THE BOW IN THE CLOUD.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LVII, Issue 17483, 29 May 1920, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE BOW IN THE CLOUD.

— —-— RADIANCE FROM RAINDROPS. BY MA7ANGA. Scarcely a day of the fortnight just past has been without, its rainbow. At ' early dawn the western hills have peered ] through the shimmering archway. As the nightfall came apace through the shortening day. the glory appeared again, resting a fleeting foot on tho waters of the Waitemata and the Manukau, and transfiguring field and dwelling with the ' same sheen that filled the sky. One ' soulful glimpse of that iridian" radiance has been full compensation for aught of bodily discomfort the rain-swept hours may have brought. Clouds, as Tennyson quite accurately suggests, are themselves the children of the sun; and it becomes them to serve his glory. His rays, when he shines full upon their falling raindrops, are reflected and refracted in the beauty of the bow. It. is their witness to his abiding might, their acknowledgment of his majesty ; yet is their service so rendered as to tamper to mortals that might and majesty. Those falling raindrops break up the clear sun'ii awesome light so that we may unharmed gaze into it, and know the beauty of its pure brightness. Such service may all sombre sorrows yield, declaring the tender beauty that resides in life's imperious light. Tears may prove life's iridescent raindrops, revealing a splendid order and a tender grace where otherwise all would be " dark with excessive bright," Suffering, as poor, baffled Oscar Wilde confessed at last, is not a mystery: it is rather a revelation. To gisd against life's bursting storms and sweeping rain argues a visionless heart. Even the great war's awful deluge is not without a bow in the cloud. A Seceding Allurement. \ Beside the rainbow's disclosure of shining order mid the whirling grey of the rain cloud, there comes a word about life's elusions. The bow is in tho cloud ; it is not on the earth, though it seems to rest there. Close as it appears arching over adjacent hill or springing from .some near slope, touching with its sheen fields where we have wandered and dwellings we know full well—it abides only in the cloud. Insubstantial and elusive, it is ever beyond our grasp. In childhood, its fabled pot of gold led many of us to seek the earthly spot it touched; we thought, could we but find its foot, untold wealth would be ours. But we have grown up to discover that it has a glory and a treasure far surpassing any pot of gold, and that its very value lies in the fact that it is beyond us. It tells of deeper things than its beauty. Its elusiveness makes it a marvellous monitor. It is the splendid parable of our life. Life consists in pursuit. Its essence is progress. It was not given us for its joy. It certainly was not made for sorrow. It is an ever-present opportunity for achievement; not a final achievement, bat a progressive one. Life is a journey, not an arrival— ceaseless setting out, not a homecoming; and "the bow in the cloud" is its truest, finest, holiest symbol. Deep meaning. lies in many -of Stevenson's "Child Songs.' 1 With another he be--I!*<»>. t'h-.t 'tl.il tl,r,„rrl,tc „f -.-n.ltV, ,m

Iteves that the thoughts 01 youth are long, iong thoughts." He was ever a pilgrim of hope; you can see in his face, even his dying face, the bow in the cloud. Well does he interpret the infinite long- ' . ing of childhood in his "My Ship and I" : ' 1 0 it's I that am the captain of a tidy little , ship. ' Of a snip that goes »-aaiiing on the pond; i And my ship it keeps a-turning ail round and all about; ( ( But when I'm a. little older, I shall find the ] secret out How to send my vessel sailing on beyond. < 0 it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds, ' And you'll hear the water singing at the | prow; For besid-s the dolly sailor, I'm to voyage and < explore, j To land upon the island where no dolly was before, I And to fire the penny cannon in the bow. . That is the longing that lies at the back i of all life's effort, that keeps us and ; proves us alive. When that is gone, we j might as well go too. It would go if we \ actually realised it. If our dreams came ' true they would have no help for us. The best of our castles are in the air. Only i the ones that are of the earth earthy can be our prisons or our tombs. Those made of "the baseless fabric of a vision" are alone the fit habitation for a soul. They alone remain, because they may be for ever sought. When we enter them, they vanish ; just as our entry into the rainbowwould be aur loss of it. The Profit of Hope. Listening for yet a little to the singing seer of Vailima, we may he taught by j his "Where go the Boat*?" that the best | we can hope for is that others may enter j into the full realisation of our hopes, although that realisation be denied to us: Dark brown is the river, Go'.d"n is the sand. It flows along forever, With trees on either hand. 6 Groin lea.v»s a-floating. Ca*U<l4 nl the foam. Boat- d mine &-boatin?— Wbero will all come home? On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down tho hill. Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other littlo children Shall bring my boats ashore. There are great cosmic hopes that have, j been the enthusiasms of many generations '-the full triumph of right, tho over- ' throw of all oppression, the coming of universal peace; and all the Rood of a ' millennial state. Sometimes the realisation ' seemed not far away. An awakening : renascence, a sweeping reform, a new political constitution—one or other surely ushered in the millennium 1 Men saw the ; rainbow's foot halt at Thebes, Nineveh, 1 Athens, Jerusalem, Antioch, Rome, I Florence. Runnvmede, Lutterworth, Witi tcnbur„', Prague, Geneva, Plymouth Rock ; ' but it" faded, and the broken arc was gone. Fascinated, inspired, we pursue th-> radiance still, convinced that it is no mocking' mirage, but a beckoning beacon. At even- new wond-crisis "we trace the rainbow through the rain." i Within th' little world of our own lives !we have longed for a like end Perfection has lured us, r.nlv to retreat, until we have welcomed Browning's comfort — \ Success is naught, endeavour's all. Life's misdeed? and misadventures shame and chasten us sorely enough, but! there is often a stab of deeper pain from the unaccomplished plans of the past. The self sought valleys of the shadow chill us vet ' but there' is no rebuke like thai i hurled upon us from the heights we might have scaled. With Cecil Rhodes we nur- , mur _-8o little done, so much to do i Despair threatens to possess the citadel iof our purposes. But. the elusive splen i ! dour of these stormy days rejuvenates our ; courage. Life, is effort, not final achieve- ' I me C niP dnv. it mav be. the broken arc of I earth allurtns ambition will heroine a I ' elorv set completely round nrnut a ' throne : hut meinwh le we would live by , th e rainbow.light of Stevenson a word: , "0 tolling hands of mortals. 0 un- , weaned feet, travelling ye know not whither' • L i ttle do y° u k,IOW 1 vo, own blessedness for to travel hope- ■ WW is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is labour.