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Papers from Overlook-House
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Green as the grass – but still their cry the same.
Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night,
The contradiction, and the wordy fight.
We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife,
And all their brood forever in a strife:
And Katy did, and Katy didn't still
Are sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.
V.
THE IMAGE-MAKER
DWELLER ON EARTH
Thou dwellest here, beneath this dome,
A Pilgrim, far from thine own home.
Where is thine heart, and where thy land?
Thou longest for some distant strand.
We have thy love and gentle care,
Thou bearest blessings every where.
Yet day and night, and light and shade
Shall with less labor one be made,
Than thou in sympathy be one
With us, who through our course will run,
Laden with cares, with pleasures worn,
Children of hope to sorrow born.
Thou hast our speech, our garb, our toil,
Well known, yet stranger on our soil.
Some deeper hidden life is thine,
As if we saw the tortuous vine
'Mid veiling branches intertwine;
Swinging in air its precious fruit,
While the deep mould has hid its root;
From view its highest honors lost,
'Mid the oak leaves in murmurs tost,
A secret work thy endless task,
Thy endless care, of that we ask.
PILGRIM
I seek to form an Image here.
DWELLER ON EARTH
Thou art a Sculptor! Yet our ear
Doth catch no sound of chisel stroke,
No hammer clang – no marble broke.
PILGRIM
The silence of Eternity
Around my work doth ever lie.
When marbles into dust shall fall,
And human art no fame befall,
The sun no more its beams shall give
To statues seeming half to live,
Beauty no more on genius wait,
Which copying seemeth to create;
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
When breaketh everlasting day,
Then shall the Image that I form,
Appear 'mid nature's dying storm.
The Image that no human skill
Could fashion, or Archangel's will;
No angel mind the model give
Of that which shall forever live.
At that great day it shall be known,
The Image of the Eternal One.
VI.
THE CLOUDS
The clouds that drift, are slowly drawn
To that glorious sun at dawn.
Darkened mists, and now so bright,
Resplendent in the morning light;
In borrowed glory, – spreading flame,
God's fiery pillar still they frame.
So I, – in dark night once astray
Through boundless grace have found my way,
To thee, – the Sun of Righteousness,
Whose wings are healing in distress.
From thee I trust, the dawning gleam
Hath made me more than I can seem;
Hath made me thine, in joy, in tears,
Thy pardoned one, – one all whose fears
Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night,
The contradiction, and the wordy fight.
We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife,
And all their brood forever in a strife:
And Katy did, and Katy didn't still
Are sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.
V.
THE IMAGE-MAKER
DWELLER ON EARTH
Thou dwellest here, beneath this dome,
A Pilgrim, far from thine own home.
Where is thine heart, and where thy land?
Thou longest for some distant strand.
We have thy love and gentle care,
Thou bearest blessings every where.
Yet day and night, and light and shade
Shall with less labor one be made,
Than thou in sympathy be one
With us, who through our course will run,
Laden with cares, with pleasures worn,
Children of hope to sorrow born.
Thou hast our speech, our garb, our toil,
Well known, yet stranger on our soil.
Some deeper hidden life is thine,
As if we saw the tortuous vine
'Mid veiling branches intertwine;
Swinging in air its precious fruit,
While the deep mould has hid its root;
From view its highest honors lost,
'Mid the oak leaves in murmurs tost,
A secret work thy endless task,
Thy endless care, of that we ask.
PILGRIM
I seek to form an Image here.
DWELLER ON EARTH
Thou art a Sculptor! Yet our ear
Doth catch no sound of chisel stroke,
No hammer clang – no marble broke.
PILGRIM
The silence of Eternity
Around my work doth ever lie.
When marbles into dust shall fall,
And human art no fame befall,
The sun no more its beams shall give
To statues seeming half to live,
Beauty no more on genius wait,
Which copying seemeth to create;
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
When breaketh everlasting day,
Then shall the Image that I form,
Appear 'mid nature's dying storm.
The Image that no human skill
Could fashion, or Archangel's will;
No angel mind the model give
Of that which shall forever live.
At that great day it shall be known,
The Image of the Eternal One.
VI.
THE CLOUDS
The clouds that drift, are slowly drawn
To that glorious sun at dawn.
Darkened mists, and now so bright,
Resplendent in the morning light;
In borrowed glory, – spreading flame,
God's fiery pillar still they frame.
So I, – in dark night once astray
Through boundless grace have found my way,
To thee, – the Sun of Righteousness,
Whose wings are healing in distress.
From thee I trust, the dawning gleam
Hath made me more than I can seem;
Hath made me thine, in joy, in tears,
Thy pardoned one, – one all whose fears
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