Chapter XXII

But—shop each day and all day long!
Friend, your good angel slept, your star
Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!
From where these sorts of treasures are,
There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!

There ought to be far more in a man than can be put into a front window. This man had all sorts of “curios” in his shop window, but there was nothing rich or rare in his soul; and so there was room for all of _him_ in a den which would not have held the hundredth part of his wares. The contemptible manner of the man’s life is strikingly brought out by the various suppositions (stanzas 5, 6, 7) so different from the poor reality (8-9). All he cared for was business, which made him “chuckle” on the one hand or “chafe” on the other, according as times were good or bad (10). Even in his business it was not the real excellence of his wares he cared for, only their saleability (11). A merchant prince is a very different person (13-19). The last three stanzas give the lesson in a style partly humorous, but passing in the end to an impressive solemnity.

In connection with this should be read the companion piece, “House,” to which reference is made in the Introduction.

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THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Morning, evening, noon and night, “Praise God!” sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well; O’er his work the boy’s curls fell.

But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, “Praise God!”

Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done; “I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

“As well as if thy voice to-day “Were praising God, the Pope’s great way.

“This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome “Praises God from Peter’s dome.”

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I “Might praise Him, that great way, and die!”

Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, “Nor day nor night “Now brings the voice of my delight.”

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling’s hue:

The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay:

And ever o’er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God’s will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, “A praise is in mine ear; “There is no doubt in it, no fear:

“So sing old worlds, and so “New worlds that from my footstool go.

“Clearer loves sound other ways: “I miss my little human praise.”

Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

’Twas Easter Day: He flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter’s dome.

In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And, rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.

“I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell, “And set thee here; I did not well.

“Vainly I left my angel-sphere, “Vain was thy dream of many a year.

“Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it dropped— “Creation’s chorus stopped!

“Go back and praise again “The early way, while I remain.

“With that weak voice of our disdain, “Take up creation’s pausing strain.

“Back to the cell and poor employ: “Resume the craftsman and the boy!”

Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s dome.

One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.

The lesson of this beautiful fancy is the complement of the “Shop” lesson. Even drudgery may be divine; since the will of God is the work to be done, no matter whether under St. Peter’s dome or in the cell of the craftsman (the Boy)—“all one, if on the earth or in the sun” (the Angel).

The poem is so full of exquisite things, that only a few can be noted. The value of the “little human praise” to God Himself (distich 12), all the dearer because of the doubts and fears in it (20-22); and the contrast between its seeming weakness and insignificance and its real importance as a necessary part of the great chorus of creation (34); the eager desire of Gabriel to anticipate the will of God, and his content to live on earth and bend over a common trade, if only thus he can serve Him best (13-19); and again the content of the “new pope Theocrite” to go back to his “cell and poor employ” and fill out the measure of his day of service, growing old at home, while Gabriel as contentedly takes his place as pope (probably a harder trial than the more menial service) and waits for the time when both “sought God side by side”—these are some of the fine and far reaching thoughts which find simple and beautiful expression here.

Longfellow’s “King Robert of Sicily,” though not really parallel, has points of similarity to “The Boy and the Angel.”

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THE PATRIOT.

AN OLD STORY.

I.

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day.

II.

The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels— “But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered “And afterward, what else?”

III.

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Nought man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

IV.

There’s nobody on the house-tops now— Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet, By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

V.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind, And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.