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235

THOUGHTS ON MAN, ART AND NATURE

1

Alas! we have no longer Hearts or Ears
For simple Truth: her face no more we know,
'Tis as a stranger's, which no token bears,
No Sign to our dull Eyes; tho' heavensglow
And radiance pure from each calm feature flow,
As when our fathers in the days of yore
With meek Highmindedness were wont to bow
Before her Shrine; but we have other Lore,
A pompous Wisdom gilded for the passing hour,

2

Whose showy Surface Time soon wears away,
Leaving but worthless Dross, base Metal ne'er
Stamped with Truth's Image; we have gone astray:
We are the slaves of idle hope and fear,
Still wavering with life's wavering current here,
Like Barks that have no fixëd course, no aim,
Nor to one blessed haven calmly steer;
Our holythings no longer are the same,
Worth we exchange for show, and Glory for a name!

2

Oh why has God bestowed on us a heart
To feel and love, if its best sympathies
We thus pervert? why? if not to impart
A rule and measure, by which the least wise,
Tho' little fit t 'unravel sophistries,
And Falsehood's Sphynx-Enigmas, yet may tread
Surefooted still amid the web of Lies,
The manymeshëd net which Craft has spread,
If not that the sound heart correct the erring head.
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4

But we have bartered our own hearts for Shows
And false presentments, and celestial things
Pass now unrecognized: the worst of Woes,
The worst of punishments; for vice still brings
Its curse in its own hatefulness, and clings
Unto our spirits like a Leprosy;
Lying a leaden Weight upon the Wings
With which we else might soar unto the sky,
A blight upon our sense, a film upon our Eye.

5

Mammon has many temples in the land,
And willing priests, besotted Votaries,
Who worship him e'en where God's altars stand;
And costly Sacrifices to him rise
Of Things beyond all Price in wisemen's Eyes,
But which Fools barter for Earth's earthliest Hire;
And converts makes he with his gilded lies
And hollow promises, and in the fire
His votaries cast their children to this God of mire!

6

A goodly train has he: Pomp, Rapine, Lust,
Selflove, with Avarice and Luxury
And brute Expense, still trailing in the dust
Their hideous forms, his steps accompany;
His Proteusshadows: varying to the eye
Of him who views them, even as he be
In his own heart: a steadfast votary
Of Powers felt but by him whose soul is free,
Or the besotted slave of sensual Imagery.

7

Alas! the Sophist, Falsehood, has not plied
His task in vain; a quick earwinning tongue,
A most lieskilful Lip with words to hide
And gloss all Ugliness he has, and Wrong
In the unsullied garments that belong
To Truth he still can deck; and he can throw
Bleareyed Delusion on the grovelling throng,
Who judge by outward semblances, nor know,
That the heart's deepest Thoughts disdain all outward Show.
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8

In simple Truth we have no longer faith,
In simple thoughts and feelings which disdain
All language, save the pure heartprompted breath
Of that high Utterance, which will not deign
To lend its hallowing to Fancies vain,
For it is of the soul; and Truth doth love
Not the cold pomp of swelling words that strain
The empty phrase, but lips that calmly move,
Whose sober utterance the high Contents approve.

9

That which is truly simple, is profound;
So obvious, that he who runs may read
Its meaning, and acknowledge he has found
True wisdom there, where he was wont to tread,
Unconscious man! as on the common weed,
Deeming it had no Wonderproperties,
And yet so deep, that e'en the subtle head
Of high Philosophy, whose thought unties
Nature's most secret web, may find its best supplies

10

Of unadulterated Lore in these
Same simple forms of natural beauty, where
High elements, like winds amid the trees,
Lurk all unseen; and as the viewless air
Kissing to mellow utterance, doth share
With the windharp its fairyfancies sweet,
So too our spirits commune with these fair
And holy forms, 'till from its calm retreat
The answering spirit wake, and Essence Essence greet.

11

High visitations are upon us here,
E'en in this weekdaylife, and Wisdom may
Be gathered on the roadside, everywhere;
E'en from the trodden stone on which we lay
Our heedless feet, like sparks her heavenly ray
May be struck forth, by him who seeks aright,
She dwells in all Life's forms: but books astray
Have led our steps, we walk in a false Light,
And by the midnightlamp we blear our genuine sight,
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12

And in broadday we seek with taperglare,
Smokedimm'd and flaring, for that holy Lore
Which never grows but in the Sun and Air,
Which like the wild fieldflowers, will no more
Dwell in convention's Limits, than the hour
Will bring back to the Fool his minutes flown;
Thus like the Child upon the barren shore,
We seek some painted bauble, while unknown
Lies Life's vast Ocean and the Winds by which 'tis blown.

13

Wisdom grows everywhere, for all the same:
Common as water, or th' allgrasping air,
Free to the needs of all; an empty Name
Monopolists may bid her products bear,
But of the Thing itself, as ample share
The poorest man is free to as the king;
It is no hothouseplant: its fruits so fair
Hang within reach of all, sureripening
From day to day, as Truth a stronger beam doth fling;

14

And oft it grows too strongest in that soil
Which man has least disturbed, wherein no seed
Of Form and Custom has been sown, to spoil
The racy natural qualities which feed
With healthy Juice the lifesap: where no Weed
Of thousandrooted Prejudice has grown;
Aye it bears best 'mong those who have no need
Of sects and systems, calling it their own,
'Mong those who by the heart still Wrong from Right have known.

15

This is true Wisdom; she takes no delight
In names and Nomenclatures, forms and creeds,
At best the husk, nor doth she hide her light
In a Darklantern: such he only needs
Who to selfpurpose, selfconfusion feeds
Her holy lamp, that on his path its Ray
Alone may fall, and show him where he treads
While others grope; poor fool! he still must stray,
Like arguments in vicious circles is his way,
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16

Which straight confound themselves; for her divine
And blessed light is catholic, it throws
Its radiance on all things, nor will shine
Shut up to selfish Ends: but straightway grows
Into a dim, false flame, whose light allows
No natural Object to retain its shape,
But all Things to the sight distorted shows;
Thus Cunning selfo'erreached, cannot escape
From his selfwoven toils: thus man too, like the Ape

17

Or Fox, may plot within his narrow sphere
To overreach his fellows, and may have
The spider's manysidedness, but ne'er
Catholic wisdom, which alone can save
His frail lifebark from shipwreck; he may brave
Man's cunning, countertrick and counterlie,
And wile oppose to wile, for knave with knave
Likeweaponed fights; but Time's his Enemy,
Strongmemoried, quickfooted, and more sure of eye

18

Than is the windfleet greyhound in the chace
Of the weak hare: all doublings are in vain,
He never loses Sight, nor slacks his Pace.
Kings are longhanded, thrice as long again
Are Time's and thrice as sure: tho' he have lain
In ambush 'till we nightforget he is,
Like an armed man at length upon Truth's plain
And cunningbaffling ground we see him rise,
And Vengeance claims us, in a higher Name, as his!

19

Oh Cunning, when we look thee in the face
Thou art wellfavoured as Truth's self might be,
Save that thou want'st a something, a naive Grace,
Such as in Childhood's artless face we see,
A hallowing from within, a spirit free
From guile, suspicion, fear, selfconfident;
Her forms thou ap'st, but this is not in thee
E'en to dissemble; when our glance is bent
At aught beside thy front, thy dress is soiled and rent,
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20

Beside, behind, and thro' the flimsy screen
Thy distort Limbs, Abortion foul, we view;
Thou hast quickmotioned sight, to see, unseen,
Glanceshunning Eyes, a cheek that keeps its hue,
Not the free dancing of the blood, which true
And heartfelt feelings changefully propel
O'er the frank brow, expression evernew,
But guilefixt tints, and still thy tongue doth tell
In lipdeep words some specious tale that sounds fullwell.

21

Thou art batsighted, for thou lov'st twilight,
And where an honest man sees doubtfully
Thou work'st secure: thou hast most minute sight
And canst detect with much facility
All things, howsmallsoe'er, that round thee lie;
But like the firefly, thy feeble ray
Lights a small space, and but discovers thy
Poor Gropings in the Dark, and Truth's Broadday,
When best the soundeyed see, from thee takessight away;

22

Prudence disdains thee, thou art but her ape,
Thou dost but travesty her noble mien
Undoing still thyself, the more her shape
Thou fain wouldst imitate, for then is seen
How great the difference that lies between
Thy selfdetecting awkwardness, which wears
Her attributes as beggars play the queen,
And her own noble form, which on it bears
The stamp of in born worth, approved by Change and Years,

23

Which strip thee in derision, and display
Thy figure in Truth's glass to all men's eyes;
Thy path is winding as the serpent's way,
That bellycrawling beast, who to the skies
Has never raised his head, but sees what lies
In the vile dust beneath him, and no more,
E'en such art thou: and Nature doth comprize
Thee in the list of Beings whom her Power
Creates, despisëd tools, to work her mighty Lore.
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24

In this vast Universe, this boundless Sphere,
Where the snake's poison and the scoffer's tongue,
In selfdespite, their testimony bear
To that Allwisdom, unto Whom belong
The powers that fix the bounds of Right and Wrong;
Who says, «thus far, thus far alone, thy sway
Shall reach»: whose aweful voice unto the throng
Of multitudinous waves was heard to say,
Break up, ye everlasting Deeps, break up, the Day,

25

The Vengeanceday is come! and ye shall be
My ministers of wrath: go forth, and sweep
This sinpolluted Earth, that man may see
The Lord of Hosts can bid the mighty deep
Rise up and do his bidding: let him creep
In the rockbosomed cave, or on the height
Of the cloudcleaving hills selftrusting sleep;
Go forth, and teach him that all strength is slight
As the reedsshadow, save of Truth, 'gainst Heaven's might.

26

In this vast sphere, where discord is the seed
Whence springs the perfect Growth of Unity,
Where contradictions on each other feed,
And thus incorporate, take forms that vie
With rarest blessings: where Corruptions lie
Foul and fermenting, till such Shapes arise
As clothe our sweetest thoughts with Imagery,
Making them no more dreams: the Rosebudsdies,
The violet's, which open up like angelseyes;

27

And where the crimes and sufferings of years,
By Wisdom's glorious Alchemy, are made
To change their Nature: smiles transformed from tears,
Defeat to Victory, from Martyrs laid
Low by the axe or stake, and Crime's Parade
Of fleeting triomph, Truths that spiritwise
Rise from their dust, eternally to aid
The cause they loved, with powers which Time denies
To man, they live again, a life that never dies.
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28

Here, Cunning, thou too like the serpent hast
Thine own allotted part, tho' base and low,
Yet all is Good, as he will own at last,
Who by a wide survey has learnt to know
The soul of Good which in ill things doth grow;
A steady Counterprinciple which bends
The stubborn neck of Ill, and makes it bow
Unto the yoke; while Wisdom shapes her Ends,
To these, by moral Gravitation, all life tends.

29

Referred unto this common centre, things,
Which to the careless Eye bore visibly
No mark of adaptation, like the springs
Of a machine viewed disconnectedly,
Gain power, strength, beauty, purpose, unity,
Like the wheelspokes, when knit unto one end;
And Wisdom with her calm, farreaching Eye,
Looking before and after, can extend
Her ken beyond this Earth, and see where all things tend.

30

Our Fathers in the good old days of yore
Were as her fosterchildren, and this Isle
Gave forth her wonders; such was he who bore
The sword of Hampden, which high Thought the while
Guided to holiest ends, where hollow guile
And selfaggrandizement were not; such he,
On whose high musings her approving Smile
Fell ever: for what other could he be
Than her own chosen one, to whom ungrudgingly

31

She gave the innerlight, when toil and care,
Lifewasting thoughts, Ingratitude, and days
Of evil suffered godlike, robbed his share
Of earthly pleasures, dimming the frail rays
Of this worn body's sight, which yearly lays
Aside some Sense, some clayborn Faculty,
While more and more the Soul doth inly blaze:
'Till for awhile the Body seems thereby
Made incorruptible, transfigured visibly!
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32

Thus as the claycoarse faculties gave way,
Those of the innerman grew pure and strong,
And wings erst wrapped within this sheath of clay
Unfolded now, and on his ear the song
Of angels, as to one who did belong
To their own bands, came sweetly welcoming;
Remembrance of all suffering and wrong
Was as a Dream forgot, a most vain Thing,
Like to a little Dust shook from an Eagle's wing!

33

Oh! happy Isle, Oh! heavenfavored Isle,
Beyond all words! the Groves of Academe,
(Where Plato's tongue could Wisdom's self beguile,
Charming her from the Spheres to that sweet stream,
Babbling its attic song as in a dream
Of Fairyland), those groves have never seen,
Tho' there the soul was as its own sunbeam,
Spirits of more majestic make and mien,
Than in this Isle as Prophets and as Seers have been;

34

Men to whom Visions as of old were given
And Secondsight; like Moses, they stood on
The mountaintop, and saw the dark veil riven
From off the Future's features: men who won
Truth's bloodless conquests, vaster far than sun
E'er set on: men to whom high fancies were
Familiar as household words, by none
In any Land surpassed: Atlases to bear
An Empire's Weight, firm Pillars of Truth's Temple fair!

35

And Saints and Martyrs were among them: Men
Who sowed Faith with their Blood, to whom we owe
A Blooddebt, and who will demand again
A strict account of what we reap and sow,
And of that blood which on our fields did flow
A precious rain upon a precious seed,
Which but for our slack Love were reaped ere now,
A goldengrainëd crop, on which might feed,
As on the Heavenmanna, all whose souls have need,
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36

For like the Manna, all who eat of it
Would be newfilled with life: exhaustless store,
Increasing with consumption; but we sit
With folded hands, as tho' our task were o'er,
As tho' within our souls no pledge we bore
Of that which we should be; and yet we have
Warnings and flashings forth of eldtime power,
And Echoes greet us from beyond the grave;
Up and be doing, if that Blessing ye would save,

37

Redeem the pledge! shall holy blood be spilt,
Still speaking from the ground whereon we tread,
And asking retribution on past guilt,
A holy retribution? shall the dead
Claim it, and vainly, from us who have read
How in the olden day they shed their blood,
Embraced the flames, and gave the axe their head,
That we might be freemen: that from their mood
Of godlike sufferance, might spring a deathless Good?

38

Oh how their lofty spirits must disdain
Those whom they would have made the progeny
Of their own souls: the heirs, not of their Pain
And Martyrdom, but of a Liberty
That costs us not the shadow of a sigh,
Tooeasywon, and therefore passed away;
For toil's the price of all that's Good and High,
Not base handwork, but like that by which they
Earned still,(the soul's high toil)Faith's Wages day by day:

39

Repining not, tho' still their harvesthome
Seemed everdistant, for in God their trust
Was placed, and well they knew a day would come,
Tho' not for them, when that full harvest must
Be reaped at last: tho' trod oft in the dust
By swinish hoofs of that most bestial rout,
Who would pollute God's altar with their lust;
They knew fullwell that Truth's old battleshout
From field to field would sound, nor in this Isle die out:
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40

Nor erred they: for among us there are ears
Which hear it ringing still amid our plains
And on those haunted spots, which holy fears
And hopes have hallowed, and subliming pains:
A spirit which all meaner home disdains
Than Nature's Universal Heart; there are
Who answer that old voice when it complains
Of pledges lost, and by their fathers swear
That they relinquish not an heritage so fair.

41

And yet it is a sad, sad thought, to think
That there are those among us who can tread
O'er these timehallow'd scenes, and yet not shrink
At their own baseness, standing on the dead,
The Pander on the Saint's and Martyr's head,
The Slave on the Freeman's; who breathe the air
These godlike spirits breathed, their tales have read,
And trod where they have trod, and yet can bear
Their own selfconsciousness so near the Lion's Lair.

42

And e'en the blessed Field of Runnymede,
Whose Flowers by Freedom's Breath are fanned, and where,
As o'er the holy Ground in Awe we tread,
Faint Echoes and high Accents on the Air
From out those olden Days, an Import bear
As of some mighty Presence floating by
On viewless wing, and joyous Voices there
Seem weaving choral Bursts for Conquest high,
Alas! tho' holy Ground the Peasant knows not why,

43

But like Earth's common Dust he ploughs it o'er
With brute unconscious Foot, when it should be,
Like holy Shrine, sought out by Rich and Poor;
By all who breathe the Breath of Liberty,
By all who reap hereditarily,
And who do not, the Harvests which that Day
Sowed in the golden Furrows of this free
And heavenfavored Isle, tho' now the Ray
Which ripened those high Crops seems fading fast away!
246

44

Our Sidneys and our Miltons are no more:
Our Saints and Martyrs scorn us in the Grave!
Their Dust is worth our Souls! and that high Lore,
Which in its own sole self has Power to save
A Nation from Perdition, and to lave
Its Spirit from corruption, that is gone:
That precious Boon, by which the Land might have
Regeneration, and which like God's own
Pure, quickening Breath, maintains it sound alone!

45

That liferenewing charm, more potent far
Than all Medea's Spells and Juggleries,
Which holds dominion o'er a nation's star,
And still can keep or hurl it from the skies;
That charm, whose mighty power in virtue lies,
In highsouled thoughts, and actions bodying these:
This is the true Palladium, this the prize,
The heavenfallen shield, which lost, the Peace,
Power, Glory, Fame and Freedom of a nation cease!

46

We have no more that wisdom which could find
E'en in defeat the Joys of victory:
And something nobler in the inmost mind,
The consciousness, (tho' Fortune should deny
Success, and baffle us in mockery,)
Of having still deserved it: this have we
No longer, nor that holy fear to lie
Unto our Being's End: the Pride to be
Lords of our minds and acts, and in the dungeon free;

47

This was the life of soul, and they who breath'd
Its atmosphere had neither wish nor need
To feel their brows with fleeting laurels wreathed,
Theirs was a higher Faith, a purer Creed,
In Good and Ill, in word, and thought, and deed
They followed it, and for its own sole sake,
Not as we do for worldly wealth and greed;
In their calm Wisdom they had power to take
All sting from Pain and Death, and Joys unfound, to make;
247

48

Oh! Blessings on their soulsubliming Lore!
Like to benificent Angels, I could bow
To them, for what sin is it to adore
Spirits who 'mid Life's manyfeatured Woe,
Th' Immortal's Impress so, so clearly show,
Composed for high Exploit, and with God's Seal
And Superscription stamped upon their Brow,
Men who still looking beyond Time, could heal
By Thought all Ills, and in this Now the Future feel.

49

These were the Statesmen who from God's own Book,
His own Churchgoverment and Polity,
Their high Statewisdom drew: nor would they brook
That public Faith should stoop to trick and lie,
To compass in the Toils an Enemy;
They loved Plaindealing, where Man's Nature is
Ennobled, and o'erreached by Trickery
Swerved not, preferring even thus to miss,
Than otherwise to gain; nay, rightly deeming this

50

The only Gain, and cheaply purchased by
All Sacrifice; for when a State is true
To its own self: when for Humanity
It suffers, and maintains, as it should do,
Its plighted Faith inviolate, then too
'Tis mightiest! not thro' Sword and Spear, for this
Is not Strength, but thro' Truth and Virtue, thro'
The Power of Good, by which its mere Voice is
Made mightier than armëd Hosts, for it is His

51

Voice also, is the Voice of God, and as
Such too the Nations hear it, and they bow
Their Heads in Awe, as onward it doth pass,
Like the Allmighty's Breath, now to lay low
A Throne with its invisible, light Blow,
And now to scatter Armaments: for 'tis
God's Presence, and whereever it doth blow,
'Tis as if his own viewless Form o'er this
Earth whispering passed! this knew they, and therefore to his
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52

Will looked alone who reads the hearts of men,
And who has set his law against a lie,
As 'gainst a profane thing that breeds again
Evil for evil; nor would they deny
The truth, tho' it were one to speak and die:
Such selfrespect, parent of lofty Deeds
And noble thoughts, had they: their inner Eye
Was faithclear and they loved the Truth which feeds
That homedelight with which no other Joy man needs.

53

They had no selfo'erreaching sophistries,
No cunning, dark Statemaxim's where the head
Plays with the heart, as 'twere, a game at Dice,
Cheating true feeling, 'till all sense be dead
Of Right and Wrong, save as of things that lead
Unto a given End, indifferent
In their ownselves, valued as they succeed:
Now this, now that, to all occasions bent,
Masks which but serve to dupe, and hide a base Intent.

54

They dealt not in that vain Lipeloquence
Which throws the dazzling Hues of Sophistry
Over the Cause of Crime and Impotence,
Which with a Cloud of Words would wrap the Lie
It dares not, tho' brassfaced, speak openly,
Lest Commonsense should lift her Voice and smite
The shameless Liar in his Panoply
Of guileforged Armour, which a Maid's frail Might
Could shiver with one Stroke of Truth and put to flight.

55

To these Things they stooped not; they would not bow
Their proud and lofty Natures to such base
Selfdegradation: they scorned, not to show
What really were their Thoughts, and left the Race
Its fleeting Shame or Glory to his Grace,
Without whose knowledge not a sparrow dies,
Faithfully waiting his good Time and Place.
They gave what Justice asks, and what denies,
Alike to Weak and Strong, to Friends or Enemies!
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56

No matter who the claimant, even tho'
A Child; enough if what was asked were right
And just: they bowed before it as unto
A Revelation of an higher might
Than that of Man, which laid on them its light
Yet irresistible Constraint: they bent
In sublime meekness, from the dazzling Height
Of human Grandeur, to the least Voice sent
Up to them, as to that of the Omnipotent!

57

Oh that the present Day could show such Men
As these high souls, then might we hope to see
The Glories and the Deeds revive again
Which live but in dead Books: but what are we?
Whence draw we our Mind's Food? we are not free,
Tho' the Word's ever on our Lips, and there
The frequent Lie should as a Blister be;
We are a moneyslaving Race, and bear
E'en in our souls the Traces of the Chains we wear!

58

They called Things by their Names: they rent intwain
The Web of Prejudice and Error wound
'Round Words and timefix'd Customs: turn'd again
To Nature, by her holy Guidance found
The Truths they sought, and with those bright Gems crown'd
The Brow of heavenborn Philosophy,
Like Nature simple and like her profound.
But we, we turn the Truth into a Lie,
Good, Ill: Ill, Good we call, 'till all Distinctions die!

59

A base Wordtyranny enthralls our Minds;
A Cry got up by some Mobleader flies
From Lip to Lip, and Assesears it finds
Capacious and alert: its Task it plies,
With Steamrapidity it hatches Lies;
A little Leaven, as the Scripture says,
Will leaven the whole Lump: thus the few Wise,
Who do not fool it in the common Maze,
Are left, a Laughingstock, to hope for better Days.
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60

Oh! Freedom oft must for her Children weep,
When thus a little Dust thrown in their Eyes
Can blind them: while her misnamed Patriots sleep,
Or calmly from the Wreck of Liberties
Await to see a nobler Fabric rise,
As chance may patch the Fragments up again;
While Mountebanks and Stateapothecaries
With Poisondrugs would make the Nation sane,
And by its madness work when Reason were in vain.

61

A Nation's Vices work its Ruin: they
Are still the Soil where Seeds of Misery
Are sown by Fate; Crime is of sure Decay
The parent — if ye make a Mockery
Of holy Things, turn Truth into a Lie,
She who is so benificent and mild
When loved, is an avenging Deity
If injured, and on those who have defiled
Her Shrines and Oracles, her Vengeance high is piled!

62

She will forsake ye, leave ye to the Powers
Of Darkness: yea! your Light shall Darkness be,
And it shall lead ye on from bad to worse;
Evil for Good shall ye make choice of, see
In your perdition, your security;
And when the Light shines, ye shall turn aside
And know it not: in name shall ye be free,
That specious semblances may flatter Pride,
While the real Sore unheeded spreads corruption wide

63

Thro' the state's every member, 'till Decay
Vast, premature, its strength shall paralyze,
And Crime and Guilt with Ironrod shall sway
A selfdegraded race, 'till there arise
Wisdom from suffering, and Mercy cries
To Vengeance «hold»: but bitter woes must first
O'erbrim the cup, e'er Truth can ope the Eyes
Of men in Sin and Degradation nurst,
For he who would be free, himself the chains must burst!
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64

First ye shall see in God's own holy shrine
The moneychangers haggle for their price,
Bartering for earthly things, the things Divine;
Religion, a Statetool, no more supplies
The Laws deficiencies, nor vivifies
Them into Instruments of Truth and Good;
They shall be empty Forms and Ceremonies,
Not loved, but feared: shedders of guiltless blood,
By Selfabuse creating their own hateful food.

65

Then Goverment and Church shall fornicate:
Then shall be lent the cloak of sanctity
To deeds of darkness, and unchristian hate
And partyzeal, and squinteyed Bigotry
Shall make the Gospeltruths a mystery;
And as a most fit and sweet Sacrifice,
Bloodofferings, in the name of the Most High,
Pollute his altars; and with sophistries
Shall men cheat conscience: 'till they credit their own lies!

66

'Till daily using them, they know them not
As such: so changed their Nature too thereby,
Sin grows their Element, and, wretched Lot!
Falsehood their truth! their Lives shall be a Lie,
A vicious Circle, where eternally
They are condemned upon their own Steps to
Return, for like the Mole, when they draw nigh
The Light, they turn away: the Grand and True
They cannot comprehend, else they would be so too!

67

Then shall the statesman from his oily Tongue
Troll gliblysounding Names, but meaning nought:
Of Freedom, Justice, Truth, discoursing long;
Meanwhile the Victim's to the Shambles brought,
And the duped Nations, when too late, are taught
What this Statelanguage means; mere Lures and Baits
To fill the Ear, 'till they be sold and bought.
Thus Vice for his own Back the Scourge creates,
And the Slave bears the Yoke he dares not break, yet hates!
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68

Thus the brute Idol unto which ye bow
Is but a Moloch, yet fit god for ye
Who oftdeluded, have not learnt to know
This vile Strawsubstitute from Liberty:
Could Hampden's Spirit rise, could Milton see
The Place of Her who by his Lips once spake,
Filled by this Idol, sad his Soul would be;
Thick Darkness once more on his Eyes would take
Her wellcome Seat, and forth the Prophet's Wrath would break.

69

Oh that the Virtues of the Days of Yore
Might yet revive among us, that we were
Not selfish Men: cold Hearts that feel no more
Than the brute Stones: aye, verily I fear
The stones would sooner stir themselves to hear
The touching Notes of an Orphean Lyre,
Than these men's Hearts, so little do they bear
Of holy Feeling or of high Desire;
The Altar itself keeps no spark of heavenly Fire!

70

Oh for the homely Tastes that found a feast
In Nature's least display: oh for the Love
That sought a heart alone, and found sweet Rest
Where she is wont to dwell, with Peace, above
The vain soulfretting turmoils which but move
The wise mind to contempt; oh for the days,
When Wisdom meekly could herself approve
Unto men's hearts, and led them in her ways,
Her Ways of Innocence, where like a child she plays!

71

But we have other tastes, we read strange things
Where Truth is not, true feeling allbelied;
We weep o'er braincoined Woes, the sufferings
Of sinners, whose cold hearts are shut by Pride
'Gainst man and maker, and who strive to hide
And quench in scorn the inwardburning Flame;
Monstrous creations whence we turn aside
In shame and loathing that a common name
Should blend us with them or but make us seem the same.
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72

Corsairs and Giaours, and a motley crew
More hideous than Chimera famed of yore,
Fireeating bravoes, whom sound minds eschew,
The Essence of Vulgarity, and more
Disgusting than the coarsestminded boor
With all their mockrefinement: for at least
He's true to Nature, and she still has Power
E'en in her rudest Workmanship to test
The utmost skill of man, and put to shame his best.

73

And for such foul abortions, that almost
Make our hair stand on End, a simple song
For a few natural hearts, is scornful tost
Aside and trampled by the bateyed throng;
Tho' unto it such melodies belong
As might create a soul, and bid it beat
Once more in breasts where it has lain so long
Like a dead Thing, devoid of all lifeheat,
And swaying but forced thoughts, like tyrant on his seat.

74

What is the End of Art? to multiply
The modes of moral being, to create
Models of all of Beautiful and High
In thought and deed: that thus our earthly state
May have bright visitations, and dilate
Beyond the narrow stature of Earth's fears,
Its Cares and Sorrows, whose stillgrowing Weight
Weighs on the Soul, 'till gathering with Years
The Rust and Soil of Earth its Glory disappears.

75

This is Art's holy End; a Denizen
Of Hesvensspheres, she deigns to dwell below
To glad the eyes and cheer the hearts of men!
To her own sublime chisel do we owe
Those antique statues, viewing whieh we grow
Into souloneness with the Life of things,
Feeling a beauty Nature's forms ne'er know;
To her we owe the Attic Muse, who sings
Her antique melodies, sweet as the woodlandspring's;
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76

'Twas She, who on the heavenwingëd Steed,
Songfablëd Pegasus, (as told of yore,
In numbers far too sweet one Doubt to breed,)
Alighting on that museloved Hill, which o'er
The Delphic Shrine looks down towards Crissa's Shore,
As tho' Fame's Path lay thro' Religion s Fane,
'Twas she who bade his Spellhoof strike the Floor
Of the hard Rock, then ne'er to sleep again,
Gushed the clear Stream which long in Nature's Breast had lain!

77

The poetrill! the Steedsfount is its name,
And on a Grecian Lip 'twas Hippocrene;
And all who drank thereof were dear to Fame,
And aye will be; tho' ages intervene
'Twixt us and them, their Laurels still are green
With an immortal Growth, for Nature gave
The Lifesap to them and they keep their sheen;
They drank not of the muddy streams that lave
Falsehood's cold lips, stillflowing with Lethean Wave

78

'Twas Art who gave to Raphael the hues
Of Heaven's own rainbow, that with them he might
Clothe divine thoughts, and at his pleasure use
Those subtlest of all Elements, shade, light
And color, fixing them before the sight
Of envying Nature, in unfading grace,
'Twas she who led the mighty Shakespeare right,
To hold the glass to Nature, and to place
Beyond Time's reach a world, yet still in Time and Space.

79

Alas! the Art I speak of, that has fled,
A catholic Wisdom ruling o'er the scene
Of the mind's Efforts: no vain code of dead
And empty forms, still making what has been
Measure of that to be, the bodyseen
And known of what the soul alone can see
And know by Intuition; not that mean
And worthless code of technicality,
Which bids us ellwandmeasure even Fancy's Eye.
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80

The Art I mean is but another name
For Nature's self: a high and holy Lore
Deduced from her eternal laws, the same
Which guide the framing of the meanest flower,
And the most vast creations of her power;
Drawing as easily within their sphere
The highest as the least; this Art before
All Forms and Rules exists, 'tis Nature's clear,
Selfharmonizing sway, that tunes heart, eye, and ear

81

To Beauty still, but they who seek a mean
To better Nature, which she not supplies,
Do e'en as he who to the sun's bright sheen
Would hold a taper; her affinities
Are not for fools: yet at the surface lies
The mighty Truth, which we must learn to see,
Fresh as the dew, with our own natural Eyes,
Not thro' Convention's glass, which twists her free
And healthy beautyshapes in apelike mockery.

82

This Art, twinborn with Nature, is eterne
And changes not, like man's vain rules, built on
Falsehood and Prejudice, where we discern
How weak he is when he would walk alone;
How sandbas'd all that the poor Worm has done,
If on Truth's broad foundations it rests not;
When Nature will not class it with her own
Eternal works, she sweeps it from the spot
As she would rase a moleheap: such still be their lot!

83

Whereas that which is True, endures for aye,
For being fashioned forth conformably
With her own Laws, these keep it from Decay:
But that which is abortive still must die;
For since it is a mere Anomaly
And an Exception, it runs counter to
The course of Things; while the least Flower by
Her still is furnished with its Drop of Dew
And each Spring reappears, for to her Laws 'tis 'true!
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84

How much more should the Works then of man's mind
To last enduringly, be likewise so!
Great Poets are a Product of their Kind,
The Hearts and Minds of many thousands go
To make up one: and hence his Voice is no
Mere passing Sound or idle Echo: 'tis
The breath divine which quickens all below,
All that is godlike in Man's Nature: this
Sublimed in him appears, at once their Work and his!

85

He is the Firstborn of his Age, its strong
Capacious Womb produces him, and by
This mighty Parent's Fostering his Song
Is strangely influenced; but all Things high
Become the Poet of Humanity,
Faith, Love, and Hope. What all believe, that is
His Faith: what all feel, that he lastingly
Embodies, lasts himself thro 'it, for this
Is true and comes of God, thus God's Voice speaks by his!

86

No Sceptic can act grandly, neither write
A Work that shall endure: his Efforts grow
From Principles, which he adopts in spite
Of Fact and Sense: they have no hold on, no
Command o'er Man's best Feelings, neither owe
Their Origin to any primary
Grand Impulse of his Nature, whence still flow
Love, Faith, Enthusiasm, Poetry;
Like a dead Branch to which the Roots no Sap supply!

87

This Art is catholic, as wide her Sphere
As Nature, and he who most loves the one,
Will know the other best, for they do bear
A close Relationship: Art is there none
Save in adapting Nature; he alone
Who thro 'her Isisveil has pierced: who by
Her mighty Heart the Beatings of his own
Accords: her Laws applies too, in the high
Creative Spirit which pervades their ministry,
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88

Not after the dead Letter, which can bear
One Sense alone; who with discursive sight,
From their true centre, views her works: and there
With magisterial mind and hush'd delight,
Admitted to the wondrous scene, aright
Interprets all her laws: anomalies
Can reconcile, and throw o'er all new Light,
Not by the Letter which dead, changeless lies,
But by the soul, which still its Proteusfunctions plies.

89

He, he alone, has earned that lofty name,
Highpriest of Art, to whom his Calling is
A Worship, a Religion: he her flame,
Her altarflame may tend, nor can he miss
Of her high revelations: it is his,
While others but the Ethnic Forecourt tread,
E'en at the inmost shrine to stand, and kiss
The hem of Nature's garment, and to read
Her oracles, from her own Lips receive his Creed!

90

He is the Prophet of the inmost Heart,
Its Oracles are his — all high Truths flow
From that one Fount, which o'er each barren Part
Of mazy Life their quickening Waters throw:
For ever does the Mind's Eye clearer grow
When it sees by the Heart: the meagre Brain
Its Seed in an ungrateful Soil doth sow,
Devoid of Centralwarmth, and reaps not Grain,
But Metaphysic's Tares, of all good Land the Bane!

91

Such was our Shakespeare, when his glorious eye
Called from the Void the shapes of things unknown,
Whose mind was as a mould, where Phantasy
Cast her own fairybeings: he alone,
If Nature failed (and she herself will own
The truth, for him a secondself she made,
And sanctioned to create: her chosen one)
Might take her place: for Time to Nature said,
Thy forms I change, but thou in him hast triomphëd!
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92

Mighty Artificer! to whom her laws
And constitution she resign'd: whose eye,
In its calm Wisdom, looked thro' all that was
And may be in man's changeful Destiny,
Teaching us that all here is vanity:
He stood, selffreed from idle forms and rules,
In her own vast, wide Laboràtory,
And with a masterhand he grasped her tools,
Creating at his Will, kings, madmen, heroes, fools.

93

How like a Providence he watches o'er
The beings of his Phantasy: they play
Their parts: are killed or die, and heard no more,
Gone to their last account: they never lay
Aside their human frailties, or betray
The Mean that makes them, that high Art which still
Does but interpret Nature: grave or gay,
They laugh and weep like men, they love, hate, kill.
Impartial he looks on, and leaves them their Freewill!

94

No mouthing, wiremoving Puppets, made
To speak Setspeeches, whose Morality
Is but the Drivel of some maudlin Head:
But Heart upon their Lips, Fire in their Eye,
Like Men they err, like Men they live and die,
Still mixed of Good and Ill, as all Men are,
And bound by Fellowcreaturesympathy
Unto our Hopes and Fears, still do we share
Their Joys and Griefs, for like in our own Breasts we bear.

95

We must not quarrel with them if at Times
They talk not overgodly: if they be
Not Saints with «Yea and Nay»: for Sins and Crimes
Find natural Language in Impiety
And scurrilous Licence: Life is a strange Medley
Of Good and Ill: and men must act and speak
As Chance or Education moulds them — the
Least has his Mission to fulfill: Strong, Weak,
Knave, Coward, Noble, Base, each plays his Part: they seek
259

96

According to their Lights, a Seeminggood
Or a substantial: but to sacrifice
Nature and Truth to what false Crities would
Lay down as fit and proper, with their nice
Fastidious Rules is Folly: ye have Eyes,
Look forth into the Streets, and learn what are
Life's actual Beings: Shakespeare was too wise
To better Nature's Work, or with a Pair
Of fine courtscissors cut vain Figures out of air.

97

He does not stretch or lop man's natural Shape
And just Dimensions, thus to fit him to
Some Theory: his Beings do not ape
Each other: each unto himself is true,
Each reasons as he has been led to do
By the Events of his own Life: each is
Strong in his own Identity, and thro'
The Play the same: one wishes that, one this,
One cracks his Joke, one seeks Fame's Garland or Love's Kiss!

98

He trusts to Nature's workings, to Man's Heart,
To human Feeling, human Sympathy:
And Nature is so strong, she can impart
Interest to Beggar's Rags and Misery,
To all where beats a Heart, to all Pride's Eye
Would turn in Scorn from; Critics would in vain
Force Art's Straightwaistcoat on Humanity,
Still Nature sways the Breast, still Joy and Pain
Make the Heart beat, and we grow Flesh and Blood again!

99

Beggars in Rags and kings in their proud Robes
Are still the same poor forkëd Things, the same
Frail dustborn Worms: and Sorrow's Lancet probes
Their Hearts alike — stand in the Pit and frame
Your Criticcode: what Nature's Instincts blame
Or praise, that write thou down as false or true:
As the Face kindles, or grows dull and tame,
Make thine own Comment: this Art Shakespeare knew.
For not from dusty Books, from Nature's Stores he drew!
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100

He was no closetbred Philosopher,
Full of fine Thoughts, which never could be thought
By those who're made to mouthe them: in the Stir
Of manyfeatured Life his Lore he sought,
Man, suffering, acting in its thronged Resort,
In the Highways and Byways, his keen Eye
Had read: yet if a noble Being, fraught
With Heaven's best Gifts, called for his Pencil, by
Its Magictouch she rose, all Ideality,

101

Like some pure Vision, 'mid the Noise and Strife
Of the rude Fo ms around her: thus did he
With practicalest knowledge of Man's Life,
And the most keen, worldwise Sagacity,
That probes each Sore, each coarse Deformity
Of moral Being, blend with this the true
Unsullied Spirit of Humanity:
Mighty Philosopher! too well he knew
That Life is doublefaced, and changes still its Hue!

102

He was not one of those dull, narrow Minds
Who trace the Surfaceill, yet will not see
The Good below: which Wisdom ever finds
When at the Heart she looks impartially:
The worst is not allevil, even he
Has some good Germs, tho' checked by Want and Shame,
Tho' showy Virtues oft pretended be
And bring Discredit upon her high Name,
Yet is there genuine Worth, least known to loudtongued Fame!

103

Cordelia! Miranda! Names of Love!
Ye live to withess whence his Spirit drew
Its Inspiration: ye alone might prove
How well he Man's diviner Nature knew:
Types of a Beauty are ye, calm and true,
Which hallows, halolike, your maidenbrows,
'Till they seem as the Angels: oft to you
From Earth's Bruteforms I turn and find Repose,
Gazing on those calm Fronts, where no false Feeling throws
261

104

Its Fever and its Fretfullness: so clear
Those ample Forehead's Stretch, and so serenc,
That all we know of Grief and Heartbreak here
Shows like a Dream, a something that has been,
But is no more remembered, felt or seen!
How beautiful seems Womanhood in thee,
Cordelia? cut off in the first green
Leaf of Existence: who could ever see
Thee in that oldman's Arms, nor weep almost as he?

105

For thy Death seems a common Blow, and is
As we ourselves had lost that which we have
Of dearest, something which the Earth must miss
And be the poorer for: we almost crave
The Poet to reverse thy Fate, and save.
But he, he knew too well his sublime Art,
Nor longer claimed for Earth what Heaven gave,
He knew it could not recompense that Heart,
And therefore let the Godlike to its God depart!

106

How comprehensive was his Range! behold
The Stage: how full! what rich Variety!
What Movement in the Figures, young and old:
New still succeeding, inexhaustibly,
And Forms that gleam like Angels passing by!
But we, we have profaned these Shapes of Grace,
These perfect Statues fixed eternally
On Nature's Pedestal, and by them place
Distorted Figures which scarce own a human Face!

107

Mechanic Art's Abortions, Monstershapes
That have no Likeness on the Earth, but take
Such Nightmareforms, that viewed by these the Ape's
Is bearabler: for Nature tho' she make
Creatures uncouth or ugly, Toad or Snake,
They're perfect in their kind, each in its Place
Is good: but we, Idolaters, we break
The antique Statues full of Life and Grace,
With Egypt's Mummies Art's high Temple to deface.
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108

Alas for Art — it is an empty Word
Bandied from Lip to Lip and meaning naught:
Still where no Substance is, the Name's most heard.
By Quacks and Mountebanks its Laws are taught,
Its End expounded, and a Shortcut sought,
That fashionable Votaries may save
Their Brains all Trouble: nay, it may be bought
By Ounce and Pound, that thus each Fool may have
His Pocketrules of Art, and play the Critic grave.

109

Art, high, creative Art, who only is
Lawgiver, has become a mere Cantphrase:
A Set of formal Rules applied amiss:
A mere Ellwand to measure Bust and Face,
Proportions, Forms of that ideal Grace,
Which e'en the Soul can scarce grasp in its high
And heavenly Inspiration, nor can trace
Save with Imagination's glowing Eye:
Instead of which these Men a Microscope apply!

110

She has become a Drawingroomfinelady,
Too eyechaste and earnice tó dare to look
Upon a naked Statue, and tho' ready
To prostitute her Heart, will nowise brook
A bold Expression, or a «naughty Book»,
'Tis so improper, and, what's worse by far,
So vulgar, it would give her Nerves a Shock:
With Shakespeare she maintains a knifepointwar,
Castrate Editions only such chaste People dare

111

To set their Eyes on — Nature's Language sounds
Too rude for their nice Ears: in Terms precise
And Satinphrases, she her Thought propounds,
And she will show the Door too in a Trice,
Should you, poor Nature's Child, offend her niee
Fastidious Standard of Propriety:
Light Writings now alone are worth their Price,
While the high Themes of Faith, Truth, Liberty,
All that speaks to the Soul, are thrown contemptuous by!
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112

But Art loves the free Air: she has no Fear
To soil her Garments: in the Marketplace,
Nay, in the Brothel itself, everywhere,
Unsoiled herself 'mid all that's soiled and base,
She studies Humannature, dares to trace
The Passions as they living rise to view,
Displayed in Act and working in the Face,
Hence for her Pallet she selects each Hue,
And having felt and seen, to Life she pictures true.

113

She has no prurient Passions, weak Desires
That Flesh is Heir to: therefore dangerfree
She treads the Haunts of Sin, secure respires
Its sickly Breath — Hermaphrodite is she,
Both Sexes in her Nature joinëd be,
Thus independent on brute Agencies,
She on herself begets her Progeny:
She lends no Ear unto the passing Cries
Of Party, Place, or Passion: to all Centuries

114

Her calm, strong Voice is sent, appealing to
Eternal Interests and Sympathies,
For she is of all Time! she seeks the True,
Revealing it, like Time, to Man's dim Eyes,
Careless whom she offends, or whom defies:
Man's higher Nature she addresses, as
Having Soul as well as Body: Destinies
Where Party, Sex, Age, Birth like Shadows pass,
For universal Humannature is her Glass!

115

She bends not to the Forms and Usages
Of Fashion, changing with each changing year,
True unto Nature (this her chief Praise is)
Her Archetype! sublimely chaste like her
Tho' naked down unto the Feet! Eye, Ear
So grandly blind and deaf to aught obscene:
Chaste as the Venus in her Atmosphere
Of calm ideal Beauty, which has been
So long by Time thrown round her, as to screen
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116

Her nakedness, from all save Lust's coarse Eye,
With a far, far sublimer Veil than e'er
Of Woof was made, the Veil of Modesty!
And which tho' viewless, hides not less what ne'er
Can or should to the godlike Sight appear;
How little serves the spiritual Eye!
That very Nakedness which first Lust's Leer
Attracts, to it is but the Garment by
Which Chastity conceals herself more per fectly!

117

How godlike 'tis in this fair World to see
The Good and Godlike only, 'till we grow
By thinking of naught else, ourselves to be
So likewise; 'till all that is mean and low
Lost to our sublime Sight, for us has no
Existence any longer; for what to
Our Mind is not kept present, is as tho'
It were quite, quite destroyed; this is the true,
The godlike Way to root out ill, and none to do!

118

Unto the Spirit spiritual Things
Suffice; its Chastity by an Idea
Is guarded more than by all Coverings,
And 'till this be removed there is no Fear!
Yea! ye may strip the Maiden naked, tear
The veil from her chaste Brow, and yet shall she
To her own and each pure Eye clothed appear,
With that imperishable Robe which the
Eternal himself wove from his own Modesty!

119

But that which is impure no Covering
From Lust can hide, thro' all it will appear;
For as e'en Nakedness a veil can fling
O'er itself to pure Eyes, so too whate'er
Unclean is veiled, Vice unveils! let Prudes sneer,
The Fault is in the Eye that sees alone;
E'en God's Word to the carnal mind's not clear
From foul Suggestion; but this Art is gone,
And a bedizened Harlot in her Stead is shown!
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120

My God! and are we sunk to this? must Art.
This high Art, which so grandly wrought of Yore
The godlike from and for the Soul, depart
And leave us a mere Name? shall she who bore
Miltons and Shakespeares, nought of Godlike more
Conceive in her vast Womb? must she give way
Whose Voice can scatter armies, see her Lore
Thus trampled in the Dust, her heavenly Sway
Displaced, her Altars desecrate to God's of Clay?

121

Forbid it Heaven! let her Spirit rise
And with a Milton's Tongue launch forth her Ire
At such Pollution; shall her Victories
O'er her brute Foes, her Efforts to inspire
The Love of high Things, shall her Delphic Lyre
Spanned by Apollo's Fingers and the Nine,
And our bold Islandharp, with all the higher
And nobler Impulses, leave nought divine,
No Worth to Fireside, no Altar to the Shrine?

122

Alas! Pen, Pencil, Chisel labour now
For Hire, or the mere Moment's Fame; no more
Does Genius, kneeling by the Altar, vow
To it that during Worship, which before
Made Art Religion! No, the Days are o'er
When with her Fairywand she could array
Angels in mortal Weeds: the Forms of yore
Which Poets moulded from Earth's common Clay,
Yet filled with the Lifebreath the true Promethean Ray!

123

Human like our ownselves, still Flesh and Blood,
Subject to Chance and Change, to Wrongs and Woes,
And Fortune's Buffets: fed with the same Food,
And breathing one same Atmosphere with those
Whose dull Eye sees the Beautiful, yet knows
Not in it that high Power which can draw,
(As Nature from the Dust the Fairyrose)
From earthly Yearnings and from Life's vain War
Of jarring Elements, Forms free from Soil or Flaw!
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124

Spirits of Beauty! ye who in the Strife
And Turmoil of this Being shine with Ray
So calm and clear, like Stars, o'er Man's dim Life,
Look from your Pedestals, beneath which play
Time's troubled Waves, while Ages swept away
And Generations on their vain Career,
Attest your timedefying Beauty: say
Whence comes the Charm which grows not dull or sere.
What high Art framed ye? speak, your calm Lips let me hear.

125

Antigone, dear Attic Name! sweet Spell!
Calling Love's holiest Scene to my Mindseye,
The Muse's favorite Scene, the Grove where dwell
Th'Avengers, and that blind old Man hardby,
After Life's many Woes now drawing nigh
The Haven of his Rest: held up by thee,
Divinest Maid! whose holy Ministry
Thus far has led his Steps, so calm and free
In thy young Wisdom, and so full of Piety!

126

Selfsacrificing Spirit! of whose Arm
The griefbent Edipus had made so long
His living Staff, how holy is the Charm
Breathed by thy Fortunes and the Poetssong
Upon thy very Name! poor Child of Wrong,
Whom Duty called upon to sacrifice
That Happiness which seems still to belong
By Right to her Disciples, but most wise,
Thou gav'st up Earth's brief Joys to taste those of the skies!

127

Hector, Andromache! ye pure Twinbeams
From one same Source of Beauty, and ye few
Ethereal Forms that realize the Dreams
Of our young Poethearts, for loving you
We cannot stoop again to Earth to woo
The common Forms of coarse Mortality;
Imogen! Desdemona! and thou too,
Divine Clarissa! Types wherein doth lie
The Essence of all Love, Truth, Beanty, Poesy!
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128

Clarissa! thou, thou art my Spirit's Bride:
I never saw thee, yet I love thee more
Than aught on Earth — and didst thou walk beside
Life's coarse, prosaic Forms: like them, tread o'er
Its hackneyed Dust? yes! and for this before
Thee do I bow and worship, for thou art
No idle Dream, but something which once wore
Our Flesh and Blood, and by the beating Heart,
Spite of its Frailties, still fulfill'dst thy godlike Part!

129

No bright Impossibility, which we
Stare at awhile, and straight forget, as tho'
It ne'er had been — fullseldom may we see
Aught like thee on this Earth, yet art thou no
Impossibility; 'twas in Life's low,
Prosaic, coarse Realities, nay, by
What harshest is therein, that thou didst grow
Most godlike! tis this Triomph calm and high,
Which links thee still with Earth, yet lifts thee to the Sky!

130

Then speak, ye Spirits, those calm Lips unseal
Whose deep, clear Wisdom can alone lay bare
The mistery of your Making, and reveal
The Soul of Art, whose Power extends so far:
That true creative Art, whereof ye are
Such noble Symbols: of that Art which is
Nature's own Laws, creating Shapes more rare,
Wherein the Possible the Real doth kiss,
Nature's Jointwork with Man nor wholly hers nor his.

131

She gives the Stuff, he the enduring Form
Which from his Spiritsdepths the Secondsight
Must body forth: lovely as from the Storm
The Rainbow starts, so untouched by the Blight
And Fever of Man's Life, pure Shapes of Light.
Nay e'en the earthborn Matter, soulsubdued,
By high Participation of its Might,
Loses its Earthliness, and as endued
With spiritual Life, withstands Time's changeful mood.
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132

Art's only Source is in Man's immost Soul,
And what is there to him by it made known
Is as a Revelation of this Whole,
Thro' Man, of its own Being, of its own
Internal Principles, thro' which alone,
And in Conformity with which aught true
Or grand can be wrought out: his Voice is one
With Nature's then, and what she utters thro'
His one Heart and believes therein, mankind feels too!

133

Art's source in outward things must hot be sought:
Who seeks the sunlight's source amid the rays
Scattered o'er earth: tho' each and all be fraught
With the celestial Radiance which plays
Around the firemanëd steeds, when Day's
Eyedazzling car is whirled along the sky;
'Tis in external things that Art displays
Her beautygiving power, which else lie
Dead, senseless, meaningless, no types to heart or eye.

134

This vast and glorious Universe, this World
Of evervarying Loveliness: this sky
Wherein the clouds, like some bright Map unfurl'd
Of unknown lands, show to the outer eye
Shapes rarer than all dreams of Phantasy:
Seas, woods, earth, heaven, all things to be or been,
All are but types of one sole majesty,
Of one sole Truth and Beauty, felt unseen,
The thousandpulsing Heart of Nature's endless Scene!

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Its Symbol this wide Universe, which Art
Interprets and divines: its Mysteries
And oracles declares, and with each Part
Quicksympathizing, reads it as it lies
A Character in Nature's Harmonies:
A Link, which if removed, tho' small, would break
The vast Chain of her Continuities;
From this Eternal Beauty Art must take
Her Laws, and by the same her own Creations make.
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He who by Intuition lead aright,
Selftasking zeal, and study of all Things
Wherein this Beauty is revealed to sight,
And as it gushes in his soul, and flings
Thence its Elysiandrops, like some fresh spring's,
Making Eterne all that it falls upon,
He who has toiled in Love, and with him brings
A sinpure heart, Wisdom by meekness won,
A sympathy for all that moves beneath the sun,

137

He, he shall comprehend the true Idea
Of this vast Universe, and like a ray
Blend indivisibly with it; his clear
Capacious ken shall seize the one sure way,
While Form and Custom lead the re t astray,
And in that high Idea his soul shall live,
(E'en as his body in the Light of day)
Having its being there, and thence derive
Its Knowledge, Freedom, Bliss, nor vainly fretting, strive

138

After some baseless form of seeming Good;
From the true sightpoint the Reality
Of things he judges, and in lofty mood
Looks down on this brief Scene, the Vanity,
The Noise and Fret which at its surface lie,
So unintelligible save to the man
Whose calm, clear glance looks deeper than the eye
Into the heart of things, and loves to scan
The true selfharmonizing soul of life's vast plan.

139

He knows what Art is: he can fitly frame
Its laws for noble ends, and bid it be
Worthy of that high source from whence it came,
An Emanation of the Deity:
His Representative, by whose voice He
From age to age holds commune with mankind;
One Essence, the selfsame unchangingly,
But varying still its forms to suit the mind
Of nations as they leave their cast off sloughs behind.
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As he administers its laws, with hand
Creative moulds the matter Time supplies,
As at the stroke of some Enchanter's Wand
Forms of eternal Loveliness arise:
Statues, that from their Pedestals, with Eyes
Full of a holy Lore, look calmly down,
Like Gods who draw the breath of purer skies,
While Time's vain passing clouds are idly blown
Beneath their feet: still in their majesty, alone

141

And unapproachable, they stand for aye;
And as we gaze upon them, we awake
From the dull lethargy wherein we lay
As in a deathsleep, since the drowsy Lake,
Of whose Lethean Wave each soul must take
A deep draught at its birth, had washed away
All forelife memories: since mortal ache,
And sense's thralldom, dimming the bright ray
Of eldtime Glories on the soul had laid their sway.

142

Thus gazing we awake: and as upon
The mind that long hath stray'd, recalled by things
Of antique Token, thronging one by one,
Past memories come floating on the Wings
Of days long flown; so from these Objects springs
Up in our souls the fountain of belief;
And from the Past a bygone Glory flings
Its Reflexlight upon us, and tho' brief
At first, it gathers strength, 'till thro' all clouds of Grief

143

And Earthliness that compass us around,
Its undimmed radiance falls upon our Eyes
Once more unfilmed; then Earth gives forth a sound
Of gratulation, and the Heart which lies
In Universal Nature's breast replies
In Joy to ours: for we once more have won
Part of that heritage which Life denies
To disinherited man, we have begun
Again the life of Soul, ere this vain scene be done.
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144

Then is no longer death, nor doubt, nor fear,
Nor vain tears shed o'er fond ones torn away,
Nor Grief for passing losses: all things here
Are looked on with such feelings as he may
Experience, who knows that every day
Brings his bark nearer home: and the dread bier
Is but the quiet cradle where we lay
Our limbs at rest and gently disappear,
Not dieing but transform'd, and as we wake, we hear

145

Glad Welcomings, and wellknown Voices make
Sweet music as of yore; the wise, who have
By contemplation kept the soul awake
And passed in thought the portals of the grave,
May tread all fears beneath their feet and brave
All Phantoms of vain Terror which below
Scare the weak minds that have no Refuge save
In Things as vain as are their Fears: who know
Not that the Soul alone makes all Man's Weal or Woe

146

And Art, who realizes the Ideal,
Creates new Worlds for her true Votaries,
More ample and serene, to which they steal,
(When heavy on their souls life's burthen lies,)
To see the sights, and breathe of purer skies
The calm, clear atmosphere, and list at times,
Struck from her holy Shell, the melodies
Of heaven's own Muse, such as in antique climes
From Sinai and Horeb sent its mystic chimes

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Echoing thro' boundless space: whereof e'en now
Sweet snatches linger on the vocal air
Above the martyr's grave, and o'er the brow
Of the gray timeworn battlements, which bear
The print of Freedom's step, and everywhere
Where holy things have sunk again to Earth,
Leaving around the spot a haunting fear,
A hallowing dread, a consciousness of worth,
That sheds o'er common Ground the Glory of its birth.
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'Tis Art that strives poetic Form to give
Unto the Real, 'till all we hear and see
Becomes suggestive of that higher life
For which we yearn, 'till that by constantly
Gazing upon the Beautyhallowed, we
Ourselves grow beautiful: for who can know
The Perfect and the Beautiful, and be
Himself deformed, imperfect? even so
From our own hearts, the perfect Beauty still must grow.

149

All that there is of Beauty, Glory, Power,
In this wide Universe, all that the Ear
(In the full consciousness of its high dower)
Of many voicëd harmonies can hear:
All that the glorious faculty of clear
And unperverted vision can display
When with creative glance it sheds, as 'twere,
On Earth's unquickened forms the pure liferay,
All, all are dead to him, whose steps have gone astray.

150

He who to Form and Custom slaves his Eye,
For him the Beautiful is not, he knows,
He comprehends it not; its mystery
Is only for the mind whose compass grows
By contemplating that to which it owes
Its Qrigin, until like that it be;
'Till thro' all forms on which that Beauty throws
Its varying radiance, his eye can see
The one, sole source from whence it flows eternally.

154

'Tis Art alone can realize to man
The ancient Sage's dream, and bid arise
Pure forms of Loveliness in which we scan
The mind's creations fashioned to the Eyes,
And unto sense the soul's deep harmonies
Made palpable; from out the void of Space
And Sound, new worlds of Beauty fairywise
Called forth, where 'neath fit types of Power and Grace
High Truths and Virtues have a sensible dwellingplace.
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Not that the loftier mind needs outward things
To aid the inner vision, or make clear
And definite its high Imaginings
By such material helps: the inner ear
Has harmonies to which no music here,
However rare, approaches: and the eye
Sees not a shape of Beauty that comes near
To that which for its adoration high
The Soul has form'd: bright Lingerings of its native Sky!

153

Yet are these outward shapes of Loveliness
Endeared to us as types of loftier things,
Shadowings forth of Glory which express,
However feebly, the Imaginings
And Hopes to which the Soul by Instinct clings,
Nor doubts save in its very Being's Spite.
Nor less that Sense itself some aidance brings
To the diviner Part, thus raised by right
Of such high Consecration to a nobler height,

154

Endowed with higher capabilities:
For in the service of the soul the Ear
And Eye are holy things: the harmonies
Of Nature are by them convey'd in clear
And full Impressions to it, and all here,
That from our boyish days has charm'd the sight,
Of beautiful in earth, air, sea: all fair
And holy forms that wake a calm delight,
Linked with life's purest thoughts, and with the fancies bright

155

Of those blest days of Innocence and Youth,
All such are by these noble faculties
Imprinted on the soul in living truth:
And when these outward organs fail, arise
The scenes of bygone days before those Eyes
That Time and Season dim not: scenes of yore
Still haunted by ancestral memories
That linger round the grave of Joys no more,
Pale Ghosts of what were bright Realities before!
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Oh cherish and perfect these faculties,
Employ them consciously for Good, for they
Are given us to perfect: Oh be wise:
New worlds of Truth and Beauty every day
They open up to us, that thus we may
Keep still alive all holy sympathies,
And wake the founts upon life's weary Way
Of endless sweet Imaginings that rise
From Nature's hidden springs, whose Source exhaustless lies

157

At the deep Heart, the Centre, far below
The Pegasean Stroke: these Faculties
Ourselves must educate: must school them so
'Till in this fair World all Things to our Eyes
Grow lovely, to our Ears all Harmonies
Be opened up: 'till with the same Delight
And Ease with which the Child a Flute applies
To his small Lip, we draw forth the whole might-
-Y music of this World in all its Depth and Height!

158

Let Nature be a holy Thing to thee,
Her name upon thy lips sound as a Prayer:
And of this glorious temple let her be
The allpervading Presence, ever there,
Filling it with her majesty: in air
In earth and ocean felt, an unseen power,
By the calm shadow of whose Glory are
All things encompassed, whence the meanest flower
Can wake high thoughts, and flashings forth of hidden lore!

159

Oh study by selflowliness to know
And comprehend her Laws, for Pride is still
But Blindness and Delusion: what can grow
From out the rank soil of a stubborn will
But Ignorance, and weeds of bane to kill
And choke all holy sympathies, whereby
The heart is quickened, else wrapped up in chill
Repulsive forms of Selfidolatry,
Who magnifies himself and sees all else awry.
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How blest in early youth who Nature finds
Ere custom has enthralled, not as she seems
Distorted in the false glass of men's minds,
Mixed up with fancies and with feverish dreams
Of things that never were, but as she beams
In her own radiant form upon the eye
Of him who seeks her by her own loved streams,
Or on the mountaintops where fearless by
The cloudhigh Brink she roams and communes with the sky!

161

While with the Wind her untamed Tresses play
Luxuriant, by its Fairyphantasies
Twisted at Will, and Robe whose Woof Sunray
And Cloud have wrought in everchangeful Guise,
To shame Art's barren Efforts: and her Eyes
Like the mistpiercing Morn, and Step as free
As the snowcradled Chamois's when he flies,
The Stormwindsplaymate, 'mong the Rocks which she
Loves most to haunt like her great Daughter Liberty!

162

The mighty Mother, whose exhaustless Breast
Suckles and fosters all Things: whose so, so
Capacious Womb produces without Rest
All godlike Births: for that which here below
Endures, to her its Being still must owe:
Still from her mighty Heart to it must the
Lifeblood be furnished, else its Beatings know
Naught Grand or True: then happy, happy he
Whom her Lips teach alone, who early taught to see

163

In her a mother, pays her with a Love,
A timeoutlasting Love that changes ne'er,
But, growing with his Growth, and thus inwove
With the Heartsfibres still more near and dear,
Becomes his Being; he an ample Ear
For all her Harmonies shall have: no Tone
Of natural music, how despised soe'er
By those whom prurient Tastes can please alone,
But shall find Echos in his Heart, clear Answers thrown
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Back from the Spirit's Depths, where free Access
To all the Voices of Humanity,
In all their varying Tones of Joy, Distress,
Of Grief, of Gratulation and wild Glee,
Is given: and as in all Things 'tis she
That prompts and speaks, so from them all he will
Learn what she is: Sight ample shall his be,
No microscopic Vision poring still
On Art's Minutiæ which the genuine Sightnerve kill,

165

But catholic Vision seeing as they are
All Things in their true Being, Use and Place,
Parts of one mighty Whole, which near and far
Displays the Impress and the visible Trace
Of Power divine, which naught can e'er efface,
Nor Time, nor Revolution, nor the Wear
Of ceaseless Change: still, still the radiant Face
Of Nature smiles undimmed, still doth it bear
The Sign of the Allmighty fixed unchanging there!

166

To him the lowliest thing he sees and hears
Is hallowed, for without Humanity
He knows there is no Wisdom, and he fears
To pass o'er with an unobservant eye
The humblest form of Being which may lie
Before his feet: Love to and from all he
Gives and receives, for well he knows that by
Love only unto God the Soul is free
To soar, for if not Love, what else then can He be?

167

Nor can he not feel holy Sympathy
For all things be they whatsoe'er they may,
Knowing that one same Being equally
Created them in Love, and day by day
Provideth for them in his own good way
And time and measure, the same Being who
Watches o'er all that breathes, as well the stray
As the safe sheep, and still to mercy true
Feedeth the raven and the houseless sparrow too,
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As well as man, proud man, who deems that all
Is made for him in earth and sea and air;
Such Love should teach him humbleness, how small
Soe'er the object, still doth Wisdom care
For its least wants: shall man alone then dare
To deem beneath his notice that which the
Great God himself looks to, that its due Share
Of needful Things it lack not? God can see
Naught little, for no Act of Love can little be!

169

And God when for the Worm's least Want He cares
Is not less the great God whom Kings bow to,
Because the Object no Proportion bears
To his Allboundlessness, nay, more so; thro'
Its Littleness he proves himself the true
Allloving God: for how great must he be
Whom least Things occupy, as grandly too
As greatest! the whole God of love is He
Here likewise, for his whole Love's shown, yea!e en to the

170

Least Worm, as to the Universe at large!
This makes him God, for if he could feel aught
As little which is placed beneath his Charge,
He were not God! but if the Heart be fraught
With boundless Love for the least Thing, then naught
Can be small to it: and oh Man! what more
Sublime Example canst thou ask? then aught
By God himself, spare thou the Worm before
Thy Feet, hurt not the least, least Thing, or else a sore,

171

Sore Ill wilt thou on thine own Head call down,
Thou hardenest thy Heart! the worst of, yea!
All Ills in one, whence all the rest have grown,
Their bitter Root! the murderer even may
Wash from his bloody Hand the Stain away
With sweet Tears, Heaven's purifying Dew,
But in the Heart once hardened Guilt must stay,
Naught, naught can wash it out, for the one true
Source of both Tears and Feeling then is dried up too!
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Oh learn to live in Nature as beneath
A Presence that abhors all Sin: high Power
To quicken and sublime dwells in the Breath
Of natural Being; to each passing Hour
Its Moral link, this gives the meanest Flower,
The Bird's least Song a double Charm: view this
World as the true Sundial too of our
Existence, on which Time marks out with his
Own viewless Finger all that Mankind was and is!

173

Oh! deem it ne'er too early to begin
To teach the Child; I do not mean with dead
Unquicken'd Books, for what of Good therein
May be, we must ourselves be quickenëd
First to appreciate; and oft instead
Of using our own Eyes and Hearts to see
And feel, we take at Secondhand, and led
In Leadingstrings e'en from our Cradle, we
View Things not as they are, but as they're said to be.

174

I mean the living Wisdom of the Heart
Of human Love and human Sympathy,
Which of all Wisdom is the better Part!
Soon as the Heart beats, soon as opes the Eye,
So soon begin to fashion for the Sky
The Angel: to unfold its Wings, and these
Are Thoughts, with these teach it to God to fly,
Yea! from the first; for these we spread with Ease
E'en in a Prison, and are free whene'er we please!

175

The constant first Impressions profit most;
'Tis not the Going unto Church alone
On Sundays, for the seed meanwhile is lost;
'Tis not the brief Restraint before th'unknown,
The stranger, 'tis the Réspect hourly shown
To ourownselves, to God! before whom we
Stand ever: 'tis th' observing, not the one,
But each Day as a Sabbath, till we see
His Temple in this World, and Life one Sabbath be!
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It is the Tuning of the daily Ear,
And Eye, and Heart which makes Life's Harmony:
By Fits and Starts no during Good was e'er
Wrought out: the Flute if played on brokenly
Gives forth no Music, even so will thy
Life too — but if ye from the First teach still
The Child to feel and think godlike, then by
This Thought, as by a divine Egis, will
He be secured, yea! as by God's Rightarm, from Ill!

177

From the first Dawn of Reason we should link
High Thoughts and Feelings with all natural Things,
All Sights and Sounds: a Fountain whence we drink
High Admonitions and Imaginings
Of Beauty and of Good, 'till like the Strings
Of some sweet Instrument our Fancies be;
At the least Impulse: of a Bird that sings,
A falling Leaf, or aught we hear or see,
Starting into a wondrous, selftaught Harmony,

178

Like the Windharp's wild Music, which the Breath
Of Heaven wakes into Fairy phantasies:
And oh! why not? if thus the Air beneath
Its viewless Fingering can bid arise
Such Music from dead Strings, oh who denies
To Soul itself like Priviledge, to make
The Heart yield far, far deeper Melodies
From its so living Strings, which leave a Wake
(At Thought's most airy Touch, or Feeling's lightest Shake)

179

Tho' not upon this dull and sensual Ear,
Of neverfailing Music: evermore
Starting to Life to soothe us and to cheer,
And mingling with all sweetest Sounds of Yore,
The Sabbathchimes, which so oft could restore
My jarr'd Thoughts, Voice of Bird, or Child's glad Cry,
One mighty Chain of Harmony stretched o'er
The Universe, below and up on high,
In whose wide Compass Nature's thousand Voices lie!
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Oh learn to love her from thy boyish days,
And link with all her forms the memories
Of those dear Beings, who unto the Ways
Of Truth and Virtue turned the Energies
Of thy young soul; and when each fond one dies,
When the sweet household-voices on thine ear
Fall no more with glad welcome: when thine eyes
Miss their dear forms, still shalt thou feel them near.
For the Grave severs not our souls, tho' it may tear

181

These palpable Links asunder; still with thee
In one same being dwell they, still they are
Within thee and around unfailingly:
Still in the natural forms of all this fair
And goodly Universe their spirits share
Thy Being: and in each remembered spot,
Where with their lips thine breathed Love's sweetest air.
Each Object points thro' long years unforgot,
With silent finger to the paths where Sin is not!

182

And Art, still virtue's handmaid, should create
Enduring forms for what abstractedly
We love and worship; should impersonate
All virtues, shaping to the body's eye
What floated in ideal majesty
Before the soul: should give an actual life
Unto the Great and Good of History,
That by the outward sense we may arrive
At lofty thoughts, and towards high Imitation strive.

183

Art should preserve of human dignity
And human Worth the primal mould: should so
Stereotype each deed and feeling high
That Time and Change may never lay them low:
That, standing aye in Beauty, we may know
Whither to bend our Eyes, whence to renew
From forms that with unfading Being glow,
Man's loftier Nature: refashioning him true
In that sublimer Shape wherein of eld he grew.
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Thro' her Protean Forms one soul should shine,
One soul of Truth and Good, in thousand ways
Varying its revelations, yet divine
In all; now with sweet Music it should raise,
As with an Angelsvoice, our hearts to praise
The Giver of all Good; now changefully
In Paintingshues its presence it betrays,
And now in sculptured forms it charms the Eye,
Or lifts us to the skies on wingëd Poesy!

185

Thus in the common and familiar track
Of weekday Being should our spirits have
High visitations; nor would sense be slack
(Working for Hopes and Joys beyond the grave,)
To aid the soul; no more should it deprave
By brute Suggestions of this sensual life,
That purer being which by it doth crave
Knowledge of outward things, to fill Joy's hive
With sweetness from all sights and sounds the World can give

186

Like a vast Sabbathbell this World should ring
The one grand Chime of Being, pealing 'till
Mankind obeys the Call: thus every thing
In Art and Nature's realms should serve to fill
Man's soul with fairest visions, called at will
From out the Abyss of Thought or that of Space;
Thus should all things one mighty Truth instil,
Which Time and Sin may dim but ne'er efface,
That Man is born unto a nobler dwellingplace;

187

High Truth! deep Fount, with whose elysian Drops
The Yearnings, Feverfret and Doubts we slake
That Life is Heir to; Life! whose Flowers Grief crops,
Ere Hope can see them open; Truth! which Ache,
Age, mortal Woe, nor Sin itself can shake,
Tho' oft obscuring: still unfailingly
From Life's first Dawn its Pledge with us we take,
And when the Flame in Ashes seems to die,
Chance stirs them, and to Heaven the unquenched Sparks upfly!
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Death cannot tread them out; 'tis Sin alone
Allbut extinguishes their holy glow:
Yet still they burn, tho' smothered, and anon
Will blaze out as of yore, if Faith but blow
With her lifebreath the embers, which still owe
Their primal heat to her, else cold and dead.
Mysterious consciousness! which on man's brow
Can stamp its Immortality, and spread
'Mid Mists of Earthliness a halo round his head!

189

And Art, whose eye doth «glance from Heaven to Earth,»
Looking before and after, far and near,
Making her revelations of man's Birth,
His Death and Being, (for her ample sphere
Is as the soul of man, not bounded here
To these vain shows) from her wide realms should gleam
Fresh garlands of bright flowers neversere,
Thought, Sense, Imagination's purest sheen,
To clothe this primal Truth, that clearer felt and seen

190

In Poet's Fiction, Life's Reality,
In every sensible and spiritual Form,
It may be cherished as a Boon of high-
-Est, holiest Import: as the primal Germ
Of all true Being, which if by the Worm
Of Disbelief once gnawed, then there can be
Nor Fruit nor Flower, nor Strength against the Storm
Of mortal Accident; for how can he
Who doubts Man's highest Hope, in Man aught godlike see?

191

In Art's enduring marbles we should mould
And cherish the pure type unfailingly
Of national character: thus may we hold
The mirror to the Nation's face, and see
How Time hath changed it; whether it still be
Like our fifth Harry's, when upon the plain
Of Agincourt, the God of Victory,
His foes before him fled, like drops of rain
Swept by the tempestblast, nor turned to look again;
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His spirit walks among us still, it lives
In Shakespeare's everliving page, whose Song
Sounds as a shout of Victory which gives
To English ears delight, and wakes a throng
Of glorious recollections, which belong
Thro' him unto all ages; the dark grave
Which closes over Empire's wrecks, no wrong
Hath done to Milton, for his Fame might save
A nation's memory from dark Oblivion's wave!

193

Truth is Omnipotent: and when high Art
In visible beauty clothes her, and doth make
Her as a palpable Presence, every heart
Must worship her: for she alone can break
The fetters of that thralldom which doth take
Prisoner the soul; she can impart the grace
Of pure Belief to Blasphemy, and shake
With her calm voice the proud throne to its base,
And with her steadfast glance all darkness straight efface!

194

But we are Idolworshippers, we have
No more the «vision and the faculty
Divine,» But travel onward to the Grave
Bent down beneath the heavy misery
Which Mammon lays on us. Art is a lie,
A vain Word, not the Breath of God for aye
Subliming and renewing; to naught high
Her Votaries toil, but for the passing Day,
Greedy of Fame that fades like a vile Breath away!

195

Art has no moral Aim: she no more strives
To make great Men and Citizens: to show
In her still Forms how genuine worth survives
The Pomps and Vanities which Time lays low:
She teaches not whence man's real Power must grow,
From what deep Source the Beautiful, the True,
And the enduring Mighty ever flow.
And if the Man be not first godlike, thro'
What can the Artist then aught godlike feel or do?
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Just in the same Proportion that he is
A better man, in that too will he be
A better Artist! first then perfect this,
For as the lesser in the greater, the
Good Artist is implied in this: and he
The masterartist is, who moulds not dead,
Cold Stone, but who has taught his Eye to see,
His Heart to feel godlike! yea! he may spread
Fairer than Raphael's Hues, or near a Shakespeare tread!

197

Until the Heart be godlike, can the Hand
Throw aught of Godlike on the Canvass? aught
Beyond what with the Ellwand may be spann'd
Of Rule and Precedent? until the Thought
Kindle and glow, can the cold Lip be fraught
With Words that burn? No! till the Man then be
Great in God's Sight, the artist can be naught:
He has no Inspiration, that is, the
Pure Breath of God, without which God none feel or see!

198

This Art, this Inspiration is no more!
We are no more great Men, and therefore no
Great Artists rise: we have no Faith, therefore
We work no Miracles! we worship now
The Brute and the Mecharical, which show
Like India's hundredhandëd Gods placed by
The Apollo's Strength of Beauty; thus we bow
To physical Force, and sick we know not why,
Most natural Relief! to coarse Excitement fly.

199

How does the Lord of Hosts assert his Right,
How make his Presence felt resistlessly
Within Guilt's Breast? not by the wingëd Might
And Terrors of his Thunders: Mockery
Of merely physical Fears, felt briefly by
The outward Man, and with the Body's Throes
Forgot; in the soft Whisper is He nigh
Of Conscience, the dread Witness! whose Voice grows
Louder than Thunder, yet breaks not the Babe's Repose!
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200

Tho' by its light Breath not the least Leaf would
Be shaken, nor unto the outward Ear
The least Sound sent, yet from it if he could
The inward Man would hide himself in Fear:
Quaking as some dim Spectreform drew near,
By the dread sense of its Reality
To Feeling, tho' not unto Sight made clear;
It whispers, 'tis God's Voice! it looks, and by
The Flash revealed, he sees God's calm, reproving Eye!

201

Th' Eternal, how do we create it? say,
With Stone and Iron? No! Time claims all these,
He lays his Hand on them, they pass away
And are forgotten! the hard Rocks decrease
As the Wave washes them, the Soft with Ease
Wearing away the Hard! how wouldst thou make
Th' Eternal then? in Noiselessness and Peace
The Thought can build what Ages shall not shake,
And a few Words of Truth the Spear and Sword can break!

202

What is it that upholds the Stars of Heaven
In their bright Courses, and controuls the Sea?
'Tis the sphereruling Law by Wisdom given,
That so, so gently yet resistlessly
Draws Worlds into their Places, tho' they be
More countless than the Seasands! this is Power
And Wisdom: which are one eternally;
Which bows the Neck of Nations to the Hour
Of Retribution, as the passing Wind the Flower!

203

What shakes the Nerve, a Thought can overthrow!
True Strength is Faith, Love, Truth, for with their Aid
Man is allselfsufficient, both to know,
To do and suffer: needing no Parade
Of Proofs and Helps sought but when Faith is dead.
For Faith were Faith no longer, if need were
Of palpable Signs and Revelations made
Unto the outward Man; Sense mocks the mere
Faint Wordbelievers, for within they see not clear:
286

204

He who feels that grand Miracle, which as
His Soul each bears within him, will not view
Those which for Wonders with the Vulgar pass
With much Amazement: he sees the one true
Spirit in all Things, and the more it thro'
Forms spiritual Works, the clearer he
Can trace it, and most in his own Soul too,
Its purest Form, God's Spirit, boundless, free,
And feeling this, what else with Wonder should he see?

205

St. Thomas needs must touch Christ's Body, for
He doubted, his frail Faith was half ha Lie,
For Sense with heavenly Things is still at War:
And he who needs must with his Bodyseye
Behold, sees with his Soul's but filmily!
Faith is a perfect Whole, all Eye, all Ear,
Not each, as in the Flesh, a Faculty
Distinct and limited: thus she has clear
Authentic Signs when brute Sense nought can see or hear.

206

The true Divinity of Poesy,
Its Beauty and its holy Power to wake
The Hearts of men to virtue, does not lie
In its loud Thunderings, which only break
The blessëd calmness of the Soul, and shake
It with vain Tumult, but in Feelings true
And deep, whose Undercurrents ceaseless take
In quiet Strength their Course, returning to
Th' eternal Ocean from whose Depths their Source they

207

Yea! Poesy, like Conscience, has her still,
Small Voice, yet in its Gentleness, 'tmay be,
As strong to rouse, and with high Thoughts to fill
The Soul, that from vain Passion's Tumult free,
Lends willing Ear to its calm Witchery.
Her Shell, like Ocean's, has a Voice that speaks
Of her far heavenly Source, her Office high,
And of the End th' indwelling Spirit seeks,
Totune the Soul's fine Strings, which Passion's rude Hand breaks!
 

The medicean Venus.

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