My worthy friend, I needs must hold

His breeding scarcely quantum suff.

For whom it is not great enough.

But clear it shall be unto all

That, as it stands, the Church is small.

To keep that hidden were to lie.

Nay, listen,—let such whimsies fly!

What can it profit to dispraise

What you yourself have toil’d to raise?

You’ve satisfied their utmost dream;

It seems to them more rich and rare

Than aught they e’er saw anywhere:—

Let it continue so to seem!

Why should we vex their silly sight

With proffers of the flaming link,

When they’re indifferent to light?

The question’s only what they think.

It does not signify a jot

Though the Church were a pigeon-cot,

If in the faith they’re rooted fast,

That it is infinitely vast.

In every matter the same thought.

To-day, moreover, we hold fête;

The whole assembly is our guest;

It is a point of etiquette

That everything should look its best;

And for your own sake, most of all,

It were judicious to keep clear

Of that sore fact—that it is small.

How so?

Firstly, the headmen of the town

Are giving you a piece of plate,

Whose graved inscription is frustrate

If the work’s size is whittled down;

And then the Ode, composed express,

And my inaugural address,—

You leave them helpless in the lurch,

Docking the greatness of the Church.

You see then, you must yield your doubt,

And boldly face the matter out.

I see, what oft has stung my eye,

A lying triumph crown the lie.

But, in God’s name, my worthy friend,

Where do these strong expressions tend?

However, waiving points of taste,

Hear now my second reason,—gold,

As that was silver; for, behold,

You, like a chosen son, are graced

With favour in the royal sight;

In short,—you have been named a Knight!

This very day you’ll walk elate,

Cross upon breast, a titled man.

Another, heavier cross’s weight

I bear; take that from me who can.

What’s this? You do not seem to shake

With agitation at such prize?

You mystery of mysteries!

But pray consider, for God’s sake——

This is mere babble of vain speech:—

Nothing I learn and nothing teach;

You have not grasp’d the smallest shred

Of the true sense of what I said.

I meant not greatness men compute,

And measure by the inch and foot,

But that which, viewless, darts and streams,

Pierces the soul with frosts and fires,

That beckons to impassion’d dreams,

And like the starlit heaven inspires—

That—leave me! I am worn, oppress’d;—

Convince, teach, edify the rest.

In such a labyrinth who can stray

And find an issue? Greatness lay

In something that is “viewless,” “streams,”

“Not inchwise measured,” “lifts to dreams,”

And “starlit heaven”? It went so, surely?

Has he been lunching prematurely?

So desolate on the upland drear

I never stood as I stand here;

My impotent questionings evoke

Echoes that cackle and that croak.

For him, I would my heel might bruise

His head! Each time I make emprise

To loose him from the bond of lies,

With shameless wantonness he spews

His rotten soul before my eyes!—

Would that this hollow game were done,

Where none give in, and none prevail;—

Yes, hopeless he that fights alone!

O, my beloved! O, my sheep—!

Nay, I beg pardon,—would have said

My reverend brother!—cannot keep

My predication from my head;

I got it yesterday by rote,

The taste still lingers in my throat.

Enough of that.—To you I offer

My thanks, whose energy began,

Whose firmness carried through, the plan,

Despite the babbler and the scoffer;

Fell’d that which was about to fall,

And worthily restored it all!

Far from that yet.

Is Consecration not the end?

A House new-builded asks, as well,

A cleansed Soul, therein to dwell.

All that will come without our stir.

So gay, so elegant a roof

Will be an adequate reproof

To every unwash’d worshipper.

And that delightful sounding-board,

That doubles every pious word,

Will render without fail our flocks

Fivescore per cent. more orthodox,

Results so notable as these

The first-rate Nationalities

Themselves, ’tis said, can hardly better.—

For this your Country is your debtor,

Yours only; let me then express

These heartfelt, brotherly thanks of mine,

To be re-echoed, as I guess,

In winged words across the wine,

By many a fiery young divine,

When at the festal board we crown

This the great day of your renown.—

But, my dear Brand, you look so faint—?

My heart and hope have long been spent.

No wonder;—with so grave a care,

And all unaided and unfriended.

But now the worst of it is ended,

And all gives promise of a splendid

Day for our function. Don’t despair!

All will go well. Reflect! A throng

Has gather’d, many thousand strong,

From far-off parishes,—and who

Can vie in eloquence with you?

See where your reverend brethren stand,

To welcome you with heart and hand;

While all these lowly bosoms beat

With ardour for you, first to last!

And then, the work, so ably plann’d,

The decoration, so complete,—

The general theme—How great! How vast!

—And the unparallel’d repast!

Into the kitchen I was looking

Just now, and saw the calf a-cooking.

Nay, Brand, a pretty beast, I vow!

You must have had some trouble, now,

In these hard times, before you found

So fine a bit of flesh to cater,

With meat at half a crown a pound!

But that can be deferr’d till later.

I’m on another errand bound.

Speak freely; slash, stab, rive and rend!

I have a milder way, my friend.

But briefly; for our duties press.

One little matter, I confess,

I’d have you from to-day set right;

A task that cannot but be light.

Nay, I imagine you can guess

Half what I’m hinting at, at least?

I mean, your duties as a priest.

Hitherto you have been a loose

Observer still, of Wont and Use;

But Use and Wont, if not the best

Of things, are yet the needfulest.

Well, well, I will not be severe;

You’re young, and but a novice here,

Town-bred, and scarcely understand

What country usages demand.

But now, now it is urgent, friend,

The lack of judgment to amend.

You hitherto have too much heeded

What this man and what that man needed;

That error (in your private ear)

Is grievous. Weigh them in the block;

Use the same comb for all the flock;

You won’t repent it, never fear.

Be more explicit.

You for the Parish’s behoof

Have built a Church. That is the woof

That robes the spirit of Law and Peace;

For to the State, religion is

The power that lifts and purifies,

The stronghold where its safety lies,

The universal moral measure.

You see, the State is scant of treasure,

And wants full value for its pence.

“Good Christians” means “good citizens.”

To be for God and Man a tool,

And bring annoyance on itself?

No, faith, the State is not a fool;

And all our course would run amiss,

Did not the State, by strictest rule,

Look only to the life that is.

But the State’s object, my good friend,

Through its officials must be gain’d,

In this case through its priests——

Is wisdom! Speak!

This Church, you see, you have conferr’d

Upon the State, for its sole profit;

And, therefore, all the uses of it

Must to the State’s advantage tend.

This is the meaning, note it well,

Of our forthcoming celebration,

This shall be meant by chiming bell,

And this by Gift-deed’s recitation.

A promise thus the Gift implies,

Whose force I’d have you scrutinise——

By God, I never meant it so!

Yes; but it’s now too late, you know——

Too late? Too late! That will be seen!

Be sensible! I can’t keep grave!

What is the tragedy therein?

You are not ask’d to promise sin?

Souls do not grow more hard to save

Because the Country profits too;

With due discretion and despatch

Two masters’ bidding you may do;

You were not made a priest, to snatch

Peter or Harry’s single soul

Out of the torments of the lake;

But that the Parish as a whole

Might of the shower of grace partake;

And, the whole Parish saved, it’s clear,

You save every Parishioner.

The State is (what you hardly dream)

Exactly half republican:

Liberty held in strictest ban,

Equality in high esteem.

Yet is Equality never won

But by destroying More and Less,—

And it is that you have not done!

Nay, you have striven to express

And emphasise unlikenesses

That slumber’d hitherto unknown.

Men, mere Church-members till of late,

To Personalities are grown.

That does no service to the State;

And thus it is, each Parish rate,

Each offering to the common good,

Is from unwilling niggards bled;

The Church no longer is the hood

That fits alike on every head.

O, vistas infinite unfold!

Don’t be cast down; no gain in that

Though I must own I shudder at

The dire confusion I behold.

But while there’s life there’s hope, and you

Are by this gift baptized anew

To obligations yet more great

Of serving, by your Church, the State.

Men need a rule in all they do;

Or reckless forces, breaking loose,

Like colts undaunted by the curb,

Spurn gates and fences, and disturb

The thousand landmarks of old Use.

Each order’d mode of life proclaims

One Law, that goes by many names.

The Artist calls it School, and I’m

Mistaken if I have not heard

Our soldiers call it keeping time.

Ah yes, friend, that’s the very word!

That’s what the State desires at last!

Double-quick time gets on too fast,

And goose-step lags too far behind;

All men to step alike, and beat

The selfsame music with their feet,

That is the method to its mind!

Kennel the eagle;—and let loose

On empyrean flights the goose!

We, thank the Lord, are not as these;—

But if we must use allegory,

We’ll turn to Scripture, if you please.

For every case it has a story,

From Genesis to Revelation

It swarms with stimulating Fable;

I will but hint, in illustration,

At that projected Tower of BabelBabel

How did the good folks prosper, pray?

And why? The answer’s clear as day;

Their ranks divided, sort by sort,

Each one his private language spoke,

They drew not in the common yoke,

Grew “Personalities,” in short.

That’s half the twofold core that lies

Embedded in this shell of fable;—

That all strength, sever’d, is unstable,

And death-doom’d who the world defies.

When God desires a man to fall

He makes him an Original;

The Romans had it, ’faith, that God

Made the man mad; but mad is odd,

And oddness singleness, you know;

Therefore who fights without a friend

Must look to suffer in the end

The fate that overtook the man

Whom David posted in the van.

Yes, very likely: but what though?

In Death I see not Overthrow.

And is your faith quite firm and fast

That had those builders spoken still

One speech, and acted with one will,

They would have piled the pinnacle

Of Babel up to heaven at last?

To heaven? No, that is where it lies:

No man gets quite to Paradise.

There, see, we have the second core,

Embedded in this shell of fable;—

That every building is unstable

Which to the starry heaven would soar!

Yet, Jacob’s ladder reach’d that goal.

Thither by longing soars the Soul.

In that way! Why, God bless me, yes

Further discussion’s needless there.

Heaven is the wage of faithfulness,

Of course, of moral life and prayer.

But life and faith hold such dissent,

They only thrive, when kept apart;

Six days for toiling hands are meant.

The seventh, for stirring of the heart;

If all the week we preach’d and pray’d,

The Sabbath had in vain been made.

God’s incense, rightly to be used,

Must not be lavishly diffused;

Worship, like Art, was not created

To be in perfume dissipated.

The Ideal you may safely sound

From pulpit’s holy vantage-ground;

But with your surplice lay it by,

When you emerge beneath the sky.

All things, as I have said, are based

On laws that strictly must be traced,

And my sole end in speaking is

To give this fact due emphasis.

One thing I very clearly see:

No State Soul-case is fit for me.

A perfect fit, I will engage,

My friend,—but on a loftier stage:—

You must go up——

I reach by plunging in the mire?

Whoso him humbleth shall go higher!

Hooks will not catch, unless they bend.

Man can’t be used, unless he perish!

Good God! How can you think I cherish

Any such purpose?

That’s the condition! First to bleed!

Your bloodless spirit to put on

Man must be first a skeleton!

I would not put the lancet through

A very kitten—far less you;

But yet I thought no harm were done

In leaving just ajar the door

That opens, where I went before.

And do you know what you have sought?

This, that upon the State’s cock-cry

I that Ideal should deny

For which I until now have fought?

Deny, friend? Who makes such request?

Duty is all I bid you follow:

I ask you quietly to swallow

That which your people can’t digest.

Keep it intact, if you’re disposed,—

But yet hermetically closed;

At home, in God’s name, soar and swell,

Not as a public spectacle;

Trust me, the will that won’t be bent

Brings its unfailing punishment.

Ay, fear of torment, hope of gain,

Are on thy brow the brand of Cain,

Which cries that thou by worldly art

Hast slain the Abel in thy heart!

Upon my word he calls me “Thou”;

That is too much!—

Prolong our strife, but, to conclude,

Would have it clearly understood,

That if you’d prosper, you must weigh

What land you live in, and what day.

For no man wins the fight with fortune,

But in alliance with his time.

Which of the men who paint and rhyme

Dare fail when social claims importune?

Look at our soldiers! Why, the gleam

Of sabres is become a dream!

And wherefore? Since a law commands:

Postpone thy own need to the Land’s!

Let each his own excrescence pare,

Neither uplift him, nor protrude,

But vanish in the multitude.

“Humane the age is,” says the Mayor:

And if humanely it be met

Will bring you fame and fortune yet.

But all your angles must be rounded,

Your gnarls and bosses scraped and pounded!

You must grow sleek as others do,

All singularities eschew,

If you would labour without let.

Away! away!

Men of your stamp must finally

Be summon’d to a higher seat;

But, in the greater as the less,

Only the regimental dress

Will make your happiness complete.

The corporal, staff in hand, must knock

The sense of Time into his flock;

For, to our mind, the best of all

Commanders is the corporal.

Just as the corporal leads his men

Into the church, battalion-wise,

So must the priest lead his, again,

By parishes to Paradise.

It’s all so easy!—Faith, you say,

Broad-based upon authority;

Which, being upon learning stay’d,

May be implicitly obey’d:

While rules and ritual leave no doubt

How faith ought to be acted out.

Wherefore, my brother,—pluck up cheer!

Employ the time for meditation;

Reflect upon your situation,

And don’t give way to futile fear!

I’ll see just now if I can pitch

My music to a higher note:

Though with an unaccustom’d throat,

A sounding-board’s so seldom here.

Farewell, farewell! I mean to preach

Of human nature’s sinful prime,

God’s image nigh obliterated.—

But now I’m thinking it is time

The inner mortal should be baited.

All I have offer’d for my call,

God’s as I vainly held it,—all;

And now one trumpet-blast reveal’d

Before what idols I had kneel’d.

Not yet! not yet! I’m not their slave!

Yon churchyard has had blood to sup,

Light, life I’ve laid in yonder grave;—

My soul shall not be yielded up!

Amid a glimmering world of dead;

Horrible to receive a stone,

Howe’er I hunger after bread.—

But yet how vacant and how vain.

Dim broods God’s dove of piercing eyes;

Alas, to me she never flies.—

O, had I but one faithful breast—

To give me strength, to give me rest.

You, Einar?

I was just thirsting for a breast

That was not made of wood or stone!

Come, to my heart of hearts be press’d!

My haven’s found, I am at rest.

You bear a grudge for the event

Of our last meeting——

I blame you not. You were but sent

To be the passive instrument

Wherewith God oped my erring eyes.

What tongue is this?

The tongue they learn, who, timely torn

From Sleep of Sin, awake new-born.

Marvellous! I had heard of this,—

That you in quite another way

Were walking——

By pride, in my own strength secure.

The idols the world holds divine,

The talent I was told was mine,

My singer’s voice, were all malign

Seductions unto Satan’s lure.

But God (I praise Him) for me wrought,

Left not His erring sheep unsought,

He help’d me in my hour of need.

Help’d you—in what way?

I fell.

With gambling tastes He me imbued—

And that was God’s solicitude?

’Twas the first step to my salvation.

On that my health He undermined,

The talent from my fingers fled,

My love of revelry declined,

Then, to the hospital consign’d,

Long I lay sick, and round my bed

Flames seem’d to glare, and on each wall

Myriads of giant flies to crawl;—

Came out, and soon acquaintance made

With certain sisters, three in all,

Soldiers in God’s cause arm’d and paid.

And they, together with a priest,

Me from the yoke of Earth released

Pluck’d me from Sin that held me fast,

And made me the Lord’s child at last.