Old Souls, XXV–XXXVIII

And when to church their sins they take, And bring them back to lunch again, And fun of empty sermons make, He whispers softly in their train; And sits with them if two or more Think of a promise made of yore.

Of those who stay behind to sup, And in remembrance eat the bread, He leads the conscience to the cup, His hands across the table spread. When contrite hearts before him bend, Glad are his words, ‘Old souls to mend.’

The little ones before the font He clasps within his arms to bless; For Childhood’s pure and guileless front Laughs back his own sweet gentleness. ‘Of such,’ he says, ‘my kingdom is, For they betray not with a kiss.’

He goes to hear the vicars preach: They do not always know his face, Him they pretend the way to teach, And, as one absent, ask his grace. Not then his words, ‘Old souls to mend!’ Their spirits pierce or bosoms rend.

He goes to see the priests revere His image as he lay in death: They do not know that he is there; They do not feel his living breath, Though to his secret they pretend With incense sweet, old souls to mend.

He goes to hear the grand debate That makes his own religion law; But him the members, as he sate Below the gangway, never saw. They used his name to serve their end, And others left old souls to mend.

Before the church-exchange he stands, Where those who buy and sell him, meet: He sees his livings changing hands, And shakes the dust from off his feet. May be his weary head he bows, While from his side fresh ichor flows.

From mitred peers he turns his face. Where priests convoked in session plot, He would remind them of his grace But for his now too humble lot; So his dull cry on ears devout He murmurs sadly from without.

He goes where judge the law defends, And takes the life he can’t bestow, And soul of sinner recommends To grace above, but not below; Reserving for a fresh surprise Whom it shall meet in Paradise.

He goes to meeting, where the saint Exempts himself from deadly ire, But in a strain admired and quaint Consigns all others to the fire, While of the damned he mocks the howl, And on the tinker drops his scowl.

Go here, go there, they cite his word, While he himself is nigh forgot. He hears them use the name of Lord, He present though they know him not. Though he be there, they vision lack, And talk of him behind his back.

Such is the Church and such the State. Both set him up and put him down,— Below the houses of debate, Above the jewels of the crown. But when ‘Old souls to mend!’ he says, They send him off about his ways.

He is the humble, lowly one, In coat of rusty velveteen, Who to his daily work has gone; In sleeves of lawn not ever seen. No mitre on his forehead sticks: His crown is thorny, and it pricks.

On it the dews of mercy shine; From heaven at dawn of day they fell; And it he wears by right divine, Like earthly kings, if truth they tell; And up to heaven the few to send, He still cries out, ‘Old souls to mend!’