The Unknown Eros. Coventry Patmore

prayer perchance may win

      A term to God’s indignant mood

      And the orgies of the multitude,

      Which now begin;

      But do not hope to wave the silken rag

      Of your unsanction’d flag,

      And so to guide

      The great ship, helmless on the swelling tide

      Of that presumptuous Sea,

      Unlit by sun or moon, yet inly bright

      With lights innumerable that give no light,

      Flames of corrupted will and scorn of right,

      Rejoicing to be free.

         And, now, because the dark comes on apace

      When none can work for fear,

      And Liberty in every Land lies slain,

      And the two Tyrannies unchallenged reign,

      And heavy prophecies, suspended long

      At supplication of the righteous few,

      And so discredited, to fulfilment throng,

      Restrain’d no more by faithful prayer or tear,

      And the dread baptism of blood seems near

      That brings to the humbled Earth the Time of Grace,

      Breathless be song,

      And let Christ’s own look through

      The darkness, suddenly increased,

      To the gray secret lingering in the East.

      XIV.  ‘IF I WERE DEAD.’

         ‘If I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child!’

      The dear lips quiver’d as they spake,

      And the tears brake

      From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.

      Poor Child, poor Child!

      I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.

      It is not true that Love will do no wrong.

      Poor Child!

      And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,

      How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,

      And of those words your full avengers make?

      Poor Child, poor Child!

      And now, unless it be

      That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,

      O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!

      Poor Child!

      XV.  PEACE

         O England, how hast thou forgot,

      In dullard care for undisturb’d increase

      Of gold, which profits not,

      The gain which once thou knew’st was for thy peace!

      Honour is peace, the peace which does accord

      Alone with God’s glad word:

      ‘My peace I send you, and I send a sword.’

      O England, how hast thou forgot,

      How fear’st the things which make for joy, not fear,

      Confronted near.

      Hard days?  ’Tis what the pamper’d seek to buy

      With their most willing gold in weary lands.

      Loss and pain risk’d?  What sport but understands

      These for incitements!  Suddenly to die,

      With conscience a blurr’d scroll?

      The sunshine dreaming upon Salmon’s height

      Is not so sweet and white

      As the most heretofore sin-spotted soul

      That darts to its delight

      Straight from the absolution of a faithful fight.

      Myriads of homes unloosen’d of home’s bond,

      And fill’d with helpless babes and harmless women fond?

      Let those whose pleasant chance

      Took them, like me, among the German towns,

      After the war that pluck’d the fangs from France,