And not historic knowledge, logic sound, And metaphysical acumen, sure!      "What think ye of Christ," friend? when all's done and said, Like you this Christianity or not? It may be false, but will you wish it true? Has it your vote to be so if it can? Trust you an instinct silenced long ago 630 That will break silence and enjoin you love What mortified philosophy is hoarse, And all in vain, with bidding you despise? If you desire faith—then you've faith enough:      What else seeks God—nay, what else seek ourselves? You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, On hearsay; it's a favorable one:      "But still" (you add) "there was no such good man, Because of contradiction in the facts. One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, 640 This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him I see he figures as an Englishman."      Well, the two things are reconcilable. But would I rather you discovered that, Subjoining—"Still, what matter though they be? Blougram concerns me naught, born here or there."         Pure faith indeed—you know not what you ask! Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, 0mniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. 650 It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare. Some think, Creation's meant to show him forth:      I say it's meant to hide him all it can, And that's what all the blessed evil's for. Its use in Time is to environ us, Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough Against that sight till we can bear its stress. Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain And lidless eye and disemprisoned heart Less certainly would wither up at once 660 Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. But time and earth case-harden us to live; The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the place, Plays on and grows to be a man like us. With me, faith means perpetual unbelief Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. Or, if that's too ambitious—here's my box—      I need the excitation of a pinch 670 Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes.      "Leave it in peace" advise the simple folk:      Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, Say I—let doubt occasion still more faith! You 'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. How you'd exult if I could put you back Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, Geology, 

 Prev. P 60/85 next