The School Of The Heart. Lesson The Sixth Poem by Henry Alford

Erewhile of Death and human suffering
Spoke we, and lingered, as in some dark wood
The pilgrim lingers ere he dare approach
The golden shrine, where on his sight shall break
Light of pure grace from Heaven;--the end of toil
Is near; and through the trembling intervals
Of over--arching boughs, rich pinnacles
Spire up into the sky: the music deep
Of prayer--inviting bells fills all the air,
No longer heard in fitful swells and falls,
Over far fields and waters, but poured forth
As if the voice of the cathedral pile
From tower and transept, and the thousand forms
Of sculptured saints and angels, sent at once
Its hymn of holy rapture up to God.

As when the stars in heaven around the moon
Show brightly, and the under air is calm,
All headland tops and beacon--towers, and steeps,
Are clothed with visible light, and from above
The glory of the boundless firmament
Flows downward, and the heavenly host is seen,
The heart of him that watches by the fold
Swells in his breast for joy; so riseth now
My labouring bosom, and the choking tears
Are thronging on my voice for very joy
At prospect of the inner life divine.

Light from afar: The night is well--nigh spent,
The day at hand. No more of earthly woe,
Of conflict now no more. The laver pure
Of new Baptismal innocence, the Ark
That bears us through the flood which fell for sin,
And lands us in the country far away,
All love, all knowledge of divinest lore
Regained; the pathway shining like the light
That shineth ever to the perfect day,--
These be our converse now; yon solemn Church,
The sanctuary of Earth, with its flushed tower,
Is full in view: and we are here in peace
With the sunset falling round us, by our hearth;
Meet time for talk of mystic truths and high,
Best pondered on, when every fleeting thing
Is shut from our observance, and the sight
From outward lures turns inward on the soul.
And thou art with me, who hast ever been
The spirit of my song--no longer now
Half--known, untried, a theme of restless thought,
By self--distrusting fondness glorified;
But tried and known, approved and manifest,
Partaker of a thousand wakeful schemes,
And cares of daily love. The April moon,
When she looks over thickets fresh in green,
Whose young leaves tremble in her golden light,
Tempereth not with such a peaceful charm
The rapturous gush of bowered nightingale,
As doth thy quiet look my struggling thoughts;
Nor, if I guess aright, doth the full song
Of the night warbler with more life endow
The slumbering moonlight, than these tuneful words
Thy patient spirit, rapt in holy calm
Of contemplation, married to desire,
Wandering or resting as affection leads.

We have been dwellers in a lovely land,
A land of lavish lights and floating shades,
And broad green flats, bordered by woody capes
That lessen ever as they stretch away
Into the distance blue; a land of hills,
Cloud--gathering ranges, on whose ancient breast
The morning mists repose; each autumn tide
Deep purple with the heath--bloom; from whose brow
We might behold the crimson sun go down
Behind the barrier of the western sea:
A land of beautiful and stately fanes,
Aërial temples most magnificent,
Rising with clusters of rich pinnacles
And fretted battlements; a land of towers
Where sleeps the music of deep--voiced bells,
Save when in holiday time the joyous air
Ebbs to the welling sound; and Sabbath morn,
When from a choir of hill--side villages
The peaceful invitation churchward chimes.

So were our souls brought up to love this Earth
And feed on natural beauty: and the light
Of our own sunsets, and the mountains blue
That girt around our home, were very parts
Of our young being; linked with all we knew,
Centres of interest for undying thoughts
And themes of mindful converse. Happy they
Who in the fresh and dawning time of youth
Have dwelt in such a land, tuning their souls
To the deep melodies of Nature's laws
Heard in the after--time of riper thought
Reflective on past seasons of delight.

But what is Beauty? why doth human art
Strive ever to attain similitude
With some bright idol of creative mind?
Why do the trembling stars, and mighty hills,
And forms of moving grace, and the deep fire
Of tender eyes, and gloom, and setting suns,
All feed in turn one unfulfilled desire?

Deep theme is this for youthful lovers' thought;
And fittest dwelt on when thy presence sheds
Sweet Peace around me; when then, if not now,
When in the clearest light of tranquil love,
Disrobed of Earth's unrest, like some fair star
Thou rulest in the firmament of thought.

Begin we then in humble strains, and search
With patient hope--it may be we shall find
If lowly caution guide our steps; for oft
Truth veileth back her bright and queenly form
From eyes of mortal men: and seek not we
To look within, for fear with too much light
One glimpse benight us: let it be enough
To rule the spirit into harmony
With the great world around: for everything
That therein is beareth a separate part
In the soul's teaching: let it be enough
Not by a stretch of thought, or painful strain
Of faculty acquired, but with pure love,
Pure and untaught, save what the inner light
Of the great Spirit teacheth, to lay bare
The soul to the influence of each little flower
That springs beneath our feet; and go our way
Rejoicing in the fond companionship
Of every humblest thing; communion blest
In the unpitied and unmurmured woes
And all the simple joys of Nature's babes.

Deep in a chamber of the inner soul
The folded principles of action lie
As in a bud enclosed, which ere the time
Of leaf--awakening Spring comes kindly on,
Containeth sprays and flowers that are to be;--
Thus think thou of the soul; for better thus
Than to desert the mighty parable
That falls unceasing on the ear of man,
And seek new processes of laboured thought
That have no fellows in the world of things.

Law is the King of all; we live and move
Not without firm conditions guarded well
In the great Mind that rules us. Manifold
Are the inward workings of the soul;--now seen
And open to the sense, as when we teach
Unto our anguished hearts sufferance of woe;
Now only visible to Angel sight
Or to the eyes of God--gradual and deep,
Owing no homage to the tyrant will.
But each and all, the wrested soul of man
Brings nearer to the course of laws divine:
Whether by strong self--chiding, or by length
Of intercourse with heavenly messengers,
Who veil their presence in the things of Earth.
And therefore Beauty is not spread in vain
Upon this world of man: God is not left
Without His witness; and the daily task
Of human kind is bound in closest ties
To natural Beauty; whether in the field
The lavish blessings of the open sky
Are shed around him, or in city vast
The Sun in crimson guise lift up his orb,
Clothing the mist, distinct with domes and towers,
In wreathed glories. God doth nought in vain;
And from the searchings of benighted souls
Before the light arose, hath flowed to us
Great store of Truth; for in that mighty quest
Nought that was fair on Earth or bright in Heaven
Wanted its honour, or its place assigned,
Or careful culture, and all lovely things
Were ranged for guides along the path to God.

For his fire--beacon for a thousand years
The searching spirit of the lorn Chaldee
Held converse with the starry multitude;
He knew the lamping potentates that bring
Summer and winter, when they wax and wane:
Soothing his solitary soul with song
Low--hummed, of mighty hunters, or the queen
That blazed in battle--front; or if perchance
Of gentler mood, of Nineveh's soft king
Sardanapalus, that on roses slept,
Lulled by the lingering tremble of soft lutes;--
Deep melodies, whose echoes left the world
Before the empires rose, whose wrecks are we.
How proudly in his Paradise of Art
The old Egyptian must have worn his pomp,
Nature's first moulded form of perfectness
Wrought in her sport, and playfully destroyed
That she might try her artist hand again;
How beautiful was Greece: how marvellous
In polity, and chastened grace severe:
In nicely--balanced strains, and harmonies
Tuned to the varying passion; flute or lyre
Not unaccompanied by solemn dance
In arms, or movement of well--ordered youths
And maids in Dorian tunic simply clad;--
How rich in song, and artful dialogue,
Long--sighted irony, and half--earnest guess
At deeply--pondered truth. But spirits pure
Deep drinking at the fount of natural joy,
Grew sad and hopeless as the foot of Death
Crept onwards; and beyond the deep--blue hills
And plains o'erflowed with light, and woody paths,
No safe abode of ever--during joy
Lifted its promise to the sight of Man.

``Farewell, farewell for ever--never more
Thy beautiful young form shall pass athwart
Our fond desiring vision;--the great world
Moves on, and human accidents; and Spring
New--clothes the forests, and the warm west wind
Awakes the nightingales;--but thou the while
A handful of dull earth, art not, and we
Insatiable in woe weep evermore
Around the marble where thine ashes lie.''
Such sounds by pillared temple, or hill--side
Sweet with wild roses, or by sacred stream
Errant through mossy rocks, saddened the air,
Whether ripe virgin on the bier were borne,
Or youth untimely cropped; or in still night
The Moon shone full, and choir of maidens moved
Through glades distinct with shadow, bearing vows
Of choicest flowers and hair,--fearful the while
Of thwarting influence or incautious word,
Till round the tomb they poured their votive wine
And moved in dance, or chanted liquid hymns
Soothing the rigid silence. ``Fare thee well:
A journey without end, a wakeless sleep,
Or some half--joyful place, where feeble ghosts
Wander in dreamy twilight, holds thee now;
Thy joy is done: and thine espousals kept
Down in the dark house of forgetfulness.''

Home of our spirits,--whether terraced high
From Kedron's brook in thy Judaean hills,
A pleasant place, and joy of all the earth;
Or in a brighter vision opening forth
Thy gold--paved streets and jasper architraves,
Above, and free, and Mother of us all;
To thee my step would turn; to thy new songs
Fain would I tune the harp, that lightly skilled
Essays high music; in the eternal calm
Of thy pure air, and by thy living streams,
Drink long forgetfulness of earthly woe.
For thy sweet port this little bark long bound
Hath wandered on the waters; or my steps
Devious through many a land, each pleasant hill
Each mossy nook hath stayed on search for thee;
Still somewhat finding of wide--scattered joy,
Some thoughts of deep sweet meaning; but desire
Grows with my spirit's growth; and nought on earth
Is glorious now as it hath glorious been:
So doth my forward vision search, and read
In the dim distance tracks of severed light
Forerunning thy descent, by prophets seen
Of old in prospect, out of heaven from God;--
Our earth hath nought so blessed; not the grove
Budding in Spring, with choir of nightingales
Vocal in shadowy moonlight; not the crest
Of old Olympus, seat of Gods secure
Through the eternal ages, which nor wind
With rude breath dares to shake, nor rain to wet,
Nor flakes of floating snow; but ever stretch
The boundless fields of ether without cloud
Above, and dazzling sheen of whitest light
Plays round the holy summit. --Art thou one
Before whose eyes bright visions have unveiled
Of peace and long--expected rest? to whom
There hath been shown some timber--shadowed home
In a fair country all prepared for thee,
Just shown and then withdrawn? to whom some heart
But yesterday in firmest union bound,
Hath vanished from the wide world utterly,
Leaving upon thy breast a dreary want,
As doth a strain of melody broken off
In a sweet cadence, on the longing ear?
Hast thou in very hopelessness of soul
Bowed down to tyrant power, cheating thy life
Of the sweet guidance of the will, and toiled
Bridled by strong necessity, unnamed
Save by proud reasoners on the mass of men,
A unit in the aggregate, a wheel
In the base system that unsouls our race;
While human feelings deep and pure within
Flow out to wife and child, brother and friend,
And thy tired spirit looks forth in faith to Him
Who helpeth them to right that suffer wrong?
Art thou a child of Nature's own, and lovest
To hold sweet communings with this fair world
More than to search thy heart, or interchange
Thought with the thought of other? is the Earth
To thee a well of never--failing joy?
Dost thou affect the charms of budding Spring,
Seat beneath arching shade, or with slow feet
To pace the flowery--mantled field, and cull
With careless hand the glory and delight
Of motley meadows? art thou deep in love
With the glorious changes of the dappled sky,
Whether the circle of the golden Sun
Shower the heavens with brightness, newly risen,
Scattering the morning frost, or glorify
The liquid clearness of the Summer heaven,
Or the West fade in twilight, till the dark
Fall on the fields, and Silence and sweet Peace
Pass hand in hand along the slumbering Earth:
Then looking from a chamber--casement high
Over paternal groves, beneath the Moon,
Listlessly pondering, hear the village--clock
Strike in the voiceless night? All natural joy
From the dull heartlessness of mortal men
Set free for ever,--Liberty and Peace,
Desire and its fulfilment, side by side
Ranged ever, all the long bright days of heaven,
These shall be thine, in that fair city of God
Dwelling, where ever through the blessed streets
Serene light vibrates, and the starry gulfs
Of ether lie above in perfect rest.

But why delay and parley with delight
On this side of the river? steeply rise
The woody shores beyond, with palace--towers
And golden minarets sublimely crowned,
All full of light and glorious; and the stream
Is calm and silent, flowing darkly on
Among strange flowers, and thickets of deep shade:
Weary with toil, and worn with travel, plunge
From the green margin sweetly without fear;
Softly put back the wave on either side,
And skim the surface with thy nether lip;
Soon shalt thou press the flowers on yonder bank,
And rest on yielding roses. 'Tis not given
To trace thee: but most like some mighty stream
Under a rocky barrier working deep
With hollow gushings soon to burst afresh
Over a new land faintly pictured forth
Each day on our horizon: such art thou.

The righteous souls are in the hand of God;
No harm shall touch them,--laid securely by
Even in an infant's slumber, or perchance
In gradual progress of their mighty change:
The summer Sabbath is not half so calm
As is the blessed chamber where repose
After their earthly labours, fenced around
With guardian Cherubim that weary not,
The spirits of the just: not cave of sleep
In ancient Lemnos, murmured round by waves;--
Not the charmed slumber of that British king
Resting beneath the crumbled abbey--walls
In the westward--sloping vale of Avalon;
Nor the ambrosial trance of Jove's great son
That fell beneath Troy walls,--whom Death and Sleep
On dusky--folded wings to Lycia land
Bore through the yielding ether without noise.

But who can tell the glories of the day
When from a thousand hills and wooded vales
This Earth shall send her tribute forth to God,
Myriads of blessed forms? when her old wound
Shall have been fully healed; the Covenant
Rule in the bright ascendant; while above
Throb through the air from new--awakened harps
Pulses of ancient song: and God's own Bride
Drest for her Husband, lift her sky--clear brow
Out of the dust? She dwells in sorrow long:
Her sun of life and light hath sunk away;
Her night, far spent it may be, yet is thick
And hangeth heavily along the sky;
We cannot see her flowers that bloom around,
Save where in dazzling clusters through the dark
Her virgin lilies drink the scattered light:
She feedeth upon dew distilled from earth
And air, and transitory vapour dim;
But still there is a brightness in the West
Painfully traced by all her watchful sons;
Even the glory, at whose parting track
The men of Galilee stood gazing up
With shadowed foreheads, till the white--robed pair
Spoke comfort; and along the hopeful East
A clear pale shining, promise of a day
Glorious and wonderful; the fainting stars
Have lost their lustre: voice of wassail mirth
Is none, for the revels of Earth have passed away;
All chivalry and pomp that was of yore,
And fields of cloth of gold,--all delicate work
In metal and in stone, the pride of kings
And task of captive tribes, have ceased to be:
Man misseth his old skill, but ever wins
Upon the world the calm and steady light
Forerunning the great Sun; that lighteth now
Perchance fair orbs around us; soon to burst
In perfect glory on the earth we love.

Rise up, thou daughter of the brightest King
That ever wore a crown; awake and rise,
Forget thy people and thy father's house;
Thou that wert yeaned in winter dreariness,
Swathed in the manger of thy Love and Lord,
Shake off thy dust and rise; thine hour is come,
The marriage--morn is come, and all the bells
In Heaven are whispering with their silver tongues;
And the faint pulses of the sound divine
Are swimming o'er thee where thou liest yet
Unwaked;--the pomp of Seraphim ere long
Will be upon thee, and the sheen of Heaven
Fall on thy brow, as doth the glimpse of the East
Upon the folded flower. My task is done:
The garlands that I wreathed around my brow
Are fading on it, and the air of song
Is passing from me. Thou art standing by,
Bent o'er thy Poet with love--lighted eyes,
And raptured look of ardent hope, that tells
Of holiest influences shed forth within.
I have not talked with one who cannot feel
Every minutest nourishment of thought;
For I have seen thee when the western gale
Blew loud and rude upon our native hills,
With bonnet doffed, courting the busy wind;
And I have looked on thee till my dim eyes
Swam with delight, and thou didst seem to me,
As I stood by thee on the aery steep,
Like a young Seraph ready poised for flight;
O sweet illusion: but in after--time
The truth shall follow: for we two shall stand
Upon the everlasting hills of Heaven,
With glorious beauty clothed that cannot die;
And far beneath upon the myriad worlds
All unimaginable glory spread,
Brighter than brightest floods of rosy light
Poured by the sunset on our western sea.
It will not matter to the soul set free
Which hemisphere we tenanted on earth;
Whether it sojourned where the Northern Wain
Dips not in Ocean,or beneath the heaven
Where overhead the Austral cross is fixed
Glistering in glory, or amidst the snows
Under the playing of the Boreal lights;
We shall be free to wander evermore
In thought, the spirit's motion, o'er the wide
And wondrous universe, with messages
To beautiful beings who have never fallen,
And worlds that never heard the cry of sin.
As one who in a new and beauteous land
Lately arrived, rests not till every way
His steps have wandered, searching out new paths
To far off towers that rise along the vales;
So to a thousand founts of light unknown
Our now enfranchised souls shall travel forth,
Rich with strange beauties: some, it may be, clad
With woods, and interlaced with playful brooks
And ever--changing shades, like this our home;
And some a wilderness of craggy thrones,
With skies of stranger hue; and glorious
With train of orbs attendant on their state,
Mingling their rays in atmospheres of Love.

But yet one word. Yon silver--fringèd clouds
That scale the western barrier of the world
Pile upon pile, seem to have borrowed gleams
Of that ethereal light I told thee of;
And the clear blue, so calm and deep behind
On which they sail, is like the mighty Soul,
Thus fathomless, thus dwelt in by strange things,
On which the forms of multitudinous thought
Float ever, bright or dark, or complicate
Of light and darkness; and the quiet stars
Are fountains of far--off and milder fire,
Nearer the throne of God; the hopes and joys
Of which I sung to thee, that make no wave
Upon the stream of memory; but from which
The spiritual senses take their power,
And from a myriad stones, costly though small,
Is built the mansion of the blessed soul.

Thus far in golden dreams of youth, I sung
Of Love and Beauty: beauty not the child
Of change, nor love the growth of fierce desire,
But calm and blessèd both, the heritage
Of purest spirits, sprung from trust in God.
Further to pierce the veil, asks riper strength,
And firmer resting on conclusions fixed
By patient labour, wrought in manly years.
Here rest we then: our message thus declared,
Leave the full echoes of our harp to ebb
Back from the sated ear: teaching meanwhile
Our thoughts to meditate new melodies,
Our hands to touch the strings with safer skill.