Poems (Greenwell)/To a Long-parted Friend (As by a camp-fire in the wilderness)
TO A LONG-PARTED FRIEND.
"That I never made use of your stay here to unite the present with departed days is one of the things—there are not a few of them—for which I can never be consoled; it was as though a spell lay upon me; I felt it would be enough to speak one word, but that word I could not unclose my lips to speak. The Past could not rise again from its grave, and I felt as though it would have shaken the foundations of that Present, which it is now my duty to preserve and develop. My mind is like a nation that has passed through a revolution, and must proceed in a new order, the old order being irrevocably destroyed . . . . Yet how was it with me after you had gone?"—Niebuhr to Count Adam Moltke.
I.
As by a camp-fire in the wildernessTwo hunters meet, that o'er the Prairie long Have roamed on distant tracts companionless; So to this city, drifted by the stressThat draws the nations hither—in the throngWe stood together in this mortal pressA moment face to face; Thou didst not guessAt mine, and I—forgive me then this wrong—By favour of the light that fitful fellDid let thee pass unchallenged; so that look,Thine olden look, so long unseen, so wellRemembered, troubled me; thine aspect shookThe strong foundations of my soul, I knewIt was the Past within its grave that drew A long, deep, sighing breath, and like a pent Volcanic force, this smouldering element Would kindle at thy glance; I felt a stir Among the ashes of a sepulchre Long sealed, long smooth with grass, with flowers o'ergrown, A word from Thee, and bursting through the stone The Dead had risen up! before one shrine We knelt together; though the fires are cold We lighted there, I deem that still we hold A mournful faith unto this worship old And lovely, counting it for half Divine. Now is that altar broken, and a sign From Heaven hath warned us hence—we may not bring The living Past again, we can but wring Its secrets from its grasp, disquieting Like one of old, with awful charm its sleep: Oh, leave its rest unbroken, I assign A day far hence to meet Thee—now thine eye Would vex me with its kindness, silently Would turn where mine is turning;—even yet, I am as one that wistful o'er a wave Stoops down, intent, and sees beneath it lie The fragments of a wreck, that glistering wet Tempt down the eager outstretched hand; I crave A little longer pause, for soon or late Come all things to a calm;—I do but wait.
I turned, and thou wert gone—O then my heart rose sudden up and passedA hasty judgment; saying, I had castA Life within that moment from me, moreThan life would give again, and chiding soreLike one defrauded of its right, it tookIts arrows tipped with olden love, a look,A word remembered barbs them—oh, my friend,I turn to thee for solace;—draw this glaiveDeep plunged unto the hilt from out my breast!Thy hand it was unwittingly that draveIt home, and none beside can give it rest;Speak comfort to my soul, oh reconcileMy spirit with itself! upon thy trackMy heart runs after Thee; yes, mile by mile.It follows Thee, it does not call thee back!
II.
I said, I do assign A day far hence to speak with Thee; if late Or soon it fall, I know not, for its date Rests not with me, but One above, who draws Our ruins to an order through the fine And ceaseless working of His kindly laws; For we are hasty builders incomplete; Our Master follows after, far more slow And far more sure than we, for frost and heat, And winds that breathe, and waters in their flow Work with Him silently; we stand too near The part as yet to look upon the whole; That thing which shall be doth not yet appear; It is not with the eye but with the soul That we must view God's work;
Of when and whereWe ask not wisely; if our meeting were Delayed indeed, until no more to part We meet at last within a Mansion fair Where there are many such, would this impart A sadness to thy spirit? heart with heart May commune safely when the Master's art Hath tuned His perfect instrument! below We learn not half its sweetness; not for men Its broken strings are joined; it keeps its flow Of music for the Land where none again May wring its chords;
Yet even here, I know, Are seasons calm and glad that antedate The coming in of happier cycles, where The human soul, too long left desolate Shall reckon up its Sabbaths, and repair Its pleasant things laid waste; upon that Rest Together we shall enter! we shall share Its joy above, below,—as God deems best!