Chapter XXXVII

‘The upward-toiling hill; the stream;
The valley; the wide ocean’s sweep;
All take the colours of a dream,—
The glories of the land of sleep.
You are my soul, my eyes, my sight;
’Tis dark no more, you are my light.’

WHEN I THINK OF THEE, BROTHER

I

When I think of thee, brother,
Is my heart not all thine?
Yet the face of another
Seems bending o’er mine.
I call thee by name, yet a name not thy own
Has whispered already its dear undertone.

II

When I think thine eyes greet me,
Their sweet flash of blue
Brings another’s to meet me
Of somberer hue;
And ever before me they seem to remain,
Though my heart but repines to behold thee again.

III

When I list, and would hear thee
Once more in our home,
And thy voice appears near me,
Another’s has come.
I dream of thee only, for thee only sigh,
Yet thy image forsakes me; another’s is nigh.

IV

When thy fond smiles come o’er me,
As in moments now flown,
There riseth before me
A look not thy own:
’Tis thee I recall to my mind, O my brother!
Yet ever with thine comes the gaze of another.

ECCE HOMO!

I

He strikes his staff to find his way,
He feels but may not see the day.
The warm sun floods his sightless eyes
That tremble in answer to the skies:
Yet oft he stays as if to look
At memories of the scenes of yore,—
The vine and fig-tree at his door,
The pleasant places by the brook.

II

The voice within him sighs aloud,
When murmurs of a moving crowd
Fall on his ear; he breathes the dust
But, with a blind man’s sturdy trust,
He grasps his staff, and oft he cries,
‘Who cometh here?’ A voice replies,
‘O blind man, turn thy step aside,
’Tis Christ!’

III

The name rings in his ears:
With flashing hopes and ashen fears,
There stands he breathless, startling all.
Some stop, some into ranks divide,
Their arms outspreading lest he fall.
He drops his staff, throws out his hands,
His fingers are creeping like things that see:
’Mid all the multitude he stands
And shouts, ‘Have mercy, Lord, on me!’
His shaking beard, his tottering frame,
His eye-balls in their sockets turning,
His lips delirious with that name,—
O’er his blind face a look is burning
Of dreadful greed, with mouth agape,
Crazed for some good that may escape.
‘Take my hand, some one; let me feel
His raiment only; it may heal.’

IV

Christ heard the blind man’s cry, and grieved
Because a soul in darkness heaved.
He said, ‘What seekest thou of Me?’
But in that presence came a fear:
The man held earthly blessings dear,
Yet more than all was heavenly light.
‘Lord, that I may receive my sight,—
That I may my Redeemer see!’
Christ loved him and his anguish soothed.
He took his hand, He gently smoothed
The seams upon his wrinkled brow:
‘Tell Me what thou beholdest now.’
‘Men, dim as shaking trees, I see:
O Lord, I crave to look on Thee!’

V

Then said the Saviour, ‘Look afar.’
The blind man raised his dazèd eyes.
‘I see, Lord, above Thee a new-risen star,—
And beneath it a babe in a manger lies.
Hoary men, kneeling, their gifts prefer:
Frankincense, gold, and sacred myrrh.
Now a mother, a father, a babe softly sleeping
By waters that dream where the lotus bloom reigns;
Shadows of evening over them creeping;
The broad moon breaking o’er palm-bearing plains,
Where the ibis croaks and the jackal cries,
And pyramids point to the purpling skies.’