Old Souls, I–XXIV

The world, not hushed, lay as in trance; It saw the future in its van, And drew its riches in advance, To meet the greedy wants of man; Till length of days, untimely sped, Left its account unaudited.

The sun, untired, still rose and set,— Swerved not an instant from its beat: It had not lost a moment yet, Nor used in vain its light and heat; But, as in trance, from when it rose To when it sank, man craved repose.

A holy light that shone of yore He saw, despised, and left behind: His heart was rotting to the core Locked in the slumbers of the mind Not beat of drum, nor sound of fife, Could rouse it to a sense of life.

A cry was heard, intoned and slow, Of one who had no wares to vend: His words were gentle, dull, and low, And he called out, ‘Old souls to mend!’ He peddled on from door to door, And looked not up to rich or poor.

His step kept on as if in pace With some old timepiece in his head, Nor ever did its way retrace; Nor right nor left turned he his tread But uttered still his tinker’s cry To din the ears of passers-by.

So well they knew the olden note Few heeded what the tinker spake, Though here and there an ear it smote And seemed a sudden hold to take; But they had not the time to stay, And it would do some other day.

Still on his way the tinker wends, Though jobs be far between and few; But here and there a soul he mends And makes it look as good as new. Once set to work, once fairly hired, His dull old hammer seems inspired.

Over the task his features glow; He knocks away the rusty flakes; A spark flies off at every blow; At every rap new life awakes. The soul once cleansed of outward sins, His subtle handicraft begins.

Like iron unannealed and crude, The soul is plunged into the blast; To temper it, however rude, ’Tis next in holy water cast; Then on the anvil it receives The nimblest stroke the tinker gives.

The tinker’s task is at an end: Stamped was the cross by that last blow. Again his cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’ Is heard in accents dull and low. He pauses not to seek his pay,— That too will do another day.

One stops and says, ‘This soul of mine Has been a tidy piece of ware, But rust and rot in it combine, And now corruption lays it bare. Give it a look: there was a day When it the morning hymn could say.’

The tinker looks into his eye, And there detects besetting sin, The decent old-established lie, That creeps through all the chinks within. Lank are its tendrils, thick its shoots, And like a worm’s nest coil the roots.

Like flowers that deadly berries bear, His seed, if tended from the pod, Had grown in beauty with the year, Like deodara drawn to God; Now like a dank and curly brake, It fosters venom for the snake.

The tinker takes the weed in tow, And roots it out with tooth and nail; His labour patient to bestow, Lest like the herd of men he fail. How best to extirpate the weed, Has grown with him into a creed.

His tack is steady, slow, and sure: He plucks it out, despite the howl, With gentle hand and look demure, As cunning maiden draws a fowl. He knows the job he is about, And pulls till all the lie is out.

‘Now steadfastly regard the man Who wrought your cure of rust and rot! You saw him ere the work began: Is he the same, or is he not? You saw the tinker; now behold The Envoy of a God of old.’

This said, he on the forehead stamps A downward stroke and one across, Then straight upon his way he tramps; His time for profit, not for loss; His task no sooner at an end Than out he cries, ‘Old souls to mend!’

As night comes on he enters doors, He crosses halls, he goes upstairs, He reaches first and second floors, Still busied on his own affairs. None stop him or a question ask; None heed the workman at his task.

Despite his cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’ Which into dull expression breaks, Not moved are they, nor ear they lend To him who from old habit speaks; Yet does the deep and one-toned cry Send thrills along eternity.

He gads where out-door wretches walk, Where outcasts under arches creep; Among them holds his simple talk. He lets them hear him in their sleep. They who his name have still denied, He lets them see him crucified.

On royal steps he takes a stand To light the beauties to the ball; He holds a lantern in his hand, And lets his simple saying fall. They deem him but some sorry wit Serving the Holy Spirit’s writ.

They know not souls can rust and rot, And deem him, while he says his say, The tipsy watchman who forgot To call out ‘Carriage stops the way!’ They know not what it can portend, This mocking cry, ‘Old souls to mend!’

While standing on the palace stone, He is in workhouse, brothel, jail; He is to play and ball-room gone, To hear again the beauties rail; With tender pity to behold The dead alive in pearls and gold.

In meaning deep, in whispers low As bubble bursting on the air, He lets the solemn warning flow Through jewelled ears of creatures fair, Who, while they dance, their paces blend With his mild words, ‘Old souls to mend!’