 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
MY LIBRARY.
Beloved friends, I seek you once again;
Admit me to your sacred presence: here
I feel myself once more. My brain grows clear;
These walls expand, a temple's size attain.
The “Open-sesame,” which can constrain
Its lofty gates with music like the sphere
To give admission, I have learned. My ear
Catches a hum and murmur like the main.
“The peaceful lords of spiritual fame”—
The only title Time will recognise—
Are there; and starlike shines each glorious name,
Looking eternity from steadfast eyes.
Wings have they, and their tongues are as a flame,
Like stubble to burn up the world's poor lies.
Admit me to your sacred presence: here
I feel myself once more. My brain grows clear;
These walls expand, a temple's size attain.
The “Open-sesame,” which can constrain
Its lofty gates with music like the sphere
To give admission, I have learned. My ear
Catches a hum and murmur like the main.
“The peaceful lords of spiritual fame”—
The only title Time will recognise—
Are there; and starlike shines each glorious name,
Looking eternity from steadfast eyes.
Wings have they, and their tongues are as a flame,
Like stubble to burn up the world's poor lies.
43
Great Shakspear greets me, like himself, with smile
Open as day and kind as charity,
And simple as sweet Truth's own infancy;
And “rare old Ben,” soul free from taint of guile,
Whose garments the world's touch could ne'er defile:
Heart true as steel; for whom, to serve thereby
His friend, that grand soul, putting his own high
And mighty rôle off, the small part awhile
Of “Kno'well” played. Then Homer nods his head
Like his own Jove, while thunder seems to roll
Melodious to the sústained tramp and tread
Of his grand verse, lifting like waves the soul;
And sounding like the boundless ocean, spread
Before us, rolling free from pole to pole.
Open as day and kind as charity,
And simple as sweet Truth's own infancy;
And “rare old Ben,” soul free from taint of guile,
Whose garments the world's touch could ne'er defile:
Heart true as steel; for whom, to serve thereby
His friend, that grand soul, putting his own high
And mighty rôle off, the small part awhile
Of “Kno'well” played. Then Homer nods his head
Like his own Jove, while thunder seems to roll
Melodious to the sústained tramp and tread
Of his grand verse, lifting like waves the soul;
And sounding like the boundless ocean, spread
Before us, rolling free from pole to pole.
But who is this, great where the greatest come?
Greater or less are not; where mountains rise
So high, small difference they equalise:
They fill the eye alike, alike strike dumb.
'Tis Dante, whose Medusa page can numb
With horror, or with tears fill Pity's eyes.
I “look and pass,” for Hell methinks still lies
About him e'en in Heaven, and of Doom
He shadow casts. On Milton, near, it falls,
Deeping its counterpart! But now begin
Strains might a soul within the temple-walls
Create, triumphant over death and sin.
With organ “voix céleste,” 'tis Handel calls:
“Ye good and faithful servants,” enter in.
Greater or less are not; where mountains rise
So high, small difference they equalise:
They fill the eye alike, alike strike dumb.
'Tis Dante, whose Medusa page can numb
With horror, or with tears fill Pity's eyes.
I “look and pass,” for Hell methinks still lies
About him e'en in Heaven, and of Doom
He shadow casts. On Milton, near, it falls,
Deeping its counterpart! But now begin
Strains might a soul within the temple-walls
Create, triumphant over death and sin.
With organ “voix céleste,” 'tis Handel calls:
“Ye good and faithful servants,” enter in.
| Stones from The Quarry | |