Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: JOHN BUNYAN, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: JOHN BUNYAN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Next it was a man
Last Line: "throughout the perilous pilgrimage to heaven."
Subject(s): Bunyan, John (1628-1688)


Next it was a man
With ruddy face and fair hair sprent with gray,
And somewhat stern of aspect, till he spoke --
A tall and vigorous form, a little bent
By too long prison years, in modest garb
A Puritan; who next in time was born
To him whom last I saw; differing in all,
In mien, in thought, in speech, yet each inspired
And saintly. As I looked I seemed to know
The wondrous peasant, who by dreaming thought,
Fine as the Bard's who sang of Heaven and Hell,
Lightened his long duress, and for our aid
Has left a record of the Pilgrim soul
Faring to Heaven by rough and perilous ways,
Which myriads since have trod. And thus my guide:

"'Poor and of meanest rank, and most despised,'
At Elstow, in the dewy, daisied fields
Hard by the dreaming Ouse, was born the saint
Thou seest, ere yet the clang of civil strife
Frighted our land, and 'neath that large bold will
Which swayed the Commonwealth, his budding life
Ripened to manhood. In his father's home,
A humble cottage, with the timbered walls
Of older England, grew the stalwart youth
Whom blameless strength and rude untempered force
Urged sometimes headlong, prizing overmuch
The sports his skill made dear; the flying ball
Winged by the tireless arm; the joyous toil
Of emulous comrades when the deafening peal
Swung from the reeling tower, and bell with bell
Mingled reverberant chimes; the village green
When from the short sweet grass the merry din
Of youthful voices rose, till the tired sun
Lengthened the shadows, and the faint young stars
Relit the fading skies. And oftentimes,
In hot impatient haste, his careless tongue
Would break in reckless and unmeasured speech,
And oaths profane, till sober hearers shunned
The rude wild youth. And yet his life was pure
Of grosser sin; the Fiends of Drink and Lust
Allured him not; only his headlong age
Possessed his life too much, and hurried him
By earthly flower-set ways and far from Heaven.

But not the less his self-accusing soul
Suffered for his offence. Visions by night
Oppressed his boyish sleep. He saw Heaven's dome
Aflame with fire, the boundless firmament
Shivered by mighty thunders; over all
The loud Archangel pealing, and a throne
Set in the East, whereon sate One whose face
Shone like the Morning Star. Anon the earth,
Rent by a terrible earthquake, sank with him
Into the nether hell, 'mid the dread sights
And sounds of doom, when suddenly there came
One who, on shining wings descending, snatched
His fainting soul from that accursed throng;
And lo, it was a dream!
Soon, when the storm
Of warfare burst upon the Midland fields,
A boy in years, against the faithless king
He served a soldier, for the cause he loved,
And saw his comrade at his side fall dead,
Shot through the brain. Yet when that bitter strife
Was ended, to his old rude life he turned,
As reckless as of old, until he found
A sweet girl-wife, devout, whose simple faith
Loving the ancient worship drew his feet
Sunday by Sunday to the gray old church.
Matins and Vespers, and the tranquil rite,
The surpliced priest, low prayer, and soaring chant
Worked on him, and the cheerful Sunday sports,
The dance, the race, the swift unerring shaft,
When hymns and prayers were done; and so he lived
A blameless, unawakened life.
Till last,
One fateful Sabbath morning, as he sate
Within the village church, the preacher's voice,
Bidding them keep the holy day of rest,
Seemed to the awakened conscience of the youth
To probe his inner soul. The merry throng
Crowded the green when the reproving voice
Was still, and with them he. But as his arm
Was raised to strike the ball, again the voice
Loud on his inner ear, and in the skies
A pitying Heavenly face, and all his strength
Sank nerveless sudden as by that strange chill
Which strikes the paralytic, and he knew
Some vague awakened consciousness of guilt
And terror; but as yet no healing power
Possessed his restless soul, only despair
And wretchlessness, and such ungoverned speech
That, hearing him, some hapless wanton once
Reproved him for his fault.
Then with sad heart
He strove to mend. He set a ceaseless watch
Upon his careless tongue, the sports he loved
He shunned as sin, all innocent delights
He dared no more enjoy; the game, the dance,
Music at last, and song, with iron will
He put from him, and in the mellow chimes
Of pealing bells and the tumultuous joy
Of mixed reverberant sound bore part no more,
Standing without, beneath the reeling tower,
An outcast in the darkness, grown at last
Afraid lest haply the impending walls,
As in Siloam erst, avenged his sin.

Thus did he strive long time with his own soul,
A doubter self-accused, till one fair day,
Working in summer, in the silent streets
Of Bedford, at his task, he chanced to hear
Three humble women, sitting in the sun,
Discourse of things Divine; and all his heart
Was kindled into faith in the New Birth
They spake of, and again and yet again,
Day after day, he sought them; for his soul
Cared but for Heaven alone.
And then again,
Like his own Pilgrim, who had travelled far
From the sad City on the road to Heaven,
Yet passed to Doubting Castle, he would make
A trial of his faith, still sore afraid
Lest he had none, bidding the little pools
Of water dry because the Word had said
That whoso should believe, even as a grain
Of mustard - seed, might work all miracles;
And when he dared not put it to the touch
Fresh doubts assailed his soul. Was he elect
Among the saints of God? The day of Grace,
Was it not past for him? Was there yet room
For such as he? Ah, nay; too late! too late!
The ranks of the elect were full, the tale
Accomplished, and for him the Pit of Hell,
Naught else, for all his prayers. 'Go sin; thy fate
Is sealed, thou canst not change it,' pealed the voice
Of Evil. But the undying voice within
Answered, 'I will not.' And amid the gloom
Of utter hopelessness he kept his feet
From straying, though each trivial act or word
He feared might turn to ill. Terror of death
Pressed sore on him, lest he should die in sin,
And yet he feared to live, lest haply use
Might dull that healing pain. The lowest brute,
Nay, the poor reptile on his path, he deemed
Happier than he; or if at times he held
Some hope of Heaven, the Tempter came and bade him,
In visions in the watches of the night,
Renounce the Hand which saved him. 'Sell him,' cried
The Tempter's voice within him, ruthlessly
Sounding through every trivial act and thought,
Sleeping or waking; till it came to seem,
After long struggles and convulsive throes,
As if at last his weary, o'erwrought brain
Assented to the wrong. And straight the day
Grew black as night, the very stones cried out
Against his sin.
And then, oh joy! there came,
Even in the Valley of the Shadow of Death,
To this poor pilgrim soul a heavenly Light
And Voice of Comfort. All his former sins
Of doubt or word or act, he knew forgiven
Of a great Love and Grace; and happiness
Unmixed with fear, and full assurance, filled
That self-tormented soul. Rapt in high joy,
When, like S. Francis 'midst his feathered throng,
He paced the new-sown fallows whence should spring
Life's seed, as for his soul, his jubilant heart
Would almost to the cawing rooks proclaim
His tale of Love Divine.
So that vexed soul
Found peace at last, and saw with clearer sight
"The heights of Grace and Love and Mercy." Soon
Within the lustral waters of the Ouse
His life was cleansed, and thenceforth dedicate
To preach the Word he loved, his eloquent speech,
Not tongue-tied by the learning of the schools,
Speaking to sinners. As one from the dead,
As one who bore a fire, oppressed by guilt
And terror, came he, whom nor guilt nor hell
Could silence, but 'neath humble roofs and low,
On village greens, beneath the twilight heavens,
Always he preached the Word. The liturgies
Dear to the saintly Herbert drew him not,
For whom each prayer rose new-born from the heart
To clothe itself in words, and so he spake
With full assurance, soul to soul, and led,
In part despite his creed, men's careless lives
To good and was content. Ay, though the fire
Of fierce sectarian passion and loud strifes
Swept the enfranchised land, and slander's tooth
Assailed his peace, yet worked he for his Lord
And was content.
But on those halcyon days
Broke the intolerant law. The warning came
That he, on pain of weary prisoned years,
And exile, and the bondsman's death in life,
Should preach the Word no more. He took no heed,
But when they closed his place of praise and prayer,
In sheds or barns, or 'mid the shadowy woods,
He spake to kindling souls. Last, when the law
Forbade the freedom more, he scorned to obey,
Since if it were a sin to meet, and draw
All men to follow Christ, then sin he would.

Therefore to prison haled they him, away
From his loved home. His dear and ailing wife
He left; his helpless children four he left;
And one, his little daughter blind from birth,
Whom more than life he loved, to the hard world
And penury and suffering years he left,
To do God's will; though all his father's heart
Yearned to them, knowing all the bitter pains,
Cold, hunger, nakedness, which should await
The lives his faith made orphan. Yet his soul
Was steadfast. 'I must do His will, I must,
And venture all for Him.'
And so his feet,
Pacing this weary wilderness, at length
Came on a certain place where was a Den,
And there he laid him down for twelve long years,
And dreamt his deathless dream.
Dear prison cell
Above all others blest! where self-immured,
Because he might not purchase liberty
With silence from good words, that suffering soul
Languished long years; no cloistered convent pure
Bore rarer fruit than thine, nor hermitage
Beneath the desert stars. There lives no race
Of Christian men but dreams thy dream, nor creed
But holds it dear, because its clear voice calls
Deep in the sacred silence of the soul!

For here it was that Christian rose and fled
The City of Destruction, and alone
Toiled on the rugged, narrow way, to where
The wicket gate was set, and a fair light
To guide to it. Here fell his feet awhile
Into the Slough of Despond. Here he found
The House of the Interpreter, and climbed
The Hill of Difficulty, and reposed
Within the Palace Beautiful, and slept
In Peace, and from the ramparts with the dawn
Looked down upon Emmanuel's land, a fair
And smiling country, rich with flowers and fruits
And water-springs, and on the further heaven
Flushed with the rising Sun, the untrodden snows
Of the Delectable, Eternal Hills,
Hard by the City of God. And here he took
His armour, and went fearless down to fight
Apollyon, and prevailed, and saw beneath,
Stretched in thick darkness, filled with dreadful sounds,
The Valley of the Shadow of Death, and dared
To thread the darkling pass, where piteous wails,
And rising fiery smoke, and dead men's bones,
And dreadfuller, the onward rushing flight
Of Fiends unseen, the spectral shades of Doubt,
Assailed his steadfast soul. And here he saw
Vanity Fair, the sad world's counterfeit,
Wherefrom the martyred Pilgrim passed to Heaven.
And here the dungeon glooms of Doubting yawned,
The stronghold of Despair, which held him fast
Whose lips had tasted of the River of Life.
Here smiled the plains of Beulah, and beyond
Stole the dark deep which all mankind must cross,
Sinner and saint; and here the golden domes
Of the Celestial City beamed on him
Who after Life's sad pilgrimage was blest!

But when to his dear home he came again,
After twelve years of prison, free to preach
His message as he would, he knew what change
Time brings to all; dead was his sightless girl,
And bare his humble home. So with brave heart
He set himself to work, but chiefly vowed
His toil to Heaven. To labour for his Church
Was all his joy, and yet his worldly store
Increased, and he in great respect of men,
With his good wife, among his stalwart boys,
Flourished long busy years; and all the doubt
And misery of old were gone, and clear
The sunset of the evening of his days
Shone on him, tranquil gold. Through all the strife
Of those dark troubled times, he lived unmoved
A peaceful life, scorning the narrow bonds
Dear to the zealot, broad in tolerance
For every Christian creed or rite or name
Which loved the Spirit of God; and toiled for souls
In his dear native town, and was content.

Then while as yet his green, unbroken age
Was vigorous, came the end which comes at last
To all things living. One there was whose wrath
Burned fierce against his son, and he who knew
The blessing of the Peacemakers was fain
To reconcile the pair. And as he rode
Loving his task, upon the wintry way
A sudden rain-storm chilled his weary frame,
And fever racked his limbs. Ten suffering days
He lingered far from home, and with the cry,
'Take me -- to Thee I come,' breathed out his life."

Which things when I had heard, my kindling soul
Burst into words: "Oh, precious gift and rare
Of Heaven, which from the slough of common life,
And stony wastes of penury, despite,
Oppression, want, despondency, canst raise
The perfumed rose of Fancy, and the pure
White lily of the Saint! Ah, not alone
In cloistered convents cold, or storied shrines,
Springs up the saintly life, nor in the Halls
Of Learning blooms the perfect flower of thought!
Myriads of faltering feet have trod the road
Thou troddest once, and fought and fallen, or come
Through thee to victory, and as they pass,
Fired with a broader faith and wider hope
Than that thou knewest; on their painful way,
Not wholly thine, but to the self-same goal,
Still solaced by thy precious allegory,
Take thee and thy quaint Dream for staff and guide,
Throughout the perilous pilgrimage to Heaven."





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