University of Virginia Library

The mighty Fabric of the Universe,
These vast Enchantmenthalls, as fair as when
They like an Exhalation noiseless rose
From Chaos, at the One Eternal's Word,
While the Spheremusic tuned into its Place
Each Part harmonious, domed by the bright
Blue Heavensvault, with rich Cloudpictures strewn,
Emblazonings of divine Hand, wrought by
The primal Painter, primal Poet, stretched
In sightoutreaching Loveliness away,
To where the Billows kissed the purple Hem
Of the Sun's Garment, sinking into Rest.
A waking Vision, lovelier than Dreams,
And real to him, who to the grand Idea
Of this bright Universe has found the Clue
In Faith, and Love, and calm Contentedness!

The Scene was lovely as a Scene could be;
The Rainbowhues and Forms that clothe this Earth,
Were fresh and glorious as a Poetsdream
Of Youth and springtide Love: so passingfair
That he who gazed with but a casual Eye,
Grew to Perception of a Loveliness
Akin to highest Truths— to Faith, and Peace
And Love revealed as one: a Loveliness
Twinborn with Truth, and fading not away;
Which in bright Radiance streams o'er the Earth,
Leaving some Portion of its Light on all,
However lowly, that fulfills its End
In Lowliness and Love, on each Hedgeflower,
Each Meadowdayseye, and each smallest Leaf;
But most on Man's own Heart, when He at one
With himself lives, and all around him here;
Making it as a Beautyfount to him
Who in himself is that which he should be,
Who consciously possesses what he has,
And consciously enjoys, by Selfcontent
Creating for his Soul a Sabbathpeace,
And in the Blessedness of this fair World,
As in the Shadow of the most High God,
Living, and with its Beauty clothed, as with
A Garment 'bove the Reach of sere Decay!

It was a glorious sunset! the far Sky
Was barred with Cloudstreaks, and the Eveningwind,
That Airmagician, with his Spellwandtouch,
Had piled Cloudpalaces of gorgeous Show
And vast Extent; Shapes infinite, of Hue
Still changing momently, like Life's vain Dreams;
Wherein the Soul itself might roam at large,
And with the rich materials create
The gorgeous Fabrics of the Days of Eld,
Cathedralpiles, and Domes of fancyspan:
When Faith drew from a richer Source than these
Tho' thus allboundless; from high Piety
And Love, that measured not the Moneycosts
Of Wood and Stone, as in these dimeyed Days
We dull Earthdrudges do: we dullsouled Race,
Whose Hopes and Thoughts are ever on the Earth,
Whose Hearts still grovel in its Dust, and pile
Molelike, their passing Heaps of crumbling Clay!
But worked allspiritualized to highest Ends,
Creating for the Soul and from the Soul,
A something that might seem eternal, like
The Hope that gave it Birth; might body forth
Not allunworthily, and bear some Touch
Of those high Thoughts, whose during Majesty
Can mould Earth's brute Materials to Types
Of Feelings bove the Reach of chance and change!

It was a lovely Eve; but over me
Its Beauty pass'd like some vague, idle Dream;
I could not make it a Reality,
Nor reap th' invisible Harvest of its Joy.
The Vision and the Faculty divine
Had passed away from me; mine Eyes were dim
To all the Shapes of Loveliness around,
Mine Ears were dead to all Earth's Minstrelsy;
For my own Heart, the keynote of all Joy,
Was out of Tune, its selfcontent was gone,
And I was for awhile, but what I seemed,
Barely possessing what this Earth accords
Of Time and Space, and in its Darkness wrapt
As in a Pall; the pure, high Consciousness
Of that which is beyond these outward Things,
At Discontent's cold Touch, had passed away,
Like Flowerodors, leaving me alone
To struggle with myself, my only Foe.
I sat me by the streamside, whence the Mist
In Silversmoke, rose curling wavily,
Hiding the Banksidetreestems, whose green Tops
Waved soft above, kissed by the Eveningair:
The Brook ran babbling on, but not for me,
Its Music was the Music of past Days;
I wished myself a child, to frolic still
Amid the Grass, with Power to feel and see
The Beauty of the Dayseye at my Feet:
But 'twould not be: the pure celestial Dew
That fell on Bud and Leaf, fell not on me;
Nor wonder: can a tuneless Instrument
Make Music, or a Heart that's not at one
Within itself, be fitted for high Joys
And sweet Perceptions of the inner Life?
The Eyelid of the Secondsight was closed,
And I could see no deeper than the Eye,
The outward Eye, and in the Forms of Things,
Which on my Sight as on a mirror fell,
Flung coldly back from Apathy's dull Foil,
Alone I had my Being— thus awhile
Earth's Weight lay heavy on my Spirit, Past
And Future, its high Heritage were gone;
And my daywearied Senses, like mere Slaves,
When the high Masterspirit is away,
No more selfharmonized, performed their Tasks
From mere brute Instinct, and with lacklove Zeal,
Like base Mechanics, allunconscious of
The higher Offices to which the Soul
Makes their low Toil subservient; by these
It with the outward World holds Commune, shapes
And blends its rich Materials at Will,
After the Beautymould which in himself
Each in his own Degree possesses, more
Or less imperfect, as the inner Eye
Has kept the Heavenarchetype in View,
Or lost its glorious Amplitude of Ken
By Worship of Earthsforms— by these the Soul
A Portion of its own Eternity
Imparts to passing Things, and gives to that
Which lives in Time and Space, a higher Scope,
A nobler Being like the life of Soul.
Thus divine Truths under the Shape of Words,
(Else Signs of perishable earthly Things)
Are as a Soul embodied for the Use
And Wellfare of Mankind, and in this Form
They pass from Lip to Lip, from Heart to Heart,
By these the great of old still speak with, and
Like Spirits hover near us, still work out
The godlike End which occupied their Lives.
Thus from the Stone too, the creative Hand
When mindimpelled, can call high Fancies forth,
And plant a Soul, as 'twere, within a Shape
Of Beauty; Lips which without voice yet speak,
And which had they all Power of Words at Will,
Yet in the Limits of Man's narrow speech,
Moulded by Hopes and Fears, and mortal Joys,
Could not comprize the mighty Truths which live
In them, as they themselves within the Block,
Unto the spellbound Gaze of Genius,
Ere yet his chosen Hand has called them forth.
And as the chosen Hand was needed there
So here the chosen Ear, whose ample Scope
Athwart Earth's fleeting, feverish Sounds has caught
The calm, deep Music of Eternity,
Coming upon it with the solemn Flow
As of deep Waters, not in Tumult loud,
But strong in their own calm Immensity!

Thus in the outward Ear and Eye, the soul
Infuses its own Vastness— in the Wind
We hear mysterious Voices, which declare
Whither it goes, and whence its Spirit comes;
And in the Mountainecho, when dim Night
Has peopled Rock and Cave, and fabulous Spring,
With her wild Progeny, and haunts the Heart
With Looks and Voices from departed Years,
No merely mortal Accents do we hear
But Spirit answers Spirit, Soul with Soul
Has its high Commune, and the Voice we hear
Is Nature calling to her erring Child,
The Yearning of her mighty Heart towards
A Heart that throbs in Unison with hers,
Beating upon her universal Breast,
And finding there the Peace which it had lost.

Thus too when by the Grave of those we love
We kneel in Grief, which yet is not Despair,
For from our mortal Yearnings, from the Joys
Which Death has trodden in the Dust, arise
More spiritual Thoughts, above the Reach
Of Chance and Change; from perishable Things
Imperishable spring, as Flowerscents
Free them selves from their dustborn Dwellingplace,
And mingling with a purer Element,
Are lost to Earth, and given back to Heaven;
Thus as we kneel upon the fatal Brink,
Which tho' scarce sixfeetdeep, yet severs more
Than Seas or Mountains, and as the chill Earth
Falls with its solemn Warning, from the Grave
The Ashes speak, if we have Ears to hear.
They tell us that as Dust must unto Dust,
So Soul shall unto Soul; the Air doth claim
Its own, the Earth its own, and Heaven too
Demands what it has given.— Naught is lost:
For in this mighty Whole Death has no Share,
Tho' Change has much: there is no Death, save that
Accomplishëd by Sin, which kills the Life
Of Life, and like the Worm within the Seed,
Gnaws at the Growth of an Eternity.
And as these Truths come from the eloquent Grave,
Whose still, small Voice above Earth's empty Noise
And Nothingness is heard: and as the Priest
His «Amen» says, an Echo from the Tomb,
From out that other World is given back;
Which at such Moments, when the Littleness
Of weekdaylife no longer cramps us, deigns
With human Hopes and Fears to sympathize.

Oh! yes, the Ear by Faith is priviledged
To hear such Echoes from the silent Grave;
'Tis God's own Voice, which to the contrite Heart
Speaks of a coming Rest, a blessed Peace,
Forefelt in that calm Voice, to be enjoyed
There, whence that Voice proceeds; that blessed Place,
Where seeing all Things as they truly are,
We shall no longer mourn for seeming Loss.
Oh! yes, such Answers to the Soul are given,
And oh why not? shall this dull, senseless Earth
Give back our Body's Voice, and shall the Soul
Have less high Priviledge? if visible Nature
Thus sympathize with that which perishes,
Shall the invisible World not sympathize
With the Unperishing? nor recognize
The Voice that calleth for an Oracle,
When meaner Shrines are dumb? when Reason fails
And earthborn Wisdom on the Future throws
A darkling Light; when Faith alone can solve
The Mystery of our Being, and uplift
The Veil which hides th'Enigma of this Life.

Yea! it does sympathize, and oft our Souls
Are snatched from this dull, weary World, this Scene
Of Discords, Contradictions infinite,
That make Hope sick, and Reason but a Jest,
And Faith a sore footweary Pilgrim towards
The shrine of Truth, and lifted for awhile
Into a pure and ampler Air, to draw
The Breath of Life, and tastethe Fountainhead
Of the Lifewaters, gushing as of yore
From 'neath the Throne of the Eternal God,
The God who is before all Worlds, all Times,
As full and deep as when in Spirit there
We were but one with the great Whole, like Rays
Not yet sunsevered, nor as yet enclosed
In this Claytenement.

— Oh Miracle
Of Miracles, which God herein has wrought
For us, as if in every Breast he sought
To place a Witness of his Wonderworks!
And yet we look abroad, Doubt's dimeyed Slaves
For Testimonies, which we in us have
Tho' we feel not: Oh wonderful! that that
Which is Eternal, can be made to seem
Timelimited; which having been before
This antique Earth was made, with all her Flowers,
Her pleasant Valleys and cloudcleaving Hills,
Her fabulous Ruins, in the Shadow wrapt
And Glory of the Past, as Shapes in Dreams,
Her Skeletons of eldtime Cities, where
The Owl and Ivy rule, her foreworld Piles
Of Giantmould: her hoar Antiquities
Of memorybaffling Age, to which the Tongue
Of grey Tradition scarce assigns a Date:
Like an old dotard Nurse, whose Lip forgets
The Name of him whose Infancy she reared!
And which Man in Selfignorance calls old;
Oh wonderful, that having been before
This antique Earth was made, this Earth wherein
As her own earthborn Offspring we succeed
Each other Race by Race, and sink to Dust
In her own Bosom, tho' we come from far;
Oh wonderful that this should have no Note
Of what it was before, tho' having been,
And being yet to be, cannot foreknow
Its own Hereafter! tho' with Time and Space
It has nought common, save this crumbling Clay,
Its Prison, or its Dwellingplace as haps,
For some brief fourscore Years of mortal Time,
As the Clock reckons it, tho' in our Souls
We have another measure, and fullwell
We know that both the Reckoner and Reckoned
Are of this fleeting «Now», and with th' Eterne
Have nought to do!—

We are a Mystery to our ownselves;
For we have that within, which is selfhid
In its own Vastness— the Contained is far
More vast than what contains it; wonderful!
Nay, wonderbaffling Thought! yet not less true!
Miracle worthy of the boundless God!
To limit that which is Eternal and
Illimitable itself, in mere Time
And Space, themselves but Parts of that they bound!
Our Souls are like the Waters of a Stream,
And without Consciousness, save in themselves
And of the Present, from their Fountainhead
Flow on to the Lifeocean; nor 'till then,
'Till mingled with the mighty Whole, have they
Knowledge of that same Whole, nor any clear
Or certain Notion of their Journeysend!
Then take not Cognizance of outward Things,
And all this Jugglery of Ear and Eye,
As dull Impediments to ampler Faith,
But as least Portions of a wider Sphere,
Higher Relations and Realities,
Compared with which these fleeting outward Forms
Are but as crumbling Dust and Shadows vain!

There is a higher World! but here below
We dwell with Chance and Change, 'mid idle Forms,
Mid Fears and Vanities, a Phantomtrain,
Peopling all Space with Shapes that should not be
Beneath God's blessed Daylight. Grief and Pain,
Almost as constant as our Shadows, walk
Beside us, and, like them, but Shadows oft
Caused by ourselves, while with Joy's smiling Mask
Stern Disappointment meets us, when we deem
The Shape of full Fruition in our Arms.
The Music of Lifesdance fulloft doth change,
And we must change our Step with it; 'tis now
A Birthbell ringing out so merrily
As tho' Grief ne'er had laid his palsied Hand
Upon a Bellrope, or a Grave been dug
By that old Sexton, Time— and now it is
A Marriagebell, as noisy, brief and vain,
As are the feverish Joys, to which, alas!
Too oft, it lends its hollow Tongue; that Tongue
To which all Accents are indifferent.
And hark! again it changes, 'tis the Sound
That makes the Heart beat, and the big Tear start.
And so we dance along to the Gravesbrink,
Wherein we are forgotton: where the Coil
Of all our Hopes and Fears in Sixfeetspace
Is cast aside; and in a few, brief Days,
The Weeds of rank Forgetfulness shoot up
O'er us and our frail Works, if for ourselves
Alone we toil; if in the Works of Him,
Whose Works alone endure, from Stars and Sun
Down to the Dayseye of the Field, we have
Not earned Faith's Wages, by the Labours of
The Soul admitted to His Sabbathrest!
But in this Field of Time we must not hope
To reap our Harvest, for the Seeds we sow,
Tho' planted here, for others yield their Crop,
As we too reaped what others sowed for us:
That men may be bound all together by
Wise mutual Dependence, each on each,
And labour not from vulgar Motives, but
From godlike Gratitude to those who went
Before them, and from Love to those who come;
And as the Fruittree gathers from the rank
And common Soil, the Sap which it transforms,
First into leafy Branches, then to Blooms
With Heavenodors teeming, and at last
To precious and highflavored Fruits that have
No Taste of Earth, so let our Souls create,
(For such transforming Power they possess)
From earthly Yearnings and from downward Bents
Of these frail Senses, purified by Love
And constant Faith, and Hope of Things to be,
A higher Beauty, and the Elements
Of a more noble Being, even here!

Then let us on, and fear not; Faith will still
Her steady Helphand lend, to aid us up
The seemingrugged Path which to the Shrine
Of Virtue leads; from whence on this vain World
In Calmness we look down: this World, whose Noise
And Uproar, distancelost, (like that of Waves
Buffeting some tall Cliffsfoot, unheard by him
Who meditates above) disturb no more.

Such were my Thoughts, but soon farvisioned Sleep
Fell on me, and again the Eyelid of
The Secondsight was raised; and when I woke
A Wonder had been worked for me, I was
An altered Man, and lovely as my Dream,
In Moonlight bathed, as if from mine own Soul
Poured over all I saw, the Scene which so,
So lately I felt not, before me lay.
'Tis strange! a Dream can replace in the worn
And searëd Breast the Heart of Childhood, take
Our Illthoughts from us: in the primal Mould
Of Nature, as it were, recast, and bring
Out fresh and clear the godlike Lineaments,
The Likeness of the Maker in the Soul!
Oh! wonderworking Sleep, in thee we grow
Akin unto celestial Mysteries,
And the Partitionveil is drawn aside
'Twixt this World and the next. Time is no more,
Time, who is to Eternity, scarce what
The Minute which the Clock doth measure out
Is unto Time: 'tis the frail Sense that counts
The Seconds and the Moments, and by them
Marks out its Growth, and dates its fleeting Joys,
And Hopes: the Fall of kingdoms, Cities, Thrones,
Which sprang in Time, and in Time have their End!
But the Soul knoweth nought of Time and Space
Save by the Body; therefore in our Sleep
We pass beyond Time's Bounds, to that far Past
Beyond all Memory, which as a Dream
Within a Dream, or Life within a Life,
Rises before us in our Sleep, a sweet
And solemn Vision, full of Blessedness.
And tho' 'tis lost to us when we awake,
Lost to the coarser Sense, by which we when
Awake half live, whereas we when asleep
Live quite withdrawn from that, live as the Soul,
Simply the Spirit which we are, that is
Live most ourselves, yet still its Blessedness
Hangs, like sweet Perfume, round us, and is as
A pure Renewal of our former Selves,
Th' Eternal Self, to which each passing Deed,
Act, Thought, Volition, are but as the Leaves
Which the Tree casts, to clothe itself with new
And better — 'Tis a Breathing onceagain
Of pure, untainted Ether—

— This is Life,
This is to be, not seem, as we do here;
And oh! why not?— for what is Life? to eat,
To drink, to feel and move? from Day to Day
Drag on the Chain of this our sensual Being,
Struggling with this frail Flesh, which we would fling
Aside in Scorn, yet cannot: oft subdued
By that which we despise: oft in the Dust
Compelled to grovel, when our Souls would soar.
To have the Will, and want the Power to do
What our proud Thoughts would prompt, and be constrain'd
To quench the Thirst of Immortality,
With the stale, vapid, dreggish Beverage,
Which weekday Life holds to our sickening Lips.
To seem awake, yet know that we are not,
To dream with open Eyes, and walk in Sleep,
With a faint memory of having been
Awake, yet when or where scarce guessing, to
Dream in our Dream that we are dreaming, and
In order to convince ourselves thereof
To touch and feel, and say, «this is a Stone,
It pains me if I kick it with my Foot.»
But thereby to dispel the second Dream
Alone and not the first, tho' that was real,
And 'this a most vain Dream, to rub our Eyes,
And seem convinced of Life's Reality,
Yet feel it a mere Mockery of that
Which might be: to have soaring Thoughts and Hopes,
Yearnings and Faculties that cannot free
Themselves from their strange Bonds: to break our Hearts
With fretting at the Bars of this poor Cage,
This World, whose Chrystalbell emprisons us,
Transparent, but alone to him without,
Who sees, himself unseen, all that's done here,
Who fills it with his Light, in that concealed;
This is not Life, for we have not been blest
To the full measure of Capacity;
We have but sipped the Goblet we would drain!
And that which Life holds out to us, alas!
Is honeyed at the Brim, but as we drink
Deathbitter grows, and Death itself too lurks
Like Poison 'mid the Dregs: this is not Life;
For ere man sinned, Death was not made to be
The natural Goal of Being: Death and Sin
Came hand in hand into this happy Earth;
Sin, Life's worst Foe, hereditary Taint
Poisoning the first pure current of the Blood,
And like a Palsy, shaking from Joy's Hand
The bright lipkissing Goblet, 'till his Frame,
Once perfect, wasted silently away,
Down to the wormy Grave— Oh God, thou know'st
That which is Life, and without thee is none,
Darkness, utter Darkness, and Despair!

By Disobedience have we forfeited
Our once celestial Heritage; yet thou
In Mercy, to our Dreams dost grant at Times
Gleams of old Glory, Visitings of bright
Elysian Beauty thro' these Mists of Time:
There do we taste of Joy in one brief Hour
More than a waking Life, where Drop by Drop
The Bliss is still doled out by niggard Time,
Each by a Galldrop followed: here we have
An ampler Sovereignty— Ear and Eye
Are noble Faculties, but what are they
Compared with that which is sole Source of Sight,
Of Hearing, and of all Perception too.
That without which they are but useless Tools,
Inert, superfluous; the Soul resumes
Its Functions: the high Sovereign in himself
Unites all Powers of all Faculties;
And shall the Master not surpass the Slave?
Shall the Tool have more Power than the Hand
That makes it of avail? or the brute Hand
Surpass the Will which motions and controuls,
The Mind which quickens it? the Soul needs not
The fabled Carpet to abridge its Way:
It envies not the Eagleswings, the Eye
Of the cloudpiercing Hawk, the Lionsstrength,
Nor any Shape of palpable Perfection:
These are but limited, but wonderful
When measured by the fleeting Forms of Earth.
The Soul has other Gifts; and in our Sleep
It has not these five Faculties alone,
It is all Faculty, perfect, infinite.
There do we meet, ('neath calm and sunny Skies,
Whose Beauty Storm defaceth not, fit Type
Of that internal Calm which Virtue gives)
The Beings we have loved in other Days,
Arrayed in Forms not subject to the Worm,
Beyond the Sway of Time; clear, sunny Brows,
Where never Care has ploughed a furrowed Line,
And Eyes more lovely than the Eveningstar.
And they do welcome us with Lips that make
The balmy Air more balmy, with sweet Words
In a soft unknown Tongue, and nought akin
To this frail Language of vain Hopes and Fears,
A calm and blessed Utterance, which yet
As by an Intuition nnderstood,
Fills us with Joy, and Love and Blessedness:
Like Greetings after Absence to the Home
Where we first drew the Breath of Infancy.
Oh sin not, that these blessed Visions be
Not snatched from your dim Eyes: for gentle Sleep,
Who cradles on her Breast the guiltless Babe
And makes its Pillow soft as Down, and sends
Her Dreams, like Sunrays, mantling o'er its Head,
She to dread Conscience lends her ministries,
And plants the pleasant Pillow, which should be
Our natural Refuge from Life's chilling Cares,
Full of sharp Thorns, and summons to our Eyes
Those baleful Shapes, from which by waking Day
We seek for Shelter in the Noise and Laugh
And Whirl of giddy Life, thus drowning Thought
By desperate Effort of the restless Will.
But in our Sleep the Will is powerless
To strive with Conscience, aweful Monitress!
The Senses, and their idle Jugglery
No longer operate, but all Things are,
Beauty is Beauty, Truth is Truth, and Sin
Is Sin, revealed in full Identity;
God is most in us, when we thus become
Most spiritual: then may we recieve
High Revelations: renovating Breaths
Of Inspiration; what in us is dark,
May then be lightened, what is low, refined
And purified— but he who has defiled
Himself will sleep in vain, his Dreams will be
Of Earth, and as th'Avenger, God appears.
By Day the World lays on us its dull Load
Of Cares and Sorrows, we are Thralls of Earth,
And Faith must struggle for the Victory
With palpable oppressions, which subdue
The Spirit's Elasticity: and Sense
With all its manyfold Annoyances
Is up in Arms, or Pride and chilling Doubts,
Selfconfidence and Overanxiousness,
The Stir of Passions, and the opposëd Strain
Of busy varying Opinions make
Us unfit Vessels for celestial Truths.
But in our Sleep as Infants we become,
Passive as Clay within the Potter's Hands,
And thus the Lord loves best to find us; yea!
For he eschews the Pride of Intellect,
That with his Oracles loves still to mix
Its vain Imaginations, and pervert
The pure Simplicity which dwells in them
To Wisdom after the frail Flesh, with Show
Of Words enticing, Lures of subtle Speech.
Therefore doth He prefer to enter in
The simple Heart that passively receives
His Oracles, not testing them by Rules
Of vain Schoollogic, and that Backwardness
Of Doubt which wants the common medium
And Faculty for comprehending Truth,
For the worst Blind, are those who will not see,
And these not even Christ himself could cure:
But which by Wish to find the Truth, endowed
With Faith in that same Truth, from Love thereof
Draws an heartfelt Conviction, far beyond
The subtlest and most logical Result
Of cold, distrustful Reason, scarceconvinced
In Selfdespite, his Pride reluctantly
Yielding a forced Assent, that never bears
The good Fruit grafted on the Heart's belief.
Therefore God rather by the Babesmouth speaks,
By the Simplicity of Ignorance,
Than by the proud Philosopher's vain Lip,
The Wisdom of the Flesh, which needs must prove
That God exists, as if to feel him, and
By feeling him to be Godlike, that is
To be himself in us, were not the best
Of proofs! which not content to feel him so,
So grandly in the Heart, nor capable
Of Thinking great enough to feel him there
Sublimely, palpably, must needs reduce
That godlike Consciousness of him into
A Syllogism, into Terms precise,
«Major and minor,» and that instead of
The Heart, the sublime Syllogism which
He himself framed to hold the living Proof,
Mightiest Philosopher! how unlike those
Who in their Reasonings forget him, who
Is the First Cause: the one grand «Major Term»
Without which there is neither Reasoning,
Nor Sense, nor Truth! but these would mystify
His simple Word: so simple because it
Is so, so true: so grand because it is
So simple, that a little child needs but
A Heart to comprehend it, needs but do
His Word to prove it! yea! they mystify
His sublime Word, because they have not learnt
To think yet grand enough of Him, nor com-
-Prehend his Works; that they may have wherewith
To exercise their Ingenuity,
Their Quips and Quibbles, and perplex the Mind
With vain unprofitable Doubts on Points
To Disputation indispensible,
As to Salvation needless: for that lies
In being Godlike, and in doing it,
And if we feel ourselves Godlike, need we
Thy Syllogisms then to tell us that
We are so, or to make our Feelings real?
The Tear within the Eye, the swelling Heart,
These are our Proofs and others need we none!
Then keep your Syllogisms, keep them for
Your Humes and Gibbons, who when they have proved
With these all that they can, have proved alone
That they felt not the Godlike, God! that He
Existed not to them; else would their Lips
Have glowed, and Bosoms kindled at his Name
As mine do even now, tho' far beneath
Them in vain Intellect! but that is no,
No Reason under Heaven why we should
Not feel him livingmost in our own Hearts,
For if we feel him, then is He quite near
Yea! in us: should God for such Reasons not
Exist to us? or should the Thought of Him
For this, be less to us whom he has made
To think and do the Godlike, than unto
The Flower of the Field, which knowing nought
Of Gibbons and of Humes fulfills in its
Own silent Wise a godlike Mission too,
Untroubled by the Shadow of a Doubt?
Then leave us but our Feelings and the God
Within our Breasts, we ask no more than this,
And with this there is nought, methinks, to ask!
This is the godlike Way of proving God!
Then let all prove him so; yea! let all be
Godlike in Thought and Deed, for so long as
They are godlike, they must believe in him
To be so, for without him they are not!

Oft in my Dreams, when Prayer has soothed my Mind,
Have I received by spiritual Means
Celestial Consolations, illdeserved,
Sweet Compensation for Time's passing Griefs:
Visions ethereal rose upon the calm
And solemn Midnight, o'er my pillowed Head,
As to Spheremusic: Visions of the blest,
Which but to look on made me happy, Forms
Bright as if from the Rainbow they had stepped,
Clothed with the Beauty of Eternity
As with a Garment, and upon their Brows
Wearing that calm and sweet Serenity,
Which they who have no Fear for coming Ills,
No Retrospects forlorn, alone can knowl;
Oh there are Glimpses of a happier Life,
The Life of Soul, of which in our sweet Dreams
We have a slight Forestaste, as if 'twere given
To quicken and refresh the Hope within,
Which like a Lamp shut in a stifling Vault
Grows dim, if air from Time to Time be not
Conveyed to it. And I will still believe
In spite of cold Philosophy, who loves
To rob the Soul of its best Heritage,
To steal the Honey from the Hive and kill
Imagination's Bees, and to benumb
With his Torpedo-touch the Heart that throbs
In its own fancied Joy, that Dreams are Life.
Is not Life Happiness, and Joy and Love?
If then an idle Dream, wellrounded by
An Hourslength, can crowd in that small Space
Visions of Bliss beyond all Shape and Thought,
Which all the choicest Moments of Delight
Culled from an Age of dull Reality
Could not make up in Quantity, far less
In the ethereal Quality of Joy,
Such as the Angelsselves would not disdain,
If a brief Dream can give us this, oh who
So mere a Fool, so mere a Stickler for
Distinctions were there is no Difference,
As to say, «this is but an idle Dream»
Because it is not palpable to Touch,
As is a Chair or Table, as tho' these
Had a more real Existence than our Thoughts,
Because we thus can touch them with our Hands!
Who would dissolve the Diamond of pure Joy
In a vile Crucible, and when he saw
The paltry Dust to which it was reduced,
With mighty Exultation would exclaim
As at a wondrous and convincing Proof,
«Behold your Diamond, tell us now its worth»?
Its Worth!— to thee 'tis but as that vile Dust
Which thou by decomposing it hast found,
To me 'tis still the Diamond sparkling bright,
Dust as you view it, but as I, a Gem
More costly than Golconda's Mines can yield!
Thou turn'st to cammon Dust, by Doubt's vile Touch,
The golden Hopes and Joys of Life, while I
With but a little Fancy can transform
The common Dust of Circumstance to pure
And genuine Gold, to Treasures of the Sky!
Yea! without Metaphor, I can take up
The trodden Dust within my Hand, and in
The Sunbeam holding it, behold it turn
To sparkling Grains of Gold; and if I do
Really believe it such, what more then does
The Miser in his hoarded Bags possess?
And if thou must then something decompose,
Then decompose thou that: Oh decompose,
The glittering Baubles of this World, and thou
Wilt find them, like that Miser's Gold, turn to
Vile Dust, like that I hold within my Hand;
Yea, and this Time, thou will not be deceived!
But thou wouldst turn to Dust the holiest Things,
By disbelieving them: that is the one,
Most sure Way to annihilate; thou canst
Not it is true destroy one least, least grain,
One atom, with thy Crucibles, of all
That make up this fair world; but for thyself
Thou canst destroy the Godlike and the Good,
Yea! God himself: for he exists no more
To thee, if thou believ'st not in Him! Yea!
Thou canst reduce to something less than Dust,
The kiss of first, chaste Love: put out the Eye
Of sublime Faith, distune the Poetsharp,
Rob the Rose of its Perfume, and make Life
Fall, like a withered Flower, in the Dust!
This canst thou do, all this, O Man! but thou
Canst work the Godlike: yea! like God himself,
For He it is that works it in thee; thou
C anst for thyself create the Feeling of
The Godlike, and when thou hast done but this,
Then hast thou too created this whole World
Godlike likewise; for the world where we live,
That is but the Reflection of ourselves,
Our Feelings, and as these are, so is it.
And if we feel Things godlike, they are so,
At least to us: and after all what is
The «Real,» the «Practical,» words which the loud
Tongue of the World trolls forth so eloquent?
That, that alone is real, which we think so,
And feel so; or in other words, our own
Feelings and Thoughts alone are real: unto
The worldly Man, the Bag of Gold he grasps,
The dainty Morsel melting in his Mouth,
Are not so real, as are the Poet's Dreams,
His Thoughts and Feelings, for are they not these?
And what he feels and thinks, is that not real?
Is it not his own Heart, himself? and when
He feels the Godlike, is he not of God,
Nay, God himself, as the Scent of the Rose
Is the Rose itself? and what then is real
If God be not, who is all Things in All?
Nay, is the Tear within his Eye, the Heart
That throbs and glows, not real e'en in that low-
-Est Sense, which ye call real? as real as is
The chair on which ye sit, the Wine ye drink.
And what is practical? who clutches most
Vain Shadows, ye who waste on vilest Things
Divinest; ye, who pluck the blushing Rose
Of Chastity from off the Maiden's Brow,
Not for its divine Perfume, but to make
Vile Lucre by that which the Angels in
Their Wreaths might wear: who lay up what the Moth
And Rust shall wear away, or he who with
His godlike Feelings satisfied, goes back
Unto his God, with ten instead of one
Poor Talent, with a Treasure which no change
Of Time and Place can rob him of, so long
As he is himself, for that is his Wealth,
Himself; and he who feels himself, that is
The Godlike, he possesses Life's chief Good,
Unrobable, and all its other Goods
To this add nought, without it are all naught!
And is this then a Shadow, is there aught
So real to us as we ourselves, or what
Is so to us, save thro' ourselves? then seek
The Real, which lies within the Reach of all,
For each may be himself, his whole self; yea!
The Emperor on his Throne can not be more,
The Beggar by the Road need not be less,
Nay! even God himself, is but himself,
And therefore is he God, Allgood, Allwise!
But little in the World are these Truths heard,
And as a Driveller my Name may pass
From Mouth to Mouth, a Dreamer of vain Dreams.
But I, I am awake, awake in Him
Who made me, unto Him: tho' but as 'twere
A mere grain in that Hand which still upholds
The Stars, as countless as the Oceansands,
Yet not lost to his sublime Eye, which knows
No Littleness; how unlike Man who in
His Pride thinks many Things so little, and
Is himself little! but to God nought can
Be small, for being himself in all Thing's
He feels them thro' himself, and therefore feels
Them godlike! Yea! I am awake: so much
So that the smallest Flower at my Feet
Can stir my Heart to overflowing, 'till
My Spirit, like its Perfume, melts away
In Blessedness and Love: how much more then
Aught that concerns my Fellowcreatures! so
Much that the Child's least Voice wakes into Life
The whole, deep Music of Humanity!
I am awake, if this be to be so;
Awake ye then, who dream with open Eyes,
Who seeing, see not, and with Ears cant hear;
Tis Time that ye awake, ye Fools, and learn
This Truth — the Value of all Things alone
Lies in the Temper, with which we receive
What Heaven sends us: in the Soul itself,
Sought for elsewhere in vain, the fabled Stone
That can transmute the common Dross of Life,
Its passing Shows, its Miseries and Pains,
Into pure Ore rcsides: ethereal Gift!
A Boon of Blessedness, and Joy, and Peace,
Which old Philosophers, with bootless Toil,
Searched for in outward Things, o'erlooking still
That small Space bosomed in the human Breast,
The Heart, which all it touches turns to Gold;
The Wiseman's kingdom, where he reigns supreme
O'er Passions tamed by Reason, o'er high Hopes
And calm Desires, like yon clear, still Stars,
So far removed from all Mutations here;
Looking beyond the Earth, therefore unmoved
And undisturbed by earthly Injuries!
There needs but firm Belief, to make that real
Which else were but a Fancy: thus a Dream
May be the Vehicle of divine Truths:
Celestial Messenger, like Mercury,
Tho' winged from higher Worlds than those he knew,
If Faith interpret it, and it may mould
Our Afterbeing, fashioning it true
In the ideal Type itself supplies.
For in our sleep we know not what we are
Being more than what we know, and capable
Of Faculties and Functions, which by Day
Are likest pinioned Wings: we have, as 'twere,
A Soul within a Soul, a Something which
Is far too subtle to display itself
By these dull Channels of the waking Sense,
Which, when these, like the Clod of which they're made,
Lie dead and powerless, expands and lives!