"Well roars the storm for those that hear
A deeper voice across the storm
Proclaiming... truth."—Tennyson.
I hear the thund'ring rollers leap,
To-night, upon the trembling shore;
I hear the bellowing blasts that sweep
The ocean like a thrashing floor;
While on the beetling crag I stand,
And see old land-marks rent away,
Seized in the tempest's Iron hand,
And shaken like a wisp of hay.
The bulwarks where the old beliefs
Have hidden from the threat'ning storm,
And wrapped their shivering hopes and griefs
With prayers and psalms to keep them warm,
Are tottering; while from their walls
The masonry of old divines,
Crumbling to ashes as it falls,
The ruthless current undermines.
In every lull I strain my ear,
To catch some long-familiar text,
That once had calmed a rising fear,
Or solved a riddle that perplexed.
My sinking spirits vainly grasp
At fancied shapes in empty air;
Amid the chilling gloom I clasp
Uplifted hands in fervent prayer.
Ah, fool of habit! must I think
That, spite of agony and loss,
There still remain upon the brink
Hopes that the floods will never toss?
O, Soul divine, in me, to-night,
Put every false conceit aside,
And by thy perfect scale of right
Let every argument be tried.
Then, if my faith cannot receive,
Or reason yield a clear assent,
Why cling to hopeless wrecks, and grieve
To lose what never will content?
Self-righteous zeal may wag the head,
And thrust me from its synagogue,—
Fear not its pious curse, or dread
To trample on its decalogue.
Enough to feel an inward rest,
Where once had been the endless strife
To square my conduct by the test
Of churchmen's rule and Christian life.
Enough that reverence and love,
Sincere desire to know the right,
And a sweet influx from above,
Fill me with a serener light.
Nor do I prize my Bible less,
Nor less obey its golden rules,
Because my lips no more confess
The credence of the narrow schools.
The onward current of my thought
Is only broader, deeper grown;
And faith is by experience taught
To worship at a loftier throne.
