Poems (Gifford)/The Building of the Mansion
THE BUILDING OF THE MANSION.
They said the earl would build a splendid houseThat in the country round for many a mileWould stand unrivalled, and the work began,But oh! not beautiful the work appeared.Soon was that spot of normal quiet stirredTo strange commotion and unloveliness;Huge piles of dull material lay aboutIn wild disorder, and the well-kept lawnWas cut with marring wheel-marks far around.There rose the clang of heavy iron tools,And ugly laden trucks lumbered aboutWith noisy rumble; and a black engine puffed,And hissed, and groaned, and shrieked, and steamed, and smoked.No sign was there of shelter or repose,Save here a temporary shed, and thereA wooden hut,—no things of beauty they.A lofty scaffolding was soon upreared,Then came the spoiling of the well-known hall,That had to us of such great import seemed;The roof was ruthlessly torn off, the wallsDismantled, and the crescent porticoThrown ignominiously upon the ground.
Oh, desecration! Oh, unheard contempt!From time to time we visited that scene,Haunted by happy memories, and lookedWith ever-growing interest, though for longWe saw increased confusion, not a glimpseOf destined grandeur; and the scaffolding,Unsightly and unstable, shook with treadOf hurrying feet, and here and there a partWas shifted oft, and there was ceaseless change.Sometimes we threaded the intricaciesThat grew within, stepping with dubious feetO'er parted beams, and tottering planks, and floors Bestrewn with rubble, brickbats, sawdust, allRough things incongruous with dignity;And to our untaught minds so much seemed wrong,In the whole scheme we could not understand.Again, again we questioned with ourselves,"Can this be adaptation right and wise?"
And yet we cherished faith of purpose trueControlling the disorder, and the din,And there was music in the dissonanceOf workmen's voices and activityBetokening hope, and promise, and success.So varied were the men, varied their tools,Varied their methods and their lesser aims,Yet all pressed on toward one common end,The fair ideal of the architect,Who, with authority of untold wealth,Watched, counselled, ordered, and directed allAccording to a plan he knew full well,And he had well conceived. We never sawThat master-builder, seldom did the men,And little could they guess his full intent;Yet slowly, surely it was evidentThat strength and beauty grew, and we believedThat a fair building should ere long stand forthIn grand completeness.Then there came a dayWhen bit from bit the scaffolding was tornAnd thrown upon the ground, then cleared away.Then could we tell of perfecting withinAnd rare embellishment and furnishing,Till we beheld the hall and all aroundIn perfect order, the last vestige goneOf tumult and confusion; and 1t stoodFit habitation for its noble lord,The rendezvous of many a worthy guest,The admiration of the country round.>*And surely, surely rises for our LordA living habitation; He shall bring To full perfection all His purposesInspired by such divine beneficenceAs yet we dimly know, though He has told.Himself the Master-Builder, great and wise,Appoints, adapts, directs, and furthers allWith infinite resources, though so oftWe marvel at His will, and say, "How long?"Or, "How can these things be that seem so strange?"
Temples have been demolished, customs changed,And types have passed away; and even nowSo much, that we deem needful and divine,And that we fain would guard as beautifulIs touched by spoilers, and essential thingsAre nigh to vanishing. Yet know we well,Within the visible outworks, that appearWithout or form or comeliness, it grows,—That holy temple for the Master's praise,—Though not with observation. It may beOft amid noisy clamorous scenes where weCannot discern the unity of aim,And what we see is rugged shapelessness,And much must surely be ere long destroyed.Through toil and pain it grows, hid from the gazeOf those without, and strange to those within;But yet it grows, it grows, and it shall grow,Until ere long the last touch shall be put.And often cheerily the builders greet,And oft are they heard singing, for they seeSure progress through apparent hindrances,And know that nought shall fail. And ours may beSome happy, e'en if humble, part to hasteThe glad fulfilment of our Lord's designs,For that the Master hath so bidden us.
Then, though the tottering systems that enshrine,And foster, and yet hide that wondrous growthFall short of satisfaction, though they oftSeem far from beautiful, and shake and shift,And some are falling even now; and though Scoffers are asking oft, and all in vain,For explanation, shall we be dismayed?Or need we fear? Shall we take care to propThat which we need no more? Or, shall we stayThe real building that we may adornThat which is destined soon to pass away!Nay, to the work! The scaffolding but servesA worthy purpose for a little while;Then may it be discarded, cast asideAs needed nevermore. What matters it?The last removal shall reveal the thingsFor which we look with untold eagerness,—Things which through ages of unmeasured blissCannot be shaken, and they shall remain.
May we not then, with calm, implicit trustIn Him, who hath all blessedness devised,Lift up our heads when earth and heaven shall shake,And stars shall fall, and desolations come,Assured (because the Master hath Himself so said)That, when these things begin to come %o pass,The consummation of our highest hopesIs surely drawing nigh?Our Lord shall comeInto His temple to be glorifiedIn all His saints, to be admired in thoseWho have believed, and are made one in Him.Yes, we shall know Him living in His own,His everlasting glory manifest.