The Unknown Eros | Page 9

in
bound, tho' powerless to quell,
The amorous and vehement drift of
man's herd to hell.

XX. 'LET BE!'
Ah, yes; we tell the good and evil trees
By fruits: But how tell these?

Who does not know
That good and ill
Are done in secret still,

And that which shews is verily but show!
How high of heart is one,
and one how sweet of mood:
But not all height is holiness,
Nor
every sweetness good;
And grace will sometimes lurk where who
could guess?
The Critic of his kind,
Dealing to each his share,

With easy humour, hard to bear,
May not impossibly have in him
shrined,
As in a gossamer globe or thickly padded pod,
Some small
seed dear to God.
Haply yon wretch, so famous for his falls,
Got
them beneath the Devil-defended walls
Of some high Virtue he had
vow'd to win;
And that which you and I
Call his besetting sin
Is
but the fume of his peculiar fire
Of inmost contrary desire,
And
means wild willingness for her to die,
Dash'd with despondence of
her favour sweet;
He fiercer fighting, in his worst defeat,
Than I or
you,
That only courteous greet
Where he does hotly woo,
Did
ever fight, in our best victory.
Another is mistook
Through his
deceitful likeness to his look!
Let be, let be:
Why should I clear
myself, why answer thou for me?
That shaft of slander shot
Miss'd
only the right blot.
I see the shame
They cannot see:
'Tis very just
they blame
The thing that's not.
XXI. 'FAINT YET PURSUING.'
Heroic Good, target for which the young

Dream in their dreams that
every bow is strung,
And, missing, sigh
Unfruitful, or as
disbelievers die,
Thee having miss'd, I will not so revolt,
But
lowlier shoot my bolt,
And lowlier still, if still I may not reach,
And
my proud stomach teach
That less than highest is good, and may be
high.
An even walk in life's uneven way,
Though to have dreamt of
flight and not to fly
Be strange and sad,
Is not a boon that's given to
all who pray.
If this I had
I'd envy none!
Nay, trod I straight for
one
Year, month or week,
Should Heaven withdraw, and Satan me

amerce
Of power and joy, still would I seek
Another victory with a
like reverse;
Because the good of victory does not die,
As dies the
failure's curse,
And what we have to gain
Is, not one battle, but a
weary life's campaign.
Yet meaner lot being sent
Should more than
me content;
Yea, if I lie
Among vile shards, though born for silver
wings,
In the strong flight and feathers gold
Of whatsoever
heavenward mounts and sings
I must by admiration so comply
That
there I should my own delight behold.
Yea, though I sin each day
times seven,
And dare not lift the fearfullest eyes to Heaven,

Thanks must I give
Because that seven times are not eight or nine,

And that my darkness is all mine,
And that I live
Within this
oak-shade one more minute even,
Hearing the winds their Maker
magnify.
XXII. VICTORY IN DEFEAT.
Ah, God, alas,
How soon it came to pass
The sweetness melted
from thy barbed hook
Which I so simply took;
And I lay bleeding
on the bitter land,
Afraid to stir against thy least command,
But
losing all my pleasant life-blood, whence
Force should have been
heart's frailty to withstand.
Life is not life at all without delight,
Nor
has it any might;
And better than the insentient heart and brain
Is
sharpest pain;
And better for the moment seems it to rebel,
If the
great Master, from his lifted seat,
Ne'er whispers to the wearied
servant 'Well!'
Yet what returns of love did I endure,
When to be
pardon'd seem'd almost more sweet
Than aye to have been pure!


But day still faded to disastrous night,
And thicker darkness changed
to feebler light,
Until forgiveness, without stint renew'd,
Was now
no more with loving tears imbued,
Vowing no more offence.
Not
less to thine Unfaithful didst thou cry,
'Come back, poor Child; be all
as 'twas before.'
But I,
'No, no; I will not promise any more!
Yet,
when I feel my hour is come to die,
And so I am secured of
continence,
Then may I say, though haply then in vain,
"My only,
only Love, O, take me back again!"'

Thereafter didst thou smite
So hard that, for a space,
Uplifted
seem'd Heav'n's everlasting door,
And I indeed the darling of thy
grace.
But, in some dozen changes of the moon,
A bitter mockery
seem'd thy bitter boon.
The broken pinion was no longer sore.

Again, indeed, I woke
Under so dread a stroke
That all the strength
it left within my heart
Was just to ache and turn, and then to turn and
ache,
And some weak sign of war unceasingly to make.
And here I
lie,
With no one near to mark,
Thrusting Hell's phantoms feebly in
the dark,
And still at point more utterly to die.
O God, how long!

Put forth indeed thy powerful right hand,
While time is yet,
Or
never shall I see the blissful land!
Thus I: then God, in pleasant speech and strong,
(Which soon I shall
forget):
'The man who, though his fights be all defeats,
Still fights,

Enters at last
The heavenly Jerusalem's rejoicing streets
With
glory more, and more triumphant rites
Than always-conquering
Joshua's, when his blast
The frighted walls of Jericho down cast;

And, lo, the glad surprise
Of peace beyond surmise,
More than in
common