Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listen’d to thy vows, For me outpour’d in holiest prayer— For me unworthy!—and beheld Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit shining through. Oh! wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desert? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To th’ earth—until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear’d—to brush the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevail’d not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro’ utter dark a fullsailed skiff, Unpiloted i’ the echoing dance Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk! I know At matins and at evensong, That thou, if thou were yet alive, In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still— “Bring this lamb back into thy fold, My Lord, if so it be thy will”. Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, And chastisement of human pride; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God! That hitherto I had defied And had rejected God—that grace Would drop from his o’erbrimming love, As manna on my wilderness, If I would pray—that God would move And strike the hard hard rock, and thence, Sweet in their utmost bitterness, Would issue tears of penitence Which would keep green hope’s life. Alas! I think that pride hath now no place Nor sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. Why not believe then? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moor’d and rested? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret The broadimbasèd beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland mere? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexed pools All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other? I am too forlorn, Too shaken: my own weakness fools My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.