Not in vain, Confessor old, Unto us the tale is told Of thy day of trial; Every age on him who strays From its broad and beaten ways Pours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear Angel comfortings can hear, O’er the rabble’s laughter; And while Hatred’s fagots burn, Glimpses through the smoke discern Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet Share of Truth was vainly set In the world’s wide fallow; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow.
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, Must the moral pioneer From the future borrow; Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, And, on midnight’s sky of rain, Paint the golden morrow!
A Man there came, whence none could tell, Bearing a Touchstone in his hand, And testing all things in the land By its unerring spell.
A thousand transformations rose From fair to foul, from foul to fair; The golden crown he did not spare, Nor scorn the beggar’s clothes.
Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods; And even statues of the gods Crumbled beneath its touch.
Then angrily the people cried, “The loss outweighs the profit far; Our goods suffice us as they are: We will not have them tried.”
And, since they could not so avail To check his unrelenting quest, They seized him, saying, “Let him test How real is our jail!”
But though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his Touchstone burned, Its doings could not be o’erturned, Its undoings restored.
And when to stop all future harm, They strewed its ashes on the breeze, They little guessed each grain of these, Conveyed the perfect charm.
My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel; They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine, I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer, A virgin heart in work and will.