But if the common conscience must Be ultimately judge, adjust Its apt name to each quality Already known,--I would decree Worship for such mere demonstration And simple work of nomenclature, Only the day I praised, not nature, But Harvey, for the circulation.

I would praise such a Christ, with pride And joy, that he, as none beside, Had taught us how to keep the mind G.o.d gave him, as G.o.d gave his kind, Freer than they from fleshly taint: I would call such a Christ our Saint, As I declare our Poet, him Whose insight makes all others dim: A thousand poets pried at life, And only one amid the strife Rose to be Shakespeare: each shall take His crown, I'd say, for the world's sake-- Though some objected--"Had we seen The heart and head of each, what screen Was broken there to give them light, While in ourselves it shuts the sight, We should no more admire, perchance, That these found truth out at a glance, Than marvel how the bat discerns Some pitch-dark cavern's fifty turns, Led by a finer tact, a gift He boasts, which other birds must shift Without, and grope as best they can."

No, freely I would praise the man,-- Nor one whit more, if he contended That gift of his, from G.o.d descended.

Ah friend, what gift of man's does not?

No nearer something, by a jot, Rise an infinity of nothings Than one: take Euclid for your teacher: Distinguish kinds: do crownings, clothings, Make that creator which was creature?

Multiply gifts upon man's head, And what, when all's done, shall be said But--the more gifted he, I ween!

That one's made Christ, this other, Pilate, And this might be all that has been,-- So what is there to frown or smile at?

What is left for us, save, in growth Of soul, to rise up, far past both, From the gift looking to the giver, And from the cistern to the river, And from the finite to infinity, And from man's dust to G.o.d's divinity?

XVII

Take all in a word: the truth in G.o.d's breast Lies trace for trace upon ours impressed: Though he is so bright and we so dim, We are made in his image to witness him: And were no eye in us to tell, Instructed by no inner sense, The light of heaven from the dark of h.e.l.l, That light would want its evidence,-- Though justice, good and truth were still Divine, if, by some demon's will, Hatred and wrong had been proclaimed Law through the worlds, and right misnamed.

No mere exposition of morality Made or in part or in totality, Should win you to give it worship, therefore: And, if no better proof you will care for, --Whom do you count the worst man upon earth?

Be sure, he knows, in his conscience, more Of what right is, than arrives at birth In the best man's acts that we bow before: This last knows better--true, but my fact is, 'Tis one thing to know, and another to practise.

And thence conclude that the real G.o.d-function Is to furnish a motive and injunction For practising what we know already.

And such an injunction and such a motive As the G.o.d in Christ, do you waive, and "heady, High-minded," hang your tablet-votive Outside the fane on a finger-post?

Morality to the uttermost, Supreme in Christ as we all confess, Why need we prove would avail no jot To make him G.o.d, if G.o.d he were not?

What is the point where himself lays stress?

Does the precept run "Believe in good, In justice, truth, now understand For the first time?"--or, "Believe in me, Who lived and died, yet essentially Am Lord of Life?" Whoever can take The same to his heart and for mere love's sake Conceive of the love,--that man obtains A new truth; no conviction gains Of an old one only, made intense By a fresh appeal to his faded sense.

XVIII

Can it be that he stays inside?

Is the vesture left me to commune with?

Could my soul find aught to sing in tune with Even at this lecture, if she tried?

Oh, let me at lowest sympathize With the lurking drop of blood that lies In the desiccated brain's white roots Without throb for Christ's attributes, As the lecturer makes his special boast!

If love's dead there, it has left a ghost.

Admire we, how from heart to brain (Though to say so strike the doctors dumb) One instinct rises and falls again, Restoring the equilibrium.

And how when the Critic had done his best, And the pearl of price, at reason's test, Lay dust and ashes levigable On the Professor's lecture-table,-- When we looked for the inference and monition That our faith, reduced to such condition, Be swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,-- He bids us, when we least expect it, Take back our faith,--if it be not just whole, Yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it, Which fact pays damage done rewardingly, So, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly!

"Go home and venerate the myth I thus have experimented with-- This man, continue to adore him Rather than all who went before him, And all who ever followed after!"-- Surely for this I may praise you, my brother!

Will you take the praise in tears or laughter?

That's one point gained: can I compa.s.s another?

Unlearned love was safe from spurning-- Can't we respect your loveless learning?

Let us at least give learning honor!

What laurels had we showered upon her, Girding her loins up to perturb Our theory of the Middle Verb; Or Turk-like brandishing a scimitar O'er anapaests in comic-trimeter; Or curing the halt and maimed 'Iketides,'

While we lounged on at our indebted ease: Instead of which, a tricksy demon Sets her at t.i.tus or Philemon!

When ignorance wags his ears of leather And hates G.o.d's word, 'tis altogether; Nor leaves he his congenial thistles To go and browse on Paul's Epistles.

--And you, the audience, who might ravage The world wide, enviably savage, Nor heed the cry of the retriever, More than Herr Heine (before his fever),-- I do not tell a lie so arrant As say my pa.s.sion's wings are furled up, And, without plainest heavenly warrant, I were ready and glad to give the world up-- But still, when you rub brow meticulous, And ponder the profit of turning holy If not for G.o.d's, for your own sake solely, --G.o.d forbid I should find you ridiculous!

Deduce from this lecture all that eases you, Nay, call yourselves, if the calling pleases you, "Christians,"--abhor the deist's pravity,-- Go on, you shall no more move my gravity Than, when I see boys ride a-c.o.c.khorse, I find it in my heart to embarra.s.s them By hinting that their stick's a mock horse, And they really carry what they say carries them.

XIX

So sat I talking with my mind.

I did not long to leave the door And find a new church, as before, But rather was quiet and inclined To prolong and enjoy the gentle resting From further tracking and trying and testing.

"This tolerance is a genial mood!"

(Said I, and a little pause ensued).

"One trims the bark 'twixt shoal and shelf, And sees, each side, the good effects of it, A value for religion's self, A carelessness about the sects of it.

Let me enjoy my own conviction, Not watch my neighbor's faith with fretfulness, Still spying there some dereliction Of truth, perversity, forgetfulness!

Better a mild indifferentism, Teaching that both our faiths (though duller His shine through a dull spirit's prism) Originally had one color!

Better pursue a pilgrimage Through ancient and through modern times To many peoples, various climes, Where I may see saint, savage, sage Fuse their respective creeds in one Before the general Father's throne!"

XX

--'Twas the horrible storm began afresh!

The black night caught me in his mesh, Whirled me up, and flung me p.r.o.ne.

I was left on the college-step alone.

I looked, and far there, ever fleeting Far, far away, the receding gesture, And looming of the lessening vesture!-- Swept forward from my stupid hand, While I watched my foolish heart expand In the lazy glow of benevolence, O'er the various modes of man's belief.

I sprang up with fear's vehemence.

Needs must there be one way, our chief Best way of worship: let me strive To find it, and when found, contrive My fellows also take their share!

This const.i.tutes my earthly care: G.o.d's is above it and distinct.

For I, a man, with men am linked And not a brute with brutes; no gain That I experience, must remain Unshared: but should my best endeavor To share it, fail--subsisteth ever G.o.d's care above, and I exult That G.o.d, by G.o.d's own ways occult, May--doth, I will believe--bring back All wanderers to a single track.

Meantime, I can but testify G.o.d's care for me--no more, can I-- It is but for myself I know; The world rolls witnessing around me Only to leave me as it found me; Men cry there, but my ear is slow: Their races flourish or decay --What boots it, while yon lucid way Loaded with stars divides the vault?

But soon my soul repairs its fault When, sharpening sense's hebetude, She turns on my own life! So viewed, No mere mote's-breadth but teems immense With witnessings of providence: And woe to me if when I look Upon that record, the sole book Unsealed to me, I take no heed Of any warning that I read!

Have I been sure, this Christmas-Eve, G.o.d's own hand did the rainbow weave, Whereby the truth from heaven slid Into my soul? I cannot bid The world admit he stooped to heal My soul, as if in a thunder-peal Where one heard noise, and one saw flame, I only knew he named my name: But what is the world to me, for sorrow Or joy in its censure, when to-morrow It drops the remark, with just-turned head Then, on again, "That man is dead"?

Yes, but for me--my name called,--drawn As a conscript's lot from the lap's black yawn, He has dipt into on a battle-dawn: Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,-- Stumbling, mute-mazed, at nature's chance,-- With a rapid finger circled round, Fixed to the first poor inch of ground To fight from, where his foot was found; Whose ear but a minute since lay free To the wide camp's buzz and gossipry-- Summoned, a solitary man To end his life where his life began, From the safe glad rear, to the dreadful van!

Soul of mine, hadst thou caught and held By the hem of the vesture!--

XXI

And I caught At the flying robe, and unrepelled Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught With warmth and wonder and delight, G.o.d's mercy being infinite.

For scarce had the words escaped my tongue, When, at a pa.s.sionate bound, I sprung, Out of the wandering world of rain, Into the little chapel again.

He finds himself back in the chapel, all that has occurred having been a vision. His conclusions have that broadness of view which belongs only to those most advanced in thought. He has learned that not only must there be the essential truth behind every sincere effort to reach it, but that even his own vision of the truth is not necessarily the final way of truth but is merely the way which is true for him. The jump from the att.i.tude of mind that persecutes those who do not believe according to one established rule to such absolute toleration of all forms because of their symbolizing an eternal truth gives the measure of growth in religious thought from the days of Wesley to Browning. The Wesleys and their fellow-helpers were stoned and mobbed, and some died of their wounds in the latter part of the eighteenth century, while in 1850, when "Christmas-Eve" was written, an Englishman could express a height of toleration and sympathy for religions not his own, as well as taking a religious stand for himself so exalted that it is difficult to imagine a further step in these directions. Perhaps we are suffering to-day from over-toleration, that is, we tolerate not only those whose aspiration takes a different form, but those whose ideals lead to degeneracy. It seems as though all virtues must finally develop their shadows. What, however, is a shadow but the darkness occasioned by the approach of some greater light.

XXII

How else was I found there, bolt upright On my bench, as if I had never left it?

--Never flung out on the common at night, Nor met the storm and wedge-like cleft it, Seen the raree-show of Peter's successor, Or the laboratory of the Professor!

For the Vision, that was true, I wist, True as that heaven and earth exist.

There sat my friend, the yellow and tall, With his neck and its wen in the selfsame place; Yet my nearest neighbor's cheek showed gall.

She had slid away a contemptuous s.p.a.ce: And the old fat woman, late so placable, Eyed me with symptoms, hardly mistakable, Of her milk of kindness turning rancid.

In short, a spectator might have fancied That I had nodded, betrayed by slumber, Yet kept my seat, a warning ghastly, Through the heads of the sermon, nine in number, And woke up now at the tenth and lastly.

But again, could such disgrace have happened?

Each friend at my elbow had surely nudged it; And, as for the sermon, where did my nap end?

Unless I heard it, could I have judged it?

Could I report as I do at the close, First, the preacher speaks through his nose: Second, his gesture is too emphatic: Thirdly, to waive what's pedagogic, The subject-matter itself lacks logic: Fourthly, the English is ungrammatic.

Great news! the preacher is found no Pascal, Whom, if I pleased, I might to the task call Of making square to a finite eye The circle of infinity, And find so all-but-just-succeeding!

Great news! the sermon proves no reading Where bee-like in the flowers I bury me, Like Taylor's the immortal Jeremy!

And now that I know the very worst of him, What was it I thought to obtain at first of him?

Ha! Is G.o.d mocked, as he asks?

Shall I take on me to change his tasks, And dare, despatched to a river-head For a simple draught of the element, Neglect the thing for which he sent, And return with another thing instead?-- Saying, "Because the water found Welling up from underground, Is mingled with the taints of earth, While thou, I know, dost laugh at dearth, And couldst, at wink or word, convulse The world with the leap of a river-pulse,-- Therefore I turned from the oozings muddy, And bring thee a chalice I found, instead: See the brave veins in the breccia ruddy!

One would suppose that the marble bled.

What matters the water? A hope I have nursed: The waterless cup will quench my thirst."

--Better have knelt at the poorest stream That trickles in pain from the straitest rift!

For the less or the more is all G.o.d's gift, Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite-seam.

And here, is there water or not, to drink?

I then, in ignorance and weakness, Taking G.o.d's help, have attained to think My heart does best to receive in meekness That mode of worship, as most to his mind, Where earthly aids being cast behind, His All in All appears serene With the thinnest human veil between, Letting the mystic lamps, the seven, The many motions of his spirit, Pa.s.s, as they list, to earth from heaven.

For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure Which lies as safe in a golden ewer; But the main thing is, does it hold good measure?

Heaven soon sets right all other matters!-- Ask, else, these ruins of humanity, This flesh worn out to rags and tatters, This soul at struggle with insanity, Who thence take comfort--can I doubt?-- Which an empire gained, were a loss without.

May it be mine! And let us hope That no worse blessing befall the Pope, Turned sick at last of to-day's buffoonery, Of posturings and petticoatings, Beside his Bourbon bully's gloatings In the b.l.o.o.d.y orgies of drunk poltroonery!