The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte
The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte.
After the Fashion of an Early English Poet.
There is a mightie Noyse of Bells,
Rushing from the turret free;
A solemn tale of Truthe it tells,
O'er Land and Sea,
How heartes be breaking fast, and then
Wax whole againe.
Poor fluttering Soule! why tremble soe,
To quitt Lyfe's fast decaying Tree;
Time wormes its core, and it must bowe
To Fate's decree;
Its last branch breakes, but Thou must soare,
For Evermore.
Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth;
Far under shal its shadows flee,
And al its sounds of Woe or Mirth
Growe strange to thee.
Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse,
Nor court its Joies.
Fond One! why cling thus unto Life,
As if its gaudes were meet for thee;
Surely its F ollie, Bloodshed, Stryfe,
Liked never thee?
This World growes madder each newe daie,
Vice beares such sway.
Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel,
And crawle upon the supple knee—
Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel,—
This Worldes for Thee.
Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother:
Then seek another.
Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright soe
As flatter Guilt's prosper!tye,
And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe—
This Worldes for Thee.
Sithence to this thou wilt not bend,
Life's at an end.
Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad,
As if 'twere spotted Infamy,
And prayse as Good what is most Bad—,
This Worldes for Thee.
Sithence thou canst not will it soe,
Poor Flutterer, goe!
If Head with Hearte could so accord,
In bond of perfyte Amitié,
That Falsehood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word—
This Worldes for Thee.
But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one!
Thy race is run.
Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts weep
And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye,
Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape—
This Worldes for Thee;
But with the Weeper thou must weepe,
And sad watch keep.
Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung
The withers of the Poore but Prowde,
And by the rootes pluck out the tongue
That dare be lowde
In Righteous cause, whate'er may be—
This Worldes for Thee.
This canst thou not! Then fluttering thing
Unstained in thy puritye,
Sweep towards heaven with tireless wing—
Meet Home for Thee.
Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree—
God's Love guides Thee.
And thus it is:—these solemn bells,
Swinging in the turret free,
And tolling forth theire sad farewells,
O'er Land and Sea,
Tell how Hearts breake, full fast, and then
Growe whole againe.