Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. | Page 6

lesson fret,
Nor chide at old belief
as if it erred,
Because thou canst not reconcile as yet
The Worker and the word.
Either the Worker did in ancient days
Give us the word, His tale of
love and might;
(And if in truth He gave it us, who says

He did not give it right?)
Or else He gave it not, and then indeed
We know not if HE is--by
whom our years
Are portioned, who the orphan moons doth lead,
And the unfathered spheres.
We sit unowned upon our burial sod
And know not whence we come
or whose we be,
Comfortless mourners for the mount of God,
The rocks of Calvary:
Bereft of heaven, and of the long-loved page
Wrought us by some
who thought with death to cope.
Despairing comforters, from age to
age
Sowing the seeds of hope:
Gracious deceivers, who have lifted us
Out of the slough where
passed our unknown youth.
Beneficent liars, who have gifted us
With sacred love of truth!
Farewell to them: yet pause ere thou unmoor
And set thine ark adrift
on unknown seas;
How wert thou bettered so, or more secure
Thou, and thy destinies?
And if thou searchest, and art made to fear
Facing of unread riddles
dark and hard,
And mastering not their majesty austere,
Their meaning locked and barred:
How would it make the weight and wonder less,
If, lifted from
immortal shoulders down,
The worlds were cast on seas of emptiness
In realms without a crown.

And (if there were no God) were left to rue
Dominion of the air and
of the fire?
Then if there be a God, "Let God be true,
And every man a liar."
But as for me, I do not speak as one
That is exempt: I am with life at
feud:
My heart reproacheth me, as there were none
Of so small gratitude.
Wherewith shall I console thee, heart o' mine.
And still thy yearning
and resolve thy doubt?
That which I know, and that which I divine,
Alas! have left thee out.
I have aspired to know the might of God,
As if the story of His love
was furled,
Nor sacred foot the grasses e'er had trod
Of this redeemèd world:--
Have sunk my thoughts as lead into the deep,
To grope for that abyss
whence evil grew,
And spirits of ill, with eyes that cannot weep,
Hungry and desolate flew;
As if their legions did not one day crowd
The death-pangs of the
Conquering Good to see!
As if a sacred head had never bowed
In death for man--for me;
Nor ransomed back the souls beloved, the sons
Of men, from
thraldom with the nether kings
In that dark country where those evil
ones
Trail their unhallowed wings.
And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee,
And didst Thou

take to heaven a human brow?
Dost plead with man's voice by the
marvellous sea?
Art Thou his kinsman now?
O God, O kinsman loved, but not enough!
O man, with eyes majestic
after death,
Whose feet have toiled along our pathways rough,
Whose lips drawn human breath!
By that one likeness which is ours and Thine,
By that one nature
which doth hold us kin,
By that high heaven where, sinless, Thou
dost shine
To draw us sinners in,
By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall,
By long foreknowledge of
the deadly tree,
By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall,
I pray Thee visit me.
Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away,
Die ere the guest
adored she entertain--
Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day
Should miss Thy heavenly reign.
Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night
Thy wanderers strayed
upon the pathless wold,
Who wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light,
And cannot find their fold.
And deign, O Watcher, with the sleepless brow,
Pathetic in its
yearning--deign reply:
Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou
Wouldst take from such as I?
Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust?
Are there no thorns

that compass it about?
Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust
My hands to gather out?
O if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be,
It were a cure for doubt,
regret, delay--
Let my lost pathway go--what aileth me?--
There is a better way.
What though unmarked the happy workman toil,
And break
unthanked of man the stubborn clod?
It is enough, for sacred is the
soil,
Dear are the hills of God.
Far better in its place the lowliest bird
Should sing aright to Him the
lowliest song,
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word
And sing His glory wrong.
Friend, it is time to work. I say to thee,
Thou dost all earthly good by
much excel;
Thou and God's blessing are enough for me:
My work, my work--farewell!
REQUIESCAT IN PACE!
My heart is sick awishing and awaiting:
The lad took up his knapsack,
he went, he went his way;
And I looked on for his coming, as a
prisoner through the grating Looks and longs and longs and wishes for
its