world is weary of idolatries: Pan and Apollo and great Zeus are dead, And Jesus Christ hangs cold upon the cross. Nay more, the light of science newly born Hath slain the night of the divine idea, So that, for calm assurance of our souls, We mathematically demonstrate Infinite God as infinitely false To infinite impossibility. Henceforth a grievous shadow quits the earth, While man, the fruitage and the flower of things, Walks fetterless and free.” Thus much and more, With many hints of cell and protoplasm, And of the dusk beginnings of the brain, The mild professor said.
Professor Day, A little gentleman with soft gray eyes, Whose spectacles had faced the very Sphinx And read the cosmic riddle wrought therein, He, having lived to thirty years of age, Had hate for nought but ambiguity; Knew all that science and the schools could teach, Lived for truth only, and, had these been days Of any necessary martyrdom, Would cheerfully have given his life for truth. Meantime, he served her cause. How wrathfully He rose his height, while angry pulpits wail'd, And from the platforms of the great reviews Demolish'd the theistic fallacy, Pluck'd the bright mantle from the verbal form And show'd the syllogistic skeleton! Dear gentle heart, he who could be so fierce In hating what he did not deem to be, Was full of love for all the things that are; Wherefore God loved him for his unbelief And sent a ministering angel down. . . .
He often thought, “If I should have a child, If ever life should issue out of mine, I shall uprear it on the gracious food Of knowledge only. Superstition haunts Our very cradles: in our nurses' hands Dangle the fetish and the crucifix That darken us forever till we die. No child of mine, if I should have a child, Shall know the legend of the lie divine, Or lisp the words of folly that profane The wish of wisdom. Prayer is cowardice: No child of mine shall pray. Worship is fear: My child shall never know the name of fear. But when its eyes are ready to behold, Its ears to hear, my child shall wander forth, Fearlessly leaning on its father's strength, Serene in innocence and mastery.”
And so he wedded, hoping for a child, A tender toy to cut his creed upon, And wedded wisely: a virgin not too young, And not too good, and not too beautiful, But gently reared, and of a learned race Who held that over-learning suits but ill The creed and need of women. To his side She came not trembling, trusting in his strength, And wise enough to dimly comprehend Her gentle lords superiority. Two years they grew together, as two trees Blending their branches; then a child was born, Which, flickering like a taper thro' the night, Went out ere dawn; but when the mother wept, And reach'd her thin hands down the darkness, whither The little life had fallen like a spark, The pale Professor (though his eyes were dim) Sat by the bedside presently, and proved — As gently as a poor man praying to God — That what had never known potential life, In all its qualities and faculties, Had never absolutely lived at all. Nay, 'twere as wise, perchance, he thought, to mourn Some faint albuminous product of the deep, As weep for something which had ne'er achieved The motions and the mysteries of mind, Which things are life itself. The mother moaned: And creeping thence to his laboratory, The wise man wiped away a foolish dew That shamed the gloss of his philosophy.
But comfort came a little later on; Another crying life arose and bloom'd, And faded not upon the mother's breast, But drew its milk with feeble lips, and breathed, It was a boy, and when they brought him down, And placed him in the pale professors arms, He laugh'd and reached his little rosy hands To greet his father; and the wise man said, Holding the babe and blushing awkwardly, “How naturally mammals love their young! Thus, even thus, the archetypal ape Dandled its rough first-born! Whereat the nurse Exclaim'd, — not comprehending, pious soul, — “Thank God for sending you so fine a boy!” And when the wise man thro' his spectacles Look'd lightnings of philosophy and scorn, She took the babe and murmur'd, kissing it, “Now God Almighty grant the pretty dear A long and merry life!” The wise mans cheek Grew pallid, for already, ere he knew, It seem'd that Superstition's skinny hand Was clutching at his pearl of innocence. He fled into his study, and therein Added a fragment to a fierce review Upholding Haeckel, proving Tyndall tame, And rating Virchow and Agnosticism. And having thus refreshed his learned soul, He sat by the bedside of his pale wife, Holding her hand in silence for an hour, Feeling a nameless fear upon his heart, Blent with a sense of blessing one less wise Might have mistaken for a sense of prayer.