The Middle Aisle: Holy Scripture XII

Thy guiding hand a little further on !
O Thou sole End and Author of all hope,
That hast reveal'd the sinner's dwelling-place,
And the eternity of Heaven and Hell,
Look on us, teach us upon Thee to lean ;
O'er the dread gulf disclose Thy peaceful path !

For Thou art not in brain-sick ecstasy,
That climbs the Heavens to light th' unhallowed torch
Fever'd Imagination's fiery wing,
Like vap'rous breath, which in the furnace mounts,
Fann'd to a vitreous blaze, and hangs again
In earth-born vapour on the vault above ;
But in that viewless flame, from ashes born
Of Penitence, with lowlier wisdom wise,
Born to a purer love, and onward bent
To purge terrestrial dross, that trembling still
In thankfulness, in lowliness, and love,
With Anna and with Simeon, good of old,
Waits in Thy courts : while still, from step to step,
On stair by Israel seen, dwindle behind
The towers of earth, and gradual grow before
The immensities of Heaven. Oh, lend me wings,
Ethereal Spirit, ere that stair of Heaven
Be gather'd up into th' enfolding clouds,
And I be left in darkness, — low I sit —
In sorrow, — penitence-strick'n, and deep woe, —
'Mid shades of Death, Thine arrow drinks my blood.

For I Thine innocent side have pierced deep,
For I have pierced deep Thine innocent side,
Thou Holy One, and I could sit and weep,
But that Thou bidd'st me rise, and with Thy voice
Of ever-varying seasons, day and night,
And this eternity that stirs within,
Thou bidd'st us stand not, but arise, and wash
Our robes to meet Thee, and to trim the lamp.

Bow'd with the o'erwhelming burden down to earth,
I dared not look upon Thy bleeding brow ;
Like some poor Alpine wanderer, who in dreams,
In powerless dreams, beholds th' incumbent pile,
Heavily overhanging — threat'ning still,
Still threat'ning to hurl down the gather'd Alp ;
But now I trembling look to Thee, and, oh,
If not to me the harp of Jesse's son,
Which bade the gloomy spirit part from Saul,
In blooming hair'd youth ; oh, for that harp,
With which in later day, with sackcloth rob'd
And Penitence, his overcharged heart
Broke forth, and gave its sorrows to the strings,
Of deep-ingrained guilt — of guilt that cleaves
Unto the bone of life. Thee shall I sing,
While passion round the heart with snaky wile
Wreathes its dark folds, and pride, that foully feeds
On praise of man, breeding distemper'd blood,
And dons the pilgrim's cowl and lowly weed !
Wash me again for Thine, and bind my wounds,
For whom have I in Heaven but Thee alone ?
And whom on earth — but Thee ? and well I know
If I dare lean on aught but Thee alone,
I mourn a broken reed and bleeding side.

Oh, lead me but a little further on !
Oh, now, I now behold Thee, who thou art,
Celestial Visitant ! I see Thee now
Confess'd, and my revealed God adore !
Stay with me, for the evening goes away ;
I am not worthy Thou beneath my roof
Should'st enter — if Thou enterest not, I die ;
The day is now far spent, and evening shades
Are coming on — oh, with me stay awhile !