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

The dews descend, the soft and gentle dews;
Over the homeward meadows, stretching forth
Far into the gray mist, the cattle lie
Most tranquilly; the river's silver swathes
Move not, or slumber silently along;
The cups of the water--lilies are not stirred
By passing eddies, but with countenance
Turned up to heaven, they lie and let the dark
Come down on them, and then they pass beneath
Into their wat'ry bed, till the young morn
Looks slant upon the surface of the stream.
And there, among the golden company,
Floats like a queen that grand and ancient flower,
With name that passing from the charmèd tongue
Reminds us of low melodies in sleep
So honey--sweet, so musically soft:
Like Artemis on Erymanthus' ridge
Taking her pleasure in the mountain chase,
With the field--nymphs around her playing blithe,
Her beautiful brow she lifts among them all,
And easy to be known, though all are fair:
That flower of many honours, dwelt upon
By old prophetic light, in time of yore
A mighty parable of mystic things,
All sacred, leaf and bud and banded stalk,
And root that struck into the bed of Nile,
Or by the lake Maeotis, or perchance
Under the bank of Jordan fringed with palms:
Fit and accepted emblem of that first
Great resurrection of the chosen few,
When from the waters blank and desolate
They rose like thee; and token not unknown
Of other and of deeper tendencies
Of all things on this earth: how in the track
And visible procession of events
One tale is told, one moral figured forth,
Birth, death, and resurrection; birth, and death,
And resurrection, ever and anon
Held up in clearest light to human thought.
The milky tender seed is fashioned first
From the flower that dies in birth; through cruel blights
And under adverse skies, with pain and toil,
If not self--known, yet rendered evident
By the careful nature that it looketh for,
It ripens into age; and then it dies
In the brown ground, and chilly nights and snows
Pass over it; at last the kindly sun
Bursts out upon it, and it breaks its grave,
And issues forth, a beautiful green thing,
A fresh and lovely scion. And in things
That look less like our own humanity,
If we would search, the same great parable
Is ever taken up and told abroad,
And will be till the end. Beauty and Truth
Go hand in hand: and 'tis the providence
Of the great Teacher that doth clearest show
The gentler and more lovely to our sight,
Training our souls by frequent communings
With her who meets us in our daily path
With greetings and sweet talk, to pass at length
Into the presence, by unmarked degrees,
Of that her sterner sister; best achieved,
When from a thousand common sights and sounds
The power of Beauty passes sensibly
Into the soul, clenching the golden links
That bind the memories of brightest things.
So to that queenly virgin on the shore
Of old Phaeacia, neither mortal man
Nor woman might be likened, but one branch
Of budding palm, in Delos that upsprung
Fast by Apollo's altar from the ground.
Thus, irrespective of all names of kind
Is heavenly Beauty--spread along the earth,
In all created things always the same.

Many have held that pure and holy truth
Dwells only in the solitary soul;
That man with man conversing may not share
Aught of the spiritual inward life;
That soul approaching within reach of soul
Fosters a longing after things cast off
With the first slough of Nature:--some have said
That the green earth, with all her leafy paths
And her blue hills, hath nothing of delight
Fitted for holy men;--yet they have loved
To wander in the twilight,--to recline
In the cool shade of a fresh--bursting tree,--
To look into the night, when from the sky
The moonlight broods upon the charmèd earth;
Yea, they have loved to take their playfellows
From simple children, and to loose awhile
The rigid bands of hardship self--imposed:
And then they tell of youth, and innocence,
And for a little moment sunshine bursts
Upon their souls--a transitory gleam;
For soon the clouds roll onward thick and fast,
Darkening the light within, till a deep night
Sets in, a damp and freezing night, wherein
Prowl evil beasts, and most unbridled crime
Walks unreproved. As one in summer--tide
Pacing a weary road in evening light
After the sun hath set, with the young moon
Looking upon him from the purple mist
That floats above the west, saddens to think
That each step bears him farther from his love;
So in the interchange of daily words
With proud and heartless men, comes weariness
Upon my spirit, and my thoughts look back
To solitude, or sweet society
Of chosen souls, when two or three in peace
Gathered together, for a little hour
We held discourse in all humility
Of common dangers and of common hopes;
Till there came One among us who declared
Why all these things were so; till our hearts burned
Within us at the thoughts that flowed abroad
From one into the other; till we looked
And saw Him in the midst, as He had said,
Known in the feeling of our spirits: known
For that He blessed and brake as He was wont;
Known to be present in His messengers,
The daily calls and offices of life,
Which, like their Master, to the human kind
Go about doing good. Despise not thou
The yearnings of a spirit ill at ease
To dwell with men that have no love for God--
Men of devices new and manifold--
Men who would disenshrine the heavenly crown
From the bright pole, and seek their best reward
In being catalogued with printed names,
And blazoning records of schismatic strife
In the far quarters of the world. O Love,
O Charity, that erst ascendant crowned
Our land with calm light like the star of eve!
Fast o'er the ocean fares the gathered gold,
Gathered from Britain's heart, while in her arms
Her famished myriads curse each coming morn;
And they who feed their thousands far away
By cold machinery that asks no toil,
Grudge the poor pittance of a labouring hour
To the home--duties of unwitnessed love.
Methinks I could have borne to live my days
When by the pathway side, and in the dells,
By shady resting--place, or hollow bank
Where curved the streamlet, or on peeping rock,
Rose sweetly to the traveller's humble eye
The Cross in every corner of our land;
When from the wooded valleys morn and eve
Passed the low murmur of the angel--bell;
Methinks I could have led a peaceful life
Daily beneath the triple--vaulted roof
Chanting glad matins, and amidst the glow
Of mellow evening towards the village--tower
Pacing my humble way;--most like to that
He in the spirit from the lonely isle
Saw, the beloved Apostle, round the throne,
And Him that sat thereon, glad companies
Resting not day nor night their song of praise.

Go ye about and search; set up a place
And fetch a compass: in the brightest fields,
And by the dwelling of the mighty sea,
The everlasting witness; go and seek
The sweetest flower that ever bloomed on earth;--
See ye search well, for this our land hath borne
Full many a fragrant cluster,--there hath come
From other times its sweet remembrance down;--
'Tis low, but ye may scent it from afar,
And ye may know its presence where it blooms,
Even in the faces of the men ye meet,
And in the little children. Many a quest
There hath been undertaken; many a man
Of tender spirit and soft step hath gone,
Lured on by specious promises, far forth,
And bitterly returned. We boast ourselves
In pride of art, and lift our heads on high,
Dangerously climbing, without care bestowed
To assure well the ground whereon is fixed
The ladder of our vaunting: where our sires
Laid deep and strong foundation, there we raise
Story on story vainly stretched aloft.
Celestial Meekness--purity of heart,
With all beloved and gentle memories
Of soul--refreshing things, up from the din
Of this most blasphemous and boasting age
Have taken flight into some purer air:
They have departed; never seek for them
In beautiful green places, or on slopes
Facing the west in any lovely land;
No sweet memorials of the sacrifice
By which man liveth, greet him on his way;
He walks in drear and dim disquietude,
Gathering no store for rest. Eternal shame
Cleave to the mention of the men, whose hands
Pulled down from pathway--side and village--green
The holy emblem of our faith; whose trust
Lay not in truth, but power; to whom in vain
The word of caution was pronounced which bid
Take heed, lest with the tares ye sacrifice
Wheat also; doubly blind and faithless men,
Nursed in the gall of carnal bitterness,
Without one gentle spiritual thought;
Who in the end approved themselves to him
Who was their captain and their father, him
Who loves not order, hates all beautiful
And seemly things; when in their hour of dark
And devilish misrule, sceptre and crown,
The sacred types of firm and centred power,
Patterns of mighty things invisible,
Were trodden under foot of men; when full
On the calm face of Christ's own spouse, were blown
Pestilent slanders, and fell poisons poured
Into her holy cup. They reasoned hard
Of so--deemed spiritual truths, and taught
The life of God to spend itself on words,
Objections, and divisions, and false depth
Of sentence intricate; they led the soul
Of human kind,--already prone to ill,
But now, in course of wholesome discipline,
Trained to bow down to Heaven--appointed rule,
And keep the harmony of God's great reign,--
To break its bonds in sunder, and in pride
To feel its strength and self--intrusted power,
And tempt alone the perilous path of life,
Where once the saints, a meek and comely band,
Walked strong in union. Trust me, it is hard,
It is most hard for gentle souls to live,
And not to burst abroad with every woe,
When words and offices of heavenly love
Win not an answer in the heartless world;
When all our piety and all our zeal
Lie like a level swamp. O slow the hearts,
And deaf the ears unto the voice of Heaven,
``I came not to send Peace upon the earth!''
True, we have tamed, or think that we have tamed
Outbreakings into blood; true, that the edge
Of persecuting sword is turned and dull;
The fierce depravity of human act
Roughs not our surface now; but with false care
Full deeply we have mixed our portion in,
Till the fell poison festers in all ranks,
And even the hearts we fold unto our breast
Are bitten, deadly bitten. Where is love?
Where is the blessed fold, that we may run
And shelter us? O God! they should have kept
A light upon the corners of Thy fold,
To guide the wanderers in the desert wide:
But they have fought for words, and striven for names,
And fallen down dead among the famished sheep;
And round us howls the desolating wind,
And each the other knows not; there hath fallen
Darkness that may be felt upon our path;--
But Thou art just, and righteous are Thy ways;--
Where are the calm retreats our fathers gave
To holy meditation? Where the fanes
That rolled their tribute of unceasing praise
Up to the gates of heaven? And where the towers,
Thick rising o'er the twice--converted land,
Warning the peasant in his simple toil
With never--failing memories of God?
From their sad ruins and their crumbling shafts
Hath gone a cry to Heaven. Ere now, methinks,
This island--home of ours should have been spread
With mighty temples, morn nor solemn eve
Wanting the voice of prayer. Oh, I could weep
Even at the thought of ancient blessedness:--
But we must pray and toil--the vengeance--cloud
Stoops tempest--laden on our godless land:
But we will forth, sweet love, and speak with God;
It may be we shall find a saving band
Of ten meek--hearted men;--blessed and wise,
Could we but win so many. But the night
Falls down the heaven, and mists of silver dew
Strike chill upon the sense, and mournful thoughts
Come thick upon me, and the truant tears
Stand hot upon my cheek. Then cease we here,
And at some fitter time take up the lyre
In peaceful mood, and meditate sweet strains
For future years, of sorrow stayed on hope.