John Kenyon - The Streams lyrics

Two streams there were, two streams from separate founts, Both beautiful to see, and one—most holy; (From Siloa this, and this from Hippocrene) Together onward flowing, side by side, Through the mind's region. And on either marge Of either stream were frequent altars reared, Accordant with the Genius of each wave, Or sacred or profane. Less solemn these— As if for festal rites ordained, and dight With sculptured attributes—for so they showed— Of lighter faith; or Cupid's torch or Hymen's, Or thyrsus bound with ivy; while beside Their white reliefs sleek kid or heifer stood With gilded horns, and neek by graceful hand Of priestess wreathed with flowers; the which—for dew— Trembled with ruby drops, caught as they sparkled From full libations of outgushing wine. Those other altars were beheld to rise Of a severer beauty; their sole symbol— The Saving Cross! their only sacrifice— A contrite heart, and prayers not scorned in heaven! Yet though each separate source, of false or true, Sped its own oracles, which—rightly read— Were of no balanced weight; yet still on each Waited the Duties and the Charities, Which soften or control our human heart. And ministered to each its clustering Graces, (Or cla**ic called, or by more sacred name) These, truly, of a looser zone, while Those Stood by in matron-robe more strict. Nor lacked To each its Muses—its delightful Muses! For while beside one wave were heard sweet sounds From the Eolian lyre or Theban flute, Linking fresh sweetness to sweet ode or hymn; Pealed o'er that other such high strains as erst Broke forth in Judah from the pa**ionate hand Of Prophet-King—praise—or victorious song— Or deep repentings—on the ten-stringed harp Made vocal, then; but well consorted, now, With the far-reaching organ, as it triumphed O'er the full choir; or with some single voice Mingled its milder notes. Those varying strains To hear; amid those varying groups of beauty To stray, and learn what sage or prophet taught, From every clime thronged vota'ries; and, in sooth, Most sweet and profitable had it been To wander 'mid the far-stretched lawns, which opened Between those sidelong waters, and to quaff From each in turn—worshipping at the one. But so it was—the simple truth to tell— The livelier flow of that less holy river, And lighter Muses, and more pliant Graces, Won to its careless marge the larger throng; Still won; and oft, in their own reason's spite, Amid its open Grecian colonnades Kept lingering; of those graver Gothic fanes, High arched, and dim, and of mysterious power, Neglectful. And so 'twas till all had reached To where those streams flowed round each side the hill, 'Which stands midway in this our mortal life.' From that hill-top the backward-looking eye Could track the livelier and the calmer currents E'en to the distant cliffs, whence first they fell; But to the forward sight—changed was the scene. For while the course of that serener wave Held onward, through mild landscape, to the view Interminable, this from Hippocrene, Not far below the base of that mid hill, With sudden plunge flung itself under ground, And, as it parted, sounded sad farewell! Then, 'mid the votaries of the vanished stream, Its lovers, with a too-exclusive love, Were cheated looks and strange perplexities, And sorrow; and, worse than sorrow, desperate mirth! Some at their own loss jested recklessly, Till came a Power, and bade them jest no more! Some wandered, seeking; some, disputing, sat; And, 'mid their seekings and disputings, died! While fiercer bloods, impatient of the Present, Which mated all too poorly with the Past, And the' enigmatic Future hot to know, With their own sudden swords resolved the riddle. So fared it with the' unwise. The wiser part Paused not, but turned them sideway to the marge Of that, till now, less-heeded stream, and found it Such as might win a will all free to choose. More calm, perchance, than e'en when first they knew it, And therefore to maturer choice more kin; And if more deep, more clear; and, as more clear, Adding fresh loveliness to earth, and still With surer certitude reflecting heaven. Soon won the yielding heart a kindred calm From that calm stream; with hopes, bright as the flowers Which bloomed around. For flowers were blooming round; Some—new to knowlege; of perennial odours, And all undying hues; thither, no doubt, From Paradise transplanted. Some they knew, If less enduring, yet almost as fair, For dwellers on that Gentile-stream; nor scorned Their presence here; nay, gathered thence sweet memories Of many a joy once quaffed from Hippocrene, With this their deeper bliss from Siloa's source To mingle, as those flowers together mingled. And feeding thus on old remembrances, And joys at hand, and hopes more blissful still, They followed the on guiding wave to where Silent it lapsed into the fated sea, Which all must voyage o'er. Nor ended here The bliss. For by the shore rode anchored barks, (Not by such fabled forms as Charon old, But by Angelic Natures piloted,) The' awaiting pilgrims o'er its rough or smooth (For not to all the pa**age was the same) Safely to waft; while from that very shore All might behold what lovely regions rose Beyond in the horizon; fair as clouds, The fairest ever hung in western sky, But not like them to fade; eternal dwellings Of Spirits who had pa**ed, and landed there!