Madmoments: or First Verseattempts :: :: University of Virginia Library

Madmoments: or First Verseattempts

By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison

Ellison, Henry

VOL. I.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THOUGHTS ON MAN, ART AND NATURE

SEASONCHANGES, THEIR SIGNS, AND MORAL.

THOUGHTS ON TRUE AND FALSE AMBITION.

THOUGHTS WRITTEN ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

GENIUS A SERIES OF THOUGHTS

THE SPANISH ARMADA,

TO ENGLAND, ON OCCASION OF THE MONEYPANIC, OR THOUGHTS ON NATIONAL MORALITY.

II.

VOL. II.

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320

THOUGHTS WRITTEN ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

1.

Reader, art thou an Englishman in Deed
As well as Name? breath'st thou this blessëd Air
Of Freedom, not alone in Body freed
From palpable Shackles, but from Thralldom far
More baneful, that of Soul: for they who wear
Selforgëd Chains are basest of the Base:
The bodybound may yet in Spirit dare
To be what is denied him in Life's Race,
The chain may gall his Flesh, but leaves within no Trace

2.

Art thou an Englishman? is this dear Land
To thee a blessëd Temple where thy Feet
Walk as on holy Ground, o'er which the Hand
Of the Most-High is stretched: lov'st thou to greet
Thy Fellowmen as equals, and to treat
Our common Nature as a holy Thing,
Holding Contempt, in any Shape, unmeet
For a wiseman in others honoring
The hidden Powers of Worth which in hisown Heartspring

3.

Hast thou done all thou couldst in Word and Deed
That what thou hast of Godlike might not lie
In thee unfruitful? hast thou cast the Seed
On the Highways and Byways, far and nigh,
In the good Soil and bad: and to the Sky,
Which sends the first and latter Rain of Grace
When seemeth best to God's allwatching Eye,
Left Harvest and Reward, in thy wise Race
Awaiting meekly his good Measure, Time, and Place?

321

4.

If thou hast breathed th' ethereal Atmosphere
Of divine Thoughts, of holy Hopes and Fears,
Whose fittest Emblem is the Patriot's Bier,
The Martyr's last, calm Answer to the Sneers
Of those whose Portion thro' all coming Years
Is Infamy and Shame, as Glory his:
If for the Oppressed, the Fatherless, thy Tears
Have ever flowed: if Sacrifice be Bliss,
Then art thou Freeman of a nobler State than this!

5.

Yea! then thou art a Citizen, by Right
Divine, of God's own kingdom! thou art free,
For those who in obeying Him delight
Enjoy a Freedom which can never be
Diminished, nay! the more they serve him the
More free they are—for what does he require
Of us?—naught save that we become as He,
And being so, what more can man desire?
For he who is like God, is free—and something higher!

6.

He is good also: but the Goodman has
No Time to think about Freewill: nay, he
Knows not the Word: for were he still free, as
The World interprets it, then he might be
A Sinner: but that is not to be free,
'Tis but to freely be a Slave! but to
Do Good, exalts, ennobles: therefore we
When most like God have least Choice, we must do
Good, because Godlike, and yet rémain quite free too:

7.

Because we do that which we wish alone,
Thus to be quite good and quite free are one:
And this is the Reward of Goodness: the
More we grow good, the more too are we free,
For Will and Duty, as we better grow,
Become synonimous: until to know
And wish that which is Right are one same Thing:
So wonderful can God together bring
Things adverse, and most perfect Freedom draw
From the most strict Observance of his Law!

322

8.

And when most good, then lightest doth it lie
Upon us: yea! like Gossamer: for we
Being godlike ourselves, most easily
Fulfill the godlike Law: nay! there can be
None other, as for God too up on high!
Then, Reader, if thou bear'st that Law with Pain,
Thou art not Godlike, thou must learn again:
Be thou thy self the Law, and this thou best
Wilt be by being godlike: all the Rest
Will follow of itself, without this all is vain!

9.

Hast thou kept pure, 'mid Life's Impurities,
And calm, amid its Fever and Unrest,
The Heart within thee, deeming that the best
Of all the Blessings which this Life supplies:
The kernel of the Fruit and its chief Zest:
The End and the Beginning of the rest!
If thou hast kept therein a Nook of still
And healthy Feelings, then on Nature's Breast
With its deep Calmness thou thine own canst fill:
Her converse soothes the Mind, and purifies the Will.

10.

'Tis from our own Hearts we must breathe the Spell
Over this weekday Earth, 'till then so bare
And cold in Semblance: and thenceforth we dwell
In this our selfcreated Eden, where
All Sights and Sounds a nobler Import bear,
And the least Flowers from the Grass that start
As in a reflex Exaltation share:
For God is felt in all, in every Part,
Pulsing harmonious, one universal Heart!

11.

Then first a thousand scattered Thoughts we bind
In one intense Conception, as may flow
The sunkissed Icedrops into one combined.
A thousand Feelings, which we did not know
The Force of well, because dismembered, throw
Their Blood into one Heart, one Feeling high
Of God: nay! God himself, for it is so

323

He enters into us: then to our Eye
Nature's vast Heart is bared, and audibly
We hear it beat with ours in Weal or Woe,
And feeling with each Part one with the Whole we grow!

12.

'Tis this which makes God, God! his Sympathy
With all Things, e'en the least, the Worm or Fly.
The more thou feel'st with all Things then, how low,
How mean soe'er they seem, the more will thy
Heart be like His in its Immensity!
Like the Seasands, which, tho' one mighty Whole,
Are made up of such an Infinity
Of least, least Parts, so does God's Heart comprize
The infinitely Vast and Little— Skies,
And Ocean rolling on from Pole to Pole,
The Glowworm and the starry Galaxy:
Heart of all Hearts, and Soul of every Soul,
The godlike Eye in Man, and in the purblind Mole!

13.

Oh! wondrous is He, Glory to his Name:
More during than the Mountains are his Ways!
His Statutes everfaultless and the same,
Like the blue Firmament, where to his Praise
The Morningstar, with each Daysdawn, doth raise
His Hymn of Jubilee: still pealing on
From Star to Star thro' all the endless Maze,
'Till she of Eve exultant lifts anon
Her Voice, nor sleeps the Hymn 'till caught up by the Sun!

14.

Shall we alone be silent then, we men,
To whom God gives e'en his own Spirit, his
Divine Intelligence? shall Poet's Pen
Kindle to Rapture on all Themes but this?
When e'en the Silence of the Flower is
More eloquent than Words, shall Man alone
Be in this universal Hymn of Bliss
Unheard, as if to him God were unknown,
As if in this wide World he saw naught but his own

324

15.

Vain Works, and not his Maker's? let my Voice
Then sing of thee, oh Father! let me here
Kneel and call on all Nature to rejoice,
Until the gathering Hymn grows strong and clear
Filling the wide, wide World; while I mine ear
Apply thereto, as to the Seashell, no
Longer one Man whose feeble Organs hear
A few, faint Notes, but the full, sublime Flow
Pour'd as on Mankind's Ear, whose Substitute I grow,

16.

Sublimed and giantized by Faith unto
That Stature: in my Person see Mankind
Kneel down before thee, Father! in thy true,
Thy one true Temple! man would have confined
Thee in four Walls, by Foot and Rule designed,
For being small himself he made thee so.
But now the one true Man seeks for his Mind,
Not for his Body, a fit Shrine—and lo!
The eternal Dome is reared, the Stars its Wonders show!

17.

No more as in the old Basilicas
The great Greek Cross, but mute and lifeless, o'er
Me spreads its Arms, lit by the Tapersrays,
While hushed and awestruck Crowds kneel down before
The lowbent Face: the Image is no more:
The living God himself is in its Stead!
And from the Temple's Depths, still as of yore,
The divine Form bends down with Arms outspread.
With Mercy's widespread Arms, alike o'er Quick and Dead

18.

I ask no fabled Muse to aid my Song
Or lift its feeble Wing above these low
And grovelling Cares of Earth; to such belong
No heavenly Gifts: the vaunted Wreaths that grow
On Helicon, and braid the Poetsbrow,
Are fleeting as Man's Breath, and withered fall
To their own Dust! but thine, thine are not so,
Oh Truth! One Leaf of thine is worth them all,
These fail us, but on thee in vain we never call!

325

19.

Oh! were it mine to pluck the meanest Leaf
Of that true Growth, and weave it with my Lay,
Unfading Eyergreen, to grace the brief
Garland of idle Fancy: one calm Ray
Of thy true Inspiration 'mid the Play
Of earthlier Thoughts: alas! the Paths of Fame
Are steep and slippery, nor rashly may
Her Heights be trod, and least by Foot so lame;
Man's Hopes are hasty Climbers, and oft come to Shame!

20.

Yet let my humble Wreath be what it may,
No Flower plucked by wanton Pleasnre there
Shall breathe seductive Poison: tho' my Lay
Above this nether Atmosphere scarce dare
To lift a flagging Wing, yet still the Air
It breathes shall not pollute—nor shall it trail,
Snakelike, its grovelling Folds, or meanly bear
Venom amid its Baseness. Truth, then hail
Once more: on thy strong Arm I lean, that will not fail!

21.

For ne'er will Poesy her Brightness deign
To veil within the cloudy Tabernacle
Where thy Light shines not clear: her chosen Fane,
Like thine too, is the upright Heart; ye dwell
Together, are evoked by one same Spell,
Both Twins of Nature, to his Service true,
From whose due Praise, as from best Oracle,
His Inspiration every Poet drew
Who ever felt his Heart filled and sublimed by you.

22.

So fill ye mine, and cleanse it from all Dross,
That inharmonious Mixture none may be,
Nor unfit Recollections ever cross,
Like a jarred String, the divine Harmony
By quiring Angels sung. Oh set me free:
Open mine Ear unto their Hymn of Love,
That as the bright Spheres towards Eternity,
By that so sweet Compulsion tunëd, move,
So may my Heart be tuned, and drawn to wards Him above!

326

23.

The Sun is sinking 'neath yon' towering Height
That climbs so proudly o'er the Giantmaze
Of Mountains, and with unconsuming Light
Kindles the Summit, where his scattered Rays
Seem gathered on Earth's Altar in a Blaze
Of Eveningsacrifice; the Clouds above,
That curl up with a golden, vapoury Haze,
Like a rich Incense thro' the Heavens move,
As tho' Earth's countless Tribes adored the God of Love!

24.

Methinks I hear o'er Valley and Hillside
The manyvoicëd Hymn, which, as it flies
Onward, draws into its own airy Tide
A thousand Streams of Prayer: around me rise
Soft Whispers, 'tis Earth's Commune with the Skies!
Her Fairy forms are forth, like Dreams they flit,
Scarceseen amid the Dusk, before my Eyes,
By Twilight's dieing Smile but faintly lit,
While Darkness plumes their Wings, and on each Leaf doth sit!

25.

'Tis as if all the multitudinous Waves,
Those Voices of the solemn Deep, that flow
Beneath so many Climes, from all their Caves,
Their thousand Shores and hidden Depths below,
Were borne in sweeping Murmurs, soft and low,
Like thousand sweet aërial Harpings blent
In one still Harmony, untill they grow
Subdued and faint, in voiceless Echoes spent.
No Words are syllabled to tell what's meant:
'Tis the Heart's Cypher, for the Vast, th' Unknown,
Th' Unspeakable, which can be felt alone!

26.

Oh! in its Depths what rich Ores unworked lie,
Truth's precious Ores, which should be coined and beat
God's Form and Superscription; yet these by
Man are regarded as beneath his Care:
Thus still in Life the noblest has least Share.
Alas! 'tis Coin scarcecurrent in this Sphere,
And mixed with base Alloy—the Few who dare

327

To pass it unadulterated hear
Their Names a By word, and their Laurels poision bear!

27.

Vile Slaves of Mammon drudging in the Mine,
Ye sabbathless cold Hearts that never know
Brief Respite from accursëd Toil, what Shrine
Do ye bow down before or what Seed sow?
Is it not sown in Sin, and reaped in Woe?
As Nightshade must bear Poison, this must be
Your Harvest! bend your Necks to him, then go
And call yourselves the «Reasoning, the Free;»
The bitterest Satire is unfelt Self mockery!

28.

Oh ye that wring from Blood, and Sweat, and Tears
The wages of Iniquity, beware
Lest on your Heads the sureavenging Years
(Who from the dark Past to the Future bear
The Balance due to Justice,) blank Despair
And heartsick Anguish heap. Oh take ye heed;
Ere yet it be too late the Ills repair
Which ye have caused: let Mercy no more bleed
To see your Works, lest she disown ye in your Need!

29.

The Joys of Earth are like the Flames that glide
Wan, flickering, across the vapoury Swamp,
Mocking the sight, and ever ill betide
To the unheedful Step, which by such Lamp
Would guide its unsure Footing o'er the damp
Aud treacherous Soil—their very Light dim, gross,
And earthy as its origin—no Stamp
Of God's high Image can on Earth's vile Dross
Be left, of which the more we have the more our Loss.

30.

The panting Child, all Sense and Sight, pursues
The golden Bee that like a stray Sunbeam
Sparkles among the rainbowglancing Hues
Of the young Spring—it lights—the promised Dream
Of Pleasure makes his glad Eye brighter gleam,
And beat his little Heart—thro' all the Bower
The Bee has led the chace, as it might seem

328

From very Spite— the Child now grasps the Flower.
But feels Pain's hidden sting dash ripe Joy's fanceied Hour.

31.

E'en such an idle Chace is that of Man
Clutching the unsubstantial Form of some
Cloudwove Enjoyment— as if in the Span
Of daily Life the Fool could not find Room
Enough betwixt the Cradle and the Tomb
From his own human Heart to draw real Bliss,
Instead of vapoury Happiness like this!
Ixion's fancied Joys, which take the Bloom
Of Beauty and the Shape of Truth, and kiss
The thirsting Lip, then turn in mockery
To empty Air; the Heart left void—its Hopes— a Sigh:

32.

And is not Man an o'ergrown Child, more fond
And foolish than his Prototype—a vain
Dreamer of empty Dreams— his Life a Sound?
A few, brief Accents voiced in Joy or Pain,
That with Time's everpealing Tone again
Mingle as if they were not, and pass on
Lost in that solemn Sound, which, like the Main
When whisper all his waves in Unison,
Sweeps ever deep not loud—'till itself be
Gulfed, as it gulfs the Past, within Eternity.

33.

Eyes hath he yet ne'er uses them to view
Things in themselves or as they ought to be:
Like one who thro' an Atmosphere untrue
Looks pleased with the Deceit— so his Sight he
Distorts and twists, the better thus to see
Prankt Error's uncouth Shapes, when Reason's Mask
The Motley wears, and grins in apish Glee
At her mad Train, who ply the Danaid's Task;
Pluckers of Thorns, who Flowers fling away,
Seekers in Dark of Light they cannot find by Day!

34.

Poor worm! he scarcely crawls from out the Farth,
And from his Eyes a little Dust doth fling,
But straight he'd soar an Eagle, of his Birth

329

And Sphere forgetful— with the feeble wing
Of his still unfledged Intellect, this Thing,
This warring Union of Nothingness
And Pride, would be of Elements sole king;
Himself a solveless Riddle, not the less
The Riddle of the Universe he'll solve,
Seat Chance upon God's Throne, and Heaven in Air dissolve!

35.

Peoples he not the blessed Broaddaylight
With Mockeries far more idle and more vain
Than Childhood's credulous Eye shapes forth at Night,
Fooled by wild Fancies? Phantoms of the Brain,
Tempting with unreal Joy, or with real Pain
Vexing the tortured Heart, which leave it worn,
And palled, and jaded, never fit again
For simple Pleasures, which in hardened Seorn,
(Sin's worst yet fittest Punishment,) the Taste
Perverted spurns and barters Eden for a Waste!

36.

Oh! God, let me not think on these dark Things,
Which o'er the Brightness of my Spirit throw
Their shadows dim and chill; still Nature flings
Her Smile o'er all, still to her Breast we go,
For she is aye the same, nor deigns to know
The Fret and Fever of Man's Life. She ne'er
Thy Image has defaced: Creation's Glow
Of Beauty lingers on her Brow so clear,
And in her mighty Breast the Heart is never sere!

37.

And here she woos me with her sweetest Smile
To happier Fancies, and the Scene around
May banish from quick Memory awhile
Her busy Recollections—scarce a Sound
Floats on the stilly Air, or o'er the Ground
Creeps silently—afar, the Vesperbell
Mingles with everpealing Time, profound
And solemn, whose vast Clock, this World, doth tell
Man's Course and Nature's, and the Changes rings so well!

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38.

It seems to catch its Tone from 'yon lone Star,
Which thro' the paly Blue of Heaven, on
Th' Horizon just now rising, gleams afar:
An earthly Echo of its higher Tone,
The Hymn it sings to God, yet still but one
Same Meaning speaks in both, in that bright Sky,
And this dim Earth; one string is touched alone
Of Nature's mighty Harp, alike felt by
Man's small Heart here below, and God's vast Heart on high!

39.

Seest thou that faintlyraying Star? it gleams
Like modest worth, in sober privacy
Of the far western heavens: its soft beams
Oft shun th' incurious glance, to bless the Eye
And heart on which it shines an emblem high
Of holiest thoughts; and tho' its glowworm Light
Scarce twinkle 'mid the gorgeous canopy
Of the downsteering sunclouds, which in bright
And wavy flow the sunswake track, we feel
That holier charms still grace that star in woe and weal.

40.

Hail holiest star! star of the Heart and Home!
That kindles on the Hearth the welcome blaze
Where fond ones meet again, while those who roam
Think on the gladsome looks of early days
That made Homesthreshold bright as Paradise,
And blent its memory with our hopes of Heaven,
Of which it is a type; thy welcome rays
Speak respite to daystoil, in mercy given:
'Tis thine to light the peasant to his cot,
Birds to their dewy nest, what sweet thoughts wak'st thou not?

41.

Mine Eye is glancing o'er this varied scene,
Seeking some hidden Link, more home to bring
Unto the fond and yearning heart the sheen
Of palpable and outward forms, and fling
Its own electric chain o'er everything.
For the full Heart delights to hue the Earth
With its own colors: not a Bird can sing

331

But it must play Interpreter: no mirth
Is sweet save of its Hallowing, and tame
All seems, 'till Nature's Torch be lit at Love's pure flame

42.

Nor long, nor vainly seek I; for e'en there,
There 'neath 'yon aged chestnuttrees, that seem
To stoop in benedictions o'er the fair
And early flowers at their feet, I deem
That modest merit dwells: a gurgling stream,
Pure as the simple hearts of those who drink
Its waters unrepining, with bright gleam
Is glancing past, while on the mossy brink
A group of youngeyed things, like flowers that grow
From the same parentstem, are murmuring soft and low,

43.

Angels not disinherited! by care
And worldly guile untainted; in whose Eyes,
Those Eyes that shrink not back in conscious fear,
We see the loveborn thoughts alternate rise
In visible beauty, and the heart's fresh dies
Clearmirrored, like the pebbles in a stream.
Oh what unconcious Joy within them lies,
The atmosphere of their young Hearts: they seem
Too beautiful for grief; alas! Earth's weal
Is gnawed by Memory's tooth, which young souls do not feel!

44.

There on the threshold of her Streamsidecot
Stands she, their mother, for those Eyes of Love,
Of deep unutterable Love, felt not
On Earth by other than a Mother, prove
Her such; but tho' the Heart within her move
With fullfraught Rapture, as she gazes on
Her little ones, and looks from them above,
Yet a slight shade of care at times will run
O'er the halflaughing Eye: some idle fear,
Coined in affection's forge, halfwakes the latent tear,

45.

She but halffeels the glorious Eve that dies
Amid a thousand changing hues of Light,
Grace, Splendor, Beauty, blent athwart the skies;

332

As tho' the Lord of Hosts passed in his might,
And at each step a thousand rainbows bright
Had paved his path with glories; no, she pants
For him who is the apple of her sight,
Her Being's spell, whose presence all her wants
And wishes calms, who brings to her void heart
The Evening's absent Charm, his Voice its sweetest Part.

46.

And when the coming step with Love's quick Ear
She catches on the wind, how bright her Eye
Sparkles with modest Joy, and each fond fear
Turns to a smile, when once again he's nigh.
Oh tis a pleasant sight, and tho' we sigh
In our heartloneliness, yet still it pours
On us the Blessedness of memory,
And lifts from selfish fears: for who some stores,
Some Heritage has not, some thoughts of home,
Nor seeks that polestar of the Heart wheree'er he roam?

47.

Who has not some sweet tie to bind to Earth
And link him to his kind? who does not bear
Some holy name of Love? in whom does worth
Like this, alas! too oft o'erlooked, too rare,
Not wake some kindred sympathies, some share
Of gentler thoughts? tho' not for self t' may be,
Yet still for others: nay, e'en those who are
Cut off from kindly sympathies may see
With something more than casual glance a scene
Which hallows thus our common Nature's colder mien.

48.

How glorious dies out the closing Day,
An Heaven dissolved in beauty! the far west
Glows conscious of the Daygod, whose last ray,
Like Love's own Partingglance, wakes in the breast
A deeper, holier warmth. As to their nest
Our scattered Daythoughts gathering stilly, seek
The spirit's brooding wings, where soothing rest
Fits them for holy musings: the Clouds break
Like golden billows on the Mountainsbrows,
As tho' their molten Tints had fused th' eternal snows,

333

49.

Where Beauty sits enthralled, fair e'en in Death,
Tho' cold and chilly, till the Partingray
Kindles some latent Lifespark lurking neath
Her icepale Brow: how varied is the play
Of thousand shifting Lights that wing their way,
Streaming from off the sunclouds, till the scene
Glows with the hues of heaven, and we lay
Aside our earthliness, as we had been
Recalled unto the mighty Whole, like those
Bright sunbeams by the Sun, now sinking to Repose?

50.

With each new shade familiar objects seem
Touched with a solemn charm: the Heavens brood
On the Earth's bosom, 'till her features beam
With angelbeauty, as in solemn mood,
Some prayeruplifted face a dazzling flood
Of Inspiration kindles, 'till the soul
Flashes forth in each Line; from stream and wood,
From valley, crag and hill, the bright hues roll
In ebbing beauty off: still scattered streaks,
Like the last tremblings of a smile, light up their peaks.

51.

Yet still a Partingglory lingers bright
On yon grey Villagesteeple, as it were
To sanctify the spot: as tho' that Light
The hallowed feelings of the place could share,
And felt its spell: but 'tis no longer there,
Heaven hath claimed its own, and Twilight gray
Mantles the Earth; e'en thus Hope's hues so fair
Light up some distant object, life's long way
Beguiling: on we speed, but near the spot
The light has fled, the Churchyard still remains our Lot!

52.

Thou bright Midmountainlake, thou glorious Glass!
Alpgirdled-mirror, giving back the forms
Of endless Loveliness: of Clouds that pass
In sunsetglory steeped: of Thunderstorms,
That fireflashing robe with aweful charms
The cloudcompelling heights, and o'er thee fling

334

A Spiritpresence, like that which informs
The human breast, as tho' a living thing
Thou sportedst with the storm and kissed his passing wing.

53.

How beautiful is thy bright Lake, Leman,
Yet fairest now, when Evening's gentle hand
Hath robed thee in her quiet Sheen: when fan
Thy brow night's earliest dewbreath'd zephyrs, and
Thy waters seem a mirror which the strand
Girdles, as 'twere a Preciousgem, with all
The shapes and hues of beauty: from the Land
Soft murmurs float across thy breast, and call
From shore to shore in welcome, or slow glides
Some whitesailed bark, spritelike, upon thy darkening tides,

54.

Which spread so calmly still, so softly bright
Beneath the sateless and enraptured eye
That we scarce feel of Earth, or deem the sight
A mortal vision: mark how silently
The azure hues are deepening in the sky,
And on the wave the twinkling star appears,
Glowing with dim and holy brilliancy,
Like Love's fond Eye thro' softexhaling tears,
To clamer beauty soothed, and freed from recent fears.

55.

And the glad Mountains, pile on pile afar,
Seem pillars where the azure heavens rest
Their arching canopy, which each bright star
Crests as it rises: where the eagles nest
In glorious privacy of snows, and breast
With stormnursed wing the mighty Whirlwindsshock
That wakes the thundering Snowfall: not the least
Among thy mountainwonders; on yon' Rock
Mark the surefooted Chamois's fearful Leap,
Hark! his soft Voice has broke the frozen Echo's sleep.

56.

Trace yon' ancestral Chesnutwood, that climbs
O'er rocky Meillerie, and clothes her sides
With forestglooms: how bold their Giantarms
Are flung abroad in Air! with frequent strides

335

They seem to scale the heights, and in the tides
That murmur at their feet, their ranks are seen
Brightglassed; how Nature in her forms abides
Alltimeunchanged, from the least blade of green
That clothes the wavekissed bank, to yon' tall Alp's snowsheen!

57.

She changes ever, yet is still the same,
In her own Essence beautiful and free
From sere decay; Time has not, cannot tame
One Joypulse of her heart, nor bid her be
Other than what she is eternally,
And was, and shall be 'till Earth pass away.
The Autumnleaves fall sere from the ripe tree,
Not premature, but in their destined Day
Earthblent: once more in sunshine on the bough to play!

58.

Oh lovely, lovely are thy works, great God,
Which in their full perfection witness bear
To thy worldgrasping Wisdom; the least sod
Is wonderfraught, and every passing air,
Loud-or softvoiced, speaks with one ever clear
And soulfelt revelation unto those
Who pierce these outward forms, (which far and near
Are varying types of one sole Truth, that throws
Its light o'er all things,) and in Nature's faith repose!

59.

The Eye is drunk with wonder and scarce knows
Where next to bend its glance, but like the bee
Lost in a Bed of all sweet flowers, grows
Fastidious from surfeit: what can be
Fairer than Clarens, with its Mimicsea
Of evervarying beauty, for we find
A Charm in those bright waters, and their glee
Is like a blue Eye's glancing, which doth bind
As with a Touch of human Sympathy
The scene unto our hearts and hopes; it is
A fairyspot might realize Love's dream of bliss.

60.

Bosomed in yon still nook, where woody Hills
Smile greenly down on its bright Paradise,

336

Earth's Eden, which the kindled fancy fills
With beings pure as are the fresh blue skies
Above: for there a gem enshrined it lies,
So quiet, calm, and happy, that one deems
Mere worldly thoughts profanity: our Eyes
Grow spellbound to the spot, which has, meseems,
A Sky, a World, a Beauty of its own,
Where the heart dreams of things to man's dark Life unknown.

61.

Oh it imparts a feeling soft, a glow
Of holiest calm to wearied souls, to those
Whom Life has made Inheritors of woe
Their own or others: here awhile they lose
The Consciousness of self, and in them grows
A Cheerfulness, if not of mirth, yet still
A Reflexglow of happiness which throws
Its sunsetlight upon them: here they fill
Their hearts with Nature, and she with her brings
As surely Peace, as in the Sun the Flower springs!

62.

Man's hand no rude Invader has been here
In Nature's quiet Realms: his traees seem,
So gently are they blent by time, as 'twere
A part of her primeval self, of stream,
Of rock, and wood and fell, a waking dream,
Which, with a pure and quiet heart to be
Its centrespirit, focus ef each beam
Of outward beauty, might abundantly
Yield us all bliss that Mau can taste beneath the sky.

63.

Time works strange changes; with his silent wand,
Mighty Magician! touching all things here,
He alters and transforms them: Man's vain hand
Piles up its haughty monuments, the year,
Revolving at Time's beck, doth strew and wear
His glories into Dust: unresting foe,
With noiseless Tooth he gnaws, and everywhere
Fastcrumbling fragments witness as we go,
How 'neath his step all things, save Virtue, are laid low!

337

64.

The vulgar Mind, that with the bodyseye
Judges of Powers, and at Home alone
Amid these palpable forms, still measures by
Sinew and Muscle all it looks upon:
Knowing no other standard 'neath the Sun
Than the ellwand of brute reality.
And in these stonebuilt piles, ere Time has spun
His Cobwebs mocking round their walls so high,
Deems that it sees a strength beyond his enmity.

65.

But yet awhile! a few steps to the Tomb,
And the Owlswing shall brush the dust away
From the proud Portals where the Warriorsplume
But late was waving, and the sunny ray
Be broken by the Ivywreaths that play
Round the worn Windows with the summerair:
And in the Halls the unscared Toad shall stray,
Trailing his Slime where erst the proud and fair,
Now but forgotten Dust, in revel would repair!

66.

And this is trength! aye 'tis the strength of Earth,
And Time upon its nothingness doth lay
His withering hand revealing its true worth:
His unseen hand, whose Touch is soft as may
Be a fair Lady's in her silken play,
Yet far, far harder than thricefurnaced Steel,
And sharperedged, whose stroke wears not away:
And irremoveable, tho' we scarce feel
Its weight while on our heads the Grey of age doth steal!

67.

He lays his hand on all things. Hall and Tower
He crumbles into dust: he brings and bears
Away our hopes, yet brings not back the hour
That's flown unto our fretfulthoughted Prayers.
He travels at our side and with us shares
Evil and Good, and laughs inaudibly
When he beholds us bowed to Earth by cares
For fleeting Bubbles bursting 'neath our Eye,
And sacrificing to himself Eternity!

338

68.

He alters and perfects the Tongues of Men
Better than Schools and learned Academies,
Erasing from them with his Ironpen
The crude additions which the misnamed wise
Would substitute for his sure Remedies:
Enlarging Man's ideas, he puts Man's speech
Upon a level with them; still he plies
His mighty task, and silently doth preach,
Making sage comment on all things within his reach!

69.

Impartial Ministrant of Heavensgifts,
On kings and beggars he bestows the same
Amount of life's true wealth: alike he sifts
The Heart that beats 'neath silk or rags; to shame
He brings Pride's haughty counsels, and can tame
The stiffest neck unto his galling yoke.
He can consolidate or rend the frame
Of mightiest Empires, and with the stroke
Of his light hand Rome's proud Colossus built and broke.

70.

Hurling it to the Dust from whence it rose,
With a worldrending shock: a sound whereby
The Nations were struck dumb, as at the close
Of some voicehushing, aweful tragedy,
The world its ample stage, Humanity
Itself spectator! such scenes Time displays:
Time, the Philosopher, whose searching Eye
Measures of human Life the mighty Maze,
And at the end awards impartial Blame or Praise.

71.

Himself the mightiest of Poets here,
Judge, Critic, and Philosopher, as none
Have been before or since: he has an ear
Of Mechanism exquisite: no tone
But he, ere by the envious Winds 'tis blown
Away, will catch: and if from Truth's sweet tongue
The accents fall, he keeps and makes them known,
Early or late: still severing Right from Wrong,
That Rubicon which none can pass unpunished long!

339

72.

Let no rash Lip the Alljust Giver blame,
For pondering heedfully Life's plan, we see
That in Time's treasure all are rich the same:
In things which to Salvation needful be,
And to our wellfare here, all Men are free
To take as large a share as suits their needs,
The beggar as the king ungrudgedly:
Truth, Love, Hope, Wisdom, Joy, to selfish Creeds
And Place are bounded not, but wait on our own Deeds.

73.

And Time, the only treasure we can bear
Thro' the grave's narrow pass, is all our own,
When coined into gooddeeds that perish ne'er,
For then he is a nobler Essence grown:
By our own act the moment, ere 'tis flown,
Is snatched from Time and made Eternity.
Such power unto the soul belongs alone,
Being itself eterne it has thereby
A Priviledge to make eterne what else must die.

74.

Time frames our Cradle and our Coffin too:
He rears us up to manhood, and 'tis he
Who with the Sexton's palsied hand and hue
Of weatherbeaten cheek rings out the glee
Of Marriagebells, the soberer harmony
Of those which call the soul from Earth away,
Tuned ill to such a Hope: and tho' they be
More solemn, yet, methinks, 'twere hard to say
Why we should not rejoice, the more our heads grow gray!

75.

But the frail flesh obtrudes its idle fears
On the soul's sympathy, and thus our Eyes,
When we should most rejoice, are dimmed by tears.
For we must feel, howe'er Time tests and tries
All meaner Essences beneath the skies,
Dustmingling them, that in our souls we have
That which he gave not, and which therefore dies
Not when he summons flesh unto its grave:
Then let the Grass grow, and the Flowers on it wave!

340

76.

Time is our friend, then let him do his worst,
He wars not on our souls, but with the base
And outward forms in which fools put their trust;
Then let his mighty wing in scorn efface
Man's Pride and Nothingness, and leave no trace
Of all the Follies that he sees arise
And disappear, like bubbles, from their place:
Fearless Faith looks beyond the Form that dies,
And from her steady glance all Doubt and Terror flies!

77.

While all seems Chance and Change and idle Noise,
There's that which changes not eternally:
An evergushing fountain of Lifejoys
Still pouring down unto us from on high;
The bright Castalian Fount of Poesy,
Of Love, Truth, Freedom, Life, upspringing 'neath
A purer than the Greek's songfabled sky,
And from a higher source: and they who breathe
That sky, and drink that fount shall never taste of Death!

78.

Time who is everywhere, here too has been
Busy in Desolation, yet with sweet
And hallowing Presence has he touched this scene,
Where grey Tradition with her stumbling feet,
Halting and lame, has left each mossy seat,
Each woodgirt cliff and glade, some Snatches here
And there of her old songs, that fade fullfleet
In broken Echoes, yet caught by the Ear
To Nature true, 'mid these old choral Rocks still clear.

79.

Here labours he in his own holy task,
To Nature giving back what man of yore
Had robbed from her materials, which ask
His gentle hand, his alltransforming power,
From them t'efface the traces of that hour
Which from her holy breast, from antique Peace,
And Quietness, and genial Uses tore
Her Elements, that man profaning these
Against her Will to Strife, might work wild Phantasies,

341

80.

Marring with uncouth Shapes her quiet reign,
And warring with Creation's Harmony:
But Time has given back to thee again,
Sweet Nature! thy own rights, and holily
Thou takest back unto thy Self, to high
And fitter purpose hallowing, thine own
Abused materials: for with pleased Eye
We see the Wildflowers on the wall have grown,
And with their summerbreath we feel that thou hast thrown

81.

Over this timeworn building, now once more
A part of thee, the spell of thy most sweet
And holy calm, as in the days of yore:
Thus thy old castle, Chillon! once the seat
Of Tyranny, has Time, who changes fleet,
Shaking the dust of ages from his wings
On thy stern walls, transformed into a meet
And most apt type of Peace: thus adverse things
He reconciles, for in his wild Imaginings

82.

He is the boldestfancyed Poet still.
And dear to Nature and Humanity
Are these grey Walls, where once the freeborn will
Of one who would not bow to aught less high,
Waged, in the consciousness of worth and by
Endurance which was conquest, war with those
Who fight with Nerve and Steel. Poor Fools! the Eye
May dim, the limbs be palsied, but to Throes
Like these mankind its noblest Inspirations owes!

83.

And in such spots as this, by human sufferings
Made holy, dwells a Beauty and a Power,
A Spirit hovering on viewless wings:
A Presence felt more palpably, before
Whose formless Being we do feel as our
Own inmost soul were blent with it, like Air

342

Mingling with Air: as tho' the flesh no more
Lay on us, but setfree in spirit there,
Our souls with that same universal Soul did share!

84.

Timehallowed objects, and the ruins which
With Age grow Types of hoar Antiquity,
To the Pastworshipper's Backglance are rich
With Hauntings of old days, and Imagery
Of Fancy: but Hope's clear prophetic Eye
To that which one sole charm of Time ne'er wore
The Beauty of a far Futurity
Imparts, and with some touch of Memory's power
By bold o'erleaping Time invests the passing hour!

85.

Here on these Mountainheights, aloof from Earth,
We breathe the Eaglesair, if with his wing
We cannot soar: all Forms that here have birth
Are Nature's freeborn burghers, not a thing
Is here artfettered, from the birds that sing
On their hoar boughts to these old Trees that wed
Their snakeliketwisted Limbs, and downward fling
A chequered shade, halfsunproof, on the bed
Of tangled moss and woodflowers wild on which wetread.

86.

And ever and anon, between the Boughs
By the Winds kissed asunder, on our View
Breaks the brightlaughing Lake, which gently throws
Its manytwinkling Waves of chrystal Blue
With Silversplash upon the Shore, whose Hue
Is vinegreen down unto the Watersbrink.
And ever as the varying Breezes woo
The Lake's Breast, blent the Mountainshadows sink.
Again in its clear Glass to knit each broken Link!

87.

Oh! here we grow in Spirit like the Forms
Spread round us, Forms so grand and simple: Streams.
Woods, Glens, and Mountains, where the Thunderstorms
On cloudwing brood: round which the Lightning gleams
With Flamewreaths, 'till from Earth each tall Peak seems
A Firecolumn towering thro' the Sky.

343

All here of Eye and Ear with Beauty teems,
The windborne Cataract's voice seems thundering nigh,
To which the Mountainechoes as in Joy reply.

88.

Here would I dwell, and make my careless Heart
E'en as a Mountainecho, fresh and clear,
Of natural Sounds alone: I would impart
My Feelings to dead Things, and make them bear
Me Company: to my attunëd Ear
The Winds should not be meaningless: each Sound
And Midhillvoice should wake a holy Fear,
As tho' the Universal Pan around,
The World's undying Soul, spoke from the awestruck Ground!

89.

And I would have sweet Revelations
Of hidden Things, unseen of vulgar Sight,
The Mountainnymphs should visit me, the Stones,
By a far greater than Orphean Might,
Should stir to Life— with Flashings forth of Light
The Faith of olden Times should quicken me,
And gray Romance, not fabled, but allbright
In pristine Forms, teach in each Rock to see
A dearthless Pegasean Fount of Poesy!

90.

And why may I not deem that in Midair
A Spiritworld exists? because the Eye
Beholds it not, because to sense not bare?
And is this Reason?— has Infinity
Such narrow Limits that we must deny
All that we cannot touch! can He then who
Made Sight, not frame an higher Faculty?
Who formed the Soul, not fashion spirits too?
Who made the World, want other Forms to pass into?

91.

What wouldst thou make then of the Deity?
An Axiom in Physics, to prepare
Some little Theory of Things, as thy
Brains piece them out: to solve that which they are
Not capable of grasping: wilt thou dare
To measure God by Man? to draw a Line,

344

And say, «thus far, no farther come!» what were
God's Wisdom if his Ways thou couldst define?
A Page of Euclid, or an Algebraic Sign!

92.

Can He who joined the Body and the Soul
Not part them too? can He who is alone
All Things, each Part, and yet at once the Whole,
Not be us in a Mode more like his own?
Enough for thee: that if thy Soul has grown
Like Him within, by working in this Sphere
The Godlike, in whatever Form unknown,
Elsewhere, thou couldst not draw to Him more near.
Nor yet be more sublimely like, than thus and here!

93.

And what were Faith, if in the Boundlessness
Of such Beliefs her Wings she could not spread?
Let Doubt toil on with heavy Feet and press
The vile Dust which the Grave heaps on his Head;
But let not Faith with him be forced to tread
This narrow Round of earthly Fear and Care.
The Birds have wings, and we too in their stead
Have Thoughts, Imagination's Wings, to bear
Us where we chuse, then think! and thou art free as Air!

94.

How ill that proud, cold Wisdom, which is taught
By Disappointment and by Time, supplies
The Child's wide Faith; which resting firm on naught,
Would measure even God's high Mysteries
By Fact's Ellwand: much further Childhood's Eyes
See than Philosophy— not yet is rent
The Link that binds our Spirit to the Skies,
But doublesighted, we can see Earth blent
With Heaven, and Light from one across the other sent!

95.

Yes! we are priviledged in Youth's bright Day
To see and hear the Shapes and Sounds of Heaven,
And Angelshands oft roll the Clouds away
That mantle o'er the golden Gates of Even,
And visioned Glories to our Sight are given,
Seen with the Body's Eye, but not by it;

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But when with Sin's dark Shadow we have striven,
Our sense grows dim, and mourning we must sit
In Dust and Darkness, by that Light no longer lit!

96.

It is the divine Hand of Faith alone,
(And thus holds good the antique Prophecy,
Engrayed at Sais on the mystic Stone,)
Can Nature's Isis-veil uplift, whereby
The mighty Mother's hidden: to her Eye
Alone it grows transparent, and we view
The Form colossal in its Majesty,
The mighty Heart for ever beating thro'
The Breast, transparent made, sogodlike, calm, and true

97.

Then straight into the Beauty chain that binds
Th' entire Earth, linklike, our Souls are knit,
As in sweet Song a true Note straightway finds
His sweet Companion, and as one they fit.
Thus of th' electric chain each Link in it
Feels with the whole, and as the whole may be.
And where-or howso-ever lightly hit,
Tho' but the Heart's least Beat, it vibrates free
To God's own Heart, whose Hand holds it invisibly!

98.

The Soul, the eternal Soul, which on this Frame
Shines for awhile, as does the bright Sunbeam
Upon the Clod, and then to whence it came,
Its Skyabode, remounts, can pour a stream
Of Radiance on all Forms, until they seem
Transfigured and sublimed, in its own Ray.
'Till this Reality be as a Dream,
A fleeting Dream on the eternal way,
Which from the Spring head world the Soul pursues for aye!

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99.

Oh Heaven must have Joys which Eye has not
Seen nor Imagination dreamt, else why
This Yearning ever for some happier Lot,
This Want which naught on Earth appeases, by
Which we infer our capability
For such a Being? naught is given to
One living Thing in vain: no Faculty
Left idle; thus this Longing will come true,
Will someday find its sphere, and work out its End too!

100.

It is no vain Belief—it springs alone
From Being's primal Depths; is prompted too
By Nature's self, who in us gives her own
Belief an Utterance: what all men thro'
All Times think, must, to be believed, be true;
It cant be thus by Accident, for no
Belief so uniformly could renew
Itself by Chance: to fixed Laws it must owe
Its origin, from something permanent must flow.

101.

It must be then essential unto Man,
Springs from his Nature indispensably,
As from the Rose its Perfume; then he can
Thro' this Faith only be a true Man, by
Believing in a Godlike Destiny.
That it precedes all Proof and Reason is
But stronger Proof, it springs instinctively;
Something so natural to Man, that his
Whole Being turns on it, the centre of his Bliss.

102.

'Tis this by which he moves concentric too
With God: and so long as he has this clear,
Strong Faith, so long his Movements are in true
Harmonious Keeping with that wider Sphere.
Now that by which a Being draws more near
To its Perfection, is more likely to
Be true, than what degrades it: cleave then here
To this Belief, 'tis realized to you,
By making ye Godlike, e'en tho' it came not true!

347

103.

The stilly Hour, the silent, cool, is nigh,
That swells the Heart with Rapture, and of Care
Leaves but the Haze lest in Excess it die,
To temper the intense Delight we share
With Nature, lest it pain us: as in Air
A light Cloud veils the Sun, who loses naught
Save an Excess of Glory, thus we dare
Else dazzled, gaze on him: all Things are wrought
To Rest, and Sound too has the Touch of Silence caught!

104.

A whispering Silence which its Murmurs break
As the Stars break the Gloom, so stillily
And sweetly: a few wandering Airs scarce shake
The drowsy Leaves, not twinkling restlessly
As is their Wont, but Emblems to the Eye
Of blessëd Quiet: cloistered with all Choice
Of Bough and Leaf, the Nightingale hard by
Sings, like a Soul just freed, but 'tis no Noise,
'Tis Silence self, who murmurs with herown sweet Voice!

105.

The scarcewak'd Air with printless Step steals thro'
His bowered Precincts, gliding from on high,
Deeming the Music of the Spheres into
That choral Grove has passed; so soothingly,
The blithe, softthroated Strains fill Earth and Sky.
And why not blithe! for he is pure and good
And sings but to the Pure: nor Tear nor Sigh
Knows he, still less the Evildoer's Mood,
Who hues with his own fretful Thoughts, Bird, Stream,

106.

The very Branches seem to bend them there and Wood.
As if an Inspiration brooded o'er,
Whose sweet compulsion moved all Things that bear
A Touch of Feeling to bow down before
The thronëd Charmer. Silence would no more
Be Silence: their bright Maze the Stars on high
Are threading, one by one on Heaven's Floor,
And at their sport Night smiles less solemnly,
While Earth with wordless merriment rings far and nigh!

348

107.

Now are the Spirits bathed in calm Delight,
A waking Bliss, yet dreamy as the Hour,
Joint Birth of Memory, Fancy, Hope and Sight
Of palpable and future Things, whose Power
In Fairytissue wove, Cameleonchild
Of Heart and Brain, is instinct all with Truth, tho' wild:
And what is Bliss, but as the Mind shall mould?
An everchanging Proteus, living on
That airy Food, Opinion! whom we hold
With doubtful Grasp, but just so long as run
Our Fancies in that channel— o'er the Sun
A light Cloud drifting with its gauzy Sail,
Is touched to Beauty not its own: 'tis gone,
And its Place knows it not! then what avail
Its borrowed Hues, you say? they're briefly shown
'Tis true, yet while they last, are they not still its own?

108.

E'en so across th' Horizon of Man's Life
The empty Shows of Things pass swiftly by,
Coined into Shape by Fancy: some in strife,
Some calmly, coldly some, or glowingly
As changeful Play of Hope and Fear the Eye
May prompt to paint them with the thousand Hues
Of Man's Protean Heart: one from on High
Will call down Sights and Sounds, and thus produce
The Heaven which he himself makes for his own Use.

109.

For has not Fiction her sweet Tears, her Joys?
Skytinctured Raptures, sweeter far than those
With which the vulgar Mind its dull Taste cloys,
Or stir a Heart by selfish Pleasures froze:
Yes, she can mould a Fairyrace, which grows
As out of Air, yet vivid with the Breath
Of a not unreal Being, with whose Throes
We sympathize: thus oft the Poet's wreath
Is woven for the Brow which in his Dreams he seeth!

110.

Some Hamadryad of the Heart, some Thought,
Dreamlike and nymphlike, which his Fancy forms

349

With fusëd Memories, allbrightly caught,
Like Rays converging, from a thousand Charms
O'er Nature strewn, whose Fairyhues he warms
With his Promethean Fire, 'till they start
To Life, a cloudlike Juno in his Arms;
Yet clasped with passionate Transport to his Heart,
As if 'twere palpable; and of himself a part

111.

It grows, a Thread knit with his Being's woof,
And colored by his Heart, which torn away,
The web is rent, and then he stands aloof,
A hving Ruin scathed by Passion's Ray.
For those who to Imagination's Sway
Submit themselves unwisely, often find
In him a hard Taskmaster to obey;
Off with vain Shadows do they fight, and blind
To earthlier Beauties love some Helen of the Mind!

112.

Eternal Love, soft as a Star, o'erstreams
The conscious Face of Heaven: his soft Breath,
(Sweeter than sleeping Babe's, when Fairydreams,
Hope's golden Exhalations, flit beneath
The sealëd Lids, like Rays of Heaven in Death,)
Has swept Creation's manytonëd Lyre,
Which in Man's Heart misterious Answers hath;
As if all blended in one mighty Quire,
Earth, Ocean, Mountain, Sky, but echoed his Desire!

113.

Solemn and sweet, and best to chastened Thought
Adapted, like the low, full Anthem's Swell
That dies out on a Summerevening, caught
By the pleased Ear of Silence; a soft spell,
Like the Goodman's last Sigh, which does but tell
Of coming Bliss: faint, fainter, on it flows,
Mellowing the Music of Copse, Stream, and Dell,
Stirring the sleeping Flowers in Repose,
'Till like a whispered Prayer, inaudible it grows.

114.

Still Meditation, with her dovelike Wings
Winnows the Air to silence: nature seems

350

Breathless and tranced; the only Sounds she flings
Seem Murmurs syllabled in Love's sweet Dreams.
How the deep Blue of Heaven softly streams
Thro' the Acacia's feathery Foliage, so
Soft Light thro' Rapture's drooping Eyelash gleams.
The Birds on noiseless wing to covert go,
Stirring the Leaves as Thoughts the stilly Heart,
When Conscience has no sting, and Memory no Smart.

115.

Some lagging Bee his droning Flight now wings
Homewards, and Silence rests on Leaf and Flower,
Unbroken, save where Cricket haply sings
His Heart out, ever thus from Hour to Hour.
The bright Dew falls like Light on Brake and Bower,
It sparkles on the Violet's deep Blue,
Like smiling Tears in Babe's sweet Eyes, and o'er
The modest Lily's Head, the Rosebud's Hue,
To which it gives the Scent which fresh from Heaven it drew.

116.

And now above the icecrowned Mountainbelt,
Like cold Ambition, shadowing all below,
Herself unseen, the Moon's soft Smile is felt,
As o'er Death's chill and pallid Brow will throw
The Dawn of coming Life no doubtful Glow.
See how the Crags are touched to Beauty by
Th' emerging Orb, which pours in soothing Flow
O'er the lit Lake, and there like Peace doth lie,
On the Breast she has calmed, asleep so lovingly!

117.

How sweet to wander 'neath her mellow Ray,
Yielding to kindled Fancy the full Soul,
To watch the mimic wave in idle Play
Break, like the Bubbles on Hope's sparkling Bowl.
To hear the low wind, like a whisper, roll,
While Fancy hears in it some Voice of yore
Once the Heartsmusic, now like to the Toll
Of Passingbells: in vain we stand before
The spectral Past and call, no Lip will answer more!

351

118.

The Past! the Past! the phantompeopled Past,
The populous Solitude of Memory!
Grave of the Loved and Lovely withered fast,
Where Grief's selfspringing Flowers never die:
The chill Heart thro' thy dim veil might descry
Sights that would blind, as on some barren Strand
The shipwrecked Sailor views, with shuddering Eye,
The dark Tide mockingly fling back to Land
All that he loved, disfigured with Seaweed and Sand?

119.

'Tis sweet to think on those who love us well,
The Fount of young Affections will gush o'er
Still at the Thought: still are their Names a Spell,
Like Blessings on our Lips for evermore.
'Tis sweet to think on that dear Spot, whose Power
Over the Soul is such, that it can charm
To Beauty the bleak Heath or rugged Shore:
Whose very Name a Sweetness doth embalm
Like to the Rose's, which all ill Thoughts can disarm!

120.

Bless'd Spot! where guileless, Heart embraces Heart,
And cold Suspicions jaundice not the Eye:
Where we may feel and be, not play a Part
In Life's dull Farce, and cold Formality:
Sole Spot on Earth where we may heave the sigh
And shed the Tear, yet not in Bitterness,
For there we find the Balm of Sympathy,
Whose Magictouch turns Grief to little less
Than Joy. The Fountain as is its Supply
Must flow, thus bless'd ourselves, we too have Power to bless!

121.

'Twas there, as in a newmade Paradise,
A soul fresh from the Heavens, pure I grew
And wanting naught: e'en as the Flowers rise
That neither spin nor toil, and like them too
I took no Thought unto the Morrow, drew
No Breath but in the Present: Joy has Tears
As well as Grief, and these alone I knew:

352

There what we are and work out best appears,
Heart Revelation makes to Heart, schools, explains, cheers!

122.

There first I learnt to know and love my God,
Not fear Him, as is mostly taught elsewhere:
As if not Mercy, but Fear and the Rod
Were his chief Attributes: from that best Prayer-
Book, mine own Heart, what his Commandments were
I learnt, and Love explained the Text to me.
Not Prohibitions, but Commandments fair
And gentle, teaching that the Heart should be
A Law unto itself, constrained, but willingly!

123.

Oh! is not Childhood a Foretype of Heaven,
A mystic Shadowing of Eternity,
Whose Meaning to the wiser few is given,
Who learn to temper Thoughts that proudly fly
With Childhood's Meekness and Simplicity?
Who never, tho' they soar from Earth, forget
Their Birthplace, or their Journey's Boundary:
Aye, ye may clothe in Purple, ye may set
The Crown upon your Brows, and yet—and yet—
As little Children must ye first become,
(The words are Christ's), or enter not that Home!

124.

Home! thou keynote of all Earth's Harmony!
Cornerstone of the Temple of Man's Mind,
Illplaced th' entire Building grows awry,
No true Proportion therein can we find,
Nor trace the Masterspirit, who designed
It for his Dwelling— Opensesame
To the Heart's divine Treasures, to all kind
Affections, Tears so sweet, that for them the
Best Smiles of Joy would still poor compensation be!

125.

Dew of the Spirit, that from stainless years
Drawst thy sweet Being: thou pure Effluence
From the Heart's virginsoil which in it bears
No Plant of thorny Memory: from whence
Spring Flowers too fair to last, whose Hues intense

353

Are bright but fleeting as the Rainbow's by
The passing Winds kissed off: thou art from hence
Dew of the spirit, yet still from on high,
Shook by some Angel's wings returning to the sky!

126.

Sweet Tears! your Memory should blessëd be,
For ye, ye were all Blessedness and Love:
Pure as Dew on the opening Rose, ere the
Blight cankers it, or Bees its Sweets remove.
The Angels only weep such Tears above,
And thither ye exbale upon their wings
Kissed off by them unseen, ere ye can prove
The slightest stain of Earth's least earthly Things.
Sweet Tears, shed on that Heaven, a Mother's Breast,
When the young Heart was to it, like an angel's, prest!

127.

Sweet Tears! would that mine Eyes might once more feel
Your soft Drops melt them into Infancy:
Making the Heart with its first Raptures reel:
Raptures more deep than Passion's Revelry,
Born of false Joys that die out in a Sigh,
Mere Mockeries, still least, what most they seem.
Alas! our Aftertears but dim the Eye
Not brighten, and the Furrows where they stream
Are formed by Childhood's Smiles: alas! that so
Hope's purest Founts should but grow bitter as they flow!

128.

Ye stand before me, like a pleasant Dream,
Years of sweet Childhood, and transform the Past
To present Time! on the old Hearth I seem
Once more to stand, while mixed Thoughts, thick and fast,
Which Memory clings to first and gives up last,
O'erflow my Heart, which drinks them as Sands do
Fresh Raindrops: Home, all that thou ever wast
In Present, thou art still in Fancy: tho
Full many a year's dark Wing be flown since then,
Thy green Oasis fades not on my backward ken!

129.

Like one who stands upon the cruel Deck
That bears him Exile from his native shore,

354

And marks it fading to the merest Speck,
Yet struggles with fixed Eye the Waters o'er,
Devouring its last Glimpse, 'till the dim Hour
Snatch it from Sight and blend it with the Shade:
Then inward turns to Fancy's soothing Power,
Who Pictures of Life's loveliest Scenes has made
For the sad Heart to gaze on and beguile
Its Griefs, believing all to be as 'twas erewhile.

130.

Thus too swept with the onward Tide of Life
Far, far from that dear Spot which nourished me,
Tho' round me brawl the rude World's chilling Strife
Which few can share and pure and happy be,
Still, still that cherished Spot my fond Eyes see,
Still o'er the troublous waves that Beacon calls
Me back, when from my better self I flee.
And when the Play's out, and the Curtain falls,
Home's hallowed Name shall sweeten my last Breath,
And the first Thoughts of life blend with new Life in Death!

131.

How sweet, when feverish Toil and Strife are o'er,
To visit once again our longlost Home:
We feel like one upon some happy Shore
Cast forth from out the noisy Oceansfoam,
While the dark waves run thundering on in Gloom
Behind him: on the Greensward laid, sweet Sleep,
Lulled by the very Roar that late his Doom
Seemed pealing, sweeter by Contràst, doth creep
O'er his worn Sense, with Dreams made thus more sweet and deep

132.

I left my Home, and all I loved still were,
Tho' often at the Sabbathbell's sweet call
I passed the churchyard, and the Gravestones there,
Thickstrewn, preached eloquent the Lot of all,
Tho' oft in Autumn I had marked the Fall
Of the sere Leaf, I felt the Moral not,
Or if 'twere felt its Influence was small,
The Moral to a Tale, not mine own Lot:
But Time has brought it Home, and changed is now that Spot

355

133.

I left my Home, a Boy in Heart and Years:
I wandered thro' strange Lands and visited
Their wonders, dimmed by no prophetic Fears:
Five times I saw the green Leaf bud: with Red
Five times the Grape in Autumn overspread,
And each time deep, sweet yearnings fell on me.
It is not Life to fill with Lore the Head,
We live but by the Heart, and meanwhile he
Was gone, and made those years a Blank in memory!

134.

Breathes there a man to whom the name of Home
Is not a magic Spell, Epitome
Of all that's good within him? let him roam
Consorted best with Brutes: aye, let him be
Expellëd from all sweet Society.
The stamp of Cain is on his Brow, that curse
The bitterest of all, a barren, dry,
And selfish Heart is on him, Crime's chief nurse.
Aye mark him well, for he with human Blood
Will knead his Bread, and sell his Friend or curse his God!

135.

Oh bitter 'tis on Earth to stand apart
And think that there are none to love us more:
When all the Tendrils twined around the Heart,
That grew up with our Growth, and like the Flower,
Blossom by Blossom shed, 'till that dark Hour
Which withered Bloom and Branch, are torn away
By some rude Hand, or scathed by Fate's dread Power,
Claiming his Due: and bitter is the Day,
When Home's Fireside for us no longer burns,
When at cold Strangerhearths the Heart for its own yearns.

136.

Why com'st thou thus, sad Spirit, to my Tongue?
The darkest Lot has ever Light to guide,
Some Balm to soothe, as Honey may be wrung
From out the bitterest Flowers too: so Pride
Has hardened not the Heart, for then abide
Both Sting and Venom in the fester'd Wound.
Pride, the vain Stoic, in his Breast would hide

356

And quench his Anguish, still most wanting found
When needed most; while Hearts that bow to Heaven
Break not, for strength unto their weakness straight is given.

137.

Let Sorrow do his worst: let Time frown on,
He passes as the Tempest o'er the Brow
Of placid Heaven, whose brief Fury done
Th' immortal Lights the azure Vault o'erflow,
And Storm and Darkness to new Beauty grow,
Transformed to Elements of Peace: thus Faith
Still reappears amid her bright Rainbow,
And, «Heaven a Home eternal has», she saith,
Where weary Spirits in God's Bosom rest,
And where the Lost on Earth expect us'mid the Blest!

138.

Farewell, sweet Clarens; time can ne'er efface
Thine Image from my heart; false memory
May yield her stores, but from the heart to rase
Its cherished thoughts is vain, there must they lie
For ever, dark or bright: tho' Time pass by
And clothe the rifted rock with gladsome flowers
Or rend anew, the rock will ne'er belie
His nature, but is still the same: thus hours
And years roll on, yet wear the heart in vain,
For what Love graves upon its early bark, e'en pain,

139.

And Cares and fretting woes but help to drive
Deeper into the core: so too with thee,
For all thy fairyscenes my heart must hive,
Which as an undefilëd well shall be
Of purest Fancies, Touches of wild glee
And reminiscence sweet; and if again
I tread thy quiet shores: if fate to me
Accord such choice, to me whose spirit fain
Would drink of purer waters, on thy breast
Great Mother-Nature here I'd lull my heart to rest!

140.

That rest which shuns the crowded Mart, the Sink
Of Vice and Worldliness, and lights on those
Who keep themselves as children, and who drink

357

Thy milk, great Mother! 'till the spirit grows
To its right stature and the heart o'erflows
With thy true lifeblood, for the world's rank food
Breeds all unwholesome humours: soon we lose
The sense of health and feverish fancies brood
On the sick spirit, 'till the jaundiced sight
Thy fresh, clear forms distorts, and hues thee with false light.

141.

Thy shores are sacred, Leman! and thy name
Is on my lips a spell, the spell which Mind,
The mighty Wizard, flings around his Fame,
'Till men, halfdazzled, yield a worship blind
To spirits towering so above their kind,
Of Giantstature unto Good or Ill:
Working their Maker's praise in thoughts that fill
Men's Hearts with hidden Sympathies, and find
Homes in all Lands; some sweating in Earth's mine,
And some like visioned Seers who watch in God's own shrine!

142.

Nor few, nor mean are those bright names which twine
Their memories with thine, fair Lake! to thee
We come, as willing pilgrims to the shrine
Of mighty Genius: whate'er they be
Who thus have left thy shores a spell, or free
In the best sense of freedom, when the soul
By Faith is selfsufficient, or might be
Adorers of some creed, some Idol foul,
Fair upperparts, but nether clay, we still
Must pause and ponder upon names which Time's Ear fill!

143.

Here dwelt the Proteus Voltaire, unreclaimed
To God by thy bright scenery, which might
Unsceptic any heart: much praised, much blamed
By foolish tongues, like many a meaner wight,
Deserving much of both: but in the fight,
Truth's glorious Crusade 'gainst Tyranny
To win God's Holy-City and the right
Of godlike thought, no lofty Champion he;
He saw the Goal yet chose Fame's vulgar Lot,
Weigh him with Washington and learn what he was not.

358

144.

He helped to raise the storm, and deemed his might,
Like many a meaner Fool, could quell the same,
But none have walked the waves, save Him, whose Light
Was not of Earth: Voltaire had earned a name,
Too sounding to last long, yet still 'twas Fame;
He dared not look beyond the Present, nor
Build on a glorious Future, for he came
Of a false stock, and Vanity no Law
But present Hire owns: the Crown he spurned,
And to the glittering Bauble, like a Baby, turned!

145.

An intellectual cook, he took a pride,
A national pride to mince meat for the mind,
And had much skill 'neath highwrought spice to hide
His flimsy food, where wholesome stomachs find
Small nutriment: what Time had left behind
From the World's gathered wisdom, there he found
His readymade materials, combined
In thousand forms to suit the sick and sound,
Philosophists, Moborators, all Palates,
His wit the sauce that makes one swallow what one hates!

146.

Like to a Fly of great Antiquity
Who, (as old Esop tells the story), sate
Much at his ease on some wheelaxletree,
And as the carriage moved, with pride elate,
Cried out, «see what a dust now I create»;
So Voltaire, like this great Exemplar, swept
On with the wheels of Revolution's State,
Thought that he moved it, when he would have crept
But for a lucky concord of strange things,
Scarcenoticed to his grave, like meaner Foolscapking.

147.

But let him sleep with his own chaste Pucelle,
And humbly pray he be not one of those
Who having destroy'd Heaven, find a Hell
Whereof they dreamt not: such men's wisdom grows,
Like Serpents, from the filth a wise mind throws
Aside in scorn, and stinks of whence it came.

359

But let them spit their venom: Heaven knows
To draw good e'en from thence, and to their shame
And its own Glory turns the feeble spite
Which breaks but its own teeth in such unequal fight.

148.

Aye let him sleep with his own chaste Pucelle,
Who bore to his coarse Lust a bastardrace
And sickly, like all Sin: yet Genius well
From holy wedlock and that maid's embrace
Might have raised up high offspring to efface
Th' Ingratitude which France to her has shown,
Creating thus for her a lofty place
(Her name at length by Fame's pure trumpet blown)
Amid her Country's hallowed memories,
A shrine of Poesy, for Worth that never dies.

149.

But for a nobler Hand that Task had Fate
Reserved, a foreign Hand: when Schiller rose,
Like a bright Star, he took unto his Mate
That maiden portioned only with her Woes
And Insults: as his Spirit's Bride he chose
Her Spirit, and he gazed until she grew
Distinct in that bright Shape which to him owes
Its Being, and into her Breast he threw
His own Heart's Warmth, and breathed upon her cheek Love's Hue!

150.

But Voltaire had no soul for these high things,
His was no sacred calling; Poesy
Sunk 'neath his weight, for her celestial wings
Will not lift earthly burthens to the sky:
Thus fell he to the dust, there let him lie:
Nor let his scoffs alarm the good; their fears
Insult that Being in his majesty,
Who to man's petty malice and brief years
Opposes his high Wisdom and all Time:
Drawing the shape of perfect Good from passing Crime!

151.

He will not stoop to crush a worm like this:
And that is shallow wisdom which still sees
In Evil nought but Evil: Man may miss,

360

God never does: he moulds with equal ease
Things which to us seem but Anomalies,
(Because the mighty plan is but half seen,)
Into one whole of perfect harmonies,
Where all is as it should be, what has been
Sowing the seeds of that which is to be;
And man, frail portion of this vast machinery,

152.

Still striving with his spiderweb to stay
Its mighty movements, of whose countless Springs
Not one, one least is ever out of play;
In whose Infinitude of parts, of things
And Natures adverse, all moves like the wings
Of the windcleaving Bird, with no less Ease
And Harmony: but yet in Leadingstrings,
And with an Eye distorting all it sees,
Man with his Ellwandwisdom still will dare
To measure God, and displace Him for a Voltaire!

153.

As, in the Animalworld, the sanke and toad
Are poisonfurnished for wise purposes,
Each framed by Nature with appropriate load
To suit the end for which it lives and dies,
So, in the Moralworld, a Voltaire plies
His destined task, and has his poison too;
With this sole difference, that Voltaire lies
Unto his Being's End and Aim, altho'
His own works witness that he had the Light.
Thus, like the Blind worm, he too labours in God's sight!

154.

I turn to fickle Rousseau's brighter name,
Whom Pity should commiserate, for he
Was of another clay: he too sought fame
More nobly, if less wisely; to be free
And make free, was his boast, but who could be
Such, and know Freedom? he was one whose brain
Was wormed by vain conceits, and easily
Stung into madness by the smart and pain
Of petty Insectenvy, thus in vain
For self and others lived he, but his works remain,

361

155.

A lesson and a warning, where we learn
The sad tale of a spirit lost, a mind
Made unto better things; where we discern
The nobler aspirations of a blind
Tho fervid Intellect which gropes to find
A light that is denied it, a bright ray
Of unadulterated Truth, untined
By Earth's dull superstitions; but the way
He chose from Nature unto Nature's God
Led not, and thus in Error's Labyrinth he trod.

156.

He too was Nature's lapchild, and on him
She showered her dangerous Gifts of mind and heart
From her full Plentyhorn; but full of whim
And fickleness he grew, nor had the art,
Like all spoilt children, to her gifts t'impart
That crowning grace which man himself must give,
Or else atone by many a bitter smart
For slow selfgoverment, taught how to live
This weekday life in the world's heartless school,
Anatomized by the chanceglance of every fool!

157.

Alas! for these high gifts, when 'neath the rein
They will not bend their proud and fiery necks
By Reason curbed, a heritage of pain,
Under this boon of Glory, Nature makes
Inalienably ours; yea! she takes
A heavy payment at some future day:
Our spirits with an ironrod she breaks
Beneath Time's galling yoke, and for the ray
Of divine light thus prematurely given,
We live in Hell, with capabilities for Heaven!

158.

Then Peace unto his Ashes, may they rest!
He suffered, if he erred, and much he bore
Martyr to self and others; e'en the best
Have many faults and failings, and the Lore
Of God's own Page instructs us to pass o'er
Man's faults in mercy, since we may not know

362

The Heartsprings, Movings, or lay bare the core
Of the soul's hidden soil, where ofttimes grow
Seeds of strange sap and fruit; such hearts as his,
From the deep spirit's mines coin all their woe and bliss!

159.

Lausanne! thy name too calls up Gibbon's shade
From that Eternity of life which he
Made light of, he who godlike reason made
To undermine itself: and deemed him free
From vulgar prejudice, yet Slave would be
E'en to the basest which Man's spirit chain
To this soulsoiling Earth; from off the tree
Of Knowledge its ripe fruit he plucked, in vain:
He felt not his own nakedness, but strode
A selfmade Giant, and his Pride would own no God!

160.

Thus may we learn how little all the wealth
Of learning, heaped in many-a busy year
With beelike Industry, produces health
Of moral Being, if Faith stand not near
To quicken into Wisdom what we tear
From Time's fastturning pages: idle Lore!
A seed that no lifeprinciple can bear,
Leaving us in our boasted wealth more poor
Than the worst Ignorant who lifts on high
His prayer, yet has no name for one star in the sky!

161.

That is no vulgar Error which all Man-
Kind puts its Faith in! 'tis the one Man who
Goes wrong, who, deeming himself greater than
The Mass, is less in Wisdom, in all true
Philosophy than it: for it is through
The Mouth of all that God speaks clearest, by
The Heart of all is best revealëd too.
What all Hearts feel and see, is no vain Lie,
'Tis then no single Heart, but God's own Heartand Eye!

162.

For all Men's Hearts when blent together make
Up God's own Heart: their Minds when fused in one
Allmighty Thought the Spirit of His take.

363

Tis then no more one erring Man alone
Tho' still but one, yet the one true Man, grown
To his true stature, like to God: yea! as
Christ was like God; and as God's Form is shown
In this whole World, as in a Magicglass,
So in this one whole Man, all that as Man He was,

163.

Yea, from the First, and is, and can, and will
Be ever on! then all that this one Man
Believes of himself, that will God fulfill,
It will come true, worked out in Being's Plan;
'Tis God in him believes it, and how can
What God believes be false? this Faith is too
Before and above Reason—it began
With Life itself: without it is no true
Existence, nor aught Godlike can Man think or do!

164.

And yet the proud Philosopher disdained
To think as all Men, as the Many do!
As if Truth were not surest thus attained!
As if all were not likelier to think true,
And feel true, than the one vain Mortal, who
Withdrawing himself from his kind, thereby
Ceases to be a Man—for only thro'
All can the one be truly so—and why?
Because what all Men think and feel eternally,

165.

That makes the Man, that keeps him so in Spite
Of Change of Time and Place, in Greece, or on
The Nile, or Thames, or Seine: the Mass goes right,
For it feels as with one grand Heart alone;
The Paltriness and Meanness of the one
Have no Share in it: it comprizes all
Man's godlike Hopes and Interests, but none
Save these—each Mode and Pulse, both great and small,
Of Being, each high Yearning, and each holy Call,

166.

Each clear prophetic Insight, and each high
Conviction—thro' Belief it lives, and thro'
Love, and unfailing Hope eternally.

364

Doubt palsies Action, paralyzes too
The Soul, dries up the Source from whence it drew
All Grandeur—Doubt of God puts out the Eye
Of Reason, by which these men boast to do
So much: as if Truth could be found save by
Belief in God, from whom it flows eternally!

167.

This Doubt destroys the Sap by which Life's nursed,
Cuts the Mainroot; thus all Things give the Lie
To Doubt—thus, like the withered Fig Christ cursed.
It stands alone, a mere Anomaly,
Containing in itself, to every Eye
Save its own, its best Refutation: so,
So wondrous are the Plans of the Most High!
The Fool must still with his own Finger show
Himself, and from his very Folly may we know

168.

Better than e'en from Wisdom herself, how,
How mighty is He! that which stands alone
Has got the Stamp of Decay on its Brow!
'Tis strange, perverted, false, and pleases none
But the perverted—Nature will not own,
Nor among her enduring Works give place
Unto, it; with the Finger it is shown,
But takes no Hold upon the Humanrace,
Nor in Mankind's great Heart leaves any lasting Trace!

169.

And yet, methinks, at that still Midnighthour,
The Labours of a Life completed, when,
Exulting in the Consciousness of Power,
His mortal Hand first laid aside the Pen
Which was to blazon to the Praise of Men
His Name, th' immortal Soul must then have felt
The Godlike—God! within it—yet e'en then
He uttered no Thanksgiving, neither knelt
Nor spake that Name which in the stars he might have spelt.

170.

Whose Sweetness from the Flowers at his Feet
Was breathed forth on him; and when he looked on
The blue Expanuse of Waters, like a Sheet

365

Of Chrystal thro' the Acacia's foliage shown,
The Glass, spread out before his Sight alone,
Full of the silent wonders of the Skies,
Saw he not there his Maker's Image thrown
From those blue Depths, where in so stilly Wise
He works his godlike work, while round him set and rise

171.

Unnumbered Worlds, with less noise than a Leaf
Falls from, or bursts upon, the Tree—And there,
At that sweet Moment so unique and brief,
In which the Sweetness was summed up, as 'twere
The Rose's scent, of Years of Promise fair,
Crowned by that Instant: while around him lay
Lausanne, with not a Voice to stir the Air,
While he and God were each, tho' in a way
So widely different, watching o'er their Works, what pray

172.

Were Gibbon's Thoughts? or what his Maker's, while
He looked down on the poor worm in the Dust
Full of himself, and with a quiet Smile
That sparkled thro' each Star, reproved Man's Lust
Of Fame, the paltry Longing for the Bust
And pointed Finger, by his own so, so
Sublime and stilly Watchfullness, which must
Have touched the Sceptic's Soul, in Earth below
And in the millioneyëd Heaven o'er his Brow!

173.

What were his Thoughts? who knows? the Hour is gone-
The Man is Dust—a Name—a Memory—
His Being lost to us, like some stray Tone
Breathed from a Flute and heard no more: but why
Did he disclaim the sublime Luxury
Of feeling at that Moment as it were
A Fellowworker with the Deity?
Merged in the Whole, he might have said, «these are
Thy Works, great God! myself, the Flower and yon' Star:

174.

My Works are thy Works, thou art in me, I
In thee at all Times, but most now, e'en now
When most I feel Thee: thou art in mine Eye,

366

Else could I not behold the bright Stars how,
How godlike they do shine: yea! it is thou
That prayest in me, else I could not pray.
Father! the least of all thy works doth show
Thy Glory forth, then grant that mine too may
Not do less than yon star with its so modest Ray!»

175.

Is it less godlike then because it does
Not say, «behold my Light!» it shines alone,
And pays in silent awe the Debt it owes,
Quite sure that God will not neglect e'en one
Of all his Works: not e'en the least Streak on
The Dayseye! and wilt thou not do likewise,
Or wilt thou snatch a Trumpet to make known
Thy Nothings, as if God had got no Eyes,
To rob thy Heart of its so still and godlike Prize!

176.

The Sense of the Unutterable, which
Man with his God may share: the Feeling, by
Which we beyond all Wealth are rendered rich,
Of working out, as if unconsciously,
The Godlike, as if unto the Most High,
And not to us, the Praise alone were due.
Sublime Renouncing of all Vanity,
Which, for that paltry Feeling, lifts us to
God himself, who our least Works then will view
As his, and wrought out thus they are so too!

177.

And when thou look'dst on His Works round thee spread,
Each on its Task intent, so silently,
Didst thou ask if thine own too answerëd
Their End as well as the least Flower by
Thy proud Foot crushed? didst thou lift up thine Eye,
And ask thyself if thy Works in their kind
Bore Witness, like the least Star in yon Sky,
Unto thy Maker? alas! no: thy Mind
Wrought out of God and in His Works thy Works could find

178.

No Place and no Acceptance! could then thy
Long Toil accomplish nothing more than this?

367

Hadst thou sought Truth so long and eagerly,
And couldst not track her Steps of Light to his
High Presence, whence, and whence alone she is?
Couldst thou feel Truth and not feel him likewise
In her? alas! they still the Truth must miss,
Who like thee seek it, who keep still their Eyes
Fixed on their paltry Selves, and not upon the Skies!

179.

And couldst thou with divine Intelligence
Not do so much as the least Worm, to show
Thy Maker's Glory forth? oh Impotence
Of human Pride! which boasting thus to know
More than its Fellowmen, can with its so,
So boundless Lore not lift itself unto
The one, grand Truth, which from all Things doth flow,
Like Light, upon us: thus by feeling true,
Fools prove what Gibbon with his Wisdom could not do!

180.

Copet, De Staël has hallowed thee, and made
Thy name the spirit's Restingplace, where we
Repose awhile, like Pilgrims, 'neath the Shade
Of some fairfruited, and widespreading tree,
Hard by which flows a Fount of pure and free
And holy Waters: from her Womansheart
She drew her wisdom, and if Error be
Blent still where Feeling takes too large a Part,
Yet from Jove's Head alone Minerva could not start!

181.

One more demands my song, not least tho' last
Of that bright Galaxy, which must for aye
Shine on ward in Time's Heaven, and outlast
The many Shootingstars whose feebler ray
But lights their fall, until the final day
Shall gather round the Brow of the most High
Truth's scattered beams, which from Time's birth their way
Have followed: like the bright Stars in the Sky,
Earth's constellations set, and new their Place supply

182.

A Name which is as Poetry: a spell
Of blended power to wake remembrance bright

368

And vain regret: for who the hopes shall tell
Which grew unto that name, and with its might
Their aspirations twined: alas! a blight
Was at the core of that fairseeming tree,
Its lifesap poisoning: and tho' to sight
Its wild Luxuriance promis'd fruit to be,
'Twas spent in idle bloom and flourished outwardly.

183.

Oh that some tones of Inspiration might
Light on my trembling lips, which thus essay
To sing his memory: some words of light
Not allunworthy of the mighty Lay.
Oh that some transient gleam, some kindred ray
From the bright Brow of Poesy might fling
Its spell on my weak spirit and thus lay
My fears at rest; for who such theme may sing
In fitting notes, unless like Spirit he shall bring?

184.

But to my task; yet first on Truth I call
To aid me with her presence calm, lest Praise
Undue, or foul Detraction haply fall
With leprous Influence upon my Lays,
And blight the feeble wing which strives to raise
Heaven wards its flight: for thence her Blessing is,
And there her Home; and tho' I'm young in days,
Yet do I deem her smile man's highest bliss,
Reward, and Inspiration, tho all else he miss!

185.

He too was one of those sent down by Heaven
From Time to Time, like portions of its Light,
To hallow this our clay, in mercy given.
Yet still as is the Darkness of the Night
So in Proportion shine the Stars more bright,
And dimeyed mortals to each rising Ray
Turn, as if it alone could lead them right:
But with the calm Light of returning Day
Too oft they find that it has led them but astray!

186.

His words were firewords, his voice a spell,
Wherewith the potent charmer could dethrone

369

At will Men's thoughts: alas! he knew too well
All the Heartsinlets, and each varied tone
Of its most complex music was his own,
And waked with mastery, as tho' he were
Its framer; but his erring skill was shown
In Syrentouches sweet, he sought not there
The holier echoes which true Poets wake and share.

187.

The Lay he struck, (whose fancyvarying tone
Could scarce be deemed of earthly minstrelsy,
But claimed an Inspiration of its own,
Like to the windswept Harp, and seemed to sigh
With other sympathies than man's), on high
Its voice ne'er sent: alas! it was no string
In Heaven and Earth's accordant Harmony,
Hymning its Maker's praise, but oft would fling
Far earthlier voice, and with unholy echoes ring.

188.

And yet his Inspiration was the Light
Of Heaven: but as the stream some Tinge will take
From off the Soil it flows on, and tho' bright
Is bittertasted, so must Genius make
A blessing or a curse as we awake
Its energies to Good or Ill, and mould
Our clay with its Promethean fire: a snake
That twines around the soul its smothering fold,
Or bright and glorious as the Prophet's dreams of old!

189.

Thou too loved'st Truth, but not as they should love
Who deem of her correctly and her power
In the heart's inmost Shrine and Temple prove:
Thou madest her but the Goddess of an hour,
And worshipp 'dst her amiss, and thus her dower
Of majesty and might was not for thee:
Thou shouldst have known that those who basely lower
The Deity they bow to, are not free
Nor great, but slaves to a selfcoined Idolatry.

190.

Oh Byron, Byron such should'st thou have been,
Then would thy name on Falsehood's drowsy Ear

370

Break like a thunderclap, and Truth be seen
To dwell on Earth in vesture scarce less fair
Than that pure sheen which she is wont to wear
In her empyreal home: then Plato's dream
For us had been fulfilled: what heart would dare
To doubt the Deity, when thus her beam
Shone on the Sceptic's sight, to awe, to quicken and redeem?

191.

But thou, alas, wouldst pluck a meaner wreath,
Which is already fading from thy brow,
Frail, perishable as the fickle breath
Of man, that bade it bloom, and lays it low
In its untimely dust; yea, even so
We reap a mighty moral, and thy name
Teaches us more than learnëd Pedants know:
Aye it instructs us on what stalk true Fame
Alone will grow, in every Clime unchanged, the same!

192.

The True alone, yea! since the World began,
And to the latest Day 'twill still be so,
Delights enduringly the Heart of Man,
Abides with him, and like himself, can know
No Change: for howsoever oft below
The Chrysalis may cast its Slough, yet his
Essence is also Truth, which still doth throw
In Thought and Deed its Halo over this
Poor Dust, reminding him for aye of whence he is!

193.

The one grand Incarnation here of the
Divine Intelligence: the one, the true
Man, he whom in his sublime Unity
All mankind makes up, errs not, as we do,
We single Men, what he approves, that too
God sanctions, for the Godlike he alone
Delights in, and can only do so thro'
That same divine Intelligence: thus shown
In chusing nought but what its sublime Source will own!

194.

Unerringly, and as it were too, by
A divine Instinct, does it cast away

371

The False, Unnatural—No Pedantry
In the Selection does it e'er display,
Nor doubts an Instant what to keep or lay
Aside, nor needs dull Rules its Taste to Guide.
What it delights in, still remains for aye
To all Men everywhere a Joy and Pride,
It speaks with God's own Voice, and over Seas can stride!

295.

Go ask the scottish Peasant when he sees
His blazing Hearth, why Burns's Cottarsnight
Successive Generations still can please?
And naively will he answer, while Delight
Kindles his cheek, «because that which my Sight
views daily, and my Heart feels daily, he
Has there pourtrayed.» and if thou 'st heard aright,
Not one poor erring Man's Words will those be,
But Generations speak and Nature teaches thee!

196.

What passes on from Tongue to Tongue for aye,
And charms the Child upon its Grandam's knee,
As her too when a Child, of bygone Day
The Song, in which the old Heart speaks to the
New Heart so clearly, understandably,
In that eternal Language changing ne'er,
E'en when the Words both quaint and antique be,
To this still Nature lends a willing Ear;
The same old Spirit still in Life's fresh Forms so near!

197.

Its Voice is on the Mountains; to the Eye,
The young Eye, still it calls back the old Tear
Of primal Feeling: still so boyantly
It beats within the Bosom, as if ne'er
Before a human Breast with that same Fear
Or Hope had throbbed— and yet 'tis old— old as
The Heart of Adam! thus still fresh and clear,
Renewed eternally, yet what it was,
It travels on for aye, 'till back to God it pass!

198.

The nothingness of this vain Present threw
Its blight upon thy spirit's Energy;

372

Thy Heart was not at one within, but grew
'Mid wrestling aspirations, and no high
Or lofty goal can be attainëd by
Divided efforts, tho'a Giant were
To make the Essay: grovelling hopes that die
With heavenly aspirations have no share,
Like baneful weeds they grow, and poisonfruit must bear.

199.

Thou shouldst have been th' apostle of thine age
Teaching a higher truth, a purer creed
To the Earth's erring nations: and thy Page
Fraught with «Gladtidings», then had earned its meed.
A blessing from on high, and sown the seed
That dieth not, but soon or late must yield
Its glorious harvest: in the hour of need
Thy name had been a watchword and a shield,
When Tyranny shall fall on Truth's bright Battlefield.

200.

Alas! thou daredst not to be great or good,
Nor to fulfil the glorious destiny
To which Truth beckoned thee; Fame by thee stood,
Fame, the Earthborn, whose hollow glories lie
In the vile breath of men; she caught thine Eye,
Tooeasydazzled, and the Future's meed
Seemed in the distance but a mockery;
Truth will not own a Heart thus halved: her creed
Is all or none, she leans not on a wavering Reed!

201.

For this she never from thy lips has spoke
Her oracles nor with her high behest
E'er hallowed thee; her Inspiration broke
In smouldering flashes from thy darkling breast,
As tho' it sought a fitter place of rest,
A holier altar, than a heart like thine
Profaned by Pride and Passion; whence her best
And holiest beams in fitful Glory shine,
Leaving no calm, pure Light, no Glow of Worth divine

202.

The light that burned in thee, but burned in strife:
No calm, still, allpervading Warmth whose light,

373

Sunlike, might kindle into healthy Life
The products of a world; in flashes bright,
Brighter from out the spirit's gloom, its Might
Burst lightninglike, spent oft in Earth's vile Mire;
It shone in barren beauty and the sight
Was dazzled, but not guided; scathing fire,
Wild passion's tempestbirth, scattering its strength in Ire.

203.

The heavenborn Genius which dwelt in thee,
Which should have hallowed thee to Glory and
Undying praise among the Good and Free,
Whom Time delights to honor, was a brand,
Which, tho' allquenchless, Passion's wild breath fanned
Into a false and flaring flame; its Light
Was from on high, and therefore mortal hand
Could not extinguish, but in Error's night
It flashed, like flickering flame from smoke, upon the sight,

204.

But Truth seeks still the upright heart and pure:
E'en as the lambent flame must mount on high,
Smokefree and strong, for it will not endure
To hide its brightness, but must mount or die;
Like will to like: and spirits of the sky
When prisoned in an earthly breast still crave
Some purer air: in torment fret, and fly
In scorn away, as risen from a Grave,
Leaving the heart they loved Earth's unredeemëd slave.

205.

Thus Truth within a holy breast will dwell
In peace and love, with calmattempered power
Moulds it into her likeness, and her spell
Allcirculating, hallows more and more
Its sanctuary, with inspired Lore
Still oracles the soul; but in a breast
Which earthly hopes and passions triomph o'er,
She gnaws still at the heart, a vultureguest,
And'mid its writhing throes still speaks her dread behest!

206.

Such Inmate was she, Byron, in thy heart;
She scathed, and not enlightened thee, and why?

374

Oh let them answer who have felt her smart!
Is it not writ in words that shall not die,
«Thou shalt not worship God and Mammon»? lie
Not those unto the Holy Spirit who
Profane to earthly Uses gifts so high
As those which thou wast hallowed with? why grew
The ashesfruit on such fair tree? say, wast thou true,

207.

True to thyself or God? didst thou place first
In word and deed that which thou felt'st to be
Thy Being's Highest: didst thou quench thy thirst
At Truth's pure founts, or to Idolatry
Debase thy soul, and make thy life a lie,
An acted falsehood: tho' the heavenly ray
Still reassert its destination high
For a brief moment, as it seemed to say,
«My light is not of Earth», yet straight it fades away.

208.

Present with Future, and the nothingness
Of Now with Immortality, aright
Thou couldst not weigh: in this alone far less
Than many a meaner spirit: from the Height
Of Fame thou look'dst, and dazzled grew thy Sight:
But soon, th' Intoxication pass'd, thy mind
Turned on itself the Venom of Despite:
And in thy spirit's desolation, blind,
Thou an immortal Essence sought'st, yet couldst not find!

209.

Fame's paths are many: Glory knows but one,
To mould himself unto his Century:
To rule it as its slave: to take his tone
Of thought and action from it, low or high,
As suits the Time, and with the Time thrown by,
The actor's changeful mask, who plays at need,
King, Hero, Bufloon, Knave, indifferently:
This is Fame's ready path, that hollow reed
On which Fools lean their weight and wisemen' neath them tread

210.

But Glory in men's breath dwells not, she lives
Not in the passing day: her victories

375

Are calm and quiet harvests, and she gives
To each good reaper what is duly his:
What he has earned by patient Zeal: her Prize
The Crowd awards not, tho' a Nation may,
With Time and Truth for bribeless Witnesses.
But he who has deserved it waits his Day
Contented, his own Heart itself can best repay!

211.

And still the more godlike, the more he by
The World goes unrewarded: for the pure,
Full consciousness in sublime certainty,
Of having acted not for any Lure
Or Bait the world can hold out, is his sure,
His best Reward: this Feeling alone is
A Recompense that makes King's Gifts seem poor!
And tenfold sweeter God makes it to his
Enjoyment, by the Loss of all Reward save this!

212.

Thy spirit should have dwelt alone: a sea,
In boundless vastness, taintless purity,
And communed with itself: for ever free
From those earthborn repinings which on high
Fling their doubtmists, and shut from man's dim Eye
Truth's azure Heaven: thus wouldst thou have been
Allselfsufficient: and thy Destiny
Been moulded to that sequence and that mien,
That unity of heart and aim so rarely seen.

213.

Thy towering spirit should have stood alone,
Alike above the Present's petty praise,
And pettier scorn: and as the glorious sun
Touches to beauty with his heedless rays
The clouds that bar his course, so in the blaze
And brightness of thy onwardbearing might
Had Envy sunk, or brought herself the bays
With hand reluctant, in th' approving sight
Of nations led by thee, their Joshua, aright

214.

To the far Land of Promise—but alas!
Such godlike Task was not for thee: thine Eye,

376

Thy divine Eye was filmy: nor could pass
Beyond the Present: when Truth's Accents high
Would warn the Nations, they must not speak by
Such Lips as thine: say why did Milton live
A Life of more than Epic Majesty:
Or Socrates, Truth's holy Martyr, strive
In the «good Fight» and his own Life so nobly give

215.

A freewilloffering to the cause he loved,
Think'st thou they sought the Emptiness of praise,
The bubble Reputation? they who proved
Their worth so nobly that their names might raise
The dead to testify to Falsehood's face
The Glory which she hates yet bows before:
They sought for that which Time shall ne'er erase,
In their own Gianthearts they found a store
Of Impulse and Reward, nor wished nor asked for more!

216.

Into how small a space thy bulk doth shrink,
When with such names as these thy claims we weigh,
Ambition! who upon their lives can think,
Nor spurn thee, yes: let Sophistry essay
Her subtlest arts, and in her best array
Disguise thy native Ugliness: yet still
Thou art a foul deceit; let History lay
Thy boasted names with these, e'en Envy will
Affirm that these true Glory's claims do best fulfill.

217.

Some reparation to mankind is due
For wasted Effort, and perverted power:
But in the moral of thy life anew
We learn an illknown Truth; true Wisdom's lore
Is the slow growth of Time, told o'er and o'er
'Till the dull World is warmed to Sympathy
With thoughts it heeded not: thus too the Dower
Which Byron bequeathed unto us was a high
And solemn Truth which unprolific should not lie.

218.

Wisdom at Times a costly sacrifice
Asks of Mankind, for meaner victims might

377

Pass unremarked, but when the Mighty dies,
Truth at the deathpyre her calm torch doth light,
And mournful waves it as a Warningsight
To an observant World: when Byron died
It seemed as tho' a sun had set in night
Dark, premature: for tho' his Fame spread wide,
No Eveningglow, the morn's bright promise, did abide.

219.

For Byron was not one of those who make
Of Time, Futurity: he could not lay
His heart at rest, or toil for Truth's sole sake,
In the calm sunshine of her holy day:
The lofty consciousness, whose strong, calm Ray
Feeds still the lamp of Immortality:
He heeded not her voice, but turned away
To dwell among the Scoffers, thus his high
Unearthly Lyre lent its strings to tones that die

220.

Aye, and he reaped the harvest his rash hand
Had thus unwisely sown, yet Sympathy
May shed an honest tear, tho' Truth must brand
His name with many a sad Infirmity
Which Wisdom scorns to own, and Pity's Eye
Would gladly turn away from, if he erred,
He was soretempted by the flattery
Of this cold selfish world, which in him stirred
Up feverish aspirations: like a shackled bird,

221.

His Spirit longed for Freedom, but in vain:
Bruised 'gainst its Prisonbars it died away
In feebler tones, yet waking up again
Dim echoes of their native skies, as they
Were voiced in slavery, yet seemed to say,
«I am not that I should be, or might be»:
Sad in their very sweetness and a lay
Of grief heartsmothered: such as the oncefree
Will sing in foreignlands, to cheat sad memory.

222.

The World, as is its wont, was quick to smile
Its harlotglance of flattery, which tho'

378

Most rich in promise, serves but to beguile
The credulous; they to men's breath who owe
Their fame, will see it bubblelike still grow
Vaster and brighter as it nears its End;
For the cold world but little cares to know
The throes which with the Poet's spirit blend
Their fiery Energies; it seeks t'amuse, not mend.

223.

Like some ferocious brute, at times 'twill play
With its poor victim, ere it show the power
And will to crush his soul; at first 'twill lay
His fears asleep, but when the fit is o'er
It casts him off, and flattering no more,
Plucks the Veil rudely from his cheated Sight,
And bids him learn the Thing he is— the sore,
Deep Degradation, which with Poisonblight
Eats still into his Soul, and palsies its best Might:

224.

Stinging his heart with sense of grievous Wrong,
A fiery Indignation, which will flame
And feed upon his spirit, 'till his song
Grow dark and bitter, and his very name
A byword to the sneering World, the same
That led astray and marred; then will he live
At war with all mankind, and tho' we blame,
Yet must we pity too, for his heartshive
Was robbed of all the honey selfcontent can give.

225.

In him the milk of humankindness is
Turned into Gall and Bitterness, in vain
Would Time awake an Aftersense of bliss,
The Festerwound must rankle still and pain;
And tho' it close, can never feel again
The Unity of health; his heart can know
No peace, and tho' his haughty soul disdain
To bare its throes, its Light in gloom must flow,
'Tis but the beauty of the storm, the rainbow's glow.

226.

His very light was darkness, and his sun
Set e'er the Evening of its cloudy day;

379

Not as the Orb, his bright course duly run,
In fullmatured and holy beauty may
Sink to his timely rest, with such calm Ray
As promises a brighter dawn, but dim
With cloud-and tempestgloom; alas! he lay
A proud Wreck on Time's sea, for who can trim
His sails aright, enslaved by Passion, Doubt and Whim?

227.

What tho' his bold, skysoaring spirit fleeth
Beyond this Earth, his hand no Pledge doth bear,
No Earnest of that better bourne, no Wreath,
No Olivebranch of Peace to Man; he ne'er
Has trod that blessed spot, nor tasted there
The fount that should baptize him unto Life
And Immortality: but tho' so fair,
'Tis as a fallen Spirit, whom the Strife
Against its Nature must of half its Light deprive.

228.

An heavenscaling Titan, on the Wing
Of daring Thought, he strove the pure Spherelight,
Like Lightning, to draw down: from Fate to wring
A new Promethean Fire by the Might
Of his earthwearied Spirit: such bold Flight
Needed a calm and patient Wing, but he
Rose, like the hooded Falcon, to that Height,
Only to tumble back to Earth, and be
Reminded by the Fall that Pride is Vanity!

229.

Yet if he erred in life, his death may well
Atone for many Errors: on his brow
It stamped Truth's seal and gave his name, a Spell,
To coming generations; nothing low
Or selfish mighled with this last bright glow
Of reborn Virtue, who a Phœnix rose
Brighter from out her ashes; he did grow
Unto a nobler stature and lifesclose
Forbade Death's triomph, and the Grave his sting did lose.

230.

He felt his Faith had been an empty creed,
A Lie unto his Being's End, its best

380

And holiest tendencies; his soul thus freed
From spectredoubts, he sought within his breast
To kindle up once more Truth's high Behest,
Illunderstood, which long there smouldering lay,
A sindimmed flame, thus strove to set at rest
The vulture conscience; and life's closingday
Twined round his fading brow true Glory's death less ray.

231.

Farewell is not a word for thee, for thou
Art of all ages; dust will unto dust,
Stern Time will claim his own, and much lay low
That is not for Eternity: the rust
Will eat the oncebright steel, yet still I trust
That much of thee shall live for aye, and find
Some nobler token than a paltry Bust
Or idle Cenotaph; th' immortal mind
Some bright remembrance in men's hearts still leaves behind

232.

Thou taught'st thy Fellowmen an erring Creed,
But Nature spoke by thee—not her own clear,
Calm Voice, tho' very sweet: thee too she freed
From that deep scorn of man whose bitter sneer
Distorts thy smile into a Devilsleer
Of Irony, until we turn away
With mingled feelings of disgust and fear;
But when on Nature's bosom thou dost lay
Thy panting heart, thy voice doth like her Echo play;

233.

For to full life she springs within thy arms,
Glowing with passion warmer than thine own,
Aud in her full Divinity of charms
Fills thee with Love and Beauty, till thy tone
Seems an o'erflowing harmony, unknown
To mortal ears, a spell which fills the Sky
Above, and Earth beneath, and Ocean lone
With vocal minstrelsies; as from on high
The soul and source of music poured its deep stream by!

234.

Methinks I see thee on old Adria's shore,
Gazing upon the boundless deep, that lies

381

In its farstretching solitude, before
Thy feet, a solitude from whence arise,
Like spirits, thoughts that grasp the Earth and Skies
In their Immensity; thy troubled breast
Heaves as the sea, and from its core, which is
Deeper than the deep Ocean, halfexprest
Thy mighty yearnings shake from off the soul its rest,

235.

And speak; Prophet and Poet all in one
Thou seem'st; e'en the vast ocean's self by thee
Might voice himself, and nothing lose; upon
Thy brow the spirit of old Times I see,
Glowing and vivid as 'twas wont to be,
With thoughts that will not be concealed, but gleam
Thro' the dark veil of dim mortality
Like lightningflashes; but enough, I dream
Of things that are not, tho' to the wild brain they seem.

236.

But thou, tho' Nature's Lapchild, lovedst not her
With that calm, deep, enduring Love, which makes
Us allunfit for this world's busy Stir,
Its feverish hopes, and all the thousand aches
That wait on him whose bark Life's tempest shakes,
Having no quiet Haven of sweet Rest.
He who loves Nature from sin's thralldom breaks,
And moulds his heart, like hers, to that same blest
And selfcontented mood, which still she teaches best,

237.

Mighty Philosopher! whose Wisdom lies
In her own deep content, who asks no more
Than that she has, to richest Usuries
Of joycreating Joy her boundless store
She places out, from every passing Hour
Reaping her rich returns; but we, we fools!
Betterexampled by the meanest flower,
We spurn the gentle laws by which she rules
All things for their own Good: for we, have other schools

238.

Farewell oncemore, but pardon let me ask,
If in my nothingness I deem that I

382

Can grasp thee with my measure: 'tis a task
For other might than mine: (if I belie
In aught the Truth 'tis most unwittingly,
For I do love her in my inmost heart,
And would not lie unto her tho' to die
And speak were one: for there's no bitterer smart
Than Conscience unto those who love Truth's upright part.

239.

Byron I love thee but the Truth still more,
And therefore have I thus essay'd to show
Thy faults that thou mightst stand revealed before
Our Eyes in thy true stature: even so
'Twixt Right and Wrong we learn at length to know
The boundaryline, and Genius may see
That Talent still needs Conscience, and that no
Production can endure unless Truth be
Its Groundwork, else 'tis but as a sandrooted Tree.

240.

Man loves the True alone thro' Ages; tho'
The False and the Exaggerated may
Be for awhile in Vogue, they can have no
Enduring Influence: Time wears away
Their Glitter, and the Heart grasps not for aye
An empty Shadow, but soon turns anew
To see things as they are in God's clear Day,
And by its human Yearnings still kept to
Its Sphere, by Instinct seeks the Natural and True!

241.

But thou, thou didst not estimate thy Kind
Aright— thou saw'st the Ill alone which lies
Upon the Surface, like a Sore: still blind
To the much Good, which, hid from all Men's Eyes,
Lives but for its own self, and for the Skies.
Thou sought'st in o'erwrought Phantasies Delight,
Not knowing that in Poverty's
Worst Hovel many a Beggar to the Height
Of Epic grandeur soars: Epic in God's own Sight!

242.

Great as thou wast, yet in thy life we learn
Little to imitate and much to shun

383

And nought to envy: Destiny is stern
Yet just to spirits gifted thus to run
A glorious race: the Coursers of the sun
Are firehoofed, and to all Lands should bear
The light of Truth: but if they fly not on
Their heavenly path, their course is marked by fear,
Their might is turned against them and their hearts doth sear!

243.

He who would be the Giant of all Time,
The Pioneer of dark Futurity,
The Masterspirit of his age and clime,
The Joshua whom Heaven stamps for high
And holiest Efforts, must not fear to die
Or suffer, for his Wreath of Glory is
Oft but the martyrscrown: nay e'en a lie
The sceptic World will name his life and hiss
Him forth in scorn: Christ was betrayed too by its Kiss!

244.

He who would vindicate unto himself
This highest of all callings, let him think
Well on his task: whether the power and pelf
Of Earth do lure him not, for on the brink
Of deep perdition stands he, and must sink
If his Eye fails: with heart in Faith enshrined
The Good Fight he must fight: for if he shrink,
Its lofty Glories suit not such a mind:
Let him turn back in haste some meaner goal to find!

245.

All may not live as godlike Milton lived:
And few are they indeed with will or power
To walk in his bright steps: for Truth he strived,
With his whole Heart and soul, and for her Dower
He took her portionless, yet loved her more
The more he learnt her worth, and for her sake
Was scorned and persecuted: he died poor,
But rich in Glory: for he would not take
Reward from Man, which God alone could fitly make!

246.

Oh Truth! how feeble are all words to sing
Thy Giantworth, whose Atlasstrength can bear

384

A World of Ills unmoved; tho' sufferings fling
Their dark clouds o'er thee, or Fate's lightnings tear
Thy Heart asunder, thou unawed canst hear
With calm, untroubled Soul the World's loud Scorn
Sorrow but makes thy pale, calm Brow more fair,
More godlike, and of all thy Glories shorn,
We own thce not of Earth, majestic, tho' forlorn!

247.

Chained to thy Rock, with all Hate's hellish Crew
Scoffing around, still on thy placid Brow
The Sense of Immortality can strew
Its Hallowing; Time cannot lay thee low,
Debase, or alter—with one calm Glance thou
Canst force back Envy to his Hell, that Breast
Which is the bitterest Dungeon he can know:
Still mountainfirm, alone thou stand'st each Test,
Tho' Tempests rage around, they shake not thy Soul's Rest!

248.

Oh Truth, thy Service is the perfect, sole,
And only Freedom; what tho' venomed Fate
Sting like a serpent, when we reach the goal
Are we not thine? and canst thou not create,
E'en in the Whirlwind of man's petty hate,
A Hope that tramples underfoot in scorn
Time and his Nothingness? He has a date:
Earth's base shall be as sand, the Heavens lightshorn,
But when the sun is dark, shall break thy cloudless morn!

249.

I turn from Truth to thee fair Switzerland,
For thou art stamped with Truth and Liberty,
And Fredom glows in every line I've scann'd
Of thy bright features; of thy Mountains high
It is the base immoveable, thy sky
Is fresh and redolent of it, thine air
Voices it in all sounds eternally:
Not the soft Judaskiss with which the fair,
Yet treacherous South betrays the wanton lips that share

250.

Her fatal Beauty, lulling Mind and Heart
Asleep, yet rousing Sense to Luxury,

385

But stirring with its lusty Breath each Part
Of life and soul to action, deeds as high
As those of Murten's field, which memory
Still hallows in the heartsof men for aye;
Here Freedom sanctifies, and evernigh
Her voice speaks from the rainbowed cataract's spray,
Whence she smiles forth upon her sons, their Guardianfay

251.

Wheree'er she treads upspring Fruit, Corn, and Grass.
'Neath her lifekindling step, her genial Power
Clothes all the Land with beauty: she doth pass,
And all grows Godlike, e'en the meanest flower
Is fairer than elsewhere, when she breathes o'er
And hallows it into an Emblem bright.
And when Mont Blanc in storm and cloud doth lower.
And lightnings wreath his icy brows with Light,
Then looms her Giantform and thunders forth its might,

252.

As she could punish if need were; what shrine,
Or fitter temple for such Deity,
Save the pure heart? the tempestvoices twine
With hers their Giantechos, up the sky
Booming as Heaven's far vault were rended by
Their cry of exultation; o'er the Lake
The windswept billows worship her, and high
They laugh in flashing spray: the mountains wake
In thunder, as her voice their inmost hearts could shake!

253.

Farewell bright Land! and ye most glorious thoughts,
Thy scenes have kindled in my feeble breast,
Where Power is but Will's shadow, Truth exhorts
My humble praise, and her most high behest,
Like to the brooding Eagle on the Nest
Rearing its feeble young unto the wing,
Imparts a strength to weakness, and at rest
Sets the wildthrobbing heart, for tho' I sing
With earthborn Tones, my Theme would higher Echos thing!

254.

Oh Virtue, with no coined and empty Name
Of glozing Poesy I call on thee

386

With bent knee and bowed heart, but as the flame
That feeds the altar of the Deity,
Whose fit shrine is the upright heart and free:
For thou dwell'st only where the Temple's pure;
And shielded by no fabled Egis he
Who feels thee at his heart walks more secure
Than Thetis'son, by God's own Hand protected sure!

255.

Than Thetis'son! oh idle simily,
Vain fancy coinëd in a Poet's brain
And nothingworth; no Fabledeity
Gave thee to man, from no Olympus vain
Thou comëst; no! thy viewless flight is ta'en
From the Midheavens, in man's heart alone
Thou lov'st to dwell, for thou dost alldisdain
A meaner Temple, marble or of stone,
Being allboundless in the soul thou mak'st thine own!

256.

On thee I call, as that which I have felt
In my own breast, when from each fettering woe
Of Earth setfree, in Spirit I have knelt
Before my God, and with no idle show
Of thoughtdividing words, apparel low
Which the soul disembodied flings aside
As lightning does the Cloud, have learnt to know
That we have that within which shall abide
Thro' Time, which from itself the soul in vain would hide!

257.

Alas! what is man's life untaught by Thee!
An empty breath that mingles with the Air,
A bubble on a wave, or as may be
A flame that fitful blasts make idly flare,
Now lost in smoke, now wasting in false glare,
Where thou art not his Hopes and Joys are blind,
Like empty Chaff the mocking winds upbear,
Whirled in a few brief eddies, then consigned
Back to its native dust, therein fit home to find.

258.

Did not the Prophet in the days of yore,
When Faith had filled him with Divinity,

387

Bid from the rock the living waters pour
In the parched waste, to quench a far less high
And holy thirst than that of Soul? then why
May we not have like priviledge to wake
In our own hearts, whose sources deeper lie
Than the rock's deepest base, some springs to slake
A heavenly thirst, and by their touch our Lips to make

259.

Fit for the taste of bliss, of genuine bliss?
But he, ye answer, was a prophet, one
Who by Faith claims the glory which is his.
Yea verily! but Faith for him alone
Has not reserved her blessings—like the Sun
She quickens all, and tho' we are not free
To work such outward miracles, yet none
But in their souls as Prophets still may be,
And call the living waters forth unfailingly!

260.

The least of miracles are those to sight
And sense laid bare, with vulgar wonder fraught:
But there are others, wrapt in deepest night
To common apprehensions, which high thought
Alone, that by the inner Light is taught,
Can fitly comprehend: but these no place
Find on the vulgar List, their deeds are wrought
Within the soul, and leave no outward Trace
Or Form, too vast to be comprized in Time and Space!

261.

An ampler Field is theirs, a nobler aim
And witness than men's Eyes, and as their Might
From that which is eternal springs, the same
Alone can measure them, from vulgar sight
They are selfhid in beauty alltoobright.
Brute strength of nerve and sinew men adore,
In this have faith, weak wonder to its height
By these is raised, they see, they touch, nor more
Require, like the disbelieving one of yore.

262.

The rest were purerthoughted far, for they
Had Faith within the soul, and by the same

388

They proved and measured Truth: lit by the ray
That makes the unseen visible, they came
To Faith's true shrine, and with her altarflame
Their Senses and their Hearts were cleans'd—by high
And holy Commune with that mighty Name
Whose service they professed, their inner Eye
Was allunfilm'd, and sense to them was mockery!

263.

For he who has proved aught unto the Soul,
What needs he prove it to the Hand or Eye?
The higher Proof implies the less, the whole
Contains the Part—and even if it by
The Sight and Touch be proved, if inwardly
There be no Faith what shall it profit? thro'
The Heart alone it fruits: for still the high-
Est Truths are found by Faith, who soars up to
The Sky for them, and leaves slow Thought to prove them true.
For she is still content to feel them so,
And practicing them, best their Truth can know!

264.

But he, lowthoughted Man! he needs must seek
To prove in Space and Time, by sense's aid,
The divine Truth, in him a presence weak
And allbelied, if by sense firmer made,
But he deemed idly, for his faith was dead,
Else with his soul he might have touched and seen.
His faith was in the shows of things, instead
Of in their spirit, and he would have been
An unsure Stay, still wavering Sense and Soul between!

265.

And he was of the world, the world of him,
As his Belief so its: illunderstood
Are these high truths, which ask an Eye not dim,
A Mind which labours for that chiefest good,
That source of each high thought and blessed mood,
A Conscience seeking for its own rewards
And its own motives: drawing its best food
From the decay of things whose Weight retards
Our upward flight, and in the soul its Essence guards

389

266.

'Till we return unto that blessed place
Where all things shall be truly what they seem
In their own Nature, free from every Trace
Of the world's hollow glitter, by Truth's beam
Stripped of all false presentments: from life's dream
The soul shall wake to live as heretofore,
When all this passing coil of Time, this stream
Of noise and nothingness, and vain uproar,
Lost in Eternity's calm depths, is heard no more!

267.

Thriceblessed Place! whence dimeyed Fear and Doubt,
Despair and Hope, with all their idle train
Of earthborn cares and sorrows are shut out.
Where Joy, on Earth a fleeting shadow vain,
Still leading in one hand her sister, Pain,
While with the other she unlocks the Door
Of dim Delights, that vanish as we strain
Them to our aching Hearts, here in her power
And Substance marks with Light, not shade each passing hour!

268.

And now divinest Poesy, to thee
With lingering Voice I turn and parting sigh,
For in thy service have I kept me free
From all soulsoiling Contact—by thy high
And holy commune have I tuned my Eye
And Ear to fitting Instruments to aid
The Soul within, that so the harmony
And blessëd calm of Nature might be made
Moods of my own deep Heart, and not a vain parade.

269.

Oft have I sought thee, when the Moonbeams shed
Their magic on some haunted woodlandbrook
Falling with chequered Light, while overhead
Softkissing Boughs were intertwined, scarce shook
By the leafcreeping winds, by silence took
Allunawares, and to a whisper hushed:
Beneath, the stream glid thro' a woody nook,
Bathing the twisted roots, which downward push'd
Snakelike into the wave, that noiseless past them rush'd

390

270.

Over thickbedded moss, kept sweet and cool,
And sunbeam proof by many a Perfumebough,
Whose feathery Sprays danced on the glassy pool,
And many a wavekissing flower too
Which gave its Odor to the stream below
In gratitude; thick bunchëd Dayseyes shed,
Like Earthstars, a faint Light, and violets grew
In such sweet Clusters 'twere a shame to tread,
Save barefoot, on their blue like heaven's overhead.

271.

Silvering the darkness, cradled boyantly
On the deep stream, in broadleaved amplitude,
Fresh Waterlilies, where quick Eddies ply
Their noiseless sport, in lustrous Light did brood,
Like Waterqueens, in sacred solitude.
The Arrowhead sway'd by the sof breath'd Air
Bent to the gentle whisper of the flood,
And ever from some mossy Banksidelair,
With sudden, waveward plunge the Frog would dis appear.

272.

And on all sides the lushgrown Eglantine,
From out the Matgrass and the dewbent Flower,
Its Tendrils, like loveknots, did ever twine
Round the old, mossy boughs: a Fairybower
Of Beauty, whose sweet scents did overpower
The blissteeped Senses, 'till it seemed to be
A harbour of delight at that soft hour
Of balm and blessedness, where spirits free
From mortal Interruption might hold revelry!

273.

And as I stepped from out the calm Moonlight
Into the mossy shade, as still as Thought,
For my own footsteps fell so soft they might
Scarce by the quickeared Squirrel's self be caught,
Swinging from Branch to Branch, the Groveseem'd fraught
With bodiless Sounds of sweetest melody;
Now single, now in Pairs and Gushes, brought
Back by the Echos as they seemed to die,
In a full, choral Burst of streamlike Minstrelsy,

391

274.

Such as one fancies in some rapturous Dream;
Now 'twas a zigzag Twitter 'long the Ground,
A Vein of Music, like a broken Beam
Of Moonlight, shaking the Dewdrops: now round
From every Bough it poured, a shower of sound,
Soft notes like Aprilraindrops splashing down
From Leaf to Leaf, now silence, still, profound
Crept on returning winds whose breath had blown
That Music far abroad, like scents from Flowers thrown!

275.

The Sweetness of o'ergushing Joy, which breaks
Forth in heartunëd Notes, high minstrelsy!
Deeper than any that Man's touch awakes,
Than all, save that which oft unsought doth lie
In his own soul, a kindred Melody,
Known but to him who well has learnt to tune
The Spirit's Strings—and here, sweet Poesy,
While Sleep's Lethean Dew fell'neath the Moon,
Sealing up weary Sense, I sought thy priceless boon.

276.

And oft I fancied that thy Hand did weave
Old Melodies and touched the antique Strings
Of its own Delphic Harp, and waked to grieve,
Like one to whom Mortality still clings,
Dulling him with the Sense of earthly Things.
And oft methought from out thy cavehid Cell
Some Straynote, borne upon the Zephyr's Wings,
Hath won my Ear, a note of thy sweet shell,
And by it oft I hoped to find where thou didst dwell.

277.

But when I reached the spot from whence it came
At my unhallowed step the music fled,
(Like Hope's bright dreams,) far off, yet still the same.
Sweet Poesy had flown, and in her stead
Her Sister, Solitude, the Silent, led
Me thro' her solemn haunts, a bootless chace,
'Mid Tanglecopse with Woodflowers 'neath them spread,
And lushgrown creepers covering all the place,
A moonbeamhaunted Spot, where Man had left no trace!

392

278.

And save the Nestbirds that with glittering Eye
From their boughcradled Homes, yet without fear,
Peered underleaf at us as we passed by,
Shaking the dewpearls which hung silverclear
In the calm Light, for Man had seldom there
Marred the blest Quiet, all beside was still.
I cried aloud, and Echo far and near
Gave answer, mocking from each cave and hill,
Thereat my guide was scared and left me to my will,

279.

E'en from my boyish Days the Echo's voice
To me had been a spirit's; far away
To her wild Converse from all vulgar Noise
Unconsciously I stole, and loved to stray
With her o'er every spot where Legends gray
And old Traditions, lulled by Time asleep,
In Nature's Bosom rest, yet living aye
In her eternal Elements, as deep
As the Rock's base, 'mid which their charmëd rest they keep!

280.

And often as I called, sweet Eldtimesongs,
Made sweeter by the Lapse of many Years,
That spell which to old things alone belongs,
The beauty of departed hopes and fears,
Which with them entering our hearts bring tears
Of Joy, high Fancies, and high Memories,
Until the Ear forgotten voices hears,
And glorious forms of Eld before our Eyes,
Thus quickened, in bright Casque and waving Plumes arise!

281.

Yea! often as I called and Echo spake,
The Universal Heart has sent to mine
That Impulse high by which ourselves we make
Portions of Nature's self, and grow divine,
Being likest then to spirits: for we twine
Our souls into the web of sympathies,
The mighty web all Times have wove, and shine
Like stars 'bove this dim Earth—the mysteries
Of Being are revealed, Glimpses of purer skies

393

282.

Are given us, and in the Life of things
We dwell awhile, breathing a purer Air:
And hear the rustle of celestial wings,
And Angels breathe upon our Lips, and fair
And sunny forms float past us 'till we are
O'erpowered by their presence and sink down
In a rich sleep, and waking where we were,
Deem all a splendid Vision, briefly shown,
Like sunsetcloudscenes lost: yet more of Life is known

283.

In these bright visions, fleeting as they seem,
Than in the commonplace realities
Of an whole weekdaylife, on which no beam
Of light celestial falls: Man lives and dies,
But for such visitations, like the flies
That in the sunbeam dance, and know not why
Or how their Maker fashiond them: too wise
To deem that there can be reality
Save in these outward forms, the thrall of Sense and Eye

284.

And as these Echos died, like closing Tones
Of eldtime songs that fall asleep again
In Nature's Bosom, 'mid the dust and bones
Of those who framed, and framed them not in vain,
For in those songs, like floating souls, have lain
The Spirit and the Glory of old Days,
And our forefathers' voices join the strain
Their childrensehildren sing, and bid them raise
On the old Faith those works which Time can ne'er deface!

285.

Oh! as those Echos died, my youthful dreams
Came on me once again, but something more
Than Boyhood ever felt was in them, gleams
Of supernatural Beauty and of Power,
High Instincts, and high Feelings, that before
In the soul's depths had stept, as in Earth lie
The forms of Glory waiting but the hour
That bids them be: I felt that from my Eye
The earthly film had passed, that spirits wandered nigh!

394

286.

Again I spake: 'twas not the Echo's Tongue,
That soft, yet clearbackanswering, on my Ear
Came with its hidden meanings, with a throng
Of divine hopes, and with a holy fear,
Such as he haply feels who from the bier
Has heard an angel's voice that says, «arise»!
'Twas Nature's mighty self in accents clear
Speaking to her own child, and Poesy's
Sweet Voice with hers was knit in blended harmonies!

287.

And is it thus, I cried, then ye are one
And indivisible, and I have found
Ye both at once when seeking one alone!
Yea! even so. and man may search around
The Universe for that which doth abound
On everyside, yet surely search in vain,
If he disjoin what God in one has bound:
Thus Joy ne'er comes but with his shadow Pain,
And the bright Rainbow smiles but 'mid the sunlit rain!

288.

Twinborn with Nature, Poesy, art thou,
An universal soul! like heaven's Light,
Thou fallest on all things yet few do know
How to reveal thy glories to the sight,
Or bid thee be: thou comëst with the Night
And all her thousand stars, and with the wind
Thy harmonies are wove, and on the bright
And sunlit wave thy airlight track we find,
That in its swiftness leaves the Zephyr's self behind.

289.

Thou dwellëst in all things, thy spell is blent
With flower and forest: oft at Eventide
Thou buildest for thyself a gorgeous tent
'Mid the Sunclouds: then scatterest far and wide
With the wind's trumpet, shapes on everyside
Of fancybaffling beauty, such as make
The Poet's dreams a mockery, his pride
Mere Ignorance! oft when the stormwaves break,
Thou Danger's Playmate on the Shore thy stand dost take

395

290.

Thou lingerest with a deep, soulthrilling spell
Among the mossy Graves and Ruins hoar,
Where gray Tradition her old Tales doth tell,
Sitting, like aged Crone, 'mid things of yore:
Echos of which in broken snatches pour
From her old, mombling Tongue: in the child's Eye
And Laugh thou hast «a prone and speechless Lore»,
And 'mid the haunts of Youth and Home dost lie,
With something deeper, dearer still, than Poesy!

291.

Oft, when the Moonbeam silvers o'er the spray
Of some rock leaping cataract, thy low,
Soft undervoice is mingling its sweet Lay
With the wild Waters' music, as they flow
In bright Foamflakes into the Gulf below,
Where 'mid the windstirred Trees thou sitt'st alone,
Soft moonlight falling on thy pensive Brow,
And tun'st thine Ear to Nature's faultless tone,
Still modulating by her changeful Lyre thine own.

292.

Thou dwellest in our souls, in youth we bring
Thee fresh from Heaven with us: on our sight
And sense thy glorious spell thou then dost fling,
And all we see is beauty: Heaven's Light
Is in our Eyes, we breathe its breath, and bright
The common Earth lies lovely as a Dream:
But soon these precious powers sin doth blight,
The outward sense they leave, each vital Gleam
Sinks back into the soul, and gone for aye they seem.

293.

Thou dwellest in all forms, and Poets old,
Whose Lore came fresh from Nature's living book,
This high Truth emblemed when their sweet verse told
How Pegasus from out the living rock
With sky descending Hoof the Waters struck:
The Poetrill, which to these later Days
From that old fount has flowed, a songsweet Brook:
'Neath every soil and clime the Fountain plays,
But to the chosen foot alone its place betrays!

396

294.

Alas! how few are they, the chosen few,
Who in the life of things may dwell and see
The veil withdrawn, which from our meaner view
Hideth the Glory and the Mistery!
'Tis in the inmost shrine the Presence high
Of Nature dwells, and there her Priest alone
May dare to tread, on whom the Deity
Has set his seal: no other will she own,
To them her Lips are sealed, and answer has she none!

295.

If then thy Gifts, fair Maid, be not for me,
If to a lower sphere my soul must bow,
And dwell in forms which everyday we see:
Yet e'en o'er these a high content can throw
The shadow of a Glory which doth flow
From lofty feelings breathed in word and deed
Into life's week day-forms: yea even so,
From Failure's self may spring Content's true seed,
And Love than what he sees no wider World can need!

296.

My song is sung: alas! but ill I fear,
A feeble Echo of a noble theme
From strings illfitted such high strains to bear:
My Heart aches, for I once did fondly dream
In the first gush of youth, when fancies teem
And Hope is all he pleases, that I might
Write something which at least in part should seem
Not of this Earth all earthly: but those bright
And dazzling hopes are lost, like Mornsmists to the sight.

297.

And harsh Reality with look of scorn
Points to the glowing spot which Fancy's Beam
Had clothed with glory, now of Beauty shorn,
Cold, dull, as pleasures past, a barren dream!
Alas! in youth we are not what we deem,
We know not ourownselves, tho' in the might
Of untried aspirations it might seem
An easy task to wing on high our flight
E'en to the fount of Truth, and wreath our brows with Light!

397

298.

Like some benificent Deity, we would
Stretch forth our hands to bless the Earth and pour
The Plentyhorn of all things fair and good
Upon the favored Land whose Bosom bore
Our Fathersfathers; we would tread no more
Dull Custom's hackney'd Round, but rise like those,
The Great of Old, unto that starry Lore,
Which still the End and the Beginning knows,
And teaches us a God's majestic, calm, Repose!

299.

Alas! into the List of common men
How soon we sink! this is no Atmosphere
For Angelswings to soar in; even when
The Laurelcrown is won, how soon 'tis sere,
How soon it leaves our brows to mock our bier!
And they who live upon the breath of Fame,
Find it no Ether, but, like all things here,
With Disappointment mixed, that of a Name
The Glory and the Nothingness are near the same!

300.

How often with a bitter sigh we wake
From Hope's bright Dreams and to Reality
Reluctant turn! how sadly do we take
The first, stern Lesson taught our young hearts by
The cold Lip of Experience! when nigh
Our hands to Glory's Garland, lo! 'tis gone:
And for the Manna of sweet Poesy
By Angels brought us, we must live upon
The coarse, hard, scanty bread of weekday Life alone!

301.

And I, I too, have had my youthful dreams,
In which Fame, smiling, placed upon my brow
Her neverfading Wreath, and in the beams
Of a diviner Day I lived; but now
Alas! 'twould seem but as an idle show
E'en if I had it, for all those are gone
Who made this life endurable: below
The Churchyardturf some sleep, and some are grown
Estranged, that worst of deaths, and I am left alone,

398

302.

A blighted tree, which in the springtide of
The year puts forth no Leaves, but bare and sere
When Buds are bursting on each bough and love
Attunes to all sweet things the Eye and Ear,
A sad memorial of Winter drear:
My Heart is old, tho' time hath strewn no gray
Upon my head, and oft the unbidden Tear,
When none are by to mock, will force its way:
But sixty Beats to each dull hour of the Day.

303.

It was not so, and still at times I pass
On Faith's bold wings from all these mockeries,
These passing shadows vain, and (even as
The Angels upon Jacob's ladder) rise
Beyond this Earth, 'till lost amid the skies,
From Truth to Truth ascending gradual
Along the mighty scale, 'till to my Eyes
God's secrets stand revealed, each spring of all
The vast machinery that moves both great and small,

304.

Even to where Eternal Wisdom binds
The last Link of the allembracing chain
Of Truth to God's firm Throne: that Chain which winds
Round the whole Universe, framed to retain
The Seas and Mountains, as the least Sandgrain,
With equal ease in their appointed spheres;
From whence all Efforts of all Strength were vain
One Atom to displace—Time leads the Years,
Like Ghosts, each at his Bidding comes and disappears!

305.

Moment begeteth Moment, and no power
Can sunder the invisible, light Link,
The fateforged, which connects them, far, far more
Binding than Adamant: 'tis vain to shrink,
One with another to the fatal brink
They drag us irresistibly; we see
The precipice, we feel that we must sink:
A few short seconds, and then we shall be
Lost in the foam and thunder of the eternal sea!

399

306.

Who that the Manna of celestial thought
E'er tasted but has seen some Vision high,
In which his spirit, from this dull Earth caught,
Seemed to o'erlook some Promiseland, whose sky
Shone o'er Truth's harvests, ripening goldenly:
Alas! but few may enter that fair Land
And reap the thoughts that wither not nor die,
Yet gleanerlike the tempting Field I've scanned
Seeking some remnant still, o'erlooked by nobler hand!

307.

And I should deem my humble search o'erpaid
By a few grains of Truth, that, like the pure
And furnacetested Gold, might still be weighed
And not found wanting; for if slow, but sure
Man to the hive of Knowledge may secure
Some small, yet true additions, it is all
That Hope can grasp at: for the hive is poor
E'en 'mid its boasted wealth, whereof but small
And scanty portions from Truth's honeybees do fall!

308.

And there are many drones who labour not,
But steal from out the hive its sweet supply
To feed their Idleness— there are who plot
How they may turn God's Truth into a Lie,
Changing Man's Worship to Idolatry
Of foul and monstrous Substitutes, that spread
The breath of Desolation far and nigh:
Filling the World with Strife and Sin instead
Of holy Peace and Love, whereof true hearts are bred!

309.

For the World loves the darklywoven Lie,
The gilded Falsehood: Wealth, Pride, Pleasure, Power
Divide Men's Hearts with varied Mastery:
But Truth is portionless, and brings no dower
Save her ownself; and as within the Flower
The Bee alone knows where the honey lies,
And how to gather it, so her sweet Lore
Is for the Heart that seeks her noblest prize,
The selfreward she brings, and for her lives and dies.

400

310.

Heartsearcher, thou, thou know'st if I speak true,
And tho' my verse be allunworthy thee,
Yet have I sought thy honor, with the few,
The wiser few, who deem it bliss to be
Thy meanest Instrument: for what is free,
If not thy service? but alas! I dare
Not deem thy Praise fit task for such as me;
Had I a thousand Tongues, and each Tongue were
Asan whole Nation's Voice, the mighty Winds should bear,

311.

As on four Wings, my Words thro' all the Earth,
Filling the Universe with that one Name,
'Till Seas and Mountains in their holy mirth,
As if an Earthquake stirred them, should exclaim,
Joining the universal shout, the same
That shook the Hills upon Creation's dawn,
Voicing the Lord of Hosts! if aught of blame
Be in my Verse, or of due glory shorn
That Name, not His, but mine be all the Critic's scorn.

312.

Farewell is but a Word of Earth, for things,
For Hopes and Fears which here are born here die,
But to truetempered Hearts no sorrow brings,
For such still hope to meet above the Sky,
Where grief is not, nor dull tear dims the Eye:
But Reader, fare thou well, once more I say,
In its true sense, fare well eternally;
And to do so what more is needful pray
Than to take each step right, Steps make the longest Way!

313.

Live to thy God, and if in that high Race
Men crown thee, be not vain thereat, look on
It but as Homage due to Him— His Praise
Is likewise thine, if thou serv'st Him alone!
Long Life is none, if tangled or illspun
The Web: if otherwise, end when it will,
It must end well: should Men thy merits own
'Tis good, yet praise may Virtue slack or kill,
If not, thou losest naught, the substance is thine still!

401

314.

And now, O God! a humble Prayer I make
With bended knee, and lip that to a Lie
Lends not its Utterance, that for his sake
Who came on Earth a traitor's death to die,
Thou with thy Grace wouldst please to fructify,
E'en in this humble Soil, such Seeds of good
As Faith may have imparted from on high:
Tho' least among thy least, yet have I stood
Firm to the Cause I love, and wrought as best I could

315.

And oh! my Country, if at Times there be
A Bitterness, and something e'en of Scorn
Mixed with my Verse when it would speak of thee,
'Tis but Excess of Love from whence is born
My Anger, for I would not see the shorn
Of one least Ray of Glory on thy Brow.
Like to the Watcher waiting for the Dawn,
So watch I for thy welfare: and when thou
Awak'st, then will I close mine Eyes forlorn
For the long Sleep, and Dreams sublime shall show
What may not bless my sight before I go!

Geneva, August 1833.

Allusion to Bonnivard, imprisoned 6 years in Chillondungeon.

At Sais in Egypt was the Stone-statue of Isis, With a large and outspread Stoneveil thrown over it, bearing this Inscription. «I am all that was, is and will be here, my veil has no Mortal raised.»