not for what they were, but what they still may be. Whether the scholar delve and mine for faith-wreck buried deep, Or the priest his rules and holy rites, letter and spirit, keep, Toil or trust in breathless dust, they shall starve at last for truth; Scholar and priest shall live from thee, who art eternal youth. Holier if thou dost tread it, every path the prophets trod; Clearer where thou dost worship, rise the ancient hymns to God; Not by the priest but by thy prayers are altars sanctified; Strong with new love where thou dost kneel, the cross whereon Christ died. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN ABEYANCE by DENISE LEVERTOV IN A VACANT HOUSE by PHILIP LEVINE SUNDAY ALONE IN A FIFTH FLOOR APARTMENT, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS by WILLIAM MATTHEWS SILENCE LIKE COOL SAND by PAT MORA |
|