Beneath the pomps of state, below The mitred juggler's masque and show, A prophecy, a vague hope, ran His burning thought from man to man.
For peace or rest too well he saw The fraud of priests, the wrong of law, And felt how hard, between the two, Their breath of pain the millions drew.
A prophet-utterance, strong and wild, The weakness of an unweaned child, A sun-bright hope for human-kind, And self-despair, in him combined.
He loathed the false, yet lived not true To half the glorious truths he knew; The doubt, the discord, and the sin, He mourned without, he felt within.
Untrod by him the path he showed, Sweet pictures on his easel glowed Of simple faith, and loves of home, And virtue's golden days to come.
But weakness, shame, and folly made The foil to all his pen portrayed; Still, where his dreamy splendors shone, The shadow of himself was thrown.
Lord, what is man, whose thought, at times, Up to Thy sevenfold brightness climbs, While still his grosser instinct clings To earth, like other creeping things!
So rich in words, in acts so mean; So high, so low; chance-swung between The foulness of the penal pit And Truth's clear sky, millennium-lit!
Vain, pride of star-lent genius!--vain, Quick fancy and creative brain, Unblest by prayerful sacrifice, Absurdly great, or weakly wise!
Midst yearnings for a truer life, Without were fears, within was strife; And still his wayward act denied The perfect good for which he sighed.
The love he sent forth void returned; The fame that crowned him scorched and burned, Burning, yet cold and drear and lone,-- A fire-mount in a frozen zone!
Like that the gray-haired sea-king passed,(9) Seen southward from his sleety mast, About whose brows of changeless frost A wreath of flame the wild winds tossed.
Far round the mournful beauty played Of lambent light and purple shade, Lost on the fixed and dumb despair Of frozen earth and sea and air!
A man apart, unknown, unloved By those whose wrongs his soul had moved, He bore the ban of Church and State, The good man's fear, the bigot's hate!
Forth from the city's noise and throng, Its pomp and shame, its sin and wrong, The twain that summer day had strayed To Mount Valerien's chestnut shade.
To them the green fields and the wood Lent something of their quietude, And golden-tinted sunset seemed Prophetical of all they dreamed.
The hermits from their simple cares The bell was calling home to prayers, And, listening to its sound, the twain Seemed lapped in childhood's trust again.
Wide open stood the chapel door; A sweet old music, swelling o'er Low prayerful murmurs, issued thence,-- The Litanies of Providence!
Then Rousseau spake: "Where two or three In His name meet, He there will be!"
And then, in silence, on their knees They sank beneath the chestnut-trees.
As to the blind returning light, As daybreak to the Arctic night, Old faith revived; the doubts of years Dissolved in reverential tears.
That gush of feeling overpast, "Ah me!" Bernardin sighed at last, I would thy bitterest foes could see Thy heart as it is seen of me!
"No church of God hast thou denied; Thou hast but spurned in scorn aside A bare and hollow counterfeit, Profaning the pure name of it!
"With dry dead moss and marish weeds His fire the western herdsman feeds, And greener from the ashen plain The sweet spring grasses rise again.
"Nor thunder-peal nor mighty wind Disturb the solid sky behind; And through the cloud the red bolt rends The calm, still smile of Heaven descends.
"Thus through the world, like bolt and blast, And scourging fire, thy words have passed.
Clouds break,--the steadfast heavens remain; Weeds burn,--the ashes feed the grain!
"But whoso strives with wrong may find Its touch pollute, its darkness blind; And learn, as latent fraud is shown In others' faith, to doubt his own.
"With dream and falsehood, simple trust And pious hope we tread in dust; Lost the calm faith in goodness,--lost The baptism of the Pentecost!
"Alas!--the blows for error meant Too oft on truth itself are spent, As through the false and vile and base Looks forth her sad, rebuking face.
"Not ours the Theban's charmed life; We come not scathless from the strife!
The Python's coil about us clings, The trampled Hydra bites and stings!
"Meanwhile, the sport of seeming chance, The plastic shapes of circumstance, What might have been we fondly guess, If earlier born, or tempted less.
"And thou, in these wild, troubled days, Misjudged alike in blame and praise, Unsought and undeserved the same The skeptic's praise, the bigot's blame;--
"I cannot doubt, if thou hadst been Among the highly favored men Who walked on earth with Fenelon, He would have owned thee as his son;
"And, bright with wings of cherubim Visibly waving over him, Seen through his life, the Church had seemed All that its old confessors dreamed."
"I would have been," Jean Jaques replied, "The humblest servant at his side, Obscure, unknown, content to see How beautiful man's life may be!
"Oh, more than thrice-blest relic, more Than solemn rite or sacred lore, The holy life of one who trod The foot-marks of the Christ of God!
"Amidst a blinded world he saw The oneness of the Dual law; That Heaven's sweet peace on Earth began, And God was loved through love of man.
"He lived the Truth which reconciled The strong man Reason, Faith the child; In him belief and act were one, The homilies of duty done!"
So speaking, through the twilight gray The two old pilgrims went their way.
What seeds of life that day were sown, The heavenly watchers knew alone.
Time passed, and Autumn came to fold Green Summer in her brown and gold; Time passed, and Winter's tears of snow Dropped on the grave-mound of Rousseau.
"The tree remaineth where it fell, The pained on earth is pained in hell!"
So priestcraft from its altars cursed The mournful doubts its falsehood nursed.
Ah! well of old the Psalmist prayed, "Thy hand, not man's, on me be laid!"
Earth frowns below, Heaven weeps above, And man is hate, but God is love!
No Hermits now the wanderer sees, Nor chapel with its chestnut-trees; A morning dream, a tale that's told, The wave of change o'er all has rolled.
Yet lives the lesson of that day; And from its twilight cool and gray Comes up a low, sad whisper, "Make The truth thine own, for truth's own sake.
"Why wait to see in thy brief span Its perfect flower and fruit in man?
No saintly touch can save; no balm Of healing hath the martyr's palm.
"Midst soulless forms, and false pretence Of spiritual pride and pampered sense, A voice saith, 'What is that to thee?
Be true thyself, and follow Me!
"In days when throne and altar heard The wanton's wish, the bigot's word, And pomp of state and ritual show Scarce hid the loathsome death below,--