the poet at the breakfast table-第37节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


It　was　needful　that　I　should　learn　the　meaning　of　that　text；　〃Whom
the　Lord　loveth　he　chasteneth。〃

Since　I　have　been　taught　in　the　school　of　trial　I　have　felt；　as　I
never　could　before；　how　precious　an　inheritance　is　the　smallest
patrimony　of　faith。　　When　everything　seemed　gone　from　me；　I　found　I
had　still　one　possession。　　The　bruised　reed　that　I　had　never　leaned
on　became　my　staff。　　The　smoking　flax　which　had　been　a　worry　to　my
eyes　burst　into　flame；　and　I　lighted　the　taper　at　it　which　has　since
guided　all　my　footsteps。　　And　I　am　but　one　of　the　thousands　who　have
had　the　same　experience。　　They　have　been　through　the　depths　of
affliction；　and　know　the　needs　of　the　human　soul。　　It　will　find　its
God　in　the　unseen；Father；　Saviour；　Divine　Spirit；　Virgin　Mother；　it
must　and　will　breathe　its　longings　and　its　griefs　into　the　heart　of　a
Being　capable　of　understanding　all　its　necessities　and　sympathizing
with　all　its　woes。

I　am　jealous；　yes；　I　own　I　am　jealous　of　any　word；　spoken　or　written；
that　would　tend　to　impair　that　birthright　of　reverence　which　becomes
for　so　many　in　after　years　the　basis　of　a　deeper　religious　sentiment。
And　yet；　as　I　have　said；　I　cannot　and　will　not　shut　my　eyes　to　the
problems　which　may　seriously　affect　our　modes　of　conceiving　the
eternal　truths　on　which；　and　by　which；　our　souls　must　live。　　What　a
fearful　time　is　this　into　which　we　poor　sensitive　and　timid　creatures
are　born！　　I　suppose　the　life　of　every　century　has　more　or　less
special　resemblance　to　that　of　some　particular　Apostle。　　I　cannot
help　thinking　this　century　has　Thomas　for　its　model。　　How　do　you
suppose　the　other　Apostles　felt　when　that　experimental　philosopher
explored　the　wounds　of　the　Being　who　to　them　was　divine　with　his
inquisitive　forefinger？　　In　our　time　that　finger　has　multiplied
itself　into　ten　thousand　thousand　implements　of　research；　challenging
all　mysteries；　weighing　the　world　as　in　a　balance；　and　sifting
through　its　prisms　and　spectroscopes　the　light　that　comes　from　the
throne　of　the　Eternal。

Pity　us；　dear　Lord；　pity　us！　　The　peace　in　believing　which　belonged
to　other　ages　is　not　for　us。　　Again　Thy　wounds　are　opened　that　we　may
know　whether　it　is　the　blood　of　one　like　ourselves　which　flows　from
them；　or　whether　it　is　a　Divinity　that　is　bleeding　for　His　creatures。
Wilt　Thou　not　take　the　doubt　of　Thy　children　whom　the　time　commands
to　try　all　things　in　the　place　of　the　unquestioning　faith　of　earlier
and　simpler…hearted　generations？　　We　too　have　need　of　Thee。　　Thy
martyrs　in　other　ages　were　cast　into　the　flames；　but　no　fire　could
touch　their　immortal　and　indestructible　faith。　　We　sit　in　safety　and
in　peace；　so　far　as　these　poor　bodies　are　concerned；　but　our
cherished　beliefs；　the　hopes；　the　trust　that　stayed　the　hearts　of
those　we　loved　who　have　gone　before　us；　are　cast　into　the　fiery
furnace　of　an　age　which　is　fast　turning　to　dross　the　certainties　and
the　sanctities　once　prized　as　our　most　precious　inheritance。
You　will　understand　me；　my　dear　sir；　and　all　my　solicitudes　and
apprehensions。　　Had　I　never　been　assailed　by　the　questions　that　meet
all　thinking　persons　in　our　time；　I　might　not　have　thought　so
anxiously　about　the　risk　of　perplexing　others。　　I　know　as　well　as　you
must　that　there　are　many　articles　of　belief　clinging　to　the　skirts　of
our　time　which　are　the　bequests　of　the　ages　of　ignorance　that　God
winked　at。　　But　for　all　that　I　would　train　a　child　in　the　nurture　and
admonition　of　the　Lord；　according　to　the　simplest　and　best　creed　I
could　disentangle　from　those　barbarisms；　and　I　would　in　every　way　try
to　keep　up　in　young　persons　that　standard　of　reverence　for　all　sacred
subjects　which　may；　without　any　violent　transition；　grow　and　ripen
into　the　devotion　of　later　years。　　Believe　me；

Very　sincerely　yours；


I　have　thought　a　good　deal　about　this　letter　and　the　writer　of　it
lately。　　She　seemed　at　first　removed　to　a　distance　from　all　of　us；
but　here　I　find　myself　in　somewhat　near　relations　with　her。　　What　has
surprised　me　more　than　that；　however；　is　to　find　that　she　is　becoming
so　much　acquainted　with　the　Register　of　Deeds。　　Of　all　persons　in　the
world；　I　should　least　have　thought　of　him　as　like　to　be　interested　in
her；　and　still　less；　if　possible；　of　her　fancying　him。　　I　can　only
say　they　have　been　in　pretty　close　conversation　several　times　of
late；　and；　if　I　dared　to　think　it　of　so　very　calm　and　dignified　a
personage；　I　should　say　that　her　color　was　a　little　heightened　after
one　or　more　of　these　interviews。　　No！　that　would　be　too　absurd！　　But
I　begin　to　think　nothing　is　absurd　in　the　matter　of　the　relations　of
the　two　sexes；　and　if　this　high…bred　woman　fancies　the　attentions　of
a　piece　of　human　machinery　like　this　elderly　individual；　it　is　none
of　my　business。

I　have　been　at　work　on　some　more　of　the　Young　Astronomer's　lines。　　I
find　less　occasion　for　meddling　with　them　as　he　grows　more　used　to
versification。　　I　think　I　could　analyze　the　processes　going　on　in　his
mind；　and　the　conflict　of　instincts　which　he　cannot　in　the　nature　of
things　understand。　　But　it　is　as　well　to　give　the　reader　a　chance　to
find　out　for　himself　what　is　going　on　in　the　young　man's　heart　and
intellect。


　　　　　WIND…CLOUDS　AND　STAR…DRIFTS。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　III

The　snows　that　glittered　on　the　disk　of　Mars
Have　melted；　and　the　planet's　fiery　orb
Rolls　in　the　crimson　summer　of　its　year；
But　what　to　me　the　summer　or　the　snow
Of　worlds　that　throb　with　life　in　forms　unknown；
If　life　indeed　be　theirs；　I　heed　not　these。
My　heart　is　simply　human；　all　my　care
For　them　whose　dust　is　fashioned　like　mine　own；
These　ache　with　cold　and　hunger；　live　in　pain；
And　shake　with　fear　of　worlds　more　full　of　woe；
There　may　be　others　worthier　of　my　love；
But　such　I　know　not　save　through　these　I　know。

There　are　two　veils　of　language；　hid　beneath
Whose　sheltering　folds；　we　dare　to　be　ourselves；
And　not　that　other　self　which　nods　and　smiles
And　babbles　in　our　name；　the　one　is　Prayer；
Lending　its　licensed　freedom　to　the　tongue
That　tells　our　sorrows　and　our　sins　to　Heaven；
The　other；　Verse；　that　throws　its　spangled　web
Around　our　naked　speech　and　makes　it　bold。
I；　whose　best　prayer　is　silence；　sitting　dumb
In　the　great　temple　where　I　nightly　serve
Him　who　is　throned　in　light；　have　dared　to　claim
The　poet's　franchise；　though　I　may　not　hope
To　wear　his　garland；　hear　me　while　I　tell
My　story　in　such　form　as　poets　use；
But　breathed　in　fitful　whispers；　as　the　wind
Sighs　and　then　slumbers；　wakes　and　sighs　again。

Thou　Vision；　floating　in　the　breathless　air
Between　me　and　the　fairest　of　the　stars；
I　tell　my　lonely　thoughts　as　unto　thee。
Look　not　for　marvels　of　the　scholar's　pen
In　my　rude　measure；　I　can　only　show
A　slender…margined；　unillumined　page；
And　trust　its　meaning　to　the　flattering　eye
That　reads　it　in　the　gracious　light　of　love。
Ah；　wouldst　thou　clothe　thyself　in　breathing　shape
And　nestle　at　my　side；　my　voice　should　lend
Whate'er　my　verse　may　lack　of　tender　rhythm
To　make　thee　listen。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　I　have　stood　entranced
When；　with　her　fingers　wandering　o'er　the　keys；
The　white　enchantress　with　the　golden　hair
Breathed　all　her　soul　through　some　unvalued　rhyme；
Some　flower　of　song　that　long　had　lost　its　bloom；
Lo！　its　dead　summer　kindled　as　she　sang！
The　sweet　contralto；　like　the　ringdove's　coo；
Thrilled　it　with　brooding；　fond；　caressing　tones；
And　the　pale　minstrel's　passion　lived　again；
Tearful　and　trembling　as　a　dewy　rose
The　wind　has　shaken　till　it　fills　the　air
With　light　and　fragrance。　　Such　the　wondrous　charm
A　song　can　borrow　when　the　bosom　throbs
That　lends　it　breath。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　So　from　the　poet's　lips
His　verse　sounds　doubly　sweet；　for　none　like　him
Feels　every　cadence　of　its　wave…like　flow；
He　lives　the　passion　over；　while　he　reads；
That　shook　him　as　he　sang　his　lofty　strain；
And　pours　his　life　through　each　resounding　line；
As　ocean；　when　the　stormy　winds　are　hushed；
Still　rolls　and　thunders　through　his　billowy　caves。

Let　me　retrace　the　record　of　the　years
That　made　me　what　I　am。　　A　man　most　wise；
But　overworn　with　toil　and　bent　with　age；
Sought　me　to　be　his　scholar；me；　run　wild
》From　books　and　teachers；kindled　in　my　soul
The　love　of　knowledge；　led　me　to　his　tower；
Showed　me　the　wonders　of　the　midnight　realm
His　hollow　sceptre　ruled；　or　seemed　to　rule；
Taught　me　the　mighty　secrets　of　the　spheres；
Trained　me　to　find　the　glimmering　specks　of　light
Beyond　the　unaided　sense；　and　on　my　chart
To　string　them　one　by　one；　in　order　due；
As　on　a　rosary　a　saint　his　beads。

I　was　his　only　scholar；　I　became
The　echo　to　his　thought；　whate'er　he　knew
Was　mine　for　asking；　so　from　year　to　year
We　wrought　together；　till　there　came　a　time
When　I；　the　learner；　was　the　master　half
Of　the　twinned　being　in　the　dome…crowned　tower。

Minds　roll　in　paths　like　planets；　they　revolve
This　in　a　larger；　that　a　narrower　ring；
But　round　they　come　at　last　to　that　same　phase；
That　self…same　light　and　shade　they　showed　before。
I　learned　his　annual　and　his　monthly　tale；
His　weekly　axiom　and　his　daily　phrase；
I　felt　them　coming　in　the　laden　air；
And　watched　them　laboring　up　to　vocal　breath；
Even　as　the　first…born　at　his