 | Poems and prose writings |  |
87
THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL.
“And when thou think'st of her eternity,
Think not that death against her nature is;
Think it her birth.”
Davies.
“But it exceeds man's thoughts to think how high
God hath raised man.”
Same.
It is the Soul's prerogative, its fate,
To shape the outward to its own estate.
If right itself, then, all around is well;
If wrong, it makes of all without a hell.
So multiplies the Soul its joy or pain,
Gives out itself, itself takes back again.
Transformed by thee, the world hath but one face. —
Look there, my Soul! and thine own features trace!
And all through time, and down eternity,
Where'er thou goest, that face shall look on thee.
To shape the outward to its own estate.
If right itself, then, all around is well;
If wrong, it makes of all without a hell.
So multiplies the Soul its joy or pain,
Gives out itself, itself takes back again.
Transformed by thee, the world hath but one face. —
Look there, my Soul! and thine own features trace!
And all through time, and down eternity,
Where'er thou goest, that face shall look on thee.
88
We look upon the outward state, and, then,
Say who is happiest — saddest who of men:
We look upon the face, and think to know
The measure of the bosom's joy or woe.
A healthy man is that, and full his hoard,
His farm well stocked, and well supplied his board,
His helpmate comely, and a thrifty dame
Of cheerful temper, morn, noon, eve, the same.
How pale looks yonder man; his wife a scold,
His children sickly, starved with want and cold.
And there goes one, a freeman all his life,
Who ne'er had plagues of home, or child, or wife.
Another lives in that large, silent hall,
Bereft of friends, of wife, and child, and all.
Now, of the four, who's happiest, saddest? Say!
I thought thou knewest. Well, then, why delay?
Oh, Hamlet like, thou would'st peruse the face!
And canst thou now the bosom's secrets trace?
The face is called the index of the mind;
Yet dost not read it, wise one? — Art thou blind?
It is the Soul made visible. Behold
The shapes it takes. Speak! What may his unfold?
Why, joy, be sure; you saw how sweet it smiled.
— Thou read a face! Go, read thy horn-book, child!
Say who is happiest — saddest who of men:
We look upon the face, and think to know
The measure of the bosom's joy or woe.
A healthy man is that, and full his hoard,
His farm well stocked, and well supplied his board,
His helpmate comely, and a thrifty dame
Of cheerful temper, morn, noon, eve, the same.
How pale looks yonder man; his wife a scold,
His children sickly, starved with want and cold.
And there goes one, a freeman all his life,
Who ne'er had plagues of home, or child, or wife.
Another lives in that large, silent hall,
Bereft of friends, of wife, and child, and all.
Now, of the four, who's happiest, saddest? Say!
I thought thou knewest. Well, then, why delay?
Oh, Hamlet like, thou would'st peruse the face!
And canst thou now the bosom's secrets trace?
The face is called the index of the mind;
Yet dost not read it, wise one? — Art thou blind?
It is the Soul made visible. Behold
The shapes it takes. Speak! What may his unfold?
Why, joy, be sure; you saw how sweet it smiled.
— Thou read a face! Go, read thy horn-book, child!
89
By summing that man's cattle by the head,
His friends alive, or wife and children dead,
Dost think to learn his spirit's breadth and length?
To find his joys' and sorrows' depth and strength?
Come! of these joys and sufferings make thy cast.
Now tell me, pray, how foot they up at last?
Of outward things thou canst not find the amount.
Think'st thou the Soul's emotions, then, to count?
To range upon the face the thoughts that fly
Swifter than light? — That rainbow, in the sky,
Severs each hue. But what prismatic glass
Hast thou to mark the feelings as they pass?
Or what wherewith to sound, or tell the flow
Of that man's deep and dark and silent woe?
To name their kind, or reckon their degree,
When joys play through him like a sparkling sea?
Ocean and land, the living clouds that run
Above, or stand before the setting sun,
Taking and giving glory in his light,
Live but in change too subtle for thy sight.
The lot of man — see that more varied still
By ceaseless acts of sense, and mind, and will.
Yet could'st thou count up all material things,
All outward difference each condition brings,
Then would'st thou say, perhaps, Lo, here the whole!
— The whole? One thing thou hast forgot — The Soul!
— Life in itself, it life to all things gives;
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives —
His friends alive, or wife and children dead,
Dost think to learn his spirit's breadth and length?
To find his joys' and sorrows' depth and strength?
Come! of these joys and sufferings make thy cast.
Now tell me, pray, how foot they up at last?
Of outward things thou canst not find the amount.
Think'st thou the Soul's emotions, then, to count?
To range upon the face the thoughts that fly
Swifter than light? — That rainbow, in the sky,
Severs each hue. But what prismatic glass
Hast thou to mark the feelings as they pass?
Or what wherewith to sound, or tell the flow
Of that man's deep and dark and silent woe?
To name their kind, or reckon their degree,
When joys play through him like a sparkling sea?
Ocean and land, the living clouds that run
Above, or stand before the setting sun,
Taking and giving glory in his light,
Live but in change too subtle for thy sight.
The lot of man — see that more varied still
By ceaseless acts of sense, and mind, and will.
Yet could'st thou count up all material things,
All outward difference each condition brings,
Then would'st thou say, perhaps, Lo, here the whole!
— The whole? One thing thou hast forgot — The Soul!
— Life in itself, it life to all things gives;
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives —
90
Becomes an acting being, ill or good;
And, grateful to its giver, tenders food
For the Soul's health; or, suffering change unblest,
Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:
As acts the man, e'en so it plays its part,
And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.
Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see,
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs as if a breeze were there
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall!
The double strips of silvery sand unite
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.
Yon bird, that seeks her food upon that bough,
Pecks not alone; for look! the bird below
Is busy after food, and happy, too.
— They're gone! Both pleased, away together flew.
Behold we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran through grass and brake, with dancing beams,
And, grateful to its giver, tenders food
For the Soul's health; or, suffering change unblest,
Pours poison down to rankle in the breast:
As acts the man, e'en so it plays its part,
And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart.
Yes, man reduplicates himself. You see,
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree.
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air,
Now rests, now stirs as if a breeze were there
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all!
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall!
The double strips of silvery sand unite
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright.
Yon bird, that seeks her food upon that bough,
Pecks not alone; for look! the bird below
Is busy after food, and happy, too.
— They're gone! Both pleased, away together flew.
Behold we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood,
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood?
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee:
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand,
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep,
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams
That ran through grass and brake, with dancing beams,
91
Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky.
The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen among the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more —
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves — puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world;
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow? Self he makes the rate
Of fellow-man, and cries, 'T is hate for hate.
Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms
All things into thy likeness; heaves in storms
The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest,
Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast —
Which gives each outward circumstance its hue,
And shapes the acts, and thoughts of men anew,
Till they, in turn, or love or hate impart,
As love or hate holds rule within the heart.
Then, dread thy very power; for, works it wrong,
It gives to all without a power as strong
As is its own — a power it can't recall: —
Such as thy strength, e'en so will be thy thrall.
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky.
The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels
No harmony within; the south wind steals
As silent as unseen among the leaves.
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives,
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more —
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar
Of winds and flinging waves — puts out the light,
When high and angry passions meet in fight;
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled,
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world;
The fiends of his own bosom people air
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair.
Hates he his fellow? Self he makes the rate
Of fellow-man, and cries, 'T is hate for hate.
Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms
All things into thy likeness; heaves in storms
The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest,
Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast —
Which gives each outward circumstance its hue,
And shapes the acts, and thoughts of men anew,
Till they, in turn, or love or hate impart,
As love or hate holds rule within the heart.
Then, dread thy very power; for, works it wrong,
It gives to all without a power as strong
As is its own — a power it can't recall: —
Such as thy strength, e'en so will be thy thrall.
92
The fiercer are thy struggles, wrath, and throes,
Thou slave of sin, the mystic chain so grows
Closer and heavier on thee. Thus, thy strength
Makes thee the weaker, verier slave, at length,
Working, at thy own forge, the chain to bind,
And wear, and fret thy restless, fevered mind.
Be warned! Thou canst not break, nor scape, the power
In kindness given in thy first breathing hour.
Thou canst not slay its life: it must create;
And, good or ill, there ne'er will come a date
To its tremendous energies. The trust,
Thus given, guard, and to thyself be just.
Nor dream with life to shuffle off the coil;
It takes fresh life, starts fresh for further toil,
And on it goes, for ever, ever, on,
Changing, all down its course, each thing to one
With its immortal nature: All must be,
Like thy dread self, one dread eternity.
Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath,
Uncalled by God. We look, and name it Death.
Mad wretch! the soul hath no last sleep; the strife
To end itself, but wakes intenser life
In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er!
Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more?
What! life destroy itself? O, idlest dream
Shaped in that emptiest thing — a doubter's scheme.
Think'st in an Universal Soul will merge
Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge?
Thou slave of sin, the mystic chain so grows
Closer and heavier on thee. Thus, thy strength
Makes thee the weaker, verier slave, at length,
Working, at thy own forge, the chain to bind,
And wear, and fret thy restless, fevered mind.
Be warned! Thou canst not break, nor scape, the power
In kindness given in thy first breathing hour.
Thou canst not slay its life: it must create;
And, good or ill, there ne'er will come a date
To its tremendous energies. The trust,
Thus given, guard, and to thyself be just.
Nor dream with life to shuffle off the coil;
It takes fresh life, starts fresh for further toil,
And on it goes, for ever, ever, on,
Changing, all down its course, each thing to one
With its immortal nature: All must be,
Like thy dread self, one dread eternity.
Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath,
Uncalled by God. We look, and name it Death.
Mad wretch! the soul hath no last sleep; the strife
To end itself, but wakes intenser life
In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er!
Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more?
What! life destroy itself? O, idlest dream
Shaped in that emptiest thing — a doubter's scheme.
Think'st in an Universal Soul will merge
Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge?
93
Or, no less skeptic, sin will have an end,
And thy purged spirit with the holy blend
In joys as holy? Why a sinner now?
As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou.
God's Book, rash doubter, holds the plain record;
Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word?
Or palter with it in a quibbling sense?
That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence,
Then — with thy spirit from the body freed —
Then shalt thou know, see, feel, what 's life indeed!
Bursting to life, thy dominant desire
Shall upward flame, like a fierce forest fire;
Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash —
Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash
A wild disaster round, like its own woe —
Each wave cry, “Woe forever!” in its flow,
And then, pass on; — from far adown its path
Send back commingling sounds of woe and wrath —
Th' indomitable Will shall know no sway: —
God calls — Man, hear Him; quit that fearful way!
Come, listen to His voice who died to save
Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave;
From darkness showed a path of light to heaven;
Cried, “Rise and walk; thy sins are all forgiven.”
Blest are the pure in heart. Would'st thou be blest?
He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Would'st thou find rest?
And thy purged spirit with the holy blend
In joys as holy? Why a sinner now?
As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou.
God's Book, rash doubter, holds the plain record;
Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word?
Or palter with it in a quibbling sense?
That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence,
Then — with thy spirit from the body freed —
Then shalt thou know, see, feel, what 's life indeed!
Bursting to life, thy dominant desire
Shall upward flame, like a fierce forest fire;
Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash —
Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash
A wild disaster round, like its own woe —
Each wave cry, “Woe forever!” in its flow,
And then, pass on; — from far adown its path
Send back commingling sounds of woe and wrath —
Th' indomitable Will shall know no sway: —
God calls — Man, hear Him; quit that fearful way!
Come, listen to His voice who died to save
Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave;
From darkness showed a path of light to heaven;
Cried, “Rise and walk; thy sins are all forgiven.”
Blest are the pure in heart. Would'st thou be blest?
He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Would'st thou find rest?
94
Around thy toils and cares he'll breathe a calm,
And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm;
From fear draw love; and teach thee where to seek
Lost strength and grandeur — with the bowed and meek.
Come lowly; He will help thee. Lay aside
That subtile, first of evils — human pride.
Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid
To call aught poor or low that He has made.
Fear naught but sin; love all but sin; and learn
In all beside't is wisdom to discern
His forming, his creating power, and bind
Earth, self and brother to the Eternal Mind.
Linked with the Immortal, immortality
Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee,
To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day,
And that but changing life, miscalled decay?
Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart
To pour a stream of life? — to make a part
With thy eternal spirit things that rot,—
That, looked on for a moment, are forgot,
But to thy opening vision pass to take
New forms of life, and in new beauties wake?
To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear
Its hues and odours to some fresher air;
Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere,
That softly answers to thy listening ear.
And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm;
From fear draw love; and teach thee where to seek
Lost strength and grandeur — with the bowed and meek.
Come lowly; He will help thee. Lay aside
That subtile, first of evils — human pride.
Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid
To call aught poor or low that He has made.
Fear naught but sin; love all but sin; and learn
In all beside't is wisdom to discern
His forming, his creating power, and bind
Earth, self and brother to the Eternal Mind.
Linked with the Immortal, immortality
Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee,
To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day,
And that but changing life, miscalled decay?
Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart
To pour a stream of life? — to make a part
With thy eternal spirit things that rot,—
That, looked on for a moment, are forgot,
But to thy opening vision pass to take
New forms of life, and in new beauties wake?
To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear
Its hues and odours to some fresher air;
Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere,
That softly answers to thy listening ear.
95
In one eternal round they go and come;
And where they travel, there hast thou a home
For thy far-reaching thoughts. — O, Power Divine!
Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine?
Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go!
Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and woe!
Nay, rather let me use the world aright:
Thus make me ready for my upward flight.
Come, Brother, turn with me from pining thought,
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come, send abroad a love for all who live,
And feel the deep content in turn they give.
Kind wishes and good deeds — they make not poor;
They'll home again, full laden, to thy door.
The streams of love flow back where they begin;
For springs of outward joys, lie deep within.
E'en let them flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow-men. Should'st thou be sad,
And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,
That, now, upon the water dances, now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
And where they travel, there hast thou a home
For thy far-reaching thoughts. — O, Power Divine!
Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine?
Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go!
Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and woe!
Nay, rather let me use the world aright:
Thus make me ready for my upward flight.
Come, Brother, turn with me from pining thought,
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought;
Come, send abroad a love for all who live,
And feel the deep content in turn they give.
Kind wishes and good deeds — they make not poor;
They'll home again, full laden, to thy door.
The streams of love flow back where they begin;
For springs of outward joys, lie deep within.
E'en let them flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow-men. Should'st thou be sad,
And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam,
That, now, upon the water dances, now,
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.
Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
96
In thy own bosom, Brother? Then, as thine,
Guard with a reverend fear this power divine.
And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state,
But temper of the Soul, by which we rate
Sadness or joy, e'en let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love.
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision; man, not earth,
Around the self-starved Soul, has spread a dearth.
The earth is full of life: the living Hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full? —
Earth which thou tread'st! — and thy poor mind be dull?
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap
Forth to the day; and let the fresh air blow
Thro'thy soul's shut up mansion. Wouldst thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature's quick! and learn to be
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see.
Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance;
Give thy Soul air, thy faculties expanse: —
Guard with a reverend fear this power divine.
And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state,
But temper of the Soul, by which we rate
Sadness or joy, e'en let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love.
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision; man, not earth,
Around the self-starved Soul, has spread a dearth.
The earth is full of life: the living Hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full? —
Earth which thou tread'st! — and thy poor mind be dull?
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep!
Thou “living dead man,” let thy spirits leap
Forth to the day; and let the fresh air blow
Thro'thy soul's shut up mansion. Wouldst thou know
Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature's quick! and learn to be
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see.
Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance;
Give thy Soul air, thy faculties expanse: —
97
Love, joy, e'en sorrow, — yield thyself to all!
They make thy freedom, man, and not thy thrall.
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large thy mind!
Then move in sympathy with God's great whole;
And be, like man at first, “A LIVING Soul!”
Though nothing once, and born but yesterday,
Like Him who knows nor ending, nor decay,
So shalt thou live, my Soul, — immortal one —
Strong as the firm, the dread, eternal throne,
Endless as God, who sits for aye thereon.
Infinite Father! shall thy creature dare
Look forth, and say, “Eternity I share
With Him who made me?” May he forward send
Histhoughts, and say, “Like God, I know no end?” —
Stretch onward, age on age, till mind grows dim,
Yet, conscious, cry, “There still am I with Him?”
— Worm of the dust! — thought almost blasphemy! —
Dread glory! — I, like God, shall ever be!
O, Goodness searchless! — Thou who once didst walk
With man on earth, with man familiar talk,
Bringing thyself to him, to lead the way
From darkness up to glory and to day,
They make thy freedom, man, and not thy thrall.
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large thy mind!
Then move in sympathy with God's great whole;
And be, like man at first, “A LIVING Soul!”
Though nothing once, and born but yesterday,
Like Him who knows nor ending, nor decay,
So shalt thou live, my Soul, — immortal one —
Strong as the firm, the dread, eternal throne,
Endless as God, who sits for aye thereon.
Infinite Father! shall thy creature dare
Look forth, and say, “Eternity I share
With Him who made me?” May he forward send
Histhoughts, and say, “Like God, I know no end?” —
Stretch onward, age on age, till mind grows dim,
Yet, conscious, cry, “There still am I with Him?”
— Worm of the dust! — thought almost blasphemy! —
Dread glory! — I, like God, shall ever be!
O, Goodness searchless! — Thou who once didst walk
With man on earth, with man familiar talk,
Bringing thyself to him, to lead the way
From darkness up to glory and to day,
98
Uniting with our form, that man, when blind
To all but sense, the high intent might find
Of his own soul, his never-dying mind —
Teach us, in this thy Sacrifice, to see
Thy love — our worth, in this great mystery.
Poorly of his own nature he must deem —
His very immortality a dream —
Whose God's so strange he may not condescend
With his own last and greatest work to blend;
But rather his lost creatures must forsake,
Than deign to dwell with that He deigned to make.
Though veiled in flesh, did God his glory hide?
God counts not glory thus, but human pride.
Debased by sin, and used to things of sense,
How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence,
Where lie the Soul's pure regions, without bounds —
Where mind's at large, and passion ne'er confounds
Clear thought, and thought is sight—the far brings nigh,
Calls up the deep, and, now, calls down the high.
Cast off thy slough, and send thy spirit forth
Up to the Infinite, then know thy worth.
With That, be infinite; with Love, be love, —
Angel, 'mid angel throngs that move above;
Ay, more than Angel: nearer the great Cause,
Through his redeeming power, now read his laws —
Not with thy earthly mind, that half detects
Something of outward things by slow effects;
To all but sense, the high intent might find
Of his own soul, his never-dying mind —
Teach us, in this thy Sacrifice, to see
Thy love — our worth, in this great mystery.
Poorly of his own nature he must deem —
His very immortality a dream —
Whose God's so strange he may not condescend
With his own last and greatest work to blend;
But rather his lost creatures must forsake,
Than deign to dwell with that He deigned to make.
Though veiled in flesh, did God his glory hide?
God counts not glory thus, but human pride.
Debased by sin, and used to things of sense,
How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence,
Where lie the Soul's pure regions, without bounds —
Where mind's at large, and passion ne'er confounds
Clear thought, and thought is sight—the far brings nigh,
Calls up the deep, and, now, calls down the high.
Cast off thy slough, and send thy spirit forth
Up to the Infinite, then know thy worth.
With That, be infinite; with Love, be love, —
Angel, 'mid angel throngs that move above;
Ay, more than Angel: nearer the great Cause,
Through his redeeming power, now read his laws —
Not with thy earthly mind, that half detects
Something of outward things by slow effects;
99
Viewing creative causes, learn to know
The hidden springs, nor guess as here below,
Laws, purposes, relations, sympathies —
In errors vain.— Clear Truth's in yonder skies.
Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light,
Up from the dust! the last great day is bright —
Bright on the Holy Mountain, round the Throne,
Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone.
Look down! the Depths are bright! And hear them cry,
“Light! light!” — Look up!'t is rushing down from high!
Regions on regions — far away they shine:
'T is light ineffable, 't is light divine!
“Immortal light, and life for evermore!”
Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore
Of rolling worlds! — Man, wake thee from the sod —
Awake from death — awake! and live with God!
The hidden springs, nor guess as here below,
Laws, purposes, relations, sympathies —
In errors vain.— Clear Truth's in yonder skies.
Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light,
Up from the dust! the last great day is bright —
Bright on the Holy Mountain, round the Throne,
Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone.
Look down! the Depths are bright! And hear them cry,
“Light! light!” — Look up!'t is rushing down from high!
Regions on regions — far away they shine:
'T is light ineffable, 't is light divine!
“Immortal light, and life for evermore!”
Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore
Of rolling worlds! — Man, wake thee from the sod —
Awake from death — awake! and live with God!
| Poems and prose writings | |