Of the Son of Man

I. I honour Nature, holding it unjustTo look with jealousy on her designs;With every passing year more fast she twinesAbout my heart; with her mysterious dustClaim I a fellowship not less augustAlthough she works before me and combinesHer changing forms, wherever the sun shinesSpreading a leafy volume on the crustOf the old world; and man himself likewiseIs of her making: wherefore then divorceWhat God hath joined thus, and rend by forceSpirit away from substance, bursting tiesBy which in one great bond of unityGod hath together bound all things that be?

II. And in these lines my purpose is to showThat He who left the Father, though he cameNot with art-splendour or the earthly flameOf genius, yet in that he did bestowHis own true loving heart, did cause to grow,Unseen and buried deep, whate'er we nameThe best in human art, without the shameOf idle sitting in most real woe;And that whate'er of Beautiful and GrandThe Earth contains, by him was not despised,But rather was so deeply realizedIn word and deed, though not with artist hand,That it was either hid or all disguisedFrom those who were not wise to understand.

III. Art is the bond of weakness, and we findTherein acknowledgment of failing power:A man would worship, gazing on a flower--Onward he passeth, lo his eyes are blind!The unenlivened form he left behindGrew up within him only for an hour!And he will grapple with Nature till the dowerOf strength shall be retreasured in his mind.And each form-record is a high protestOf treason done unto the soul of man,Which, striving upwards, ever is oppress'dBy the old bondage, underneath whose banHe, failing in his struggle for the best,Must live in pain upon what food he can.

IV. Moreover, were there perfect harmony'Twixt soul and Nature, we should never wasteThe precious hours in gazing, but should hasteTo assimilate her offerings, and weFrom high life-elements, as doth the tree,Should grow to higher; so what we call TasteIs a slow living as of roots encasedIn the grim chinks of some sterilityBoth cramping and withholding. Art is Truth,But Truth dammed up and frozen, gagged and boundAs is a streamlet icy and uncouthWhich pebbles hath and channel but no sound:Give it again its summer heart of youthAnd it will be a life upon the ground.

V. And Love had not been prisoned in cold stone,Nor Beauty smeared on the dead canvas so,Had not their worshipper been forced to goQuestful and restless through the world alone,Searching but finding not, till on him shoneBack from his own deep heart a chilly glowAs of a frost-nipped sunbeam, or of snowUnder a storm-dodged crescent which hath grownWasted to mockery; and beneath such gleamHis wan conceits have found an utterance,Which, had they found a true and sunny beam,Had ripened into real touch and glance--Nay more, to real deed, the Truth of all,To some perfection high and personal.

VI. "But yet the great of soul have ever beenThe first to glory in all works of art;For from the genius-form would ever dartA light of inspiration, and a sheenAs of new comings; and ourselves have seenMen of stern purpose to whose eyes would startSorrow at sight of sorrow though no heartDid riot underneath that chilly, screen;And hence we judge such utterance native toThe human soul--expression highest--best."--Nay, it is by such sign they will pursue,Albeit unknowing, Beauty, without rest;And failing in the search, themselves will flingSpeechless before its shadow, worshipping.

VII. And how shall he whose mission is to bringThe soul to worship at its rightful shrine,Seeing in Beauty what is most divine,Give out the mightiest impulse, and thus flingHis soul into the future, scatteringThe living seed of wisdom? Shall there shineFrom underneath his hand a matchless lineOf high earth-beauties, till the wide world ringWith the far clang that tells a missioned soul,Kneeling to homage all about his feet?Alas for such a gift were this the whole,The only bread of life men had to eat!Lo, I behold them dead about him now,And him the heart of death, for all that brow!

VIII. If Thou didst pass by Art, thou didst not scornThe souls that by such symbol yearned in vainFrom Truth and Love true nourishment to gain:On thy warm breast, so chilly and forlornFell these thy nurslings little more than bornThat thou wast anguished, and there fell a rainFrom thy blest eyelids, and in grief and painThou partedst from them yet one night and mornTo find them wholesome food and nourishmentInstead of what their blindness took for such,Laying thyself a seed in earthen rentFrom which, outspringing to the willing touch,Riseth for all thy children harvest great,For which they will all learn to bless thee yet.

IV. Thou sawest Beauty in the streaking cloudWhen grief lift up those eyelids; nor in scornBroke ever on thine eyes the purple mornAlong the cedar tops; to thee aloudSpake the night-solitude, when hushed and bowedThe earth lay at thy feet stony and worn;Loving thou markedst when the lamb unshornWas glad before thee, and amongst the crowdFamished and pent in cities did thine eyeRead strangest glory--though in human artNo record lives to tell us that thy heartBowed to its own deep beauty: deeper did lieThe burden of thy mission, even wherebyWe know that Beauty liveth where Thou art.

X. Doubtless thine eyes have watched the sun aspireFrom that same Olivet, when back on theeFlushed upwards after some night-agonyThy proper Godhead, with a purer firePurpling thy Infinite, and in strong desireThou sattest in the dawn that was to beUplifted on our dark perplexity.Yea in thee lay thy soul, a living lyre,And each wild beauty smote it, though the soundRung to the night-winds oft and desert air;Beneath thine eyes the lily paled more fair,And each still shadow slanting on the groundLay sweetly on thee as commissioned there,So full wast thou of eyes all round and round.

XI. And so thou neededst not our human skillTo fix what thus were transient--there it grewWedded to thy perfection; and anewWith every coming vision rose there stillSome living principle which did fulfilThy most legitimate manhood; and untoThy soul all Nature rendered up its dueWith not a contradiction; and each hillAnd mountain torrent and each wandering lightGrew out divinely on thy countenance,Whereon, as we are told, by word and glanceThy hearers read an ever strange delight--Sostrange to them thy Truth, they could not tellWhat made thy message so unspeakable.

XII. And by such living witness didst thou preach:Not with blind hands of groping forward thrustInto the darkness, gathering only dust,But by this real sign--that thou didst reach,In natural order, rising each from each,Thy own ideals of the True and Just;And that as thou didst live, even so he mustWho would aspire his fellow-men to teach,Looking perpetual from new heights of ThoughtOn his old self. Of art no scorner thou!Instead of leafy chaplet, on thy browWearing the light of manhood, thou hast broughtDeath unto Life! Above all statues now,Immortal Artist, hail! thy work is wrought!

XIII. Solemn and icy stand ye in my eyes,Far up into the niches of the Past,Ye marble statues, dim and holden fastWithin your stony homes! nor human criesHad shook you from your frozen phantasiesOr sent the life-blood through you, till there passedThrough all your chilly bulks a new life-blastFrom the Eternal Living, and ye riseFrom out your stiffened postures rosy-warm,Walking abroad a goodly companyOf living virtues at that wondrous charm,As he with human heart and hand and eyeWalked sorrowing upon our highways then,The Eternal Father's living gift to men!

XIV. As the pent torrent in uneasy restUnder the griping rocks, doth ever keepA monstrous working as it lies asleepIn the round hollow of some mountain's breast,Till where it hideth in its sweltering nestSome earthquake finds it, and its waters leapForth to the sunshine down the mighty steep,So in thee once was anguished forth the questWhereby man sought for life-power as he layUnder his own proud heart and black despairWedged fast and stifled up with loads of care,Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay;Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer,And he hath cried aloud since that same day!

XV. As he that parts in hatred from a friendMixing with other men forgets the woeWhich anguished him when he beheld and loTwo souls had fled asunder which did bendUnder the same blue heaven! yet ere the end,When the loud world hath tossed him to and fro,Will often strangely reappear that glowAt simplest memory which some chance may send,Although much stronger bonds have lost their power:So thou God-sent didst come in lowly guise,Striking on simple chords,--not with surpriseOr mightiest recollectings in that hour,But like remembered fragrance of a flowerA man with human heart and loving eyes.