"Where have you been, my pale, pale son, all night in the winter storm?"
(Hark! the joy bells chime in their passionate rhyme.)
"O mother! the bird is sheltered, the beast housed warm
And they, with their bodies' comfort, are thus content;
But I, in debt for a soul, have the long night spent
In shunning the question of God, till the spirit within
Fought mad through the human walls of my quivering skin
At its kindred passion without in the howling night.
Where is thy brother? O question not giving respite.
O mother! what do they answer, those lips, blood red,
Of Nature, in sport with her thousand deaths? I questionèd.
Send me an answer. She spoke not, the Mother of Death,
Life rocked in her restless arms, while she sucked at her breath
(Where? the bells cry, and I dare not reply.)"
"What would you tell me, my child, my child, that once slept a babe on my breast?"
(Do the death bells toll for a passing soul?)
"O mother! my friend is dead, now I stand confessed.
I can strike the stone into flame, make the dark give light,
But I cannot give back to the tiniest bird its flight.
I can easily shut life's gates, but God alone holds the key;
And all the darkness of night cannot shelter me.
For my friend, you understand, my friend is dead,
So people will pity the tears that my hot eyes shed.
No voice to cry Guilty, not seeing my brain's red shame
Not knowing that Dead, in my heart, hath another name.
He wondered the world should plot him such mischief and pain;
Knew not that his world was worked from one jealous man's brain,
Whose hands set in motion the wheels, laid his heart on the rack,
Followed ever with murmurs of doubt on his fortunate track,
Till the world, more eager to listen to evil than good,
Caught my whispers to hurl them back on the man as he stood.
Crept scandal, with listening ears, to his keyhole, supplied
Quick rumour with news for the keen appetites so denied;
And hungry excitement kept hard on his quicksilver feet,
Till men, self-comparing, and finding comparing were sweet,
Would say, Look at this man,meaning, look what a contrast there be
Or, So has he sinned, see to him (so your gaze avoid me).
Foolish world, as if men were not judged by each different mind,
By God's justice, not that of the world's great classing of kind
This is right, that is wrong, as though minds were all made on one plan,
Leaving nought to inheritance, will-power, or surroundings of man,
He is dead, mother, dead; I his friend might have made his earth fair,
But I crept like a scorpion to sting all his hopes to despair
Robbed his body of this world's joys, and his soul of the hope
Of that other that sings through the air at the pull of the rope,
Till my mad passion swells at the tongues of the bells."
"Hush thee and listen, my son, my son, for the bells are the voice of love."
(All the things He made live can their Father forgive.)
"O mother! a sinner's cry may be heard above.
And so, if the dead forgive, then my dying breath
Will plead that a sad soul pass through the gates of death,
Where it stood outside so weary, afraid to call,
For that pale ghost standing within in his funeral pall,
Awaiting my tears that would wash his stained record white,
And I could not weep; but, mother, I weep to-night."
(Peace, the bells sing, is God's reckoning.)
