A beggar, a drug addict, a layabout....a complete loser....

.....but not in the eyes of God.

The poet, Francis Thompson died on 13th November 1907 in St John's and Elizabeth's Hospital, London.

He died alone apart from a dedicated nurse who stayed with him that night to see him leave this life that he appeared so at odds with.

Yet, beneath an exterior of neglect and intemperance, lurked a God given talent for composing some of the most beautiful and deeply spiritual prose.

His life seems to be a series of ever unfolding disasters, many brought about by his own absent mindedness, his lack of awareness of the world around him and, later on, the opium to which he became addicted.

Born in Lancashire in 1859, his parents converted to Catholicism and young 'Frank' grew up in an intensely religious household. 
Sent to Ushaw at the age of eleven, it appeared that young Francis was destined for the priesthood but, it seemed as if he did not fit in at school and he suffered bullying from his fellow classmates.

For whatever reason, his father decided, in the manner of most Victorian fathers, that his son was not suited to the priestly life and guided him to medical studies in the hopes that Francis would follow in his footsteps and become a doctor.

Sadly, this young, unkempt, outcast of a youth took to sampling medical drugs, specifically, laudanum.

This began his physical and mental downfall and, the final straw came when Francis sold his medical textbooks to fund his drug habit which had, by then, progressed to opium.

Francis was now on the road to perdition and began living rough on the streets of London. 
Paradoxically, during this period, he wrote poetry on odd scraps of paper and began a series of failed attempts at rehabilitation.

A publisher who was also a Catholic, took an interest in this 'spectre' of a man (who had arrived on his doorstep wearing a ragged coat and minus shirt and socks) and even published some of his poetry resulting in a small income for the starving man.

He was sent to Storrington in Sussex to live with the Norbertines in the hope that his removal from London would break the drug habit and his association with the good Fathers would restore him spiritually.

But there was no stability in Francis and he was soon back in London and staying with the publisher, Wilfred Meynell who made a second attempt to redeem him by sending him to the Francisans in Pantasaph in North Wales.

Here, at last, Francis seemed to find an uneasy peace and he stayed for five years during which he had his first book of poetry published.

In true form, however, he returned to London where he took on the appearance of a living skeleton.

Falling ill he was admitted to the Catholic St John's and Elizabeth's Hospital where he died shortly afterwards.

Most Catholics know him for his famous poem 'The Hound of Heaven' but Francis Thompson wrote many more excellent poems, some, admittedly rather Victorian in terms of flowery prose.

'The Kingdom of God' is arguably his next best appreciated poem (see the video below) but I also like 'A Holocaust' because the language used is most graphic.

And for those who do not know the meaning of the word 'caitiff' - as did I, it means a cowardly person.

Apologies for the rather annoying animation

A Holocaust

'No man ever attained supreme knowledge, unless his heart had been

torn up by the roots.'

When I presage the time shall come--yea, now

Perchance is come, when you shall fail from me,

Because the mighty spirit, to whom you vow

Faith of kin genius unrebukably,

Scourges my sloth, and from your side dismissed

Henceforth this sad and most, most lonely soul

Must, marching fatally through pain and mist,

The God-bid levy of its powers enrol;

When I presage that none shall hear the voice

From the great Mount that clangs my ordained advance,

That sullen envy bade the churlish choice

Yourself shall say, and turn your altered glance;

O God! Thou knowest if this heart of flesh

Quivers like broken entrails, when the wheel

Rolleth some dog in middle street, or fresh

Fruit when ye tear it bleeding from the peel;

If my soul cries the uncomprehended cry

When the red agony oozed on Olivet!

Yet not for this, a caitiff, falter I,

Beloved whom I must lose, nor thence regret

The doubly-vouched and twin allegiance owed

To you in Heaven, and Heaven in you, Lady.

How could you hope, loose dealer with my God,

That I should keep for you my fealty?

For still 'tis thus:-because I am so true,

My Fair, to Heaven, I am so true to you! 

Francis Thompson - RIP

Wednesday's poem courtesy of Francis Thompson

Thompson's dying words were: "Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven" He was a great lover of children (and I make that comment in a true sense of purity as, indeed the poet meant it).

This is a great favourite of mine...extracts from.....

The Hound of Heaven

by

Francis Thompson (1859-1907)

 

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
  I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
  Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter

  Up vistaed hopes I sped;
             And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
                  But with unhurrying chase,
                  And unperturbèd pace,
                Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
                  They beat--and a Voice beat
                  More instant than the Feet--
                "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

                  I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
  Trellised with intertwining charities
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
                  Yet was I sore adread
Lest having Him, I must have naught beside);
But if one little casement parted wide,
  The gust of His approach would clash it to.
  Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
  And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;
                  Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to dawn, Be sudden; to eve, Be soon;
  With thy young skyey blossoms heap me over
                  From this tremendous Lover!
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
  I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
  Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
  Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
                  But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
                The long savannahs of the blue;
                    Or whether, Thunder-driven,
                  They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet--
                  Still with unhurrying chase,
                  And unperturbèd pace,
                Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
                  Came on the following Feet,
                  And a Voice above their beat--
                "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that after which I strayed
                In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
                Seems something, something that replies;
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
                With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's--share
With me," said I, "your delicate fellowship;
                Let me greet you lip to lip,
                Let me twine with you caresses,
                  Wantoning
              With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses'
                  Banqueting
                With her in her wind-walled palace,
                Underneath her azured daïs,
                Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
                    From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."
                    So it was done;
I in their delicate fellowship was one--
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
                  I knew all the swift importings
                  On the wilful face of skies;
                  I knew how the clouds arise
                  Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
                    All that's born or dies
                  Rose and drooped with--made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine--
                  With them joyed and was bereaven.
                  I was heavy with the even,
                  When she lit her glimmering tapers
                  Round the day's dead sanctities.
                  I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
                  Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
                    I laid my own to beat,
                    And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's gray cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
                These things and I; in sound I speak--
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
                  Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
                  The breasts of her tenderness;
Never did any milk of hers once bless
                    My thirsting mouth.
                    Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
                    With unperturbèd pace,
                  Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
                    And past those noisèd Feet
                    A voice comes yet more fleet--
"Lo naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

                  Now of that long pursuit
                  Comes on at hand the bruit;
                That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
                  "And is thy earth so marred,
                  Shattered in shard on shard?
                Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
                Strange, piteous, futile thing,
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught," He said,
"And human love needs human meriting,
                How hast thou merited--
Of all man's clotted clay rhe dingiest clot?
                Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee
                Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
                Not for thy harms.
But just that thou might'st seek it in my arms.
                All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for the at home;
                Rise, clasp My hand, and come!"

  Halts by me that footfall;
  Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstreched caressingly?
  "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
  I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."