Poems (Hinxman)/Prophetic Instincts
PROPHETIC INSTINCTS. . . . . . . Even in our sleep
Our instincts freshen to the subtle dawn.
Our instincts freshen to the subtle dawn.
Way shouldst thou fret because thou may'st not keepThe thoughts that flit across the inward Deep,—Task thy slow tongue to follow on their track,And bid it, clothed and captive, lead them back?
True, they seem precious as they waver by.How fair yon shape of silent prophecy!What tender light yon beckoning image fills,Caught from the dawn that lies behind the hills!
So be it; joy thou in their news, nor spoilThat still rejoicing with an idle toil:This is their hour in man, and no grave heartBut in those rosy visions has its part.
Thy ray of witness boots not in a lightBroad as the sheets of noon to willing sight;Nor yet thy broken story in a themeThat to our sons an infant's lisp will seem.
Yea, lispings all, the sweetest, noblest lays,That kept our hearts in poise for better days,By peals of hope, or by that lofty sorrowWhose wail for vanished good foretells its morrow.
Old Sorrow, heritage of long regret,Drawn from Eve's bosom through her children yet; Since, while she marked the eastward flickering sword, Or watched amid the thorns her toiling lord,Her first-born's forehead with her tears was wet.
What countless fibres from the up-torn root,Bare, wounded, frustrate of the appointed fruit,Have started since from earth's disfigured breast,Still upwards stretching in a mute unrest.
But, on a day, a Hand shall pass o'er earth,Fraught with the early dowries of their birth,And gather up those tendrils in its palm,Draw those wild yearnings into one full calm.
O Fount and Crown of every hope that springs;Fulness of heavenly and of earthly things!Our God, our one created archetype,Sole Fruit of human nature, ever ripe!
Desire of Nations, Brother on the Throne,Healer and Help, so near, so little known!O come and rend the clinging veil away,And show the Face of love, the Hands stretched out all day!
O show the restless minds for what they yearn,Crown with fair fact the growing hope; and turnInstincts which vaguely through our spirits flow,To one clear language, which all hearts shall know!
Nov. 24, 1853.