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.

II.

VOL. II.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

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II. VOL. II.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

ON WELLDOING.

1.

When thou hast done a Gooddeed do not show
It with thy Finger, neither let it be
Profaned: else it will come back unto thee
Like to a handled Flower, where the Glow
Of Hue, and Sweetness of the Perfume no
More dwell: upon God's Altar, with all the
First Freshness on it, place it, and then he
Will make its Perfume everlasting, so
'Twill be a Joy for aye: there are but two
To whom it matters that thy Deeds be known:
God and thyself: and if to these alone
They be so, then rejoice thereat, for you
Thus know them to be Gooddeeds, in the true
And sublime Sense—true, like thy Father's own!

2.

And he will recompense thee fully: by
Thy Feelings—he will make these godlike—yea,
Thou shalt feel even as God himself may!
And how can he reward thee, save thro' thy
Own Feelings? can the Godlike palpably
Make itself known in any other Way?
And if thou feel'st not thyself godlike, pray
Can it pass into thee by Ear or Eye?
Then fear not—if thou aught Godlike hast done,
Thou canst not miss of one Reward, the best—
Thy Feelings—in which each has a sure Test.
For where these are not Godlike first, there none

Can do aught Godlike—where they are so, rest
Assured that each a full Reward has won:
There is none else for him beneath the Sun.
Nay, could he wish another, then what he
Has done would be no more Godlike: thus the
Mere Doing Good its own Reward implies,
For we must feel Godlike to do it!—so,
So surely, unto Virtue the allwise
Creator joins its Recompense below!

3.

Then do thou Good like to thy Father up
In Heaven! so, so stilly, modestly,
That what thy Righthand does thine upraised Eye
Behold not! so, that when thou hold'st the Cup
To the poor Beggar, thou feel'st not that thy,
But God's, Hand gives it: and then verily
If thou feel'st thus, 'twill be no longer thine:
'Twill be thy Father's, holding the divine
And brimming cup of Love, as well to thee
As to that Beggar: and the Draught shall be
A Foretaste of that Heaven which is nigh,
So nigh! as is the Tear unto thine Eye,
The godlike Feeling to thine Heart! do as
Thy Father then, who lets us work the Good
And Godlike as if of ourselves it was,
And not of Him! who asks for nothing: no
Not e'en the Thanks which all Things to Him owe:
E'en for the Good himself does in us:—thus
In doing Good he with the godlike Thought
Of doing it is paid, nor seeks for aught
Beyond: and if he were not this Way by
Himself repaid, how could he worthily
Or by whom be rewarded—? it is this
That makes him God, and sums up all his Bliss!
All Joy he feels, all Good done doth he do,

And yet a measurelessly greater too!
His own, which makes him what he only is!

POWER OF IMAGINATION

1

Does not the Fancy fondly fain
'Twixt Spirits bound by Faith and Love,
A magic and electric Chain
By which two Hearts one Impulse prove?

2

Yes, and to Hearts that love indeed
No idle Tale sweet Fancy tells,
Such Power is true Love's holy Meed,
For Faith can still work Miracles.

3

Let not the dull, cold Sons of Earth,
Deride the Mysteries of Love,
They must be born to a new Birth,
Ere such base Hearts this Truth can prove,

4

For Truth speaks but to willing Ears,
To such as listen holily,
She has no Voice for Man's dull Sneers,
But leaves him in his Pride to die.

5

”Tis on Imagination's Wings
The Soul can traverse Time and Space,
Away all Dust of Earth it flings,
That severed Hearts may thus embrace.

6

Praise be to God for this high Power,
This Balm against the Ills of Life,
By which e'en Absence' bitter Hour,
Some Honey to the Hive may give.

7

And sweeter too than that we gain
From Flowers which in no sharp Thorns lie,
For Bliss thus won from sinless Pain
Is doubly dear to Memory.

8

When in far foreign Lands I roam,
And Strangerfaces coldly stare,
On Fancy's wings I hie me Home,
And pass an Hour of Rapture there.

9

I close my Eyes—the Present's gone,
And thro' my stirred Heart's inmost Core
There sweeps a sweet and thrilling Tone
Of wellcome Voices, heard of Yore.

10

Once more upon my Threshold dear
I stand, in throbbing Joy elate:
And half in Hope and half in Fear,
I lift the Latch, yet hesitate.

11

For from that loved and hallowed Spot
I've parted many a long, long Year,
And some may be—oh God! be what?—
Away dark Thought: thou art Despair!

12

One moment, and they're gathered all
Around me with their Looks of Joy,
And my full Heart doth rise and fall,
As tho' its Bliss were Agony.

13

From many a wistful Eye is cast
Those wholeheart Thoughts that cannot speak:
For much is changed since they met last,
And Care sits on the oncefair Cheek.

14

Fancy, thou stirr'st too potently
Mine earthlier Part, deceiving Elf:
The starting Tear and heaving Sigh
Call me from thee to my sole Self.

15

I have no Home, save when past Times
Steal o'er me with their Visions dear:
And of remembered Joys the Chimes
Come ringing back in Fancy's Ear.

16

I have no Home! oh Time! oh Time!
Why hast thou robbed me of my Home?
Thrust me from that fair Edenclime,
Like Adam, thro' the World to roam?

17

My Mother's Voice I hear no more,
And could it speak to soothe my Grief,
Alas! it has no longer Power;
It would but wound, not bring Relief.

18

I have a Corner in my Heart
Where the old Feelings still live on,
But lost, beyond all human Art,
The World of Beauty, that is gone!

19

Oh Mother! thou canst no more kiss
My Lips, and with thy Angeltouch
Make me an Angel too of Bliss,
If not in Form, in Heart still such.

20

Once more on Earth; my sweet Dream's flown,
But Faith has still a Remedy,
She loves with her own Wreath to crown
Grief's pale Brow, suffering patiently.

21

With bendëd knee and upraised Eye,
My Sorrows all to her are given,
And, like a Seraph, from the Sky
Hope drops and lifts my Thoughts to Heaven,

22

Thus in the Agony of Parting
From those we love on Earth the best,
Let's think upon the Bliss of meeting,
Where severed Hearts at length have Rest.

ON PLEASURESEEKING.

1.

The Fool of Fools is he who in the Chace
Of Pleasure sweats and slaves: who toils from Day
To Day, and vainly, 'till his head grows gray,
And he sinks down exhausted by the Race,
Which Mind and Body should but serve to brace,
For what already each Step of the Way
Was in his Reach, would he but think so: say
How shall we then hold fast in our Embrace
The everfleeting Form of Pleasure—to
Be easypleased makes Pleasure everywhere:
But to be so, we must first set a true
Value on Things, know what they really are.
Our Disappointments spring from our undue

Esteem of fancied Goods, which sought with Care
Do not repay the Search: nay, often too

2.

The Search unfits us for Enjoyment, by
Its feverish Longing and Anxiety.
Make thyself easy first to please, then thou
Wilt not wait long for what thou seekëst now
With so much Toil: be pleased with all Things, e'en
With merest Trifles, for if thou art so,
What matters it then what the Cause has been?
It is no Trifle unto thee, altho'
To others: 'tis the grand Mistake to throw
Small Things away; the Fool therein can find
No Good, for there is none in his own Mind.
But thou art wiser, and thou know'st that all
Is good—that, grandly viewed, no Thing is small!

PRAYER.

As to my Father oft do I pray un-
To God, and ever does he answer me:
The Prayer is its best Answer, it is the
Fullfillment of its ownself, 'twould be none
If otherwise! and even when that one
Good which we ask at His Hands may not be
Accorded us, yet something better He
Gives for it, so godlike he gives alone!
The greatest Blessing is to hold none for
The greatest, but to labour to possess
God only, in all Things to do his Law.
Now this chief Good in his Ungrudgingness
He gives to all alike, for Eye ne'er saw
Nor Heart e'er felt the Godlike except thro'
And by Him, thus possessed by all, who do
Feel that, in his sublime Unchangeableness!
This one Good compensates us for all less-

Er Losses, nay! with it there are none too!
For in Him we have still our dear Ones, who
Relive to us by this one Blessedness!
Which thus is all in one, and the one true!
Then let us merge ourselves in God and naught
Can we be robbed of, nay, that which is ta'en
From us shall be made fairer and again
Thro' feeling Him more godlike to us brought
Back, and possessed enduring as our Thought!

ON SELFISHNESS.

If Men act selfishly towards thee do
Not let that make thee selfish: let it be
A Spur to further Good, that all may see
Thus thy Disinterestedness, unto
Still greater Sacrifices, 'till that thro'
Constant Selfsacrifice it grow to thee
None, as to God, who gives all and so free-
Ly, even his own Spirit! and have you
Not still a full Reward e'en when Men pay
Thee with Ingratitude? hast thou not still
Thy godlike Feelings, pure Heart and strong Will?
Then do not Good alone, but go, I say,
One, one Step further, pardon those who ill-
Requite thee, let the Injury pass away,
Like to a Cloud from yon' eternal Blue,
So from thy Soul—for as that Cloud the Day,
So ill Thoughts bar the spiritual Ray
Of God's own Light—thus, like Him, wilt thou do
Good for itself, and like Him pardoning too
Thine Enemies will have none more, nor see
In their Ingratitude the Ill done thee
But that alone which to themselves is done,
For if thou thinkëst thus to thee is none!

TO THE POOR.

Poor Man, lift up thy Brow, thy Wealth is great,
Thy Heritage most kingly, tho' to thee
Its full Extent unknown! I would not be
A Monarch in his Pomp and Pride of State
If I might chuse 'twixt that and thy hard Fate!
Look up, look up, for art thou not as free
To call God Father then as well as he?
Yea! more so, and is thy Reward tho' late
Not certain? why into the Dust shouldst thou
Then look still down? thou hast like him a Brow
Whereon God's Image is impressed as clear:
Thou hast an Heart whose Beatings let thee know
Thine Immortality: tho' destined here
With Sweat to earn thy Bread yet not less near
To God for this, nay! nearer, for 'tis so
He as the Father to thee must appear:
'Tis to the Sufferer that He doth grow
All that He is, unutterably dear!

MONEYLUST.

What first, what second, and what third? Money!
Still Money! grow but rich and thou shalt be
A shining Light to all Mankind, airfree
From every Speck and Stain quick Slander's Eye
Detects 'neath threadbare Clothes and Poverty,
Tho' in a blessëd Saint! Oh God, that we
From this soulsoiling Moneyleprosy,
Base Thralls! could free ourselves, with Hearts to high
And genuine Sentiments reclaimed, no more
Slaving for that which wise Men fling away,
As Life's chief Good! Oh! what is to be poor?
In Wealth to wallow 'till Truth's heavenly Sway
And high Affections lose their genial Power,
Leaving us allunmixed, untempered Clay!

BLESSINGS, HOW EARNED?

Great Blessings ask a wise Forbearance, a
Calm Selfdenial; if too soon we would
Enjoy their Sweets, we lessen that same Good
Which, ripening in due Season, they would lay
Of themselves at our Feet, as in our Way
The ripest, sweetest Apples fall—we should
Not pluck the Fruittreesblossoms in a Mood
Of Overhaste, to smell and fling away
That without which the Fruit can never be:
'Tis but a fleeting Pleasure, for which we
Thus sacrifice the lasting one: and oh!
My Soul, wait God's good Time, thus surest the
Good hoped for will be thine—and if not so!
Yet hast thou lived so long, and dost not know
That when God gives a Blessing to us, he
Gives not that which we thought of always; no!
We must deserve it first—and then, when by
Patience we have done this, it comes, and lo!
We reap two godlike Goods for one alone!
And what if of the Blessings prayed for none
Should come to pass?-God does in Love deny;
Yet such his Bounty that he bestows on
Us the divinest of all which the sky
Contains, which is all others summed in one,
Patience! since waiting for the Blessing which
We hoped, that very waiting makes us rich,
And not that which we prayed for; nay it makes
Us tenfold richer than that could: it is
A real, a during Good for life, but this
Is oft a fancied, fleeting one—then see,
My Heart, how much God does for our sole sakes,
And let thy Gratitude proportioned be;
Do for his Sake the Good and Godlike, so
Pure and sublime the true Godlike thou'lt feel and know!

Thus even what thou dost for his sake he
Takes not to himself, but returns to thee!

FREEDOM.

There are two Kinds of Liberty, the one
I sspiritual, that which Wisemen prize,
Which in the narrowest Limits can comprise
Powers to work all Good: by which alone
The Calmlygreat and the Enduringmighty, on
The True and the Eternal bas'd, can rise;
Within Man's Breast its ample Empire lies,
And on subduëd Will is built its Throne!
The other is an outward Thing, of no
Worth when disjoined from this: the veriest Slave
As the true Freeman its poor Boon may have:
'Tis based upon Distinctions brute and low,
On Things allied to chance and change, which owe
Their Worth to Fool Opinion's Breath, Dust for the Grave!

SOLITUDE.

Oh Solitude, divinest Solitude,
Long at thy genial Breasts have I drawn in
The Milk of Wisdom, far from all vain Din
Of the World fretting in its noisy Mood!
Longnourished upon that celestial Food,
I feel each troubled Pulse which throbbed within
My Heart grow quiet, and at length begin
To comprehend the sublime Plenitude
Of Charms severe that dwell in thy calm Face;
No Wonder that the Crowd should pass thee by,
Since I myself but now begin to trace
Beauties unfelt before: each latent Grace,
Revealed alone by perfect Sympathy,
When heavenly Things to heavenly reply!

A THOUGHT.

1.

How happy do I feel this blessed Day,
Which comes forth like a Vestal robed in White,
And with a Glory on her Head of bright
And dazzling Sunbeams—for this once I lay
Aside Time's heavy Burthen, cast away
My Sorrows, as a Snake his Skin, and light-
Ly move along, with boyant Heart and Sight
Pleased with each Leaflet trembling on its Spray:
Life's joyous Spirit is awake in me,
Fluttering within my Bosom like a new-
Fledged Bird— Oh Happiness could I but be
Ever the same: the inward Harmony
Thus calm and perfect, thus to Nature true,
As tho' her mighty Hand the full, sweet Accord drew!

2. CONTRAST TO THE ABOVE.

I know not wherefore, but e'en now, while near
My Lips the Cup of Bliss is sparkling bright
As Nectar, held by Hope's own Hand, my Sight
Grows dull, and to mine Eye there starts a Tear!
The pale Ghost of some halfforgotten Fear
Flits dim before my Eyes, and to affright
The visionary Forms from Memory's Night
Arise, and whispering faintly in my Ear
Of Lips which of that Cup should taste with mine,
Push it aside, and spill all on the Ground!
How oft Man's highest Joy, his most divine
Is linked with Pain, as Echo to its Sound!
Joy overleaps himself— o'ersteps the Bound
Which parts them, thus their Essences combine!

THE GREATEST POET.

1.

He is the truest Poet who will so
For his own Heart, and not for others, be!

Who makes his daily Life his Poetry,
Until this rude, hard World so fair doth show,
That Tears seem no more Metaphors of Woe,
But like the Dewdrops on the Flower! he,
He is the Poet, who can feel and see
All Things as God has made them: who can throw
His own Heart into Nature's mighty Breast
And comprehend its Beatings like his own.
Who in the Consciousness supremely blest,
Like God, of that which cannot be exprest,
And still as he, feels and works out alone
Th' Unutterable! his own Heart his best,
His sole Reward, and so because unknown!
For just because none know of it but he,
First then and therefore 'tis all it can be!

2.

He for his Verse, from idle Vanity,
Breaks off no paltry fragment of his Soul,
But keeps the Diamond for his Maker's eye
In his own Breast, divinely bright and whole!
Perhaps he never rhymed a verse, but his
Own Being is a perfect Rhyme in this
Grand Poem of the World—an Echo clear
Of God's own Being, in its smaller Sphere!
And if this be not Poetry, I know
Not then what is: then God himself is no
Poet, for he writes not, but does alone!
So poetize thou too, 'till thou hast grown
Like him, 'till thy Works show forth only his
And not thy Glory: for believe me this
Thy highest is, and without this is none!

THE WISEMAN CANNOT BE IMPOVERISHED.

Talk not of Loss! the Wiseman can lose nought
Solong as he is himself! nay, the more

He loses of those hollow Goods before
Which weak minds bow, the more his Soul is taught
That Wealth alone is during which is wrought
From his own Bosom's Mine of divine Ore;
The more he is himself, the richer Store
Springs from the native Soil of his own Thought!
'Tis but when forced into ourselves that we
Find and become the Godlike we should be;
Then no more upon Fortune's brittle Reed,
Shaken by every Breath, we lean, but free
And fearless, with Faith's steady staff proceed,
Which bears us up secure in Life's worst Need!

BOOKWISDOM.

1

Books, Books, like painted Windowglass,
Break and discolor Truth's pure Light
Which else into our Souls would pass
From all Life's Forms, direct and bright

2

We will not see Things as they are,
We disjoint and anatomize
And sever them, until they bear
No meaning to our purblind Eyes.

3

We stick them on our Studyshelf,
And then with Spectacles on nose,
Pore o'er them, 'till e'en Nature's self
A profitless Enigma grows!

4

And by the dim Nightlamp we weigh
Opinions jumbled, white and black,
Where for one Clue to show the Way
A thousand lead us from the Track!

5

And when beneath God's blessed Light
We see things as they really are,
They dazzle the poor Bookworm's Sight,
And colored Glasses he must wear.

6

The World seems in a Whirl; so strange,
So rapid, varied, crowded, new

Th' Impressions, and so wide the Range
Beyond the Circle which he drew,

7

That Magiccircle in which he
Dreamt that all Wisdom surely lay,
And that beyond it none could see
Right by the vulgar Light of Day,

8

Down from the King unto the Clown
So different the living Men
From that which he before had known,
Philosophy's stuffed Specimen!

9

Then he applies to this and that
The most approved Booktheory,
But finds that it will not come pat
When tested by Reality,

10

Philosophy's Airwheel stands still
That grinds Abstractions down and chops
Up Logic, but plain, hard Facts will
Cause Friction, and all Movement stops!

AFTER READING WORDSWORTH'S LAODOMIA.

Oh godlike Bard, how hast thou roused me—me
The godlike; not this common, everyday
And hackneyed Being, but the Angel, yea,
The Angel I was once, and still should be,
And which I grow again in reading thee.
Oh that these Feelings could endure for aye,
The calm, deep Glance—the Consciousness—the Ray
Of placid Light thrown over all I see.
What now I feel and think, I cannot speak!
All Utterance, save one alone, is weak;
And that is stilly in each Act and Thought
To show how deeply upon me hath wrought
The Writer's Spirit, so sublime yet meek,
The noblest that since Christ his Word has taught;
And who, like him too, in his Work has sought
God's Glory, not his own—so do thou seek

It too my Soul, and uttering thereof naught,
On all the Godlike stamp, with which thou'rt fraught!

ON BEING TOLD I COULD NOT LIVE LONG.

Thou err'st! thou know'st not how, how many Years
I live in each brief Day, nay, in each Hour:
Such is Imagination's godlike Power!
Life, measured but by fretting Hopes and Fears
Of Earth's vain Goods, dark, troubled, brief appears:
Its longest Joy, the Smelling at a Flower:
Its Griefs, like Shadows lengthening on before
And darkening the Tomb, which far off rears
Its melancholy Goal! but there is, yea!
There is an higher measure, and one Day
With Reference to this holds Centuries:
Thus the good God, if to me he denies
Long outward Life, still cheers me on my Way
By doubling that within thro' my own Faculties!

THE PEN.

With this, as little as it seems, can one
Work Wonders! build up Cities, plough the Waste,
Alter Costumes and Laws, and change the Taste
Of Nations, set up Thrones and pluck them down!
What Priviledge then claims it as its own?
Or what strange Subjects 'neath its Sway are placed,
That thus with a few Strokes can be effaced
Things grey as Time, familiar as the Sun?
Men's Thoughts! these move all! act but on the Thought
And Will of Man, and then the Lever by
Which mightiest Revolutions have been wrought
Is in thy one weak Hand! lost to Man's Eye
Perhaps, like God, by few or known or sought,
Thou with two Fingers mov'st the World's Machinery!

TRUE STRENGTH.

How beautiful, to see from Age to Age
A blessed Truth enlarging silently
Its Sphere of Action: tho' impeded by
Error and Prejudice, still with them wage
A holy Warfare: and to the blind Rage
Of these brute Foes opposing constantly,
Not mortal Weapons, useless where the Sky
And its invisible Agencies engage
To make the Cause to prosper sure, but those
By Hands not framed, and wearing not away,
Weapons of Light! which with their viewless Blows
Smite not alone the palpable Foe of Clay,
But pierce the Giant Error's Heart, whence flows
All Evil, and destroy the Cause for aye!

TO THE OVERGODLY.

Who sanctioned thee to sit in Judgment on
Thy Fellows, or to draw a Line which is
Far stricter than God himself makes? is his
First Feeling Vengeance? yet if anyone,
Methinks, should feel that, it were he alone
Who is all Purity! but even this
Makes him of so long Suffering: yea! 't is
His Love that fills his Godhead out! let none
Then hold his Virtue as a Reason for
Severity—for is not God far more
Removed from thee, than thou from the worst Whore
Or Sinner? yea! and if thine Eye but saw
The Heart as his does, thou wouldst think before
Condemning, and of thy Faults, not the Law!
And why is God so merciful? because
He knows the Object what it is and was:
Then do thou too so, and like God's thine Eye
Will see godlike, and therefore lovingly!

MAN AND NATURE.

1

'T was just such a sweet Eve as this
Full fifteen Years ago,
The Earth was green, as now it is;
In Midjune's leafiest Glow.

2

The Brook that murmurs at my Feet
Flows on as in those Days,
I am no more a Child, yet it
With childlike Joy still plays.

3

Its Source is full as erst of yore,
No Failure doth it know,
Yet that within my Heart no more
Flows as 't was wont to flow.

4

How oft, on this sweet Flowerbank
With Twilight shadows dim,
I've watched the Boughs that rose and sank
At the quick Eddy's Whim.

5

And oft a whole long Summersday
I've pass'd in Fairydreams,
In Dreams more sweet than boyish Play,
Where there is more than seems.

6

Such as belong alone to Youth,
Lingerings of Heavenslight:
Comminglings with the primal Truth
Ere Earth has claimed her Right.

7

For Youth believes in all he sees,
And to firm Faith is given
To realize what she doth please
And bear us back to Heaven.

8

And when the Villagechimes came clear
Upon the dewy Air,
Oh! what a sweet, sweet Sound to hear
For one who knew no Care!

9

Of Nature's Music they formed Part,
As blithe as the Bird's Song,

As yet not jangled, for my Heart,
The Keynote, was not wrong.

10

And ever when they seemed to die
Still by the Echo caught
They came again misteriously
Like Answers to strange Thought.

11

The selfsame Scene's before my Eyes,
The same Sound in my Ears,
Oh! say then where the Difference lies
Since all unchang'd appears.

12

The Dayseye glimmering at my Feet
Is still as fresh in Hue,
The Woodbine's Perfume smells as sweet
As when, like Life, 't was new.

13

Why cannot I stretch forth my Hand
And pluck it as of yore,
What is there in it that but scann'd
It makes my Heart run o'er?

14

The Hour of Beauty's pass'd away,
The Flower blooms not for me,
A younger Hand may pluck and play
And feel what I scarce see.

15

Poor Mortal! Nature changes not,
Her Heart beats calm and true,
The selfsame Pulse is in her Breast,
Say is it so with you?

16

Oh no! oh no! my Heart beats quick
And feverish in my Breast,
And I am very, very sick,
For I can find no Rest.

17

The Bloom from all Life's Fruit is gone,
They're rotten at the Core,
They drop in Mockery one by one,
The Tree will bear no more.

18

Oh Time! bring back on thy swift Wings
Of early Youth some Dews,

And sprinkle onceagain all Things
With their primeval Hues.

19

That but for one brief Moment, but
One Moment ere I part,
I may behold those Scenes, then shut
The Vision in my Heart!

TIME.

Oh Time, who musest by the Grave and on
The Brink of dark Forgetfulness, in whose
Unfathomable Depths thou fling'st all those
Vain Records which do testify alone
Of thy Gifts misapplied, on that Gravestone
Why sitt'st thou with thine Hourglass which shows
Its few, small Grains, yet measures out all Woes,
Cares, Toils, howgreatsoe'er, beneath the Sun:
Whose Moments, busy Workmen! forge the Chain
Of stern Necessity, that binds as well
The bosomcradled Babe thro' Joy and Pain,
As the vast Life of Nations: thou couldst tell
Strange Secrets of that Grave which must remain
Voiceless, and with the Worms forever dwell!

WEALTH'S NOTHINGNESS.

What tho' ye loll in gilded Halls! e'en these
Shall to your sated Eyes seem dull and bare
And cheerless as the cobweb'd Walls which are
The Prisoner's Limits: Pleasure cannot please
Who surfeits on it, in the Lap of Ease
Unrest shall pillow ye, and wrinkled Care
Sit by ye at the sumptuous Banquet, share
Your costly Viands, and that worst disease,
Selfweariness, into your Vitals eat!
With unbought Pleasures this wide World doth teem

For him who still preserves the sacred Heat
Of simple Feelings, but in vain ye deem
Nature's wise Laws like Man's to bribe and cheat:
Her Joys are unbought Boons, and, as is meet,
Worth but what they stand for in our Esteem!

FOLLY AND WISDOM.

Thus may one know the Fool from the wise Man:
Give to the former all that Hope can crave,
All that between the Cradle and the Grave
The everbusy Fancy's Brain can plan,
The End will find him such as he began,
Unformed within, unchanged in all Things save
Grey Hairs and Wrinkles: let the other have
Of stern Reality the scantiest Span
With Means commensurate, yet therein he
Can fashion forth a World of Beauty, make
Mere earthly Things subserve Eternity:
He in sublime content Want's Bread will break
As 't were the Bread of Immortality,
Yea! Faith to that can change it for his Sake!

CHARITY.

There are two Kinds of Charity: the one
Less Child of Tenderness than Vanity,
Stretching its Hand out ostentatiously
In the World's Eye, lest it should not be known
Or duly trumpeted: less with its own
Still, inward Approbation pleased than by
Vain Tokens waiting on it outwardly;
The other is of divine Birth, alone
Seeking the Object's Good not its own Praise:
Yea! caring not tho' its best motives be
Unknown or misinterpreted, for he
Whose Act rewards itself already has
All that he sought, Bliss perfect inwardly,
Profaned and lessened by the vulgar Gaze!

TO THE ANTINOUS IN THE FLORENCE FINEARTSGALLERY, AN ODE.

1

What look'st thou at, Antinous? for sure
On Vacancy such Gaze was never bent:
To what far Regions calm and bright, and pure
From Life's vain Turmoil, is thy Spirit sent
Abroad on fancywing'd Discovery?
Gazing and gázing 'till the Void grows filled,
And from the Womb of Nothing there arise
A world of Beauty: 'till the sensual Eye,
In which the Soul its Essence has instilled,
Th' Invisible unconsciously descries!

2

Oh breathing Marble, on whose placid Brow,
With soft Locks blown as by the Summerair
And bended Head, the restless Years leave no
Remembered Trace, and from whose Lips so fair
Time cannot banish for a Moment's Space
The quiet Smile, there mantling like the Bloom
Upon the untouched Floweret of the Spring,
To us, still toiling in Life's troublous Race,
'Tis sweet to see thee, happy one, on whom
The passing Hour throws no dark Shade from its Wing!

3

Oh might those Lips but find a Voice to speak
What 'tis thine Eye looks on: methinks e'en now
A Whisper on mine inner Ear doth break,
But straight it fades in mistic Echos low
Thro' the unfathomable Soul, there lost
Amid those Depths which with Eternity
Communicate, tho' how we know not: strange!
Upon the mighty Ocean we are tost,
And still the Current sweeps unknowingly
Our Bark beyond e'en Fancy's widest Range

4

Where Shore and Polestar are no longer seen!
And thou, pure Marble! with thy Form so chaste,
Art likest some bright vision which has been
Revealed unto us in our sleep, embraced
But for a moment and then lost again
In its own Glory, like an Angelsform
That melts away into the Ether blue
From whence it broke upon us: but in vain
The Film falls from our Fyes, soon Cloud and Storm
Sweep the brief Glimpse of Ether from our View!

5

Gaze on, gaze on, thricehappy one, gaze on
That brighter world which to thy favored Eyes
Is opened up: that world which we alone
By Faith and calm Content can realize,
Whose Magiccircle, small as it may seem
To those who stand without, to him inside
Is rich and ample as—Eternity!
At Times as if I stepp'd into thy Dream
Visions of Bliss float up 'till then denied,
And Death seems but a Name and Time mere Jugglery!

6

Then do I consciously posses my whole,
My undivided self, and feel I live
In Oneness with the universal Soul
Of human Being: I no longer strive
To comprehend the mistic Nature by
Which thou, fair Marbleform, art haunted as
By some bright Spirit's Presence— I am one
With it, it is in me e'en as in thy
Still Life, felt when the Soul awaken'd has
Look'd thro' itself, those Depths so little known,

7

E'en to ourselves, to all save God's clear Eye
Whose calm Glance there at Times meets ours! and he
Who should possess his Soul, who consciously
Could grasp it in its Height and Depth would be
Like unto God! yea, he might look before
And after thro 'the Life of Things! but who
Can take the measure of his Soul? who feels
Not self too vast for self? for still the more
We search the more we grope and so must do,
'Tis in Eternity, on whose dark Brink Thought reels!

8

For tell me is not Soul Eternity?
Was it not once ere this frail Flesh was made
To shackle it, when this in Dust shall be
Will it not be with its first Form arrayed
Again as heretofore? who then, I say,
Shall compass that of which he neither knows
The End nor the Beginning? then tho' we
Should search and search until our Heads grow gray,
Sense doth impassable Barriers oppose,
And what Soul is we forefeel mistily!

For the Soul's secret is God's too, he is
Our Soul, and in its Boundlessness 't is his:
When most we lose ourselves in it, then most
'Tis his, in which all others must be lost!

ON THE TRUE SOURCES OF BEING.

How few Life's Elements have learnt to blend
In their real Harmony; how few possess
The true Accord, the Keynote, without which
The Music still must sleep, as if't were not.
Coarseminded, skillless Players we rush o'er
The mystic keys, wherein the deep Spell lies
So simple yet so deep, and by a Stress

Of meaningless, accumulated Notes
Crowded for Eareffect and vain Display
Of brute, mechanic knowledge, we call forth
A Crash of illdistinguished Notes, which take
The Sense by Storm, yet reach not to the Heart.
For Power lies not in Force or Number, but
In Fitness and Simplicity, and he,
The one true Artist, he whose outward Ear
Takes Rule and Measure from within, knows that
The calm, deep Music of Humanity,
Of Heart and Soul, its Power te exalt,
Refine, and soothe, lies far below this Crash
Of earoffending, surfacelying Noise,
In a few simple but soulthrilling Notes,
A few selfblent Accords, which but just touched
Start into Harmony—but these the Hand,
The soulimpellëd Touch alone can wake;
And this sweet Music of the Soul, which dwells
Within it, as within the seaborn Shell
Echos and mighty Murmurings, which speak
Of the allchangeless Ocean, tho' that Shell
Be long sourcesevered, dwelling haply where
The Name of Ocean is an idle Word,
Calling up no high Thoughts of Beauty, Might,
And everduring Majesty, so in
The Soul, tho' to the inward Ear alone,
Like Music dwells, when in a blessed Mood
Our Faculties grow ample and serene;
Mysterious Echos from another World,
Sounds as of mighty Waters heard afar,
Of that same Springheadocean whence all Powers
And Faculties of Spirit flow, return
And tend; but this sweet Music to the World's
Dull, drowsy Ear is all too pure and deep;
As little felt as the Sphereharmony
Of yon bright Stars, when in their mystic Rounds

Their multifarious orbs are rolled along
As noiselessly as Thoughts thro' God's own Mind,
Whose Thoughts are Worlds and Suns—

—With the Ellwand
Of weekday Forms and Customs would the World
Measure celestial Things, and thus the Mind
Not modelled to its Fashion, must submit
To be a Scorn and Jest to those who toil
Along the dusty Highway which the Feet
Of servile Generations have marked out;
Or if it dare to leave this beaten Track,
The Smoke and Stir of Mammon, for the calm
And lovely Paths of Nature, the green Fields,
The musicflowing Streams, and sunny Hills
That spread on either Hand, and mould itself
By the sweet Access of all natural Forms,
And Shapes and Sounds, unto a truer Life,
It is a crying Sin, and not forgot
When, in its Pharasaic Mood, the World
Preaches its loud Damnation against those
Who dare to think and act as natural Beings!
Yea! a Man's Conduct may be allcondemned
When by the narrow and Halfwisdom of
The World 'tis measured: his best Actions too
Will seem alldisproportioned and distort
When laid upon the Procrustean Bed
Of Prejudice, and lopp'd of their most fair
And grand Proportions, until thus reduced
To Custom's wretched Compass, or stretched out
In uncouth Monstershapes to suit his false
Distorted Standard, but there is an hight-
Er, fuller Wisdom than that of the World,
An ampler Scope: a System of more full,
More catholic and sublime Sympathies,
Higher Relations, which complete the Links
Of Being from the smallest Worm that crawls,

Yea! up to God's own Throne: and judged by these
His Actions will be haply found in true
And godlike Keeping with the wider Scope
And ampler Movement of this higher Sphere,
This nobler System: with the mighty Whole
Of that same Nature which we comprehend
Only by Breaks and Snatches 'till we are
Alive in Soul: 'till we be truly grown
Parts of that mighty Whole, and sympathize
Like healthy Members with the Universe!
Here, in this World, its narrow Wisdom's Reach
We oft o'erstep when we but venture o'er
The Boundmark of its Forms and Prejudices:
And yet it is precisely then we step
Abroad into the glorious Realm of Truth,
Of God, of Nature, and of Liberty:
'Tis then first we possess that which we have
Of Valuablest, Inalienablest,
Ourselves! for then we are all that we have,
For what we are not cannot be called ours;

In our ownselves possessing our own Souls,
And living in our God, a Part of him,
An Emanation from him, e'en as Light
Is of the Sun! quickened, and in our Turn
Quickening these fleeting Forms of mortal Life:
'Tis then that we commence the Life of Soul,
Alive in the true Sense, to all of Grand,
Of Beautiful in Nature, Man and Art;
Rays which tho' falling in a thousand Modes
On an Infinitude of diverse Forms
With Rainbowlight, yet flow from one sole Source,
Th' enduring True and Good! nor do we feel
These Beauties with a Heart, that watchlike, beats
Sixty Pulsations in a Moment's Space,
Under the dead, mechanic Forms and Modes
Of an Existence modelled upon Rule

Like a Machine, but with a holy Gush
Of allpervading Love, which clasps all Forms
Of mortal Being, and which makes our Heart
A Pulse harmonious in Nature's vast
And allembracing Bosom, yea! in God's!

MODERATION.

Seek nought with Overtoil—else thou wilt by
The Search thereafter lose more than the Gain
The finding of it brings—and if with Pain
And Fretting thou keep'st what thou hast, then thy
Wealth itself grows a Source of Misery;
Much with much care is nothing—'tis the Bane
Of Overwealth, itself, itself makes vain,
Then seek it not: a few Things perfectly
Enjoyed contribute more to Happiness
Than many, which must be enjoyed far less,
Because so many! Things but one by one
Can be enjoyed, and he who has alone
Few objects of Affection, just for this
Enjoys them more, because he long has known
How their Existence is bound up with his,
For he has made each to himself that which it is!

SMALL THINGS.

1.

Neglect not small Things for the Sake of those
Which thou call'st «Great:» it is our Feelings by
Which their Worth must be measured; and if thy
Delight be full, if Rapture thro' thee flows
At sight of the least Child, or Flower that grows
By the wayside, if Love into thine Eye
Pushes the Tear of trembling Ecstacy,
What matters it to what thy full Heart owes
Its Bliss, howsmallsoe'er it be, if thine
Own Feelings be thus perfect and divine?
The Goblet must receive according to

Its Capability, and if the Wine
Of Joy o'erflow, is it not lost to you?
What thy own Breast contains, that is thy true,
Thy only Wealth—and if the least Thing can
Make thee feel all that is implied in Man,
Then thou must feel «the Godlike,» and then what
Is there which in that Feeling thou hast not?
Now, to the End that each least Thing may give
This Fullness of all Beauty, learn to live
As ever in God's Presence, and too see
Him in all Things, then e'en the least to thee
Will bring the Feeling of the Boundless; yea!
The smallest Grain upon the Seashore may
Awake that Feeling, full and vast as the
Illimitable Ocean itself; be
Spirit, and then thou wilt feel boundless too,
Like him from whom thy Soul its Being drew!

2.

In seeking one great Pleasure pass not by
The manythousand lesser ones, which, as
The Flowers that we by the wayside pass,
Make Life delightful, and which certainly
Togetherreckoned far outbalance thy
Great Joy, which troubles thee, because it was
Hoped for too anxiously, and thus it has,
By fretting, lessened thy Serenity
Of Soul, without which no great Pleasures can
Be felt— no godlike pleasures— for in Man
The Godlike— God! is felt alone when he
Is stillest, for th' Unspeakable can be
Known only by its Calm, and e'en the Deep
Thunders not forth God's name so grandly thro'
The Tempest, as when all his Billows sleep,
(Like many Feelings lost in one, more true
And sublime) and thus blended form one whole,

Still, godlike still, an Emblem of God's Soul!
While in the boundless Glass the Maker's Form
Is mirrored, disappearing with the Storm!
How much more then Man's soul, where all that is
Most godlike is most still, when most like his!

3.

And if now thy Serenity be gone,
Thy Power of Joy is lessened—but when one
By one thou find'st Life's Pleasures by the Way,
Each just sufficient for the passing Day,
And consequently for thy whole Life too,
For if thou liv'st each Day what more can you
Do or desire? — And each plucked as it blows,
Gently not hastily, since e'en the Rose
Has Thorns, and Eagerseeking mars its own
Enjoyment, neither culled and straightway thrown
Aside, like little children grasping all
They see, and letting many Flowers fall
Thus unenjoyed, nay, marring by the Fret
Felt at their Loss the sweets remaining yet;
Thro' the superfluous destroying still
The Needful, and thus turning Good to Ill;
As if the Flowers of Life were scattered not
By the whole way, but crowded in one spot:
As if our Joys were not like Flowers, which
When freshest yield the scent most full and rich,
And which laid by, or out of season sought,
Fade or are found not, leaving us thus naught
But Disappointment— for Joys cannot be
By Calculation multiplied, Forethought
And Toil and Seeking: they must spring up free,
Like the Wildflowers, 'tis the present Sun
And Rain from which their Hues and Scents are won,
So from the present Feelings likewise is
Produced the passing moment's fresh, clear Bliss,

No vapid repetition, but as strong,
True, and spontaneous as the Bird's blithe Song:
And as each moment its own Feelings brings,
So from its Soil a new, fresh Pleasure springs,
That is if thou hast taken Care to sow
The Seeds, for even Oaks from Acorns grow,
So great Joys out of Little: so much lies
In small Things, and therefore to Wisdom's Eyes
Nought, nought, seems small: for greatest Things still by
Degrees become so: then mark well this—thy
Great Joy must thro' the lesser ones be so,
They must have first prepared thy mind to know
And feel it, bat if thy Heart has not been
Prepared, canst thou receive it? can the green
Stalk bear the fullripe Corn or does the Rose
Yet in the Bud possess the Scent it throws
Forth when fullblown, and which it owes unto
So many little Things, to Sunbeams, Dew-
Drops, Airbreaths, Raindrops, all? now hast thou lived
Wisely and calmly, then wilt thou have hived
From all these Moments and these Hours, which
Seem separately so, so small, a rich
Inheritance—a greater joy by far
Than that you sought, yea! one in which all are
Summed up: which no one Joy howgreatsoe'er
Could give, an Habit of real Joy, which ne'er
Can be acquired save by littles, by
What each Day brings unto the hive, with thy
Own Feelings filled: a greater Power and
Capacity of Joy, like the Seasand
Made up of million Parts, and yet one Whole,
The general Frame and Temper of the Soul
Pervading each least Feeling, Act and Thought,
Whcih thus with an whole Life's long Bliss is fraught,
For all its Moments cause that Frame of Mind,
And all its sepurate Joys you therein find

Summed up: without these it could never be:
Thus thy whole Life's long Bliss is felt by thee
In each full, pregnant Moment, each is as
A fullblown Rose, where all it ever was,
From the first Seedleaf to the blushing Flower,
Is summed up and enjoyed—thus by this Power
Wilt thou find Joy where thou hadst never sought,
Where else none would have been: for thou hast taught
And schooled thy Heart, which will not fail thee, no,
When all else does; and if thy Pleasures flow
From thence, what matters it if thou find'st none
Without? Bliss at the Heart is all in one.
And who can rob thee of thy Bliss, when thou
Thyself art it? thou only knowëst how!

ON THE NEEDFUL.

Be always occupied: have something to
Keep Mind and Heart awake—and whatsoe'er
Thou turn'st thy Spirit to, do so with clear,
Full Consciousness—for tho' it seems to you
Beneath thy Notice, yet if thou canst thro
It feel thy whole Self, then no wider Sphere
An Empire's Cares could offer thee— 'tis here
Men err so much— great Occupations do
Net necessarily enlarge the Mind
And Heart— but an enlargëd Heart will find
Greatness in all Things, even in the least,
And most, where most it should, in its own Breast!
Strive then for this— then wilt thou be resigned
In every Occupation; nay! the best
Will grow out of the worst; for having naught
Beside, thou wilt possess thyself! in thy
Own Heart wilt seek for thy own Feelings, by
No false Impressions weakened, but thus brought
Forth from the Virginsoil unfailingly;
And what Want can our Feelings not supply?

Naught needful is, save as we think it so:
And most superfluous Things more needful grow,
By foolish Thinking, than the needfullest—
The worst Ill; since the truly Needful we
Should always, deeply, feel, since it must be
Essential to Man's Being here, nor can
He without it be even really Man;
And what now is most needful to him? the
Sentiment of the Godlike: this same free
And sublime Selfdependence which the poor-
Est may possess the most; but which is sure
To perish, when superfluous Things have grown
Needful— when substituted for our own
Best Feelings, in which most the Godlike shows
Itself, as in its Perfume does the Rose;
And when these are no more a real Want, then
We lose the Godlike, and are no more Men,
We live not by the Heart within our Breast!
According on what our Affections rest
Is all our Happiness— then fix them on
The Easilyattainable alone,
The True and the Enduring—and what is
So much so as that which thou ne'er canst miss,
Wilt thou but think so— the Godlike in thine
Own Heart and Feelings— make but these divine,
Then will the highest Things be easiest
Attained: the deepest, comprehensiblest!
For thou feel'st God! this Feeling in thy Soul
Is the true Keynote of this lovely Whole,
For God is at the Bottom of all Things,
The Burthen of the Hymn the wide World sings
The least, least Flower tells of him, as well
As of the Ocean does the murmuring Shell!
Then feel him, and thou know'st what all Things feel;
To feel him always in Man's highest Weal!

ON THE WELLDOERS OF MANKIND.

Who plucked the Laurel for the sublime Brow
Of Genius, or wherefore did he chuse
That Plant? because 'neath its unwithering Hues
There lurks a deadly Poison too, which no,
No Medicine can heal? it must be so!
In it that Poison Nature did infuse,
Foreseeing what would someday be its Use,
The bitter Moral of his Tale to show!
Like Christ, th' Apostles of Humanity
Must suffer for Mankind; too strong, too deep,
The Spirit in them to be lulled asleep!
They have their Tabors too, their Agony,
And Drops of Blood, not common Tears, they weep!
Their sole Reward, their bitter and severe
Delight, which like their Pains the vulgar Mind
As little can conceive as it could bear;
Their sole Reward, to be transfigured by
The inward Light, by that sublimed, refined!
An Emanation of, nay, the most High
Himself in them, who looks with his own Eye
From them, in his own Glory steeps their Pain
And Grief, in them transfigured once again!

DEATH.

Oh Death! no Poet ever called on thee
For Inspiration, or thy Cypressbough
Plucked in the Laurel's stead, to grace his brow;
Yet thine is of the two the best, 'tis free
From Poison: and those who have learnt to see
Aright will tell thee also, there is no,
No Place where the true Evergreen will grow
Or can be gathered surer than on the
Sad Grave! Truth's Ear is in the inmost Heart,
And the loud Voices of the World are there

Unheard: nor Overjoy nor blank Despair
To it true Revelations can impart;
But thou, oh Death, when softened thy first Smart,
Canst whisper things unutterably fair!

THE POET.

Praise to the Poet! 'tis no vulgar Throne,
Pillared on Crime and Wealth and idle State,
Which he aspires to, built up on Hate,
By Violence and Fraud maintained alone;
His is a nobler Sceptre, which those own
The readiest, who feel it most: the Weight
Of brute Oppression can at best create
A forced obedience, but him we crown
With Hands of busy and officious Love,
And if he binds us with his Chains, these are
Our best affections, in which we still move
As free as thro' the Ether some bright Star,
Fulfilling its high Mission there above
In Limits which assist its course, not bar
Or hinder; he, he rules but o'er the Heart,
By what is noblest, o'er the noblest Part;
Therefore secure from mad Revolt or War!

THE DRYAD'S CURSE.

1.

Spurn not their Blessing, ye on whom their Curse
Has not yet fallen! 'tis a barren Heart,
A Blight of Ear and Eye; oh! what is worse
Than seeing not to see, to take no Part
In Nature's Jubilee, or want that Art,
That blessed Art, which from Earth's meanest Flower
Can glean a joyous Thought, and thus impart
Wisdom with Bliss unto each passing Hour!
For Wisdom's half a Fool whose sad Brows always lower!

2.

The bitterest Curse of all it is to have
A barren Heart, a Heart to Nature dead,
This is to live within a living grave:
The Prisoner is more blest, for he can tread
In fancied Freedom, in his damp Walls' stead
Call up the bright green Fields; but he who lies
Under the Dryadscurse, he sees Earth spread
In Glory round him yet he has no Eyes,
It is not his! tho' on the very Spot,
He has it less, far less than those who see it not!

3.

Never was Poet, worthy of the name,
Who loved not these airbeings, and again
Was loved by them: while others see but tame
And common objects, he beholds the Train
Of Oreads glide like Shadows: from the Main
He sees old Triton lift his foamgirt Head;
He too has worshipped, worshipped not in vain,
The Universal Pan, and ate the Bread,
Love's true Communionbread, o'er Earth's wide Table spread!

THE DAYSEYE.

1

Look on this Dayseye, you who ask
Why o'er it I thus bend,
To tell thee why were harder Task
Than some well comprehend.

2

'Tis not by Words that I can say
Why it thus moves me so,
Oh thou must find some other Way
Or nothing wilt thou know.

3

E'en Poesy's own Tongue could tell
Scarce half of what I feel,
Time o'er the Rest has rung his Knell,
And set his mystic Seal!

4

If to thine Eye it bring the Tear,
A quick Beat to thy Heart,
A Freshness unto what was sere,
Then answer'd straight thou art.

5

It is a Tale of bygone Days,
A Spirit haunts that Flower,
'Round its meek Head a Glory plays
Not of the passing Hour!

6

Then let it be an Emblem still
Of all that's pure and good,
A quiet Heart, a harmless Will,
Of Childhood's blessëd Mood!

7

Still may'st thou pluck it when the Hour
Of Life's Farewell is nigh,
Recalling that bless'd Mood once more
To fit thee for the Sky!

THE RAINBOW.

Might it not seem as tho' Heaven's Bosom were
Poured forth in Beauty and in Glory o'er
The still stormshrouded Earth? a dazzling Shower
Of varied Hues which in their Radiance bear
Promise of Peace: 'mid the blue Rents of Air
The Raindrops glisten, soft as Tears that flow
From Mercy's Angeleyes, when fervent Prayer
Repentant Sinner offers from below—
Does not that Rainbow, robed in Glory, seem
A Spirit of clestial Shape and Might,
Watchful for Good, evoked from Heaven's bright
But unseen Depths, while, darkling, 'round him teem
The Elements of Evil? glorious Bow!
That with thy Cloudpath archest o'er the Sky,
A Sign set there unto Eternity
By a relenting God! be ever so,
But Cloud and Sunshine to the Sceptic's Eye,
To Faith a Pledge of Triomph over Woe!

AN ODE TO THE STATUE OF THE PRIESTESS IN THE FLORENCE SCULPTURECOLLECTION.

1

Fair Daughter of Antiquity, chaste Bride
Of the pure Altar and the God to whom
Thou offeredst up thy Heart, and mad'st the Pride
Of Youth, its Pleasures and its fleeting Bloom,
A holy Sacrifice to win thee that
Diviner Love which passes not away:
By high Selfconquest fit a God to wed:
Methinks I see thee glide along and at
The Altar stand as in the bygone Day,
With Step which on the Earth scarce seems to tread!

2

Methinks I see thy long, fair Robes of White
Floating upon the Marble at thy Feet
In Folds as Summercloudlets soft: thy right
Hand laid upon thy Breast in Posture sweet
Of holy Meditation, veil'd there by
The gauzelike Vest which gives half to our View
The Swelling of the fair, chaste Limbs below,
And in thy Left, for sacred Ministry,
The Censer wherewith on the Flame to strew
The Perfumes: but mere emblematic Show

3

Is all this now! in his grand Epic Time
Employs thee as a Metaphor, he makes
Fact Fancy, and where Poets hint by Rhime
The Thing itself from real Life boldly takes!
How soft thy Motion! as on each fair Limb
Th' indwelling Soul impressed its own serene
And! deep Composure, from all Passion free
Which might the Maker's Image cloud or dim:

How chaste, how still, how holy is thy Mien!
The Temple's and the Altar's Sanctity

4

Still cling around, like Heaven's Atmosphere,
And hallow thee, as tho' an Angel were
Descended from his Ether calm and clear
With blessëd Tidings missioned—and thy Hair,
Thy golden Hair, divided on thy Brow,
Whence breathes a nameless Charm of Modesty
As from thy whole sweet Figure, is bound round
With the white Raiment which in Folds doth flow
Adown thy Shoulders, and thy fair Feet by
The Sandal girt glide on without a Sound!

5

Fairantique Maid! could those Lips speak they would
Give Oracles the Delphic Shrine ne'er heard,
Time's Mouthpiece tho' by so few understood!
Bright Forms float past me and thy Lips seem stirr'd.
Daughter of Sophocles, Antigone!
Child of his Spirit, born as if to right
His injured Name, say didst thou not look so,
Move so beside thine agëd Sire when he
Borrowed from thy sweet Eyes their holy Light
To cheer and lead him onward in his Woe?

6

Where art thou, Maiden with the fair, pale Brow?
Chaste Helen of the Soul! thou spotless Bride
Of daring Fancy, who would bring below
Some Shape of Ether with him to reside
In Love like that which sanctifies the Sky.

Bright Phantom, art thou dead, or didst thou e'er
Walk on this Earth so flat, so dull, and cold?
Methinks that Form was never made to die,
Methinks that Beauty Time nor Grief could sere,
In Substance glorified it grew not old!

7

Somewhere thou dwell'st in Blessedness: in some
One of those far Hesperian Isles, of which
Thy Poets dream'd nor vainly, thou an Home
Hast found, and there unchang'd thou liv'st on rich
In calm and serene Joys: tho' long since where
Thou erst didst dwell thy Name be quite effaced,
The Rose with its old Perfume still is sweet:
But where is now thy Temple once so fair,
With its longvista'd Columns, and the chaste,
Pure Marble echoing to thy sandal'd Feet?

8

Where is thine Altar? Echo answers, where?
Earth keeps no Vestige of them: like a Dream
They've pass'd away, nor on the Midnightair
Or Forest dim, nor yet by haunted Stream
Doth gray Tradition e'er pronounce that Name:
Her Lip is silent, where then can I find
Even a mossy Stone with Letters by
Time's slow Touch worn and lost for aye to Fame?
But still that nobler Ternple of thy Mind
Stands perfect in its own Eternity!

Sophocles, when cited by his thankless Son as no longer mindsound, triumphantly cleared himself by reading the just then written Tragedy of Ædipus Colonos.

THE MISER'S VISION.

A Miser waking from a blissfull Dream,
By Hermes sent, in which his gloating Eyes
Beheld a Diamondheart of wondrous Size,
Whence Jewels dropped unceasing, of such Gleam
That each a Monarch's Ransom well might seem,

Embraced his own Wife in the first Surprize,
But feeling her Heart beat, and not the Prize,
Which thus he hoped to grasp, exclaimed, I deem
«'Tis nothing but my Wife!» and then again
He fell asleep: thus troubled by the Pain
Of Disappointment, Hermes once more rose
Before him, and thus spake in Anger,» those
Bright Jewels still must be to thee a vain
And empty Dream, so long as thou canst not
Distinguish the real Blessings of thy Lot!
When thou awak'st thy Wife is like that Dream,
Nought unto thee, therefore in Sleep I show
Thee her true Value: now, if thou wouldst gain
The Dream which so divine to thee did seem,
Wouldst make it real, thou must make thy wife so,
By loving her: then from her Heart will flow
Those divine Jewels which on thee did gleam:
Yea, tentimes more divine! thy Gold will be
When thou awakëst in Eternity
Like the Wealth of that Dream: will leave thy Heart
Empty and vile, for it is not a Part
Of that or thee: but these can ne'er be lost,
They are thy Heart, thyself, and thou art most
Thyself when having most of these! and he
Who judges, asks not of thy Gold, but thee,
For that is perishable, but thou art
Immortal, with th' Immortal's Eyes then see,
And chuse the Treasures of Eternity!»
So saying, Hermes spread his Wings, and left
The Miser, of his fancied Wealth bereft,
But with a far, far godlier to supply
Its Place, a Heart reclaimed to Feelings high!

GOD IN THE WORLD.

'Tis from the Complex of Man's History
The Outline of God's Form grows strong and clear,

The mighty Shadow cast on all Things here,
From the far Depths of yon' untroubled Sky!
The Viewing of the whole Machinery
First shows its End and Working: Parts appear
Oft disproportioned 'till brought into near
Relation, by the Power of an Eye
That sees the Whole as One! then, as in a
Gigantic Glass, the Form of God we may
Behold, in its sublime Proportions shown:
There are two Mirrors, this World, and our own
Deep Souls, but God's Reflection thence alone
Is cast on this, when it is clear as Day:
Then keep it so, that ever on thy Way
The Shadow of his Presence may be thrown,
That thou mayst walk therein and never stray,
But feel it still, like thy own Shadow, near,
And ever stronger, as within more clear
The Light, like that too: never lost to thee,
'Till in the Grave at length it disappear,
When thou wilt no more in his Shadow be,
But in his Presence, and himself wilt see!

THE GODLIKE.

The World rewards thee after its own Kind
With that which it sets Store by, but thereon
When thou wouldst lean, lo! like a Breath 'tis gone!
But God rewards thee still thro' thy own Mind,
Thy Heart and Feelings: what way could he find,
But this, to make thy Spirit feel his Own?
Then keep this Medium everfree, that none
But godlike Things may thy Affections bind,
Sublimed by such Communion: if thou
Thus keep'st thy Mind and Feelings godlike, how
Can aught that this World offers seem to thee
A fit Reward for what thou dost? if now
The Godlike be of God, then it must be

Repayed by being so, for so is he.
And where then wouldst thou seek the Godlike save
In thy own Heart?—and this the Poorest have!
A Godlike Recompense for Godlike Deeds
It then in all Men's Reach: and he who needs
Another Recompense besides, has done
Naught Godlike, sought the Servant's Hire alone!
And therefore in Return for what he gave,
Receives not Feeling's boundless Recompense,
But the mere strict Amount, in Pounds and Pence!

BIRTHDAYBELLS.

1.

Ring out, ye Bells! ring out your hasty Glee,
And leave the vengeful Grave his Rest: these Bones,
Here mouldering, give the Lie unto your Tones
Of Merriment, and seem to say that ye
Indulge in most untimely Revelry:
Alas! how soon the joyous Heart atones
For its least Trespass! Sorrow but postpones
The Stroke that it the more secure may be:
He gives the Tendrils Time to knit, then breaks
All the Heartstrings in plucking them away!
Oh wait awhile, the envious Power takes
Stern Compensation: at some future Day
He makes the Balance even and upshakes
The bitter Dregs that yet untasted lay!

2.

And thou, too happy one, so young in Years,
So beautiful in present Joy and Hope
Of that to be, within the Rainbowscope
Of Fancy's Vision canst thou see no Tears,
No Worm within the Flower of Bliss that sears
It in its Prime, when it begins to ope
Its sweetest Leaves? but thou wilt not yet grope
For these same bitter Truths amid the Bier's

Dustcrumbling Records, yet it must be so!
As thro' the Tombstones thy young Feet did pass
They were to thee no Metaphors of Woe,
Yet might each Marble serve as a clear Glass
To teach thee Time's stern Lineaments to know,
How different what shall be and what was!

3.

And thou within thy Cradle, Babe, whose Eye
Is opening softly upon this fair Earth
And all its Wonders, henceforth from thy Birth
To be thy Dwellingplace, where thou must ply
Thy sublime Mission: Star, that in the Sky,
Whose bright Horizon Prophets saw from here,
Hast set, and in this dimmer Atmosphere
Rerisen: tho' unconscious when or by
What Means the wondrous Change was wrought for thee,
Yet from afar with divine Light still fed!
Thou that like these young Flowers here might'st be
Regarded as Earth's Child, whose Lap is spread
For thy Reception, yet more old than she,
Tho' Years by thousands sanctify her Head!

4.

Thy tiny Cradle is a world too wide
Even for Fancy, whose unresting wings
In vain would soar to that far Source whence springs
Thy Being's Fount: while seated by thy side,
In wild Conjectures lost, she strives to hide
Her Ignorance of unrecorded Things
By painting all her wild Imaginings
On the dim Future's Canvass: tho' one Stride
Takes her as far beyond all Reach of Thought
As a Babe's into Ocean; in her Ear
A Marriagebell is ringing blithe and clear,
Whose Sound from distant Days thus far is brought,

Ere yet the Rope be wove, the Hand be taught
To pull it, or the unborn Bride appear!
Alas! with far, far other Accents fraught
Its Summon sad Reality may hear!

5.

Behold the little heir of Life, whose Eye
Converses with the Forms of Beauty spread
Around him, like one risen from the Dead:
For Birth is Death to Immortality,
And Death is nothing but Renewal by
Which we grow as before, ere Soul had wed
With Body, wondrous Union! see him led
In either Hand by Hope and Joy, who try
Which shall possess his Heart the most, and lay
The Map of all Life's Pleasures at his Feet,
And bid him chuse: alas! whichever way
He takes, all lead in one Direction, meet
In Sorrow and the Grave! nor will for aye
These joyous Guides his Company entreat!

6.

But yet a little while, a few Steps made
On Life's rough Path, and he shall no more be
The same, but chang'd both in-and outwardly:
The Roses from his blooming Cheek will fade,
For in his Heart Unrest her Home has made,
Now quickening, now checking cruelly
The tortured Pulse, and he must live to see
His household Bosoms 'neath the chill Earth layd;
These Wounds will heal, Time scars them o'er, yet some
New Grief with its rude Fingers still will come
To rip them up again, he weaves fresh Ties
Around his Heart, and in another Home
Sits by another Hearth, and in glad Eyes
Revives the Thoughts of early Histories!

7.

Alas! there is no Armour against Fate!
Tho', like Achilles, proof from Top to Toe,
One Part's still bare unto the Dart of woe,
And that the vitalest! the more our State
Spreads in Prosperity the shorter Date
It claims, thus wider still the Circles grow
When nearest to their End: the Heart has no,
No Armour! nay, on its ownself must sate
Its Anguish, with its own Blood quench the Thirst,
The Fever, that consumes it! hark! he hears
A Deathbell sounding aweful, like the first
Forerunner of the coming Time of Tears!
One Link of Love Time's Hand intwain hath burst,
While with still Industry the rest he wears!

8.

Indifference arms, but that is Death, Death too
At Heart, Death in the vitalest! tho' he
In Wife and Child be blest, nor live to see
The Frostwind on his Path these Blossoms strew,
Yet must he pay the Forfeit, still pass thro'
The fiery Ordeal prepared unfailingly
Here for all Flesh: from his Heartsdepths still the
Stern Oracle, to its sad Office true,
Keeps prophecying to the Child of Sin
That perfect Bliss no Soul on Earth can win;
However Prudence weave the Web or make
The Tissue firm and compact, Chance therein
Will twine some dark Threads, unobserved will break
The fairest, or Knots on the smoothest spin!

MAN.

From the high Mount of Truth look down with me,
Upon the dim and distant depths below;
What dost thou hear? a far off shriek of woe,
A sound of strife and hatred? dost thou see

Where the blind sons of this vain Century
Their moleheaps pile and with earthbended brow,
Intent upon their grovelling Labours, grow
Unto the shape of Beasts: rather than be
As these, whom God has made for holier things,
'Twere better not to be: to cast away
The spirit's birthright thus, to fold the wings
Of thoughts celestial, or make the ray
Of reason serve to that which this Earth brings
And takes alone, this is to be of Clay!

THE ONE TRUE TEMPLE OF GOD.

1.

Enlarge thy Thoughts and thy Perceptions 'till
The so grand Scale on which all Things are here
Arranged, becomes familiar and clear!
'Till thou canst read in all thy Maker's Will,
Intelligibly in the Stars which fill
The Heavens and instruct thee to revere,
As in the Ten-Commandments, which are mere
Abbreviations of that Wisdom, still
As ever, graved in Characters of Light,
Vast, radiant, on this Temple's Walls so fair,
Flashing, from all Directions, on thy Sight;
Now traced with million Stars thro' all the Air,
And now resplendent on the Brow of Night,
With words of living Fire, running bright
'Round the vast Dome, such as revealëd were
To him alone who read their Meaning right,
Thro' Faith, whose sole Eye could their Radiance bear!

2.

Feel grandly, then wilt thou live grandly! see
Not with the Body's but the Spirit's Eyes;
Be Spirit, then will all Things round thee rise
To spiritual Grandeur, then will be

Stamped with the Tokens of Immensity,
Not like Man's feeble works built up inchwise;
Then will no Church however vast its size
Suffice thy Soul: yet it is built for thee
Already, the true Temple, it is here,
But being too familiar, illknown,
And on too vast a Scale, 'till thy Thoughts bear
More due Proportion to it; when thine own
Perceptions shall be raised, thou wilt see clear
What now to sensual sight is dimly shown!

3.

Live in it then! and feel that it is so!
Live worthy of it! think that always thou
Art in the Temple of the Lord, and how,
How sinful it must be to think or do
The least Illthing, or but of Ill to know,
Thus in his very Presence; think that now,
Nay, at all Moments, thy great Father's Brow
Is bent on thee, his Child, to watch thee! oh,
Give Ear unto the mighty Preacher, who
Unseen himself is seen in all Things here,
Whose Wisdom and whose Love, in Language true,
Each smallest Thing recounts, forgetful ne'er
Of him from whom its Being it first drew;
And if this Thought bring to thine Eye a Tear,
Oh! let it be a Drop of divine Dew
Sent to requicken what in thee was sere,
And all the Freshness of thy Heart renew!
Wipe it not from thine Eye, for thou mayst thro'
It see the world in its real Sense appear,
This sentiment alone is perfect Bliss,
For then thou feel'st, in thee and it, what is;
Thou seest it with God's Eyes, that is to say,
Not in its quick Successions of Decay,
But in its during Life, that is in His!

Alluding to Nebuchednezzar's Feast.

LOVE.

O holy Love! thy feet do rest alone
On this dull, sinworn Earth: with folded wing
Thou walkëst here below, until Time bring
Thine hour of freedom: yet the Angels own
Thee for their Mate, as if already flown
Back to the bosom of thy God; a Being
Of aspirations vast, thou fain would'st wring
Futurity from Fate, and build upon
This narrow Earth a Paradise; alas!
Tho' here below thou breath'st the selfsame air
Which Angels breathe above, thou canst not pass
The Rubicon of Fate: still must thou share
Life's bitter draught unshrinking, 'till it has
Tested and fitted thee for worlds more pure and fair!

ON NOT LIVING MERELY IN THE PASSING HOUR.

Strive still to feel thy whole self: let no Year,
Still less one paltry Day, imprison thee
In its scant limits: move at large, and free,
Live thou above all Time, thus wilt thou ne'er
Be the pale trembling slave of Pain and Fear;
Feel thou the Being of a whole Life: be
Conscious of all thy Moments, as the Tree
Of all its Leaves, and like these when grown sere,
Let thy past Joys be moulded into new;
Feel thyself the Eternal which thou art,
Then with the Eternal's Eyes thou'lt learn to view
Calmly the Goods of Earth come or depart;
Time robs the Being of a Day, but to
Thee he is nought, thro' thy sublimer Art
Already of Eternity a Part!—

NATURE.

Falls not the dew upon the unseen flower

Which sweetens o'er the Wild? flows not the stream
A solitary voice of praise, and beam
Not on the Desert the bright stars in power
And beauty, as a sign on high, tho' o'er
No rapt and upraised brow they shine? to deem
That these are useless or misplaced would seem
Not less unwise than impious: before
Th' allbounteous Maker let us humbly bow,
And with Faith's eye discern the harmony
Else viewed amiss: think not that all below
Is made for thee, proud Man! the mystery
Of Worlds unseen is not for thee, and thou
Selfgiantized, art but a link 'twixt Earth and Sky!

CHILDREN.

How lovely! lo! the Sunbeams 'round the Head
Of yon' softsleeping Child are thrown, as'twere
An Halo 'round a newborn Angel! dare
To think so, and when that bright Wreath is fled
Let bold Imagination in its Stead
Behold that far diviner Crown still there
Of its own Innocence! this let it wear
Constantly in thy Sight that thou mayst tread
As in an Angel's Presence, ever so
Regarding it, nor then wilt thou be wrong:
For being treated as such it will grow
Such really, yea! to thee will then belong
A little Angel; and as one Lark's Song
Ushers in all the Spring, so here below
Around thee with thy Child all Heaven will throng!

OD SELFDENIAL.

Live simply, then wilt thou feel grandly too!
High Thinking and plain Living are more near
Akin than thou believ'st: the last doth bear
The former's Impress—give to all their Due:

To Sense that merely which is needful to
A sound and pleasurable Being here:
Thus will the spiritual man be clear-
Ersighted, in his Loves and Hates more true!
For Selfdenial has its Joys: more dear,
Lasting, and sweet from what they cost us! he
Who prunes all needless Wants, concentrates so
His Mind on better Things, thus truly free:
'Tis not alone that simple Living be
Best for our Weal, tho' that be something: no!
It is the loftier Tone of Mind which we
Thus gain: the Selfcommand that thence must flow
With all its noble Heritage, unfailingly
As Water from the Spring! 'till Passions low
No longer move us: 'till we come to see
Life's outward Goods as worthless, when we know
What divine Joys from our own Bosoms grow!
Denial, tho' it seem to rob of all
The lesser Pleasures which like Manna fall
On Life's hard Way, becomes, as on we go,
Thro' Love and Habit, sublime Luxury:
This Wonder is a Wonder of the Sky!
For e'en from Want can Virtue Plenty call,
And where naught seems, with Overwealth supply:
For Earth's least Joy resign'd pour at our Feet
Pleasure's full Horn, Bliss lasting as'tis sweet!
Then give, give, give! and still yourselves deny!
Give all, yea, even your own Hearts away,
And God with his own Godlike Heart will pay
Ye back a thousandfold! give all ye have,
'Tis but returned to him who all first gave:
Give like thy Father up in Heaven, then
All that thou giv'st shall come to thee again
Sublimed to thy enlarged Capacity!
The mighty Heart of all Mankind in thy
One Bosom then shall best: yea! thou shalt see

Earth's Beauty, and shalt feel Life's Blessedness
With Hearts and Eyes of all thy Fellowmen!
And as each Grain, howsmallsoe'er it be,
In the vast Bell, enjoyeth not the less
The Music of the Whole, so shalt thou do:
Of all Mankind enjoy the Happiness,
As tho' the mighty Heart beat but for you!
For each Part with the Whole when blended true,
(Else, grainlike, lost in its own Nothingness)
Enjoys the Whole, and yet is itself too!
Thus mayst thou press all Nature to thy Heart,
The mighty Woman—like a mortal Wife,
One with her, yet a Being still apart,
Living in her, yet Life too of her Life!

EVENING.

The Eveningprayerbell from the Villagetower
Steals, like a quiet blessing, on the Air,
Dying away to Heav'n: the echos there
Sound like responsive voices which the power
Of sincere prayer calls from on high: each Flower,
Each Grassblade and each Leaf, lies fresh and fair
As cradled Hope: Heavën seems, as it were,
Just blending with the Earth: the calm, soft hour
Is as a Kiss of Peace, wherewith the Sky
Hallows his Bride and fits her for Night's high
And holy Commune, when Love's mystic Zone
Is bound around all things invisibly,
And Nature's myriad Hearts their Chords retone:
Eolian harps by Heaven's breath soft blown!

WE HAVE ALL WE CAN HAVE IF WE PLEASE.

Who thinks that future Gains or Goods will make
Him happier than he is, or can be now
Tho' living by the Sweat of his own Brow,
Is much mistaken—all things from us take

Their value: and the coarse Bread, for whose sake
We toil, does to that very Labour owe
Blessings the Bread of Ease can never know:
What is more sweet than Water if it slake
Real Thirst? and what can slake so well the real
And divine Thirst of Heart, as Feelings pure
And simple? the sole Thirst that can endure:
In calm Selfconsciousness lies Man's true Weal:
And with this thou art neither rich nor poor,
But godlike! for 'tis God that thou dost feel!

WARTRIUMPHS.

1.

Upon the bloodstained Battlefield, when rise
On heavenscaling Wing of impious Pride
The shouts of Exultation, far and wide,
Mingled with deathgroans and the fearful cries
Of Hate and Strife, a Curse that never dies,
Firstborn of Evildeeds, with giantstride
Shadows the Scene, and in its Gloom abide
The false hopes that in human miseries
And crimes are cradled: and the blood that reeks
Up from the profaned Earth shall mingle ne'er
With kindlier Elements, nor dewlike bear
Blessings to it, but barrenness: it seeks
The soil from whence it rose, and withers there:
And the fierce Triomphshouts, the dread Deathshrieks,

2.

With which man o'er his fellowman, like Beast
Of prey o'er Beast of prey, exults, the Air
On its indignant wing will never bear:
Nature disclaims them, from her holy rest
Shuddering she wakes, and Echos wild attest
Her deep dismay: but from the Days which are
As yet unborn, while Vengeance frowns afar,
The Angel of eternal wrath shall wrest
The scourge of Fate, and gathering on his wing

Past Elements of Guilt, the reeking gore
Which moistens not the Earth, the Gloom shall fling
Of his dark Presence on Crime's Pomp and o'er
His pride shall rain down Blood: thus Time doth bring
A Sequel to the longforgotten deeds of yore!

ON WELLDOING.

Who thinks that with Gold only he can do
Real Good is half a Fool—alas! what would
Then be the Lot of all the Poor: the good
And suffering Spirits thus left here unto
The tender Mercies of the Rich?—the true
Welldoers are not those who really should
Do most for their poor Brothers, and who could,
If God had planned this fair World so that thro'
Wealth only its chief Blessings must be won;
The Poor are the Welldoers, they give Aid
Unto each other, and without Parade,
Nor make an Insult of the Good that's done.
The Beggar gives the Penny he has laid
By for himself—godlike, as God alone!

ON NARROW UNBIBLESANCTIONED PRIESTPREJUDICES.

1.

Ye moleeyed Truthmonopolists, who cast
The unchristened Babe from out your hallowed Ground,
Is there no Restingplace beyond the Bound
Of your scant Choice? can in this World so vast,
Which God, when all its Tribes before him passed,
Bless'd and pronounc'd so good, no Nook be found,
But what is hallowed by the vain Lipsound
Of your unmeaning Words? ye Fools! the last,
Poor, spurned Remains shall rest in Spite of ye,
And on the Bosom of its God again
The Soul repose, remingled free from Stain
With its first Source, as sure and blessedly,
As tho' ye had been by with Mockeries vain,
Turning God's Broaddaytruth to Mystery!

2.

Aye, ye may churchban such as will not pray
With your own Forms and Words, as tho' they were
Outcasts from Grace, yet are they still as near
To God's Salvation, and will find that Way,
Better than ye, that leadeth not astray:
They have a Temple still, a goodly, fair,
And fitting Worshipplace, whose Walls are Air,
Whose Roof the Sky itself: wherein by Day
And Night are Signs and Tokens that do preach,
Better than Lip and Book, unto the Eye
And Ear of Faith; a Wisdom within Reach,
Yea! of the least Capacity, a Creed
So simple that no Comment it can need,
The pure Religion of Humanity!
This World their Temple is! above their Head
No timeworn Roof by Man's frail Hand begun,
But the blue Ether like Faith's Banner spread;
The Mountains are their Altar, and thereon,
The fittest Incense, their own Hearts alone
Are poured forth, like the Perfumes round them shed
From all Earth's thousand Flowers, of which each,
By being stilly what it should, doth preach
In silent, yet intelligible Wise,
The sublime Moral of Man's Destinies!

3.

This is the Temple of the living God!
Built with his own Righthand, a Token high
To witness for him, clothed in Majesty,
As in his Shadow. Winds amid the Wood,
These are the Anthem, which, in solemn Mood
Blent with far Ocean's Dash, come floating by
Upon the Ear, a Voice of Mistery,
A Tone that sweeps upon us like a Flood,
A Sound of mighty Waters that flow on
Afar, and steal upon us like the sweet,
Yet solemn Music of Eternity,

As heard of Eld ere yet this Race was run;
Snatches of a nowbroken Harmony,
A Hometunefragment fading alltoofleet!

THE SEEMINGBEGGAR.

A tattered, wayworn Beggar! verily,
To sight it seems so, but how do ye know
That gifts of Glory, passing outward Show,
May not be hid 'neath Rags and Poverty?
He hath asked nought of thee, and passes by
Like one who to himself high awe doth owe,
A soul which will not for the body bow:
And haply he hath more, than you or I,
To give of that wherein all worth doth dwell;
If we were stripp'd, we might the poorer seem:
And God, when he would work a miracle,
Even with such as these, whom men esteem
The outcasts of society, loves well,
Poor, scorned humanity from Insult to redeem!

ON SEEING A GRAVESTONE.

1

And is this all that now remains
Of Thee, thou good and lovely one,
An idle Name, which, with some Pains,
We trace upon this mossy Stone?

2

I do remember thee in Days
Of which thou wert the Hope and Light;
But now this mocking Marble says
That thou canst no more bless my Sight!

3

I do not weep: my Breast is too,
Too full, to vent itself in Tears;
But it doth think such Thoughts of you,
As break the Heart of him who bears.

4

Is this thy Grave, thou lovely one!
Art thou indeed beneath this Sod?
And is it I who stand upon
Thy Grave! have Mercy on me, God.

5

Few Feet of Earth do sever me,
From all I loved so well and dear:
Few Feet! oh Thought of Mockery;
So small the Space, and yet so far!

5

Thou canst not hear my Cry of Woe,
Or else thy gentle Voice would speak;
Tho' Grief be noisy here, below
'Tis Silence which no Tongue can break!

7

Oh Grave, that thou wouldst ope to me,
That crumbling Dust to Dust my Heart
Might blend with hers, for ever be
In Life and Death joined ne'er to part!

LIFE.

Life is a godlike Thing; as such then bear
Thy Part in it—let nothing mean or base
Find in thy Estimate thereof a Place,
Then wilt thou live it godlike: yet there are
Who blame the Deity, and deem unfair
Life's godlike Boon wellused—the Thoughts that raise
The Spirit to its primal Seat—the Days
Of virtuous Toil for self or others: far
Such vain Reproof from me: the Deity
Has nought created evil—nought for woe.
'Tis true we pluck Sin's bitter Fruit—but why?
The Evil is all Man's both first and now,
The Good all God's. He gave the godlike Eye
And Heart; if then we do not feel them so,
And use them so, the Fault in us must lie!

RETRIBUTION.

1.

'Tis not in vain we suffer and we toil!
We have our own reward: that inward light
Which makes all clear; still 'mid the clouds, blest sight!
Faith sees God's mighty arm, stretchd forth to foil
Th' Usurper and his hosts: oft the recoil
Of his own blow will shatter his frail might!

Oft in his impious aims confounding Right
And Wrong, snakelike, the Evil will uncoil
Its inert folds and crush him! yea! for he
Who would, up to a certain point alone,
Employ for base selfends its ministry,
Still by its wider action is undone:
It turns to baffle him; 'twere better play
With the Wildtiger, or the Ligtningsray!

2.

For who can say, «thus far, no farther go,»
Save God alone? can proud Philosophy,
Of all the seeds which in the Future lie,
Destined to bear their fruits, say which shall grow,
Or which shall not? alas! for Reason, no!
His Logic and his Rules are vanity,
When he would trace the ways of the Mosthigh;
'Tis given unto Faith alone to know,
Or what is better still for mortals here,
To doubt not that «whatever is, is right,»
For Faith were not, if she had nought to bear:
If needing other guidance than that light,
Which coming from her God, alone makes clear
The things of God unto the moral sight!

TRUE STRENGTH.

1.

Who is the happy warrior that may draw
The sword of God, and wield it in his name?
He who is free from all reproach and blame:
Whose ends, like Heaven's own, are pure from Flaw!
He from its scabbard may pluck forth, in awe
And holy fear, that sword, which, as a flame,
Shall wither up his foes: then, whence it came
Replace it with all speed, for not in war
Doth Wisdom show her true supremacy;
From out the Waste of Chaos to create

The fabric of pure Strength and Harmony,
To base on Virtue an enduring state:
This is her nobler task, her office high;
War makes the sudden Mighty, Peace th' enduring Great!

It is not strength of nerve or sinew may
Draw forth God's sword, tho' Hercules should try:
Yet to the chosen touch, impelled but by
Pure motives, yea! to a weak maid's Essay,
As unto Joan of Arc's, 'twill straight give way,
And with it they may work their mission high;
But should their hearts be touched with vanity,
Ambition, or with selfish passion's sway,
Its strength departs from it, it works no more
Than brittle steel in mortal hand; for ne'er
In impure grasp hath it celestial power
To lasting things; brute strength of Sinew here
Over its like may triumph, but before
Invisible Strength it bows in awe and fear!

LOVESCENE.

1

She stood beside me, in the Shade,
The starry Shade of Heavensblue,
Whose Lamps, like nuptial Torches, made
By Love eterne, their soft Light threw.

2

She stood beside me, and my Youth
With all its Dreams of Harmony
Seemed in her Form to grow to Truth,
And pass in living Beauty by.

3

As erst thro' my own Heart they passed,
Stirring it like Firstlove's long kiss,
So on my Sense they shone at last,
And turned my Dreams to waking Bliss.

4

She stood beside me like a Flower
Bowed neath the dewy Eveningair,

In modest Fear, yet conscious Power,
I thought she never looked so fair.

5

I took her Hand, it trembled so,
And yet no Thought of Wrong was there,
It trembled in its own deep Joy,
As trembles Love alone and Prayer!

6

I gazed upon her pure, bright Face,
Thro' which the Peace of Heaven shone,
And Earth seemed as a holy Place,
Which Angels themselves might dwell on.

7

I could not speak—mine Eyes where dim,
And like a Child, I knew not why,
I wept: for when Joy's Cup is brim,
The Heart must waste some Drops or die.

8

Waste, do I say! it is not so,
Love is no Miser of the Heart:
To him there is no future Woe,
He has no Self, no meaner Part.

9

Yet were it well that Passion's Breath
Ne'er flared to Waste his holy Flame,
That burning calmly on 'till Death,
It lit us to an higher Aim.

10

An higher Aim! and can there be
An higher Aim than thus to love,
Nought in the World to feel or see
Save our own Bliss and Him above?

11

Of all Thanksgivings that are known,
What for the God of Love so fit,
As thus to be but Love alone,
With his own Self made one by it!

12

Aye, Wisdom comes with Afteryears,
The Wisdom of the niggard Brain,
But the Heart too a Wisdom bears,
An Alchymy ne'er found again.

13

Love becomes Calculation, grows
A Miser—not poured from the Heart,

Like to the Perfume of the Rose,
No more our Being, but a Part.

14

When I look back on that sweet Hour
Of Love and holy Tenderness,
I feel that all Man's idle Lore
Not like the Heart's least Beat can bless.

15

I see again the wellknown Spot,
I hear her light Step on the Ground,
Long Years have flown since then, yet what
Are they? the Echo of a Sound.

16

Methinks I see her as she stood,
Wrapped in a Veil of Beauty by
The calm Moonlight, which with a Flood
Of Glory clothed her to my Eye.

17

She looked an Emanation of
That holy Light, and her white Vest,
Like a Dovesplumage, seemed to move
Above her gentlyheaving Breast:

18

Soft as a Star her blue Eye shone,
Yet turned in Bashfulness away,
As if she feared to trust upon
My prying Glance its telltale Ray.

19

Yet to her Hand a gentle Thrill
Th' involuntary Heart conveyed,
For' mid his Artifice Love will
Forget his Part, the first Time played.

20

Timid her Hand she half drew back,
And blushed as tho' 't had been broadday,
But true Love is not wont to rack
Or fling the Heart it seeks away.

21

She turned in Virginmajesty,
In simple Dignity of Mien,
Nature alone shone in her Eye,
In Gest or Look no Art was seen.

22

Meaning no Wrong, and fearing none,
She rayed me with a Smile of Light,

Like those which round a Child's Brows run,
When Nature prompts unfeigned Delight.

23

Some Underwords she murmured low,
Like a still Summerbrook at Eve,
Their Sense!—I had no Ear to know:
But Love with them a Spell did weave.

24

Modest, but frank and free, she came,
Like Eve, and sought my throbbing Breast,
And there her Image, aye the same,
Lives by that first Embrace imprest.

25

Thus was she wooed, and won, and wed,
And Blessings to such Love are sent,
A Centralfire, it burns selffed,
And brightens on 'till Life be spent.

26

Not the Volcano's fitful Flames,
That waste within and scorch around
In their first Burst, and when Time tames,
Leave for Joy's Seeds fireploughëd Grround.

27

But holy Warmth as of a Sun,
Moulding a little World of Joys,
Flowers and Plants, whereof not one
Bears hidden Thorns, or Fruit that cloys.

28

Blessings be on thee, holy Love!
With thee it is indeed to live:
For Love is Life! by thee we prove
How most we have, when most we give.

29

'Tis Love who earns the Gifts of Faith,
'Tis he who still works Miracles,
And in his Might the Spirit hath
A Tongue that utters Oracles.

30

He sces the sunny Side alone,
And in the Autumnleaf he views
No Emblem of Decay, but one
Of Beauty in its brightening Hues!

31

He shrinks not back from Grief or Pain,
He has no Eyes or Ears for Doubt,

Thus in each Loss he finds a Gain,
From each Fall rises up more stout.

32

His wiser Mind can mould its State
Unto the Shows of better Things,
From earthly Chrysalis create,
The perfect Form, the Angelswings!

33

Blessed, then blessed be his Name,
And thine, my Love, my Spirit's Guide,
Who taught his Worth, and still the same,
Tho' long a Wife, art yet a Bride!

ODE TO PSYCHE.

1

Let not a sigh be breathed, or he is flown!
With tiptoe stealth she glides, and throbbing breast
Towards the bed, like one who dares not own
Her purpose, and halfshrinks, yet cannot rest
From her rash Essay: in one trembling hand
She bears a lamp, which sparkles on a sword;
In the dim light she seems a wandering dream
Of loveliness: 'tis Psyche and her Lord,
Her yet unseen, who slumbers like a beam
Of moonlight, vanishing as soon as scann'd!

2

One Moment, and all bliss hath fled her heart,
Like windstole odors from the rosebud's cell,
Or as the earthdashed dewdrop which no art
Can e'er replace; alas! we learn fullwell
How beautiful the Past when it is o'er,
But with seal'd eyes we hurry to the brink,
Blind as the waterfall; oh stay thy feet
Thou rash one, be content to know no more
Of bliss than thy heart teaches thee, nor think
The sensual eye can grasp a form more sweet

3

Than that which for itself the soul should chuse
For higher adoration; but in vain!

Onward she moves, and as the lamp's faint hues
Flicker around, her charmëd eyeballs strain,
For there he lies in undreamt loveliness!
Softly she steals towards him, and bends o'er
His slumberlidded eyes, as the Rose droops
Its odors o'er a Lily: one caress
She would but dares not take, and as she stoops,
An oildrop from the lamp fell burning sore!

4

Thereat, sleepfray'd, dreamlike the God takes Wing
And soars to his own skies, while Psyche strives
To clasp his foot, and fain thereon would cling,
But falls insensate; know! that he who gives
His Love to sensual forms must fall to Earth,
Ye soil the soul who seek to please the eye?
Psyche! thou shouldst have taken that high gift
Of Love as it was meant, that mystery
Did ask thy faith, the Gods do test our worth,
And ere they grant high boons our hearts would sift!

5

Hadst thou no divine Vision of thine own?
Didst thou not see the Object of thy Love
Clothed with a Beauty to dull clay unknown?
And could not that bright Image, far above
The Reach of sere Decay, content thy Thought?
Which with its Glory would have wrapp'd thee round,
To the Gravesbrink, untouched by Age or Pain!
Alas! we mar what Fancy's Womb has brought
Forth of most beautiful, and to the Bound
Of Sense reduce the Helen of the Brain!

WINTERFIRESIDE.

1.

Winter, thy kind austerity is dear
To me as Summer's sunkissed cheek or Spring
With all her Bloomluxuriance: thy wing,
Which withers up the Glories of the Year,

And with its Touch makes Leaf and Flower sere,
With it rich Compensation still doth bring,
Sublimer Joys, that know no withering,
By the World's Finger marked not, yet more near
And dear to God for this! hail then to thee,
Homefostering Season, thine the Wing that flies
Bearing from Earth towards Eternity
Time's choicest moments: thine the mutual Eyes
And Hearts that gravitate around one high
And holy centre, Love! thine are the good and wise!
Here is his Altar: hither, from the height
Of yon far sky, so blessing and so blest,
Does He descend, and at his high behest,
A thousand shapes of Edenbliss the sight
Of his true votaries gladden: here his wings
Alone on Earth are folded, here we see
«His naked form alone as it should be»
In its true beauty, and with him he brings
Soft glances, gentle words, Heartharmony,
Stealing the thought from Life's vain murmurings!

2.

Here He diffuses, from his noblest throne,
A Mother's breast with all her young ones nigh,
The Glory of His Presence, when each Eye,
And Heart, and Lip and Pulse, instinctive own
His allpervading Might; oh ere they're flown,
Offer to God such moments: from the sky,
Methinks, an Angel drops to bear on high
The Smiles that mantle there ere they have grown
Earthsoiled, or learnt with bitter Tears to wed.
Thriceblessed smiles, we ne'er shall smile again
In other days or climes, but in your stead
The cold World brings us Selfishness and Pain:
Our springtide Flowers are strewn above the dead
And wither on the Tomb, Mementos fond, yet vain!

TRUE VICTORIES.

Truth has calm Conquests, where the Sword and Spear
Can claim no Part—not loud or noisy, tho'
Of mightiest Results: and from these flow
The Blessings which with heartdeep Ties endear
The Altar and the Fireside, and rear
On the sublime Affections which thence grow,
(Eternal Pillars, proof against each Blow
Of outward Chance and selfbetraying Fear)
The State's vast Fabric, on its one sure Base;
For brute Force reaches not unto the Thought
And Heart of Man, nor can it thence displace
One Prejudice—great Changes must be wrought
By Men's best Feelings, thro' their ownselves: they
Must work the Good for themselves, their own Way,
Else it is none to them, it is as naught:
Let but the inward Eye of Reason first
See clear, and leave the rest to them—the worst
Of all Ways is by Force to make Men do
That which alone can be reached surely thro'
Their own Cooperation, their own Will
And Feelings, which once forced, the Object still
Remains imperfect, unattained, nay grows
A bitter Evil; for the Wiseman knows
That there is only one Compulsion by
Which men can be sublimely, certainly
Impelled to godlike Things, and that is, of
Truth, divine Truth, and still diviner Love,
The Constraint of the God within the Breast,
Whose Fiat gained, brings over all the Rest;
And what are Nerve and Sword without the Heart?
As Reeds within a Child's weak Grasp at best,
And with it? less—what boots the meaner Part
When that which is most godlike is possest?
Then use them not: use Thoughts! these are the true

And viewless Rundles of the Ladder of
All spiritual Greatness, far above
Earth's Mists they Lift us, full in God's own View,
The Jacobsladder which he sometimes déscends too!

NATURE AND MAN.

1.

Nature ne'er toils in vain—there's not a ray,
A dewdrop, raindrop, nor a breath of Air
But mingles to one mighty end: her care
For coming Ages and the passing Day
Provides with equal ease; she ne'er doth stray
From her high Aim, like Man, but everfair,
As at Creation's dawn, she still doth bear
Th' Eternal's blessing, and her destined way
Pursues unerringly: with sovereign Might
Creating from the relics of the Past
Present and future Worlds; her everbright
And selfrenewëd Elements outlast
Man's puny monuments, and as the Blast
Beareth away the Chaff, so in the Night
Of dark Oblivion she wraps his pride,
Giving his thoughts of Glory to the Wind:
Crumbling to Dust the towering domes, whence blind
And Idoladorations in old times
Rayed forth their Darkness over half Mankind,
Leaving a heritage of Woes and Crimes.
The hundredgated Cities too must find
A ready Grave, while Weeds and Wildflowers hide
The sculptured Arch, in whose brief Mockery
False Glory thought to live, thus all save Worth
Remingles with the Dust from whence't had birth.
Nature reclaims her own, mysteriously
Reshaping what has withered from the Earth;
Form varies still, but Matter cannot Die.

2.

Ringing her mighty Changes she moves on
From age to age, in vain Time waves his wing,

From Past she draws the Future, from the Spring
Summers and Winters endless, still the sun
Shines on the grave and cradle: one by one
Earth's boasted realms arise and sink, and fling
Their shadows o'er the Future, like a thing
Whose memory may not die, tho' all be gone
That witnesses its Might and Glory to
More recent Generations! still the Day
Rises and sets in Beauty, their Cloudway
The Storms still follow, and the starlit Dew
Its sinless Tears as brightly weeps away
As on the primal Eve when Earth was new!

3.

And still th' eternal Ocean from his Brow
Bepels the Injuries of Time, still rings
The knell of Empires: on their untamed Wings
Still o'er the foammaned Wave the fresh Winds blow
Lifting it like a Warsteed's, 'till its snow-
White crest streams on the Air: still, still Night flings
Her starry Mantle o'er the Sky, still sings
The Vesperbird without a Note of woe!
Oh holy Nature, thou art everbright
With an énduring Youth, still in thine Eye
Undying beauty glows, and from thy Might
Time turns, to seek some easier Victory!
Still on the Storm the Rainbow sheds its Light,
A sign to Man's dim Eyes unfadingly—

4.

And tho' the Earthquake from his slumber break,
'Tis but to fecundate the Soil: thou ne'er
Sowest in vain, nor shedd'st the bitter Tear
O'er idle and repented hopes! the ache
Of misspent Years and Means can never shake
Thy quiet Breast—th' alternate Throb of Fear
And feverish Joy has left no quick pulse there.
Not so frail Man! for every vain Thought's sake

He barters his high Heritage, and bows
Brutelike to Idolgods, and flings away
The present Moments, on whose wings Time sows
The Seeds of future bliss. Alas! Faith's Ray
Is wanting, and those seeds the chilling Snows
Of profitless Oldage shall kill for aye.

5.

Betwixt repentings and repinings are
His Days divided: and as we by Night
Stumble on Shadows, which the dubious Light
Transforms to Substance, so with Truth at war,
And fancyslaved, Man shuns the Real and Near
For the remote and braincoined Joys whose bright
And hopegilt shapes dance on before his sight,
Like Motes amid the Sunbeams, ever there,
Yet everdistant, cheating to the Grave,
O'er which they fade into their native hue,
And naught remains to witness for them, save
A little Dust which Time and Wind shall strew!
Alas that Centuries should fleet in vain,
Like the Birdstrack, and Man no Wisdom gain!

6.

Oft too Earth's great ones toil, yet leave behind
No heritage of holy Lore, no trace
Save that of a Shotstar, no Dwellingplace
In the Heart's gratitude: th' ambitious Mind
Stoops not to sow the Earth, but sows the wind,
Thence reaping folly's whirlwinds which efface
Sower and seed in Wrath, and strew the race
Of his frail hopes in barrenness: for blind
And selfish counsels call down vengeance on
The Head that plots them, in the meshes caught
Of Fate's wide net: yet tho' so often taught,
The Moral points some idle tale alone:
Truth speaks from out the Dust of Worlds gone by,
A gathering tone of ages: on the ear

Of heedless Time it strikes for aye, yet ne'er,
Till on the brink of dread Eternity
He stays his feeble flight, tho' strong and clear,
Shall rouse him from his stupid Lethargy.

ON NOT HATEING.

Indulge in no Illwill, no Enmities,
Or Envies—e'en tho' injured, let the Thought
Pass from thy Mind, as if there had been naught
To trouble thee, and thus, if thou art wise,
There will be really naught—thine Enemy's
Worst Malice has no Power to work thee aught
Like that one Ill thou thyself mak'st, when brought
To hate: this casts thee out of Paradise,
Casts out the Godhead from thy Breast, and is
As if into the Fountainhead of Bliss
Thou hadst thrown Poison: but to love on still,
And for thy Father's sake to pardon, this
After a godlike Fashion keeps thy Will
Pure, and thy Soul sublime and calm, like His!
For where Love is, there is God too: no Space
So small but can all Paradise embrace!

THOUGHTS ON PAST YOUTH.

Sing, sing ye Birds, and welcome in young May,
And o'er his Cradle strew your fairest Dies
Ye Flowers, and ye green Leaves, wheree'er he lies,
By Shadows numberless hid from the Day,
Make soft his Bed, and sweeten all his Way
With freshest Perfumes, that when he shall rise,
No Sign of Winter meet his laughing Eyes,
Forgotten, like a Sorrow passed for aye:
A Sorrow! lo! and at the Word, close by
Joy's Side, the dimseen Spectre stands, like to
His Shadow, Step for Step, forever nigh!
Thus all this Loveliness I wander thro',

Serves but to bring the Tear into mine Eye:
And yet 'tis less of Pain, than Ecstacy!
'Tis sublimed by the Feeling of the True,
The Godlike, which supplies the Dream of Youth:
And who would not exchange a Dream for Truth,
However sweet? thus what I have not is
Far fairer, yea! e'en that which I do miss
Is richer, than what others have: they dream
On still, and are not yet, but only seem!
And tho' these Harbingers both Youth and Spring
With the fresh Heart back unto them may bring,
Yet something more than Youth or Spring have I,
The inward Sentiment unchangingly
Of Being as a Whole, with which there is
Nor Youth nor Spring, nor Time nor Place, but Bliss
And Heaven, for by it we grow as one
With God, and feel in all Things him alone,
That is, th' Eternal! thus in Feeling we
Are now what we shall really someday be,
Nay, really too: for what is more real than
Our Feelings? are not these the Soul of Man?
And if we are the God within us, then
We are more than we know, while yet mere Men,
And yet by Faith, altho' we do not know
All that we are, we still feel ourselves so!

ON A PAINTING.

Hail! blessed Art, which pour'st the bright sunbeam
Upon my sight, when clouds are thick in heaven,
Like flocks, before the sheepherd Southwind driven
To pasture on grey mountaintops: a dream
Of Summerloveliness I see: that stream
Which thro' the rocks his foaming path has riven,
To which a few brief pencilstrokes have given
The Marks of age's workings, by the gleam
Of the sunset is flushed: and, gorgeous Sight!

A cloudarched rainbow mantles all the air
With humid glory, while the dewdrops bright
Speak of a passing shower: o'er a fair
And gentle slope with woods and pastures dight,
Foldwards the nibbling sheep Eve's dewy star doth light.

FAITH.

Yes, I will have sweet Visions: I will be
A child in soul, that still my eye and ear
An ample heritage of Joy may cheer:
Still shall the World be clothed with Poesy,
As with a Garment: dull Philosophy
Shall not explain away one note I hear
Of Echo's mystic voice, sent chiming clear
From the deepcaverned crags: from doubt still free,
By Faith I'll realize what else is naught
But idle sound: as in the days of yore,
With lofty Impulse shall that voice be fraught,
And admonitions to the passing hour:
Still shall a miracle for me be wrought
By Weekdaymeans, for such is Faith's high power!

PLEASURES.

Say what is Pleasure? sensual joys decay,
Returning to the dust from whence they came:
Brute passions waste themselves in their own flame:
And their spent ashes not one genial ray,
To kindle up a Joy for Afterday,
Retain: they desecrate this mortal frame,
The temple of the soul, and leave the same
A shattered tenement of mouldering clay:
All these are of the Earth, and tho' enjoyed
Unto the height, still surfeited and cloyed
They leave us, wondering whither all has fled:
True Pleasure by high faculties employed

To high and during Ends is nourishëd,
Which flourish most, when sense grows dull and dead.

WISDOM.

We should do as the flowers; e'en as they
From their unsightly roots derive the true
Lifesap of Being, and the perfect hue
Of Beauty, so should we, from day to day
(Subjecting vilest things to reason's sway,)
Make them subservient to higher Ends
Than they seem destined for; thus Wisdom lends
Value to earthly passions: her strong ray
Consumes that which is gross in them, and to
A calm, clear flame their nature purifies;
For all things here are but as trials thro'
Which the Will gains its noblest victories
O'er Earth's brute foes: enduringly it plies
Its task, and reaps the triomph which is due.

FREEDOM.

1.

What need of Uproar, Violence, and low
Brute Strength, to work out such a holy End
As that whereto all Goodmens 'wishes tend?
Let no unfitting Means inform the Foe
That we so ill true Freedom's Nature know,
As to believe ourselves compelled to rend
Intwain Law's holy Bonds, ere we can bend
Unreason's stubborn Will to Truth! not so!
Law is itself the mighty Lever by
Which Wisdom works; and when the moral Weight
And Strength of an whole People with it try
Conclusions, it can build up a Freestate
From the Foundations, yet as noiselessly,
As Truth her fairest Fabrics can create!

2.

Why should the millionvoicëd People make
Vain Uproar, like a Child! like one who knows
Not his own Strength? when in the calm Repose
And Consciousness of toiling for Man's sake,
E'en with its slightest Whisper it can break
Asunder all the Shackles Custom throws
Upon its Neck, and with the viewless Blows
Of Truth omnipresent destroy the Snake,
The manyheadëd, Prejudice—let each
Man claim his Rights, and be the Rights of one
As sacred to his Fellow as his own,
For such they are if rightly looked upon!
Then shall a chain be forged whose Links will reach
Down to the Beggar, strong in Right to teach
E'en the proud Monarch trembling on his Throne,
That Spear and Sword are powerful to preach
Obedience to Slaves and Fools alone!

A CHURCHYARDSPORTING CHILD.

I saw a child at play beside a Grave:
With mouldering bones for playthings, he, most wise,
Robbed death of all his terrors, and his Eyes,
His laughterbeaming Eyes, no symptoms gave
Of thoughts dulled by that neighbourhood, none save
Such as to Afterlife stern Time denies:
When we have learnt that all its mockeries,
Which fret the heart's quick pulse, Hope's feverish slave,
Still leave us naked on that aweful brink!
Unconscious as the flowers, he did play:
While selftormenting Age would stand and think
How bubblelike Earth's pleasures pass away,
He, great Philosopher, disdains to shrink
From selfcoined fears, or lose the passing day;
The grave's to him like anyother spot,
For Thought, Joy's Murderer, yet haunts it not!
As yet the Spectre sleeps! and there he lies,

Strange Hieroglyphic of Man's Destinies,
Like some full, fresh Relief by Nature's own
Ingenious Hand carved upon Mankind's old
Sarcophagus, by which, not so much told
As hinted at, the Riddle of his Lot
Is typed: how, as the Bones within it rot,
From old Decay new Being straight must rise!

THE PAINTER.

His Lovetask's done, his task of young delight,
His wide domain of pleasure, pleasure brought
By Hope from a far Future, richly fraught
With golden dreams, that Time, alas! may blight;
Bedtime arrives, yet still he feasts his sight
On his loved picture, nor can think of aught
Besides: with many a wistful glance 'tis sought
E're visioned sleep upon his lids can light;
These are the Names for Immortality:
Of such stuff are they made upon whose brows
The Muses bind their wreaths: they have no eye
For the world's pelf and pleasures, their heart knows
But one high hope, which failing they must die,
From their own breasts the world they seek for grows!

SONG TO FREEDOM.

1

A Crust of Bread and Liberty,
With thee, oh God, is all I seek:
Content with these to live or die,
A Rock, whatever Storms may break.

2

The base Heart that th'immortal Mind
Entombs within the living Grave
Of sensual Joys and Pleasures blind,
Such Bliss as mine shall never have.

3

But shall return unto the Dust
Of which 'tis made, as brute Beasts may,

In Life and Death alike accurst,
A barren Heart, a Soul of Clay.

4

The Monarch 'neath his gilded Ties,
I envy not, not I, a Jot,
I laugh at such Strawdeities,
Fooled and befooling's still their Lot!

5

The Pride of Wealth, the Pomp of Power,
Have naught to charm my sober Eye,
I cast them in Truth's Balance sure,
And up they mount, a full Mile high!

6

The Fame that from Men's false Lips won,
Is less worth than the Wind's fleet Breath,
The Puff of Folly, blown and gone,
True Fame springs surest after Death;

7

The Seed Ambition sows on Earth
Grows up apace, and fruits rightsoon,
But 'tis of Ashes, and its Worth
Is fitted well for Folly's Boon.

8

The Joys of Earth what matter they
To one whose Mind a Kingdom is,
In utter Scorn he turns away,
A nobler Sceptre far is his.

9

Allhail, true heartborn Liberty,
For if thy Temple be not there,
Thy Worship's but a Mockery,
Thy Name an empty Breath of Air.

10

There is no Prison for the Soul,
It triomphs over Time and Space,
And wings its Flight to that bright Goal
Where Mercy shall each Woe efface.

11

I thank thee God, for thou hast given
To the true Hearts that in thee Trust,
A Might, which, like the Fire of Heaven,
Melts e'en the Prisonbars to dust!

12

Light of our Light, Hope of our Hope,
The Sun shines but for thee and thine,

There is no Bliss unless we ope
With Freedom's magicwand the Mine.

13

What is the golden Heavenslight,
When in the Shadow dark of Death
And Slavery, the Soul's true Night,
The Spirit draws its stinted Breath?

14

That Light can enter not the Heart,
It is no Sunshine of the Breast,
It cannot soothe Despondence' smart,
The Consciousness that knows no Rest.

15

Then wellcome Liberty, with thee,
All Climes are fair, all Sorrows light,
For the sweet Thought that we are free
Makes e'en the Desert glad and bright.

16

Heir of a boundless Patrimony,
The Soul may still expatiate
Thro' Heaven and Earth, below on high,
In Pleasures that can never sate.

17

Then give me but a Crust of Bread,
Oh God, in thy high Service free,
And I will yield whole Worlds instead,
For where thou art, must all Things be!

THE PEN.

Behold the mighty Engine, which o'erthrows
The Tyrant's Throne, that can controul his will,
And paralyze the Hand upraised to kill;
That with Thought's viewless, but resistless Blows,
Can shatter down all Barriers that oppose
Truth's onward Progress: with which she can still
Uphold her aweful Rights, and yet not spill
One Drop of human Blood! for Wisdom knows
Even with such weak Instrument to break
The Sword and Spear, and all the palpable Might
Of Walls and Armies! yea! for she can make
With this the Hearts of Men to beat aright!

True Strength is in true Feeling! let this wake,
And God's Rightarm is present in the Fight!

THE MORAL LESSONS TO BE LEARNT FROM NATURE.

Behold yon' Flower of the Field, which grows
Just in my Path! the next more heedlessly
May tread it down, with unobservant Eye
Of its so modest Beauty: yet it throws
Its Perfume on the Air, and boldly shows
Its Blossoms, caring not how soon, or by
What Chance, they may be marred—oh Man, and why
Wilt thou not do likewise? that Flower owes
Thee neither Scent nor Colour, and yet naught
For this doth grudge thee! were thy Soul but wrought
To such Perfection as that Flower, how,
How little wouldst thou have to learn!—go now
And make it so—untroubled by one Thought
Of coming Ill, perfect thyself, wheree'er
It has pleased God to place thee: thou art near
To him, in every Spot alike, and that
Is what the godlike Mind should labour at!
Grudge no Man aught, but like that Flower be
Benificent, e'en to thine Enemy,
And, like it, live as if there were no Woe,
For thus believing, thou wilt make it so!
Happy as it, in Sunshine and in Shower,
Blooming content, tho' but for one brief Hour.
Life, rounded by one little Day, if quite
Enjoyed is perfect—is all that it might
Or could be made—a thousand Years could not
Make it more truly Life, no, not one Jot!

ODE TO PSYCHE.

1

Why stand'st thou thus at Gaze
In the faint Tapersrays,
With strainëd Eyeballs fixed upon that Bed?

Has he then flown away,
Lost, like a Star in Day,
Or like a Pearl in Depths unfathomëd?
Alas! thou hast done very ill,
Thus with thine Eyes the Vision of thy Soul to kill!

2

Thought'st thou that earthly Light
Could then assist thy Sight,
Or that the Limits of Reality
Could grasp Things fairer than
Imagination's Span,
Who communes with the Angels of the Sky?
Thou graspest at the Rainbow, and
Wouldst make it as the Zone with which thy Waist is spanned!

3

And what find'st thou in his Stead?
Only the empty Bed!
And what is that when no more hallowed by
Imagination? a mere Sty
For Sensualism to wallow in,
To which thy Fault is near akin;
Thou sought'st the Earthly and therefore
The Heavenly is gone, for that must ever soar!

4

For the bright World of
Pure and boundless Love
What hast thou found? alas! a narrow Room!
Put out that Light,
Restore thy Soul its Sight,
For better 'tis to dwell in outward Gloom,
Than thus, by the vile Body's Eye,
To rob the Soul of its Infinity!

5

Love, Love has Wings and he
Soon out of Sight will flee,
Lost in far Ether to the sensual Eye,
But the Soul's Vision true
Can track him, yea! up to
The Presence and the Throne of the Most High:

For thence he is, and tho' he dwell below,
To the Soul only he his genuine Form will show!

Oh Psyche, Psyche, 'tis by our own Thought
That Heaven's Gifts to fit Use must be wrought,
But what the Soul itself can scarcely grasp,
Thou in thine Arms wouldst sensually clasp!

THE POET.

1.

He should not live alone, but in the bright
And holy intercourse of Heart with Heart:
This keeps it healthy, and makes clear the Sight;
And Fancy with Life's coarse, stale Bread, when right—
-Ly mixed improves it much, a little Leaven
Will leaven the whole Lump, a Touch of Heaven
Sublimes in Life's Ingredients what is base,
Else his quick Spirit wears the vital part
Turning against itself with ceaseless smart
Of fretting Thoughts and Fancies, 'till the light
Of heaven is given back in partial rays,
Or with false brightness from the clouded soul:
Which, like an illfed Lamp, no more can blaze
With pure and steady radiance, a Whole
At unity within itself, but strays
In smouldering Flashes far from its true goal.
Those only a divine Refreshment win
From Fancy's Fount, who thereat learn to slake
A heavenly Thirst, but to the Taste of Sin,
Each Drop is Bitterness, a fresh Heartache.

2.

The World is not for him, nor such as he,
Whose hearts are, like the Nightingale's, all Song
And Melody—he fain wonld dream that wrong,
Cold hate, and selfishness, may never be
Sown on his path by time, that ever free

From the low Passions of the wrangling Throng,
His Soul may dwell apart! alas, ere long,
He too must pluck from off Life's bitter Tree
The Fruit of Knowledge like the rest, and know
Youth's Edengates are shut on him for aye!
That thro' this world of Prose he too must go,
Must see his bright world fading far away,
Compelled to draw the Breath, so vile and low,
As seems to him, of this familiar Day!—

3.

Youth is a Magicmantle, which we fling
Around us, and among our Fellows, we
Breathe, move as they, but not of them: we see
A Land of Promise, where on golden Wing
Eternal Pleasure broods: Pain with Life's Spring
As yet has mixed no Bitterness. With Arms
Outspread, we seek to grasp a World of Charms,
An Immortality of Bliss—but ere
They meet upon our Breast, all disappear!
Oh 'tis a bitter Feeling, thus to wake
From the sweet Dreams of Youth, and feel alone
On this, cold, selfish Earth: the bright world blown
By Fancy's divine Breath, wherein we make
Our Fairysodjourn, where our young Hearts slake
Their first, deep Thirst, from Fountains of their own,
Burst like a Bubble, and for ever gone.
No more, no more, oh never more the Heart
Such Honey for its Hive may set apart.
So think'st thou, yet not rightly. Life there is
Real, sober Life, beyond that Dream of Bliss!
A Magic, that to Sense's dull Eye can
Make real the World which as a Dream began,
That World exists, the Hall of Wonder too
Is here: make but thine Eye first fit to view,
For 'tis more vast than even Fancy's Span;
And then, as if the World were chrystal, thro'

It shalt thou trace the meaning of the plan!
Then wake, thou young Daydreamer, from thine Eye
Dash the vain teardrop, still life's Duties high
Will yield a nobler World—a surer Way
To Bliss: Life's beaten Highroad, tho' it may
Seem unpoetic, must be trodden by
The true Apostles of Humanity.
Then be not thou ashamed to tread where they
Have gone before thee—the true Poesy
Of Life is in the Heart, and everywhere
This Fount is flowing if thou has the Art
To find it: let not then thine own be dry.
The highest Poetry is that which can
Grasp and sublime the daily Life of Man.
For Man is godlike—what concerns him then
Asks and inspires the sublimest Pen:
Calls for the Poet's heart and Prophet's eye.
Then go, mix with thy Fellownen, go share
Their Sorrows and their Joys: graft thine own Heart
On every Heart, thus as one shall it bear
The Impress of what all together are,
The Godlike—yea, of God himself! then dare
Still to despise the World, yet in it play thy Part!

4.

The Heart should beat in holy unison
With kindred Hearts, as star shines back on star
In the same constellation, which afar,
United, shed a wider Light than one
By one, could singly fling: 'tis Love alone
By which man nears his Maker: far and near,
With his bright zone of beauty, Sphere to Sphere,
World unto World, and Heart to Heart, and Sun
To Sun, he binds; from the Earth's meanest thing,
Yea! from the Worm, by Link and Link, on high
To his Skythrone he mounts, beneath his wing
Gathering all shapes of Being! oh that I

Might win unto my verse his Ministring,
For he can turn e'en dross to Gold of Poesy!

LOVE.

E'en Superstition, when the soul of Love
Hath entered into it, is holy made;
So beautiful, almost it might persuade
Us to believe, that he, who up above
Knows each least heartpulse, would not e'en reprove
The Error and the Ignorance, arrayed
In Faith's pure garb, unconsciously display'd
In forms which God's own word doth disapprove!
The spirit makes the form: and if there be
No Love, 'tis all but idle ceremony
Where no worth is; one prayer will fail of Grace,
Tho' perfect in all points of orthodoxy;
While that which Superstition's forms deface,
Can e'en to these win divine ministry!

DUTY.

Would everyman but of his duty do
A tithe, this Earth were as a Paradise!
Then would the victory be for the wise,
The good, and virtuous, and not unto
The sword and spear, the brutestrong, who undo
Their fellowmen and rend intwain the ties
Which bind all hearts to holy ministries:
Those ministries, which, like pure ore, run thro'
The common bosom of this weekdaylife;
But we do lend ourselves to brutish strife,
Blind tools in a blind hand: we violate
Truth, Justice, Mercy, and ourselves deprive
Of their high blessings, learning, but too late,
That on all sin selfpunishment must wait.

TIME.

Time has as many faces as the year
Has days, or the day hours, every one
Doth vary, even as we look upon
It through the Medium of Hope or Fear;
One sees but smiles, another, naught but sere
And wrinkled traces left by Joys long gone;
The wiseman welcomes each, a Friend unknown
Who for him may good testimony bear,
When every other witness pleads in vain;
Of Judgment's aweful scales one small sandgrain
May turn the balance, and Eternity
By these despisëd fractions man must gain;
'Tis ours to turn the moments as they fly,
To gold that shall pass current up on high!

OLDAGE.

1

Oh bitter Age, that leaves us all alone
On this cold, selfish Earth, e'en as it were
A blighted Tree, while round us young and fair
Are putting forth their Leaves of Joy, o'ergrown
With springtide verdure, in strange contrast shown
With our most sapless boughs: alas! stern care
Grows doubly 'neath the snows of age: 'tis there
He lays his icy Hand on us, and one
By one, the Heart its Joys aside must lay,
Too old to make new Ties: oh let me be
Snatched from this Earth, ere yet the last faint Ray
Of bliss be fled—let me not live to see
The graves of those I love, but pass away
Ripe yet not old, as seasoned fruits drop from the Tree!

2

Oh who would ask the barren boon Years?
That Chrse which selfish souls alone can bear;
When the Heart shut within itself, of Air,

Love's vital Air deprived, no hopes or fears
Save for its own base being feels. Time sears
The noblest spirits most, for these must share
Their Hearts with other Hearts, to live: 'tis there
His gifts are desolation; each Year wears
The Temper of the Soul, and dulls the keen
Edge of enjoyment. true Hearts ne'er survive
The Hearts they love, but like Roseleaves, I ween,
When one has dropt, the rest halfwithered live
But for a Moment and then fall unseen.
Is it to live, when Life's no honey in the Hive?

ON USING THE PRESENT.

Fools that we are, each year ebbs quick away
To the dark Ocean of the Past, and sows
No Seeds of Wisdom on Time's Shore: so throws
The Wave its barren Birth of Noise and Spray
Upon the unproductive Strand: thus aye,
At each Year's End, untaught by former Woes,
We vainly stretch our arms to clutch the shows
Of coming Bliss, as Babes at times would lay
Their young Hands on the Moon, and deem it nigh.
We laugh at them, as tho' forsooth we were
Less Fools than they; but Fate to Mockery
Still turns the puny thoughts with which men dare
To grasp the Future, and a barren lie
Is all Time brings, to teach them what they are!

TRUE STRENGTH.

Wouldst thou know what true strength is? ask of Him,
The great Doubtsolver, He will bid thee look
Back to when Fame from her broad trumpet shook,
With her whole Breathing, names which now are dim,
Whose works are dust, for of their life, a whim,
A selfish glory was the only aim:
And thus they sunk to whence their trophies came!

For those alone which Time approves, by Time
Are spared; look once again, and thou shalt see
Names which Fame's trump scarce deigned to whisper forth,
Grown into types of Glory and of Worth,
To Blessings wide as air; so let it be!
For thus are Truth and Wisdom justified
Of all their children, tho' by fools denied!—

THE GRAVE.

The Grave! what is there in that name to wake
Unpleasing thoughts, or image of decay?
The flowers shun it not, the sweet birds play
And sport around it, why should we then make
Our fancies busy thro' the Earth to break,
And see the fleshless bones that 'neath it may
Be crumbling into dust? oh rather say,
«See, from decay how soon new life doth take
Its natural Being, even so shall we!
A mighty teacher is the Grave; one hour
Spent in a Churchyard, from the world set free,
And all its nothingness, will teach thee more
Of life, and thy own Being's mystery,
Than the vain theories of man's booklore!

POVERTY.

Giver of hidden gifts! sweet Poverty,
Heartchastener, yet in Love: tho' thou art one
That walk'st on Earth unwelcom'd, and men shun
Thy face of veilëd beauty, where we see
But a faintraying glory, as may be
Starlight thro' mists, which seem as tho' they shone
Dimeyed on this cold Earth, where Care has run
With Sin his Rounds, mocking Man's hollow Glee
And lipconstrainëd mirth, yet thou, like these,
Art bright beneath as Truth: the filmy Veil
Which dims, is on the Eye alone that sees

Thee thro' its sensual medium; tho' pale,
'Tis not the curse that dulls the Bed of Ease,
The worn Heart, the Affections false and stale!

THE STREAM.

Here will I stretch me, thou sweetbabbling Stream,
And, listening to thy merry carol, make
My Heart as Light as thine: here will I shake
Off, like a wornout vest, the thoughts, I deem,
Thou never lent'st thy Music to: how gleam
The frolic bubbles on thy wave, and break
Not like Man's fretting hopes, for these no ache
Leave on thy quiet Breast; oh it doth seem
A goodly sight to see thee bounding on
This passing Day, as bright as when the Sun
First lit thy laughing Waters: not one stain
Of least pollution in them, no not one
Sole drop of bitterness; 'gain and again,
Thou minglest with thy Source in Dew and Rain!

ODE ON A GREEK-VASE.

1

Oh! Time, how gently hath thy hand, which falls
So heavy, in its silence, on the Pride
And Pomp of ages, and on Tyrants' walls,
Conveyed this antique Vase, wherein abide
Voices and Echos of a bygone day:
Dreams of the Past, of Glories now no more;
Which, like the murmurs from the seaborn shell,
Haunt it from that far world, from whence its ray
Of Inspiration comes; oh Time thy Power
Has fallen on it with a gentle Spell,

2

A quiet Hallowing, which man's works still
Must wait for, 'till they have become as thine:
'Till thou has taken them from him, to fill

Them with Tradition's magic and entwine
Thoughts of eternal things with passing forms!
Thou hast dealt with this relique of old days,
As with thy lapchild, save of novelty,
Robbing its form of naught; around it plays
The halo of forgotten years, whose storms
Have scathed it not nor marred its tracery!

3

Oh wonderful the spell of Soul, wheree'er
It dwells, in words, or hues, or stone express'd,
A something not of them, yet ever there,
Making the common clay its power attest;
And here Time's fleeting elements are made
The types of changeless, calm Eternity;
Yon brook in silverfoam, that dashes down
Yon suncliff's brow, then flashes thro the shade,
Emblems, in moving immobility,
A changelessness in Nature not its own!

4

And on its Wildflowerbrink a happy band,
Where forth in light it dances from the shade,
As fixed by stroke of some enchanter's wand,
Are seated, where the sunproof boughs have made
A pleasant Covert, lushgrown Eglantines,
With Honeysuckles making sweet the air:
Still dewbesprent and cool, tho' midday shines;
Whence come ye, happy souls, from what far land,
Where never sun shone on a brow of care,
Nor time your hours of bliss e'er marred or spann'd?

5

Ye call unto my thought some pleasant dream,
Which I have had in my own boyish days,
When not yet disinherited we seem

To scatter from our eyes the Heavensrays,
And wear upon our Backs the Angels' wings:
And there ye are, and there ye still will be,
In your own joyous merriment the same,
Howe'er o'er us frail mortals Time may flee,
Bringing and bearing off but earthly things,
Thus warning us to seek a higher aim!—

6

Farewell! yet at some future day I hope
To meet such faces and such smiles as yours,
In a far land that gives us nobler scope
For Being, than this sinworn mould of ours:
A blessed place, where all that's noblest here,
Perfected, purified, shall live again:
Where all the Aspirations, Faculties,
That slept in us, or dimmed by hope and fear,
Shall wake in beauty 'neath those ampler skies,
Realities, not longings formed in vain!

TIME.

1.

'Tis not to measure time, to mark each hour,
Each moment, and each second, as they fly
Upon a Clock: the true Timepiece doth lie
But in the Heart: there let us ask his power
And worth, the use we put him to, what dower
The mighty one has left us: miscry
And barrenness, or selfcontent with high
And holy thoughts, true Honey in life's flower.
For Life is not made up of fourscore years,
Of ninety, or a hundred, but of deeds,
By which Man works his Maker's praise, and rears
A lasting heritage: few years the seeds
Of life eternal want, so Time but bears
Moments wellspent, God asks no more, nor Justice needs!

2.

Alas, shortsighted mortals that we are!
We measure Time but as a part of nigh
And fleeting Time, not of Eternity,
And estimate amiss: thus in the snare
Selflaid we fall: we neither know nor care
To know its relative worth, for erringly
We look but at this «Now:» thus the Mindseye,
Falseruled and used to Dwarfviews, has no Art
To measure true proportion, or compare
Great things with small: and as fond Childhood deems
His Holyday an age, and hives each part
As tho' it were life's all, so too it seems
Man clings to Earth, forgetful of his Dreams
And Hopes sublime, and gives away his Heart
To Mammon for the Dross which idly gleams.

NIGHTSTORM.

1.

There is a breathless stillness in the sky,
But not of rest: the clouds in sullen speed
Are mustering, from all quarters, to some deed
Of darkness, and in Soughs the Winds moan by:
Tis thus the Mind its evil Energy
Summons to some fell Act, yet shrinks in dread
Anticipation of the crime: o'er head
The vault of Heaven darkens momently,
As with a scowl of hate: while Earth below,
Like one intently listening, stirless lies,
Yet quivering with Suspense, ere yet the blow
Descend: but hark! the bosom of the Skies
Is rent asunder, and in headlong flow,
The Entrails of the storm rush forth with hellish noise.

2.

See how the murky clouds are rent in twain
By the indignant Thunderflash, that leaps
Forth to the glorious strife, ploughing the deeps
With light unutterable: then again

Thick darkness shrouds the earth, and the loud rain
Pours down on the mad blast: and now there sweeps,
Such as might dazzle e'en the eye that sleeps
In the still Tomb, a flash that turns the rain
Into a liquid fireshower, a stream
Of diamonddrops, while Earth seems poised in Air,
A Scene of fairy wonders, and each gleam
Reveals her to the sateless sight more fair
In preternatural beauty, 'till she seem
Created out of sights and sounds that never were
Dreamt of in Poet's wildest Phantasy!
Haw far Reality can triomph o'er
Man's dim Conceptions, and the shallow Lore
On which he prides himself: but see, the Sky
Works free from Rack, and the dark Vapors fly,
Like Birds of evil Omen, from the Power
Of kindlier Elements, that now once more
Resume, as due, the shortlived Mastery
Yielded to evil Things: and the mad Wind
But late so fierce, shrinks moaningly away,
In consciencestricken Tones, which seem to say,
«The Deed is finished:» like the evil Mind
That contemplates, when Passions cease to blind,
The fatal Crime, and shrinks from Reason's Sway!

FANCY.

Fancy, sweet Fancy, Balm of every Woe,
Binder of broken Hearts! who liv'st for aye
'Mid Pleasures flown, or Hopes of future Day:
Thou, unto whom the Present, this dark Now,
Is but a Point, a Restingplace below,
On which thy wingëd Feet but seldom lay
Their airy Weight, like Bird upon a Spray,
But with more boyant Spring, from all Earth's low,
Dull Cares to soar, to that Eternity
Of Thought and Hope, thro' which thou lov'st to wing

Thy viewless Flight: to thy true Votary
Thy wonted Aid now grant: around me fling
Thy Magicmantle, bear me up on high,
To where my loved Ones with the Angels sing!

MY BIRTHDAY.

My Birthday! even so: this very Day
This idle Heart began Life's eager Race:
Sixty Pulsations in a Momentsspace!
Is that the Tune to which it beats then?—aye,
But Hope and Fear have stirred it oft: their Sway
Is as a Tyrant's, and must leave some Trace
On the jarred Strings—Despondence too a Place
Has claimed in their wild Revels: oh Life's Way
Lies thro' a Tanglewood, where Fruits of Hue
Most seemingfair grow on Sin's Upastree,
Sighttempting, but within most rank: the true
Are often hard to find, and ill to see,
Not tricked out with a showy Rind to woo
The Sense, they must be sought for earnestly!

TO MY FATHERLAND.

1

My Fatherland, my Fatherland!
Should I ne e'r greet again
Thy slaveuntrod and wavekissed Strand,
My Heart would beat in vain.

2

I love thee with a swelling, deep,
Unutterable Love,
Like the eternal Waves which sweep
And bribeless round thee move.

3

Their Voice, tho' harsh to foreign Ears,
Is Music unto thee,
For who the Waves eternal hears,
Hears God'bid him be free!

4

Freedom looked down on Ocean's brow
And left her Image there,

And in the boundless Mirror now
Undimmed doth it appear!

5

His mighty Voice is to her Ear
The sound she loves the best,
Nor could Man's boundless Hope be e'er
More boundlessly exprest!

6

The very Winds that wake the Wave
Have Freedom in their Sound,
And where they breathe, call forth the Brave
Like Springflowers from the Ground!

7

Then airfree be our Thoughts to smite
The Tyrant and the Slave,
The Poet's heart be bold and light
And bribeless as the Wave.

8

For Thought has then an Edge above
The keenest Glaive: than Light
More swift: when Truth wields it, we prove
Its true immortal Might.

9

My Fatherland! oft on thy Shore
I've called upon the Past
For Oracles, to learn before
They spring, what Seeds are cast.

10

I've gazed upon the far, bright Track
Which thou has left behind
In Time's dark Ocean, and traced back
Thy Energies of Mind.

11

But Fears come o'er me in these Days
Which put in Wealth their Trust,
For Hearts which sordid Gold repays,
Like it, are of the Dust!

12

Once more, once more, snatch up the Brand
Of Truth, which smouldering lies,
And with it kindle in each Land
The Spark which never dies.

13

A flickering Flame at first't may rise
Oft baffled by the Wind,

But soon shall tower to the Skies,
A Firecolumn of Mind!

14

Think'st thou the God, whose Voice first called
Thee from th' Abyss of Time,
Thy smiling Fields with waves has walled
For Safety unto Crime?

15

Not so! he made thee strong and free
And clothed thee with his Might,
That Will with Power should agree,
To work him Deeds of Light.

16

Each Wave that breaks upon thy Shore,
Each Wind that o'er thee blows,
Should waft the Nation's Blessings o'er,
And hallow thy Repose.

17

Mercy should dwell within thy Breast,
Clear Honour in thine Eye,
In Joy and Sorrow alike blest
With a World's Sympathy.

18

A Blessing on thy Fields should fall,
On every Blade of Grass,
And e'en thy very Sorrows, all
O'er thee should lightly pass.

19

Thy voice should be as God's, who gave
His four Winds unto thee,
Like wingëd Ministers, to save,
To succour and set free.

20

The Nations all should seek from thee
An omen of Success,
And crown the Deeds that set them free
With thy unbought Caress.

21

Thy Name should be a Watchword and
A Beacon in the Night,
In War, a streaming Meteorbrand,
In Peace, a Pillar of Light!

22

Ask of sad History's teeming Page
Ambition's vulgar Fate,

What have they earned who with Truth wage,
Time's Scorn, Man's lasting Hate!

23

Wildivy triomphs o'er the Pride
And haughtiest Works of Man,
A few short years, and grass will hide
What Conqueror's began.

24

How silent Nature mocks the poor,
Poor Graspings of Man's Brain,
Thus teaching how his Works endure,
In Birth and End so vain.

25

'Tis Giantworth alone can stand
The Test of Time and Fate,
He is the same in every Land,
His Being has no Date!

26

Tho' Empires fall, and Worlds be rent,
He stands as firm as Heaven,
For with his Might God's Truth is blent,
Time naught to him has given!

TRUE GREATNESS

I love to see a great Man simply great,
With nothing but the Halo of his own
Calm Glory on his Brow to make him known!
What needs the Pomp and Pride of empty State?
The knowing Eye will soon discriminate
Real Worth in whatsoever Guise 'tis shown,
Sublime in Rags or humble on a Throne!
True Greatness still can for itself create
Respect by Life's most common Agencies;
And still its highest Mastery is to
Develop grandly, in each weekday Thought
And Act, the divine Lore with which 'tis fraught,
No Matter what the Means, all, all that lies
Before it, it can turn to uses new:
Trace in Life's vile and trodden Dust the true,
The golden Vein, and work it for the Skies.

For Greatness is not to be more than Man,
But to be Man! And this the meanest can
Become; the noblest Crown is still worn by
The modest Brow of pure Humanity!
The King of Men is he who here below
Is most a Man, and Christ was truliest so,
Then whom to follow ye already know!

REVOLUTIONISTS.

1.

Ye Fools, who with the vilest Things would gain
The holiest of Blessings. Liberty;
The Means destroy the Worth of that ye try
To win, and when acquired make it vain
As Light unto the Blind—ye need not strain
The Nerve, or grasp the Sword: the Victory
She loves, is o'er a nearer Enemy,
E'en your ownselves! And when ye can restrain
Your Passions, then ye have no other Foe,
Then are ye free! But Violence and Blood
Alike unfit ye to receive or know
That Blessing: from within comes all its Good,
But ye are no more in a fitting mood,
The only Source from whence it e'er can flow
Within yourselves, ye have destroyed, nor could
Ye now be free tho' all your Foes lay low!

2.

Wisdom delights in Gentleness, and Thought
Can pass thro' Gates and break the Prisoner's Chain,
When meaner Instruments would work in vain:
It knows no Obstacles, for there is nought
Can check it. as St. Peter once was brought
Forth by the Angel from his Place of Pain,
So to the inmost Prison Thought can gain
Admittance, Thought, the Angel, who has wrought
So many Wonders for Mankind, and still
Works more and more; like to the gentle Light

With its calm Beauty all things doth it fill,
And moulds them by its soft yet Giantmight,
'Till blending all Men's Minds in one pure Will,
It realize all Blessings fair and bright!

ON THE SPIRIT OF REFLECTIVE HUMANITY.

Oh think not that thy Time is thrown away
When gazing on a passing Cloud or Flower;
Nay, even shouldst thou stand fixed for an Hour
To watch a little Child, or Cat at Play
Tho' but with a sere Leaf— there is a Way
Of viewing even these Things, by which more
Real Wisdom may be gained than lies before
The proud Philosopher in many a
Finetitled Quarto— each of these is too
A Leaf in Nature's Volume, which the Eye
Of natural Love alone can read; the true—
-Est Wisdom is a Heart full of all high
And gentle Feelings: so o'erflowingly
Filled with Affection as to stoop unto
The meanest Thing, or spare the Flowers which lie
Before its Path in thousands: they are too
A Wonder of the living God, and by
The feeling Heart not injured wantonly!
Oh well for him, who early learns thus thro'
A comprehensive, deep Humanity,
To view all Things as Objects of one Love,
As comprehended all in him above!
For he who spares the Flower, will not be
Unmoved at Sight of human Misery!
This is the greatest Wealth, all Wealth in one,
And where this is not, trust me there is none!
And oh! deem not these small Things Trifles, this
Is the great Error: for indeed it is
Harder to be in small Things great, than to
Rise now and then to great Things; for to do

This, we must be habitually great,
And such a Habit no man can create
By Fits and Starts: by daily practice he
Acquires it, and this must ever be
Made up of socalled small Things, which we by
Despising make so: but that which calls thy
Best Feelings forth, should not seem small to thee,
Nor will it, if it does, assuredly!

TO A. P.

1

And wilt thou too forget me, Love,
Or deem of me but as of one
Whose Fate with thine no more is wove,
As one whom henceforth thou wouldst shun?

2

Our Vows were Summervows 'tis true,
Their Links were wove in dreaming Youth,
Yet Love the golden Metal drew
Fresh from the glowing Forge of Truth.

3

What tho' rude Time should wear or tine
The mere Gloss at the Surface, still
The genuine Substance 'neath will shine,
Tested, but changed not by Life's Ill!

4

Upon my young, unwithered Heart
Love shed his first, divinest Dews,
And all Life's Honey set apart
Was tinged and flavored by his Hues.

5

And wouldst thou then unkindly turn
Those Sweets to Bitterness and Strife,
Or blight a Heart that still must yearn
With Love towards thee in Death and Life?

6

I dare not, cannot, will not dream
That thy pure Heart has selfish grown,
That from thy Brow a single Beam
Of Immortality is flown.

7

They tell me thou art changed too, Love,
That Care sits on thy oncefair Brow,

100

I know thy gentle Heart must move
With Pity at another's Woe;

8

Yet robbed of all that made thee bright,
Of every youthful Charm and Hue,
Thou art but dearer to my Sight,
Thy Griefs shall make me but more true.

9

For in the Tablet of my Heart
Thy Form still blooms all fresh and fair,
I see not what in Time thon art,
But what thou wert when imaged there.

10

Thus on the Canvass some fair Face
Still smiles undimmed, unfadingly,
When the Original no Trace
Retains to tell of Days gone by.

11

The Love of two pure Hearts is like
A Tune on some sweet Instrument,
'Tis true on different Chords we strike,
But Harmony is in Sounds blent.

12

The Moment they have left the Strings
The Tones are mingled soft in Air,
And blent for aye, like kindred Things
Made each for each, one Being share.

13

Thus shall our Hearts form but one Sound,
One Tune, tho'in a varying key,
In Joy and Sorrow alike found
Still linked in faultless Harmony.

14

And when the Heartstrings cease to beat,
The Magicchords, the Spiritslyre,
Our Souls shall seek their primal Seat,
And in eternal Love respire!

MAKE NO LIFEPLAN.

1.

The Folly of all Follies, in my Eyes,
Is to strive towards one given End: thereon
To set our Hearts and Wishes, as if none,
But that could make us happy: to despise

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For its Sake all the pleasant Way which lies
Betwixt us and our Object: which, when won,
Like a Childsbauble, will soon pall upon
The Sense—so long as unpossessed a Prize
Of richest Seeming, but in Fact, mere Show.
To fret at every Hindrance, for its Sake.
To sweat, and toil, and pucker up the Brow,
This is indeed of fancied Good to make
Real Evil— for the Means away to throw
The End! the Good— the Soul! for which we take
Such idle Pains — the greatest Good below,
And whence the Worth of all the rest must flow.
And if thy Soul be injured, if thy Mind
Be distuned, where wilt thou Life's Music find?

2.

Life's Happiness is never made up by
One Act or Point thereof, it is like to
A viewless Chain, the last Link holding true
Together with the first: Fools only try
To crowd into one Moment Joys that lie
Strewn over an whole Life: the Drop of Dew
Does what a thousands Drops could never do,
Because it does the Needful only! thy
Soul then should do the same — unto the Day
Sufficient is the Good thereof: the Heart
Cannot be more than full— and if, I say,
With daily Bliss thou hast the sublime Art
To keep it so, what need is there then, pray,
By overfilling it to lose a Part?
Or even, (for too great Bliss has its Smart,)
Thus to draw forth the Sting that hidden lay;
For wisely Providence thus makes thee pay
For rash Abuse, to teach thee what thou art.

102

3.

Lay not then out a Plan for Life, nor dream
Of a particular Mode, as that alone
Wherein thou canst be happy, go thou on,
Live thy Life as it comes: least of all deem
Things indispensible which only seem
So to thee, because thou hast fixed upon
That Plan; they are so to that Plan, I own,
But not to Life: to that but little is
So really, else the Poor would have in this
World a sad Lot: whereas by deeming naught
Superfluous indispensible, they miss
It not, but come to value, as they ought,
The truly Indispensible as more
So unto them, and just because so poor
In other Goods: all Situations teem
Alike with Life's best Elements, for by
The Heart we live, and where can that not beat?
And Life's best Elements, what are they? thy
Own calm, contented Thoughts, the sacred Heat
Of gentle Feelings and Affections high;
And where are these best found?— there only Seat
Is in thyself— oh then be consciously
That self, and all that this same Consciousness
Brings with it, that in calm Content possess!

4.

And to do so, strive towards one End alone,
With thy whole Heart and Soul; but let it be
Naught earthly, thus wilt thou move surely on
Towards it, for naught here can hinder thee,
Or check thee in the least— e'en Poverty
And Want, which mar so many a mortal Plan,
Enrich with Means to perfect the «true Man!»
And knowing this, thou mak'st «the Man» thy Care,
The Soul — which perfect, all Things perfect are!

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FAITH.

Yea, there are Griefs, and bitter sufferings
To be endured on Earth, Griefs that might make
Us heavy hearted, and it might be slack
In the good Cause at times, had we not Wings
To lift us from the fret of earthly Things,
And give unto our Souls that which we lack
In this Life's fleeting forms: like the Cloudrack
Which Evening o'er the Sunsetheaven flings,
These are shapemoulded by a higher power
To the Soul's secret Uses: as the sun
Thro' lazyflakëd clouds his light doth shower,
Kindling them into types of things which none
On Earth have e'er beheld, so Faith's high Lore
From Time can draw a timeoutlasting dower!

ALL GOOD SELFDERIVED.

How few Men are all that which they might be!
How few possess themselves, their Souls, or know
What divine Blessings may be made to grow,
Like precious Fruits, where they as yet can see
But Thorns and Barrenness on Life's fair Tree!
With their own Thoughts they can make all Things so,
So lovely— Spring bids not more Dayseyes blow,
With her first Breathings, on some grassy Lea,
Than they can call forth Joys: we ourselves make
The Beautiful we seek for— we must wake
Ere we can quicken that which round us lies.
The Lyre has in itself no Harmonies:
Nor the Seashell no Murmurs, 'till the Ear
Be put to it: and all this fair World here,
With the vast Compass of its Melodies,
Is but as a sweet Lyre, which the Hand
E'en of a Child can easily command:
Is but as the Seashell: the Spirit, by

104

Which it is haunted ever, we can hear
But with the inner Ear, then all the high
And glorious Hymn sweeps on us full and clear.
But we must be first tuned ourselves, for we
Are as a String in the grand Harmony:
For how, oh how! can a jarred String be made
To play its Part, or feel that which is played?
And wisely God has left each human Soul
To tune itself with this stupendous Whole:
This is its End, its Mission 'neath the Sky!

LONDON.

The Heart of mighty England art thou, and
Thy pulses beat unto the Ocean's shore,
Waking tenthousand Hearts that slept before,
Bound with the electric chain of Mind: from Land
To Land thy strong Voice shouts, and Freedom's brand,
Bequeathed us by the glorious race of yore,
Is handed onward, brightening more and more,
Thro' Time's stillchanging mists, by Truth's breath fanned!
O God, grant that this mighty Heart for thee
And Truth alone may beat: that thus for aye,
In every Land and Clime, the good and free
May turn to England her best praise to say,
«Thence was the dawn of Liberty, and we
Walk in the light of a reflected Day!»

FAINTHEARTEDNESS.

The Coward and the Slave alone despair,
The Patriot hopes: for come what may, still he
Is what he will within himself, still free,
In the best Sense of Freedom— Sun and Air
Ripen the backward Fruit: the Tree must bear
If the Soil whence it springs be good and strong:
A generous Cause the Heavens will not wrong,
All natural Influences are with the fair

105

And holy Efforts of the good and wise!
The universal heart beats with them still!
Be man but true unto himself, the prize
Is his already— but Mistrust doth kill.
For where there is no Faith, high Heaven denies
Its miracles, the heritage of steady Will!

ON SELFLIMITING.

1.

That which at first contracts thy Liberty,
Cramps thee in real Life's seemingscanty Space,
Instead of Fancy's wide Domain, will place
Thee in thy Sphere of best Activity,
And make thee in the End more truly free:
Concentrate all thy Powers, and thus brace
Thy Soul to its high Task, untill it face
Its Lot, in calm Content, whate'er it be.
Within its Banks the Stream flows strong alone,
Diffuse it and it stagnates, or grows weak.
Restraint is Freedom's Essence: Limits known
And fixed are needfull that the Soul may seek
Its full Development, attained by none
Who from Man's proper Sphere of Action break.

2.

The highest Greatness which a Being can
Attain, is to be itself, and to this,
God himself, when he made it what it is,
Whatever that may be, Dog, Rose, or Man,
With full Means each has furnished — he then who
Forsakes Man's Sphere, cannot attain to his
True Greatness, nor that only must he miss,
But every other: for 'twould be a new,
Strange Mode of Being to him, and God has
Not furnished him with Means or Powers thereto,
For he ne'er destined one Thing to be two!
How foolish then beyond that Sphere to pass,
Where merely being what insensibly

106

Our Nature leads us to become, we grow
Both great and happy, and so easily,
As scarce the Why or How thereof to know!

TO MILTON.

Milton! I envy thee thy misery,
If such it were, whose Magictouch could turn
The Mortal to a God: for thou didst earn
By soretried faith, thine Immortality!
Sorrow and Suffering bear a meaning high,
And are but veilëd Blessings, tho' in stern
And unseductive garb their worth we learn:
They are Heavensguests, who, welcomed heartily,
A Blessing leave behind, unknown before.
Such did they prove to thee, their noble host,
For from their Lips thou learnd'st a mightier Lore
Than Earth's cold, proud Philosophy can boast:
A balm against all ills, all fond hopes lost,
Its worth the more 'twas used, still growing more!

THE PASSINGBELL.

Hush! hark! whence is yon' Sound that booms along,
Waking deep Echos over Wood and Stream,
Saddening the Scene until its beauty seem
Clouded by some dark Meaning. E'en the song
Of the blithe Nightingale floats on among
The Leaves less joyously: on Fancy's dream
It breaks, like some harsh voice: to few I deem
Is its note welcome, for it wakes a throng
Of buried Phantoms! 'tis the Passingbell,
Speaking of fond ones severed from Love's breast,
And in its tone is anguish: it can tell
Its Tale with Eloquence to match the best
Of Tongues: yet to schooled hearts it sounds no knell,
But calls the wandering thoughts to their high nest!

107

NEMESIS.

What is it that mine Eyes look on?
A bodyless Hand that bears
A Dagger, and upon
Its Blade are Bloodgouts! is't a Dream
That with its fearful Semblance sears
My strainëd Eyeballs, or does that bright Gleam
Flash from a Weapon palpable to Touch?
Dread Nemesis! I know thee: such
The Shape in which from oldest Time
Unseen thou stand'st by thronëd Crime,
And with upraisëd Hand,
Awaiting Fate's Command,
Thy aweful and invisible Stroke
Smites him, e'en then when he has broke
Intwain all Bonds that Fear,
And Policy, and Guile, and Hate,
Had bade him wear;
E'en then, when in his Pomp and State,
A Criminal too vast for Law's weak Grasp,
He treads down Truth and Virtue in the Dust,
And feasts his Ears with their Deathgasp;
As tho' oblivious Rust
Could blunt the Edge of thy dread Steel,
Or thine allviewless Arm could feel
The Palsy of Decay!
Vain Fool! amid the glittering Spears
That compass him around thy Way
Is airfree, no Footfall he hears,
Yet, like his guilty Conscience, thou
Art with him everywhere:
And when he least expects the Blow,
Thine errless Arm is there,
To lay the Tyrant low,
And bid fair Liberty

108

Lift up once more her Banner to the Sky.
'Twas thou didst place in Brutus' Hand
Thy crimeavenging Steel,
And bad'st him save his Fatherland
From Slavery,
He made the haughty Cæsar feel
That Kings like common Men can die.
The first Step o'er the Rubicon,
And by his Side from that day on
Thy aweful Form', veiled from his Sight,
Stood by him in its viewless Might,
In its Shadow aye he stood,
Yet dreamt not of the coming Blood,
'Till the Hourssands had run,
And Cæsar's Life with them was done!
But thou hast other Weapons, nobler far
Than these frail, palpable Tools,
With which to war
Against the Tyrant, who to his vain Car
Would chain Mankind — Pride that befools
And maketh dizzy on the Pinnacle,
Where Fortune leaves her Votary
To look aghast into the yawning Hell
Whence rise the Ghosts of former Crimes,
Dread Shadows of past Times,
To smite his Soul with Agony!
What are the palpable Throes
Of bodily Wounds compared with those
Which Conscience, to thy Service sworn,
Inflicts on Guilt, of every Solace shorn:
What tho' the Tyrant triomph o'er his Foes,
And make the Block holy wiih Martyrsblood,
The one Voice he has quenched shall spread abroad
On the four Winds of Heaven,
And unto every Tongue be given
Some Echo of those Accents high,

109

And from the Martyrsashes, ere they die,
Shall Nemesis her Torch relight!
Thus Death, who lays waste all Things, caunot blight
The Cause of Truth and Liberty;
The Form decays, the Spirit still remains:
The Hope of Oldentimes still passes on,
Flamelike, from Heart to Heart — the Earth retains
Its Lifepower still; so long as sun
Shines on it, and the Rain doth wet,
It will unweariedly beget
All that Industry can ask:
Tho', in Desolation's Mask,
A wide Waste its Bosom secm,
Yet beneath all good Things teem!
Thus in the Human Heart as well,
As long as Faith and Hope do dwell
Within it, good Seeds ever lie,
That soon or late must fructify.
Spite of Cloud and Storm they'll spring,
In their due Season blossoming.
Then let us suffer, for to bear
Nobly is a Triomph fair,
God himself doth calmly wait,
Then let Mortals imitate!
Do their Duty, let it cost
What it will, tho' all be lost,
And setting selfish Fears aside,
By Wisdom's self be justified.
Mankind, like Shadows, pass away,
Yet still the mighty Heart for aye
Beats on, and every fleeting Year
Brings us to the Goal more near,
Still it glows with holier Fire,
And the pure Ether doth respire,
Of Love and wise Humanity,
Embracing in its Sympathy

110

Every Form of Being here,
Least and greatest, in its Sphere.
Thus Truth wins her Victories bright,
Not by brute, material Might,
But by opening up, more wise,
Men's Hearts to all high Sympathies!

THE STRANGERSBURIALCORNER.

Tread lightly Stranger, for the Brokenheart,
In nameless rest, is slumbering 'neath thee here!
And tho' the grass be greener than elsewhere,
'Tis rank with cold Forgetfulness, whose smart,
Like Adder's sting, seeks out the tenderest part
Of the poor breast it wounds — no friendly Tear
Has watered this lone grave, nor true Love e'er
Strewed its vain Offerings, with simple art
Cheating a cureless woe: could that lone grave
Find but a voice, how much of Poesy
And Pathos it might wake! how many a brave
And injured one may here forgotten lie,
Seeking in Death from the World's Scorn to save
A broken Heart to Immortality!

THE BEST MEANS FOR WORKING OUT GREAT BLESSINGS.

How would ye work out grand Results, save by
The most familiar Means? or how would ye
With Profit rouse Men's Hearts to feel and be
The Godlike which they are, if not by steadily
Subliming, purifying, what is high
Within them, by the Aid of all they see
And hear? the commoner the better, the
'More certain then will be its Agency,
'Till Repetition to fixed Habit grow:
But by the daily Beatings of the Heart,
The Hopes which leaven, lighten here below
Man's daily Bread? sublime but these, impart

111

To these Religion's allennobling Glow,
'Till, like the common Air we breathe, it flow
Thro' his whole Being, leaven into Food
Fit for the Angels' Lips his daily Bread,
Then commonest Things will most subserve to Good,
For in them at all Moments may be read
The sublime Lesson thus made present to
Men's Minds, in all they think, hope, feel, and do;
A daily Warmth within the Heart to keep
Its best Affections, Energies, in still
And quiet Action, yet intense and deep,
Like that upon the Householdhearth, around
Which so, so many Blessings meet, to fill
Not with intoxicating, but profound
Delights the wise Heart which has learnt to bound
Itself to that best sphere, which itself can
Fill out and perfect — by these Means alone
Are great Results to be accomplished — Man
Is benefitted, bettered thro 'his own
Most daily Thoughts and Feelings only, by
His most familiar Impressions; these
Once in your Power, you mould him as you please,
The Drudge of Earth or Angel for the Sky!
The Fool alone wants Means, and hopes by rare
And farfetched Methods to work out great Things,
Neglecting those, which like the common Air,
Abound on all Sides: not so Wisdom brings
Her Plans unto Perfection, for she knows
That God, who has supplied the meanest Flower,
Nay e'en the crawling Earthworm with full Power
Its Being to fulfill, has not left those
Unfurnished whom he fashioned for the Sky,
After his divine Likeness, and that when
He gifted Man with Mind and Heart, he gave,
Summed up in these, all Goods which he could have;
All that was needful in the narrowest Span

112

Of human Life to form «the perfect Man!»
And with what wouldst thou fuse the Hearts of Men
Into one godlike mighty Heart, save by
The daily Warmth which their own Breasts supply?

THE SKYLARK.

Sweet Bird, thy Heart within is as thy strain,
And from my breast it shakes all withering cares,
As the winds do sere leaves, when springtide airs
Stir in the trees and wake life's sap again.
It seems unnatural to think of Pain
When listening to thy music, for it bears
No meanings dark, no feverish impulse shares,
Echos no idle fears, or hopes as vain.
It sounds as blithe as on that primal Day
When first thy young wing bore it up the Sky,
To the blue depths where Sorrow has no sway,
Nor mortal fret intrudes, nor fears to die!
Thus in thy perfect innocence Man may
Learn a deep lesson of Morality!

RELIGION.

Religion, thou art rarely seen below
Such as pure Faith delights that thou shouldst be:
Led by thy Handmaids, meekeyed Charity
And patient Love: but in thy Stead we bow
To a foul Idol, fashioned from the low
And earthly Passions which Men sanctify
And worship with thy Name, a gilded Lie,
Which yet 'tis Sin to doubt: and Time can show
Full-many a Martyr to the ready Hate
Of this false Deity, whose Altars reek
With frequent Blood of such as dare to seek
Salvation their own Way; for 'tis the Fate
Of Truth to pass oft for a Lie, so weak,
Where Superstition reigns, is her Estate!

113

HOPE.

Hope is the only Mistress who repays
Us ever with like Love! and tho' it be
That she may leave us for awhile, yet we
First rudely scare her; in our darkest Days
She comes to share our Grief, and soft doth raise
The dim Veil from her Brow, and lo! we see
The wellknown Features smiling modestly,
On which nor Time, nor Pain have left a Trace!
And even when Age turns our Hair to gray,
And all the World's false Joys forsake us quite,
She, still unwearied in her Love, doth stay,
And growing ever fairer to our sight,
In all her Plenitude of youthful charms
Returns a Virgin still unto our Arms;
And when on the Gravesbrink the last Embrace
She gives, an Angel soars up in her Place!

THE FREEMAN.

Who is the freeman? — he that in his pride
Of heart exalts himself above his kind,
And in selfglory's sanctity enshrined,
Is his own idol? he whose wishes wide
Embrace a universe, yet cannot hide
The seeker's poverty! or such as find
Their Deity in wealth, or not less blind,
In Earth's brief pleasures? Truth will not abide
With these vile slaves to fancied Liberty,
Whose Circe-cup transforms them into Brutes,
Yet leaves no sense of their deformity.
True freedom in such Soil as this ne'er roots,
But in subduëd Will, Selfmastery,
The Empire of the Breast, 'tis there she yields her fruits!

114

ON FAVOURTAKING.

Ye think it godlike to refuse a Favour!
'Tis still more godlike to accept it: yea!
To meekly bow thy Head, nor turn away
E'en from a Beggar's Kiss! for thus the Power
Of Good in us is strengthened, and the more
From others we receive, the more we may
Ourselves bestow, and in all Love display
The Gratitude, which, garnered up in our
Own inmost Heart, at length will overflow
In all kind Actions: 'tis not Virtue to
Refuse a favour, 'tis false Pride, e'en so
Its baneful Tendrils twine around the true
Stem of all virtues: how else can we show
And foster Love, save by affording new
Occasions unto Gratitude? it grew
From Acts of kindness, and begets as due
After its kind; but he who will take no
Kindness, shuts up its Fount, and none will do.
We should receive from others all we may,
And do all in our Power to repay
Their Love: when not to their ownselves, to those
Whom Heaven in our Path on Purpose throws
To keep alive Man's Gratitude: would all
But do all for each other, and receive
All from each other, ready at each call,
How lovely would all Hands be joined, the small
As able as the greatest, then to weave
The web of human Happiness! therein
Each least, least Thread of Being right to blend:
All, all in Joy and Harmony to spin
Together to one high and sublime End:
To clothe the Earth with human Blessedness
As with a Garment, an enduring Dress
Of Beauty, to form which each Thought should tend,

115

The Child's and the Philosopher's, the Maid's
And Matron's, for none, none e'er work in vain:
Each brings that which the other wants, and aids
It to Perfection, 'till the whole shall gain
A blended charm, like sunset as it fades!

THE MIND'S ALLSELFSUFFICIENCY.

What tho' the limbs be fettered, Heaven's light
Shut out from the dim Eye? can tyrant's art
In its vain mockery inflict a smart
Like that he feels within him? can his Might
Rob the pure soul of that which renders bright
E'en the dim Prison's gloom, an upright heart
Where crime and selfdisturbance have no part?
It is not so! Faith's glance can put to flight
Legions of nether Ill, and in his breast
Man can create an Eden where on high
And heavenly hopes his wearied Heart may rest,
Transforming Time into Eternity!
There may he taste true Freedom, still more blest
Than those who scorn him, for he scorns them equally!

WISDOM.

Forth from the Scabbard pluck th'indignant Blade,
The best of Umpires since the only one;
Lo! Nemesis herself now beckons on,
And in her Hand th' avenging Steel is made
By Justice, forged in Truth's own Flame to aid
Man's Rights against the proud usurping Throne.
Hold! hold! a viewless Angel lays upon
Thine Arm his Hand as gently to dissuade,
And lo! the Sword is shivered like a Reed!
List, Mortal, «Vengeance is the Lord's,» and thy
Brute Aid not even here doth Wisdom need
In aught, e'en if 'twere possible that by
Such means she could attain aught pure or high!

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In Peace and Love's deep Soil she sows the Seed
Of during Blessings— and her Watchword is,
'Twixt Man and Man, of Brotherlove a Kiss;
And when from Lip to Lip this Token speed,
Then will my Form grow clearer to thine Eye,
Yea! Mankind will itself become indeed
The Angel that now warns the viewlessly,
Transformed to that, when from its Errors freed,
An Angel of pure Peace and Charity!

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

O God! how holy is a Mother's Love,
How fair, for by an Emphasis of Right
It is the Love of Loves: there is no sight
In all this dull, cold World, that so may move
The Sense of beauty, since by it we prove
Our Nature not all selfish; and its Might
So deep, selfsacrificing, changeless, bright,
Melting into the softness of the dove,
Yet blent with more than Man's proud Energy,
When peril hovers o'er her young one's nest:
She hears not, feels not, fears not, has no Eye
Or Heart for aught but this, and deems her blest
By her Babe's slightest Glance or greeting Cry,
Beyond all Joys that Earth esteemeth best!

THOUGHT.

Thou art unhappy? yet wherefore I pray?
Thou need'st not be so one sole moment more
Than thou thyself deem 'st fit; thou hast the Power
To think: bring but thy Thoughts beneath thy Sway,
And thou wilt have an Empire wide as Day:
He who is pinched by his own Thoughts is sore-
Bestëd indeed, yet all he bears and bore,
Will melt like vain Dreams from his Mind away,
If one bold Thought into the Magicring

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But step, where Foolopinion spellbound lies,
Like Sprites at Daybreak, all his Whims take wing.
He is the worst Slave who from his Mindseyes
By Force of Thought the Bandage cannot fling
By Fancy bound, that she her Juggleries
May thus play off and distort everything.
Diseases of the Mind a Thought can heal,
As a Thought caused them, and to be a King
Of Self, that is to be a King indeed,
'Tis only needful so to think and feel,
Thine own Thoughts are the neverfailing Seed
Of all real Ill and of thy godliest weal!

MOONLITCHURCHYARD.

How sweet the Moonlight sleeps upon that Grave!
Nor could it find a fitter place of rest,
Pouring a flood above its grassy breast
Of Heaven's purest light! methinks I have
Beheld no lovelier scene. Yon' yewtrees wave
With whispering murmurs at the wind's Behest,
As if to bless the spot: I scarce breathe, lest
A Sound should break the holy calm, where save
Myself nought stirs, and yet there's nought of Death.
All gloom is scattered by the calm, pure light,
E'en as a Mother s soft kiss steals the Breath
Of her dreamtroublëd Babe. Oh holy Sight!
My heart could almost wish to sleep beneath
Yon' grassy turf, it looks so green, and lies so light!

PROPORTION.

Proportion! 'Tis therein that Wisdom shows
Her Mastery; for she can mingle so
Conflicting Feelings that from thence shall flow
Bliss pure and perfect as an Angel knows!
Each passing Day into Life's goblet throws
Some fresh Ingredient of Joy or Woe,

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And yet the whole tastes to her lips as tho'
'Twere Nectar mingled for a God's repose!
The Hope of things to be, the Memory
Of Past, the Sense of Present, mixed well, make
The genuine draught of Immortality:
An Elixir far mightier than Medea's
To keep us ever young: to cure each ache
Of the poor Heart, and turn to smiles its tears!
For he who drinks it makes his Being whole,
Lives not in Time or Space, but in the Soul,
And yielding nothing to the jealous Years,
Reaches, ere yet this race be run, the Goal!

THE VILLAGEGREEN.

1.

Oh I do love to see the Villagegreen
On a calm Summersevening, when the glare
Of Noon has melted off, and in the air
The dewy Star shines forth with modest sheen,
To call the peasant home: for rest, I ween,
From wholesome toil is sweet, and those who are
Compelled to labour for their bread, may share
An hour of harmless merriment, which e'en
The sated eye of wealth, with all its scorn,
Might see with Envy: for there is a spell
In pure enjoyment that can ne'er adorn
The hollow Joys of Pomp, which seem to tell
Of inward barrenness, a Heart all worn,
That ne'er has known the bliss of doing well!

2.

Alas! such happy scenes are but too rare
In our once-merry England: now no more
Around the Maypole, as in Days of yore,
The Maidens weave their dance, but hollow Care
Sits on the poor man's cheek, and on the Air,
Instead of merriment, from Town to Tower,
A voice of sorrow speaks, and brows do lower

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That should be clothed with smiles: alas! we are
A selfish generation, bowed to Earth
Beneath the burthen of our misery,
Toilers in Mammon's mine, whose very mirth
Is feverish, false, unholy: 'till Faith's high
And undiurnal thoughts again have birth,
And Charity arise, there is no remedy!

SUNSETSCENE.

1.

And deem'st thou us, oh God, fit to look on
This glorious Vision, worthy of the Eyes
Of Angels? yes, for surely Paradise
Could show naught fairer— lo! the Settingsun
'Mid Clouds is sinking, and the Peak of one
Vast towering Mass is burning with rich Dies,
Like fiery Crater, and o'er all the Skies
Its Glow is sent, while ever and anon
The Cloudlets floating o'er it melt away
In Gold and Purpledrops— And now 'tis gray,
Like an extinct Volcano! silent fade
The Fragments of the Pageant to the Lay
Of Eveningbirds, as if their Music swayed
Its Motions, and interpreted by Aid
Of Sound the Eye's still Harmony — lo! Day
Dies out— the glowing Ashes in Nightsshade
With Dews are quenched, and all this rich Parade
Dissolves in Air, like some vain Dream, for aye!

2.

And yet but one brief Moment past' twas there
In all its Loveliness, as tho' the Sky
Would have preserved it ever, and the Eye
Halfdoubting seeks the Place, yet vainly, where
The Vision stood: alas! it was too fair
To last, too fair for Man's dim Eyes, and by
Creative Nature shown thus momently:
Ethereal Landscape! too divine to bear

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Aught save the skywardsoaring Fancy's Tread
Or Angel's Footing, but not this dull weight
Of earthly cares, which bows each mortal Head!
Yet let us gaze, as if Time out of Date
It had been, and would still be for us spread:
Fill thy Heart with its Blessedness, instead
Of mourning the brief Lease allowed by Fate
To human Bliss, thus will thy Soul create
From perishable Shapes of Joys soon dead
That which abides— call up the Spirit of
Past Bliss, freed from all Earthliness, above
The reach of Change, a perfect Angel led
By Faith and Fancy for the Form that's fled!

TO NAPOLEON.

Napoleon! thou art a lasting Brand
And Stigma on man's name: his destinies
Were at thy bidding, yet thou couldst despise
The godlike power to bless, redeem: thy hand
Was on the golden key of that fair land,
The land of promise, and the nations' eyes
Were strained to see their Morningstar arise
On Time's horizon: but with Magicwand
Ambition touched thee, and thy features grew
Into the likeness of a Fiend: thus all
The hopes of worlds betrayed, like leaves that strew
The Earth unseasonably, fade and pall!
But from their dust shall spring a harvest true,
Of selfderivëd hopes: their Trust, thy glory's Fall!

FOREIGN CATHEDRALTHOUGHTS.

O God! amid this timehued pile, by thee
And thoughts of thee made holy, let me bow
And ask thy blessing: tho' it be not now
For worship that I enter, yet to see
Aught that awakes the faintest memory

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Of what thou art, effaces every low
And earthward Thought, and stirs the inward flow
Of feelings that but slept awhile, to be
But stronger at their waking: and tho' here,
Not with the words that from my Mother's tongue
I learnt to offer thee, thy praise be sung:
And tho' the forms be not such as I hear
In my own Fatherland, yet still among
Thy servants it is sweet to pray, and feel thee near!

POVERTY.

Poor Man, seest thou not that the scant, coarse Bread
Whereon thou liv'st is Manna from the Sky,
That the unyielding, stern Necessity
Whose grudging Hand has hardly furnishëd
The food by which thy little ones are fed,
Is but a disguised Angel? verily
It is so! wilt thou see it with Faith's Eye,
Thy scanty board shall seem a table spread
For Angels' Visiting: yea, they are there,
As surely as thyself and Children! lo!
Thou wantest nothing: nay, thou hast to spare,
A Breadcrust to the Beggar who may go
Past thy poor Door, a Kiss of Love to show
Thy Gratitude to God, who sent him where
Two Mouths may be by one same morsel fed,
For where Love is the Table's richly spread!

ASPIRATIONS AFTER THE IMPOSSIBLE.

1.

Vain Aspirations, that on faltering wing
Uplift your rash and heavenscaling flight
Into that Air where none may breathe: such height
But preludes deeper downfall: ye can bring
Back unto Earth and to Earth's puny King
No vaster Bliss than suits his bounded Might
And frail Capacity: the heavenslight

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Is not for these frail mortal Eyes! each thing
Is perfect in itself and boasts its own
Particular charm, each moment bears upon
Its wings some shape of bliss, and ere 'tis flown,
Be wise and pluck, or else the Rosebloom's gone,
And Dis sappointment's barren thorn alone
Remains, to sting the Heart, when «All is known»!

2.

What is to live? to live each moment's space,
With these to build up thine Eternity,
For still 'tis made of moments: as they fly
To hive their honey: not in the vain chace
Of coming pleasures' fancygilded race,
Mere sunbeammotes, to let the present die
And wither on Time's stalk unplucked. Oh why
Are we not Children still? why from the face
Of Nature do we turn away or gaze
With sated eyes, why do we Live no more
Unto the moment's bliss, as in the Days
Of Childhood, when Life's seasonable flower
We gathered and were blest, and in its Place
Sprang new ones, seeds of that plucked just before!

3.

Alas! what is it in this world that makes
True happiness a name, an airbuilt dream?
O'erbusy in the search, on life's dark stream,
Chained to Hope's oar, we toil and toil, 'till breaks
The last wave on Time's wreckstrewn shore, and wakes
Us with its Shock to catch the flickering gleam
Of Hope's expiring torch, the spectral Beam
That lights us to the Grave: while o'er life's wrecks
The thundering surge of dark Eternity
Breaks like the wave o'er bubbles! Oh! awake,
Seek not to grasp the Future lest it fly
E'en as a shadow from thy clutch, a snake
Which in our Bosoms cherished, long will lie;
With the Heartsblood at length its thirst to slake!

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NECESSARY LINKING OF GOOD WITH GOD.

One Angel brings another, one good Thought
Another! as when in the Spring we see
One flower we know that all the rest will be
Soon there in sweetest fellowship, as brought
Forth by one breath of Love, and as is wrought
The Beauty of the Spring by these, so we
Feel all of Heaven drawing silently
Around us, when our Souls a ray have caught
Of one high Fancy: like a smile sent down
From Angel's Face, soft in the Ether clear
Melting away, 'twixt two white cloudlets shown:
So distant, yet to Fancy so, so near,
That we stretch forth our hands, and lo! anon
Are floating with him thro' his own blest sphere!

PRAYER.

How glorious the Anthem peals on high,
Fit music for th' eternal God, and wakes
Thoughts not of Time, as up the roof it breaks
In wavelike Harmonies: yet sweeter I
Still deem the fervent voice that seeks the Sky
In halfbreathed whispers: this from Heaven takes
By sweet compulsion what it asks, yet makes
No vain Display of Speech, as if God's Eye
And Ear were dull as Man's! what tho' the voice
Breathe not my native accents? yet the name
Of God is sweet in every tongue, the same
In every clime, and hearing we rejoice.
All Prayer is welcome to him, if free choice
Prompt it, if his good pleasure be the aim!

ON GHIBERTI'S GATES TO THE BAPTISTERY AT FLOBENCE.

Worthy to be the Gates of Paradise!
To be? they are! for he who enters here

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With pure Heart and with Conscience free and clear,
Dead to the World and all its Vanities,
Which now without those doors forgotten lies,
Hath entered into Heaven! for his Ear
The mortal voices hymning faintly near
Are turned to swelling Angelharmonies,
And as he kneels, no Image of vain Stone
Bends mutely, but the Saviour's self instead,
Consoling and exalting! lo! all's gone!
Walls, Altar, Dome, all, all has vanishëd,
The Outward, Visible, which was alone
As the Foretemple, like a Dream, hath fled,
And the eternal Soul alone abides,
Its own best Temple, vast, unlimited,
Where we adore the Spirit which resides
Within, no Semblance, but the true Godhead!

THE CHURCHYARD.

It was an Eve of Summer's gentlest mood,
And the slope sun smiled o'er with lingering ray
An old Churchyard that in a green nook lay
Far from all stir of worldliness. I stood
Wrapt in its holy beauty, for a flood
Of golden Light on the cold graves did play,
And they were cold no more, but seemed to say,
«We are not that ye deem us, to the good,
The grave is peace, and life, and liberty.»
And my Heart answered «yes:» wherefore I know
Not, but that «yes» was echoed by a sigh!
Haply 'tmight be that tho' the soul thus glow
At thoughts of life eternal, yet to die
In the frail flesh wakes still some shuddering throe!

OCCASIONS OF GREATNESS.

The great Soul needs no opportunities
To show its Greatness, it creates them: takes

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Earth's commonest Materials, and makes
The Poesy of Life from them to rise
Pure as the Muse's fountain; that which lies
Before thee, 'tis therein that Wisdom wakes
The soul of Good oft dormant, 'till it breaks
Forth like the Flame whose unspent Energies
Lurk in the Embers, which the careless eye
Perceives not! thus by divine Sympathy
One Soul awakes another seemingdead.
Thine own Heart can impart a Value high
To things most mean, by thousand Channels spread
The noblest Blood of its best Artery!

PRAYER.

O God! from whom all holy Blessings are,
And chiefly those Chiefblessings, a pure heart
And humble, grant that I may set apart
My Soul, a shrine to thee: that as the air
Receives the Light, so may my spirit share
The light of Truth: grant me in every part
Of manyfeatured life that better Art,
To love myself in thee, aright to bear
Its seeming Ills: for these too, like the Bee,
Have Sting and Honey, as we bear them we
Taste this or that! so shall the Thought of Thee
Attune my Heart, tho' fallen on evil days,
Like the keynote of some high minstrelsy
That runs thro' all the strains: and when thy ways
Seem dark and intricate, oh let me be
Led by that better light which ne'er betrays!

SORROW.

Oh Sorrow, holy Sorrow, thou hast shown
Me thy whole Face, and lifted quite thy Veil,
And tho' thy Features may be somewhat pale,
Yet Beauty like to thine I ne'er have known!

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Oft with a secret Trembling have I flown
From thy veiled Presence, but now thy least Tale
Or passing Sound of Voice can never fail
To stay my Steps and tune them to thine own!
The noblest Things are deepest— not upon
The surface found, but like the Pearl, below,
And oft uncouth in semblance; they alone
Whom thou hast sobered but not saddened, know
That e'en to thy pale Forehead may be own
Such Smiles as o'erflushed Joy could never show!
Nor are thy Tears all bitter ones: oh no!
But these alone are left thee to express,
Yet how imperfectly, thy Consciousness
Of the Unspeakable, which in thy woe
Revealed itself first to thee, still and deep,
Like to some solemn Vision in sweet Sleep:
An opening up into Eternity
When hoped for least, a full Glance from the Eye
Of God himself, a Recognition clear,
When like to Moses in the fiery Bush
He stood revealed in all his Majesty,
For purified by Grief, thou thyself wert
No longer earthly: the diviner Part
Had triomphed, and in that thy God drew near,
The primal Likeness stamped within thine Heart
In its old Glory did again appear;
But of the Godlike which filled thee, a Tear
Of Wonder only to thine Eye could start!
The Noblest, Godliest, we cant express
But only be: its sublime Consciousness
Imprints itself on all we think and do,
Its only Utterance a whole Life thro'!
Like the Earth's Centrewarmth it works unseen,
Save in the countless Blessings which have been
Caused by it, in the Flowers and Fruits with which
It makes her else bare Surface so, so rich!

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FANCY.

Oh Fancy, what sweet offices, what bright
And holy missions hast thou! 'tis thy power
That lights the damp and darkling dungeon's floor
As with a Heavenray, and by that light
The sad and sinking Prisoner calls to sight
The fresh, green Fields and Hills he wandered o'er
In happy boyhood, and the home no more
His Eyes shall look on; and in Fancy's Might
His clanking Chains fall off, his Heart is free,
Far 'bove the petty Spite and baffled Hate
Of his oppressors, and all memory
Of what he is, snatching from bitter fate
An hour of rapture: e'en the outward Eye
Sublimed, the Spirit helping to create!

THE BURIAL.

I've stood upon the dark and fearful Brink
Of the deep Grave, and heard the cold earth fall
Crumbling, above the breast of what was all
We love, revere— oh how it makes one shrink,
That dust! it seems to break the last fond Link
With which hope cheats the heart, and tho' so small,
Yet 'tis the last of those that still may call
Up thoughts not quite despair: howe'er hope think,
There is in that sad sound I know not what
Of agony, that like an icy grasp,
Clutches the struggling heart and to the spot
Forces the Eyes, like Stone: 'till the Breast gasp
For the poor boon of life: 'tis a dread Lot
To see our loved ones thus, and think that they are not!

TRUE STRENGTH WHAT? LATIMER.

1.

Behold yon' oldman bound unto the stake,
His gray Locks stirrëd by the wind, and bare

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His sacred body to the flames which are
Unwilling Instruments, and for his sake
Lose all their terrors: know ye whom ye make
To suffer, whom ye with the Martyr there
Have bound, his pangs and triomph high to share?
Who is it that the oldman's form doth take?
'Tis Christ himself! yea! for himself hath said,
That whatsoe'er of Good or Ill ye do
To the least of his flock, that it unto
Him, as if present there, is offerëd;
Since all the Faithful form in Union true
One Man with Christ, for that high End he bled!

2.

Chains are not srength, nor armëd hosts! see there,
Ye blind Tools in Godshand, who do not know
From whence ye come, or whither 'tis ye go,
Or what ye labour at! he who can bear
The cross of Christ, yet faint not, nor despair,
Is mighty, yea! as Christ, and shall lay low
With nothing but the Cross each earthly foe;
For he is no more single: Legions are
Embattled 'neath the Standard which he shows,
Whose power can enlist not sword or spear,
But Thoughts and Hearts of Men, which he who knows
To win atchieves a Victory bright and clear;
The Heart which his one Bosom doth enclose
Is many Hearts in one, yea! all Hearts here!

EARTHSWISDOM.

Amid the Leaves, yon wingëdGem of air,
The firefly, sparkles, with his paley light,
Shedding a halo faint, that to the sight
Scarce makes him visible, as if he were
A Miser hoarding his frail lamp with care.
Methinks in this poor insect, read aright,
An emblem of that selfish prudence might

129

Be found, which 'mong the Sons of Men doth bear
The name of Wisdom, tho' it scarcely throw
Light on the narrow circle of its own
Moletrack: oft wanting found e'en in the low
And grovelling paths of earthly Gain alone.
True Wisdom, like the Star above me now,
With catholic and alldiffusëd light doth glow!

PRAYER.

1.

Wilt thou not send an angel from his Sphere
To stand beside me, and inspire my Song,
To urge it like a Prophet's soul along;
God let it be so, let him fill mine Ear
With accents like to those, to which when near
Thy throne, one of the everquiring throng,
He strikes his divine harp! yet I do wrong
Thy Goodness much: for do we not all hear
Far more than an Archangelsvoice? yea! thy
Own voice, within us, in its own calm wise
Filling us, like a gentle Breath, and by
The Soul's deep Language deigning to reply,
To comfort and console, when fears arise,
Best Oracle! which in our own heart lies!

All Prayers conducive really to our Good
God grants, and willingly: yet not always
In the same sense we ask, nor in the days
When most we hope them, nor by means we should
Have looked for; all things are but as the mood
In which we take them; Blessings have no place
Within a Heart devoid of divine Grace,
E'en tho' they were the choicest Heaven could
Bestow on man. Oft in our bitterest woe,
When least we think our prayers are heard, they are
Already registered above — and lo!
Like the Moon under Clouds, Light from afar

130

The soul receives, which silently doth grow,
'Till its full Brightness clouds no more can bar!

VENICE.

1.

Fair Venice! scarce less fair than in the pride
Of better Days, when glory's golden Wing
Fanned thy victorious Waves, and Earth would ring
With thy most high exploits, for still abide
The relics of the Past: Time cannot hide
All traces of thy Majesty, nor bring
Such memories low; and tho' a forlorn Thing,
Yet hast thou tenfold Might to stir the Tide
Of holiest sympathies: oh it would need
A Heart of stone to see thee and not weep,
Thus sinking 'neath harsh Desolation's tread,
A dim Sunset into old Adria's Deep,
Whence thou erst rose, a Dayspring on the Sleep
Of Worlds benighted, Heroes, Commerce, Arts to breed!

2.

Yes, thou didst spring a fair and goodly Tree,
Of many Centuries' growth, and 'neath thy shade
The Nations sat; yet have we seen thee fade
With scarce enough of life and memory
To mourn the thing thou art! and on thy high
And haughty dwellings patriotgrief has made
His sad memorials, in wrath has bade
The dumb Walls curse the Tyrant! it doth weigh
Like some misshapen Dream upon the Mind,
Too huge for Grasping, and we turn away
From the dim Vision of our Thought, and try
In mere Reality Relief to find,
But lo! it rises sadder on the Eye,

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And stands before us, Fact and Phantasy!

3.

And when we have o'erpassed the narrow Space
Of Waters, which that City round Embrace,
And sever in real Fact unto our Sight,
As to our Fancy it stands severed quite
From common Things, unique in Time and Place,
It seems not as if we had passed alone
Those few Miles, but as if a Gulf were thrown
Betwixt us and the World— yea, it doth seem
As if from real Life into some strange Dream
We had just stepp'd: as if the Present were
Forgot, and in its Place the Past stood there:
We lose all Consciousness of Self, and as
Spectres ourselves, 'mid Spectres onward pass,
Like our own Shadows: real Existence seems
Something we cannot grasp, a Life of Dreams!

Alluding to the touching Mementos on the Palacewalls, such as «verrà il Giorno:» «non Nobis.» etc.

ON SELFSEEKINGNESS.

1.

Care not thou merely for what is thine own:
Thine own House, Children, Fortune, Family,
Nor even thine own Land alone: for by
So doing thou wilt lessen, tho' unknown
To thee, that which thou cherishest alone;
Thy little Stream of kindly Acts, of high—
-Er, nobler Thoughts and Cares, tho' seemingly
In the vast Ocean ever rolling on
Of human Affairs lost, will yet someday
Be in sweet Dews repay'd to the Springhead,
Which without these were dry: altho' it may
Seem as the Source were in thyself, 'tis fed
By means to which thou hast contributed
But little; from the years long fled away

2.

Before the Flood, from such far Sources flow
The daily Blessings which make Life so dear:

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How much hast thou contributed to rear
True Freedom's holy temple, in which now
Thou worshipest, and liv'st, and breath'st, as tho'
It had been ever thus; and yet whose were
The Hands that lay'd the Cornerstone? which ne'er
Had been thus firmlyfixed had all thought so
As thou dost: labour then for others' Good,
'Tis but a surer Mode to reach thine own;
Of Man's high Heritage how little would
Fall to thy Share, hadst thou that part alone
Which thou thyself hast added; everyone
Is with the wealth of all Mankind endowed!

3.

Do all for all Men! let not one pass by
Thy Door unaided: and if thou hast naught
Besides to give, give that which all men ought
And can, a Debt due to Humanity;
For none should be so poor as to deny
A Kiss of Love, a Blessing, which have wrought
Oft far, far greater Good, than those have thought
Who gave them: for the truest charity
Is that of Heart to Heart! let thy Soul blend
With others, as Star blends with Star to light
The Heavens; not 'till all men's minds unite
Can Life's great Blessings mingle to one End.
Beat but the universal Heart aright
And to thine also Health and Strength 'twill lend,
For is not thine a pulse of it, a Vein
That bears the Lifeblood to it, and again
Receives it thence, more noble and more pure
By this Commingling for the common Good?
But if each Vein no longer bear its Blood
To the great Heart, Disease beyond all cure
Will seize on it, and these must perish too
With that from whence their Nourishment they drew!

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ON WESTMINSTERABBEY.

[1.]

In this vast pile, amid the mighty Dead,
Eight centuries of Glory, I have caught
An inspiration from their tombs. I've thought
On the old Days, when, in the organ's stead
That dies in feeble echos o'er my Head,
The mighty voice of an whole people sought
The presence of its God, and upward wrought
As it would rend the roof: and as I tread,
Methinks the spirit of old times doth wave
His dusky wings above my pensive brow,
And like a solemn voice from out the Grave
Thrills coldly at my Ear, «Time, Time lays low
The mighty from their seats: spares nought: nought, save
Worth's memory, and what thou look'st on now!

2.

This pile was built when Faith sprang from on high
And still worked Miracles, in Days of yore
When warm Enthusiasm's fullest power
Swayed the untutored Heart, and men would die
For their forefathers' creed devotedly:
The growth of Centuries, and by the dower
Of many generations built, not poor
In works of Faith, that to Eternity
Witness Religion's Might; but this old Creed
Has passed away, and left its Dwellingplace,
Rich in such spoils as Time cannot efface,
But hallows more by memories which feed
Thoughts not of earthly hue, to a new Race
Of Worshippers, who o'er their ancient Foes here tread!

[3.]

Here 'mid this timeworn Aisle, so dim and gray,
On which eighthundred years do brood, I stand
In all man's nothingness: on either hand
The Dust of Ages crumbling slow away,

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Relics of things and creeds that in their Day
Could stir Men's Hearts like Earthquakes; who has scanned
Such Scenes unmoved, where Time but waves his wand
And Centuries vanish, like a Dream, for aye!
And all their Might and empty Pageantry,
Their cherished hopes, their passions and their pride,
Leave but a few faint signs the curious Eye
Scarce traces on the walls, which still abide,
Tho' Generations pass, to teach a high,
Sad Truth, «Earth's hopes are dust and Vanity»!

THE BROOK.

How fresh yon brook flows murmuring along,
Making sweet music to the distant ear
Of the wayworn and feverish traveller.
And tho' its Windings' scape the Eye, its Song
That warbles, birdlike, the bright Flowers among
And roundembosoming Trees, as he draws near,
Like to a gladsome Wellcome fresh and clear,
Comes waking in his pensive Breast a throng
Of happy recollections. Nature aye,
So Selfdisturbance banish not her sway,
Can offer consolation and a balm
To the bruised Heart: methinks I hear her say
«Come rest thee weary one: amid this calm
Take thyjust share of bliss, of thoughts that know no harm!

ON ESTEEMING THE ETERNAL ONLY.

Hast thou e'er asked thyself if it can be
Wise to lay much Stress upon Things which are
But accidental, which scarce reach so far
As the mere outward Attributes which we
Attach unto them? learn thou then to see
With the Immortal's Eyes: live as a Star
'Mong Stars, which strive not about Place, nor war
For Precedence, too busy with what the

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Great God created them to be and do!
And oh! how happy were it for Men too
Would they but do the same! each occupied
With being simply «Man,» each helping true
His Brethren: all Distinctions set aside
Which serve Man's inborn Dignity to hide:
Each seeming in his Fellow's Eyes, as to
God's own, an Equal: neither great nor small,
But Children of the one great Father all!
And surely then that Man is little wise
Who makes Distinctions which God's self denies!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

Awake my soul, for 'tis the selfsame Song
That in the pure days of thine Infancy
Called forth the love of Nature with its high
And thrilling accents: can that voice belong
To a mere Bird? or is my fancy wrong
When I would deem some spirit wanders nigh,
Giving a Tongue to thoughts that hidden lie,
Like dewdrops, in the flowers! 'tis a Mirth
So deep, so holy that it can have birth
But in a Breast where Love has harboured long:
Methinks all pleasures mingle with that sound,
That Fancy dreams, or on this Earth are found!
Could I, glad Bird, but learn thy holy Lore
And sing like thee, my now harsh Voice should beat
All strains of minstrelsy, should charm and cheat
Men's Ear's, 'till their dull Hearts grew true once more!

ON LOWAIMED PEOPLE.

Meansoul'd! to talk thus of a Familyname;
Can such an object fill the ample Eye
Of Wisdom, or of pure Humanity?
Can Life's wide Sphere afford no worthier Aim?
Canst thou not make thy Heart one and the same

136

With that calm, mighty Heart, full of all high
And holy Things, which beats eternally
In Nature's Bosom? then will a pure Flame
Burn up upon thy household Hearth, as 'twere
An Altar of Humanity, and so
It would be; but if thou wilt take no Share
In what concerns Mankind, then art thou no
Member thereof, a Branch that will not bear,
To which no Sap from the great Heart can flow,
And which enjoys not its own Life too, for
The Part lives by the Whole, such Nature's sublime Law!

EFFECT OF EVENINGSTILLNESS.

O God, my heart is stirred with secret prayer,
And in my eye the tears of gratitude
Stand soft as dewdrops, for in solitude,
This silence, where each blade and leaf doth share
A sense of thee, and everything is fair
And taintless as a Babe's first thoughts, the mood
Of Man's proud Spirit melts towards thee, Allgood,
Allbounteous Deity: we seem to hear
Thy voice as in the mystic Days of yore,
When Man held commune with his Maker and
Received his blessing: still thy Works are grand
And fresh as on the primal Day when o'er
The Heavens and Earth thou look'dst, and with thy Hand
Didst motion Sun and Moon, and Chaos was no more!

TRUE POSSESSIONTAKING.

What we think we possess that truly we
Possess by thinking so, tho' otherwise,
Tho' really out of Reach the Treasure lies:
While what we think we have not, that can be
Never enjoyed, nor truly ours, tho' the
Sound titledeed in every Point defies
The quibbling Lawyer's flawdetecting Eyes.

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To think a Thing is making it so.—he
Who thinks that God is in him, will live so
As if God were, will live godlike in Deed
And Thought, and then most truly God will grow
A Part of him, his Spirit! and will lead
Him on to Spiritwealth, untill of low
And perishable Goods he feels no need.
What we believe is realized, at least
To us, and what more would a man request?
Believe thyself then capable of all
That's great and godlike, and deem nothing small,
The Little only Littleness can see.
Yea, think that like God himself thou mayst be,
And then thou wilt become so: think but this
With thy whole Heart and Soul. and give it Act,
Then with each Day thou'lt grow more so in Fact,
For thy sublime Belief is also His!

THE GRAVE.

Descend with me into the Grave, and there
Gather what Time has left: look back upon
The giddy World, and think when all is won
That boundless Folly covets, still the Care,
The Fret, the Toil of years, unerring bear
To this poor Goal: here sets false Glory's Sun,
Weath's Glitter fades, and Pleasure's Course is run!
What wouldst thou bring with thee? Earth's seemingfair
Yet hollow Gauds, or with more sober Eye,
The healing Conscience, that plucks out the thorns
From an unquiet Deathbed? of Eternity
This is the narrow Pass, and here must die
All that is not eternal: Truth still warns
From the Grave's Dust, but man her Counsel scorns!

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TIMESGLASS.

1

Maiden with the sunny Brow,
And the starry Eye of blue,
Tell me truly dost thou know
Who it is that stands by you?

2

When these charms of Form and Face
Withered all like Mayblooms lie,
Hast thou to supply their place
Treasures laid up for the sky?

3

Hast thou higher Beauty which
Time and sere Decay touch not,
That can make thee truly rich
Tho' stern Want should be thy lot?

4

As the Years pass o'er thy Brow,
And imprint their Wrinkles there,
In the deep Heart far below
Seek thou that which shall not wear.

5

Thou that like a fragile Flower
Seem'st but destined for the Sun,
Know that by the passing hour
The future web of Life is spun.

6

If then it be wove awry,
It will give thee pain and care,
Toil and trouble to untie
The knots which Folly's hand made there!

7

Thus spake an old, old, grayhaired Man
With something of solemnity,
Yet an halfsmile, if close you'd scan,
Lurked in his shrewd, grey, twinkling Eye.

8

Then held he up unto her face
A glass which in his hand he bore,
And said, «what do'st thou, Maiden, trace,
Saw'st thou e'er the like before?

9

She gazed into the glass with pride,
Her cheek was flushed, her Eye did beam,

139

She pushed the old Man's hand aside
Halfpettish! yet wellpleased did seem.

10

He held up next an hourglass,
And said, «these little grains which sink
Thus noiselessly, will bring to pass
Strange things that neither of us think,

11

And they will make us too, I hope,
Betteracquainted than just now,
Tho' paltry seems their scanty scope,
They do much, for no rest they know.

12

Make sure of them, they show like Sand,
But they are worth far more than Gold,
Oh! let them not slip thro' thy Hand:
Their full worth thou wilt know when old!

13

Tho' small their Size, they make the Day,
Yea! and the bulk of each big Year,
And if you cast them once away
They leave an awkward Gap I fear.

14

The Maiden at the Hourglass
Look'd not, but in the Mirror took
Another peep ere he did pass
Away, and his grey Head he shook.

15

Years had rolled on, and once again
The oldman by the Maiden stood,
He found her, as he left her, vain,
«Tomorrow and Tomorrow» was her mood!

16

He showed her in the glass that face
Which Time had altered visibly,
Yet still retained the former grace,
Which pleased the undiscerning Eye.

17

Complacently she looked on it,
Yet many Tokens pained her there,
And chagrined, half her lip she bit,
Then turned about with angry Air,

18

Begone, old Dotard! who are you?
I know you not, your toil is vain:

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Side he, «my duty I but do,
I leave you, but to call again!

19

That you do know me not is clear,
The more the Pity 'tis for you,
For they who learn to know me here
Too late, their fault are sure to rue.

20

The years flew on, and pityless
They furrowed over that smooth brow,
And hateful grey mixed with each tress,
Yet left the heart unchanged below.

21

The Hive was empty, and its bees,
Wing'd moments, who should fill the cells,
Were few, and Autumn's breath did freeze
The flowers where the best Juice swells.

22

Again by her he took his stand,
He showed his glass, she turned away,
Then shattered with an angry hand
The too true Image of decay.

23

He showed the hourglass once more,
The grains were running very low,
«Take heed, before thy soul to God
With these dread Witnesses shall go,

24

They are unbribeable», he said,
Then left her on his words to muse,
But Truth, when Vanity's not dead,
Can Folly's eyes scarce disabuse.

25

Fix'd habit still the sceptre grasps,
And passions their old nurture crave,
And Age's skinny hand unclasps
Its bauble only in the grave.

26

Once more he stood beside her; on
A sickbed pale and worn she lay,
«Dost thou now know the erst unknown,»
He said, the worms demand this clay,

27

And Heaven thy soul, such as it is!»
She gave a look of shuddering fear,

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Art thou not Time? oh God! in this
Moment with Death I feel thee here!

28

But a short while ago I was
Time limited and brief, said He,
But onward now with thee I pass,
Not Time, but all Eternity!

29

And just as these words reached her ear,
The last sandgrain of all had run,
Earth claims that which remaineth here,
For this, said He, she lived alone!

30

Mortals take heed, this tale is ours,
And while we criticize and laugh,
Look to it, lest these same swift hours
Winnow not grain, but empty chaff.

PATRIOTISM.

Truth's Martyrs ne'er by Tyranny are crush'd,
They have a thousand Lives; tho' baffled Hate
Scatter their Ashes, 'tis but to create
From every Particle of hallowed Dust
A Spark of Truth, that dies not out, but must
Or soon or late blaze up; few Years may date
Their bright Career, or Guilt anticipate:
'Tis but to make them of all Time, a Trust
And Pledge to Worlds betray'd: the Light
That burns within them is of Heaven's best,
And may not be extinguished, tho' the Might
Of Hell be leagued its Lightnings to arrest;
It passes harmless o'er truetempered Sight,
Scathing the Tyrant on his Throne, 'till Earth have Rest!
Henceforth, a spiritual Presence o'er
The Earth they watch—a thousand Forms they take,
Live in a thousand Hearts, not as before
In one: 'till multiplying more and more,
The Universal Heart in each awake
And each in it, for Parts the Whole still make!

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And then again they live in one Heart, as
Before, for Mankind's Heart grows what theirs was;
Thus in their single Breast the Hearts of all they bore!

INTOLERANCE.

He who would chain the Eaglewing of Mind
Within the narrow Circle of his own
Particular Creed, alas! cannot be one
Of those who love the Truth: yet such we find:
Nor wanting those that with base Shackles bind
Her nobler Votaries, who labour on
With Martyrcourage, 'till the Goal be won:
With Martyrreverence and Zeal ne'er blind,
That will not take a Lie, nor accept aught
Of Man's Inventions, for her divine Light.
It is a Task with Peril ever fraught
To take it from the Bushel, where from Sight
The Cunning-ones of Earth have hid it, taught
That Men cannot be Slaves and see aright!

TO FREEDOM.

Hail Freedom! Springhead of each choicest Good,
Flowing from Heaven's depths, the more that share
Thy Draughts the fuller is the Fount. Lifeair,
By which alone we live, and are renewed!
'Tis thy strong Beating spreads the healthy Blood
Thro' th' Universal Heart, whose Pulses were
Else dull and stagnate, and of all Things fair
To thee are due the Firstfruits, next to God!
How glorious, methinks, thy Name to hear
In the calm Whisper of tenmillion low,
Accordant Voices—. like the Ocean, so
Mankind, when joined in one, has nought to fear:
Each then is what the Whole is! and when one
Is injured, it is all Humanity
That's injured in him—thus is each kept by

143

The Whole inviolate as itself—none
Are little, but all godlike as the Whole,
All free, like Drops that with the Ocean roll!
Thus too each Soul is safe in the great Soul,
And injuring it, you injure the Mosthigh,
Who will remember it accordingly!
There is I know not what in such a Sight
Of Majesty, when private Hope and Hate
Mix not therewith its Grandeur to abate;
When in the sole Conviction of Man's Right
A Nation lifts its Voice, and in the Might,
The fearless Consciousness of Truth, elate
Yet sober, while just Means most fitly mate
With holiest Ends, goes forth unto the Fight!
A Triomph too not stained with Blood nor wrought
By Violence, that mars the Good it sought:
But thro' the noblest Feelings of Mankind,
Resistlessly, as in one Heart combined!
And when that Heart has but the Feeling true
Of its ownself, and what it's destined to,
No greater Good will it then seek or find!
For if it thinks and feels godlike and free
Within itself, where can it truly be
So much so, and thenceforth what chains can bind?
Thoughts are the only Fetters for the Mind!

CONTENT.

Poor Fool! to look with Envy at a King!
Saw'st thou how quick the Temples throb below
That jewelled Bauble glittering on his Brow,
Couldst thou but feel how many curses cling
To that false Pomp, its Brightness withering:
Or look beneath vain Semblances, and know
Within that narrow Space how much of Woe,
Guilt, Shame, and Fear, are ever ministring
Their slow, sure Poison to the restless Heart:

144

Oh! thou wouldst turn away in Selfdisgust,
To think that hollow Splendor can impart
To a poor Worm, made, like thyself, of Dust,
Such Sway, that Men, slaved by the baser Part,
Unto their Eyes, their Judgments thus entrust!

EARTHSBENEFACTORS.

Toil on, ye godlike Spirits, toil: plough ye
The Furrow, and therein the good Seed sow,
Truth's divine Seed! but seek not here below
Remuneration: for the more ye be
Like Christ, so much the more ungratefully
Shall ye be treated! for ye shall rise no
Statue or Column, Festival or Show,
To cherish in Men's Hearts your Memory:
But like the Echo of a most vain Thing,
Your Names shall pass away without a Trace:
'Till the true Crop, in due Time ripening,
Shall vindicate for you a higher Place
In Glory's Shrine, than Conqueron or King,
Whose Trophies Worms and Dust shall soon efface!

LIFE.

And what is Life?—a Child among the Flowers:
A Kiss: the Loosing of a Maiden's Zone,
The Lifting of the Veil by Fancy thrown
Around her Form, and then the bitter Hours,
The Heritage of those who use her Powers
Unwisely; 'tis the Sickman's feeble Moan:
A Mother's Joy: an evervarying Tone,
A passing Shadow: Sumbeams amid Showers.
It is all this, but it is something more!
It is a Striving towards all Good—a wise
And steady Application of that Lore,
Wherein all Happiness and Wisdom lies,
By which we draw forth from Afflictions sore
That Evenmindedness, Life's noblest Plize!

145

BEINGSRIDDLE.

We leave this World as strangely as we came
Into it, without learning why or how:
The Riddle still remains unsolved, we know
At last, nor more nor less, but just the same
As at the first—'tis as if Nature's Aim
Had been to wrap in Mystery, which no
Thought e'er can penetrate, the Source whence flow
The thousand Streams of Being: should I name
One who might loose the Knot, it likeliest were
The newborn Child, who but just now was there
'Mid the great Spirits all, before the Throne
Of God; yet were he able back to stare,
Impenetrable Gloom would meet alone
His Glance, and Witness save the Soul is none!

NIGHTTHOUGHT.

Oft from the Closing of the Flower 'till
The Opening thereof, ye Stars, have I
Watched ye move onwards thus, thus silently,
And my Soul spake — «how meekly they fulfill
Their so unspeakably grand Task: how still
They burn, with Fire soft as in Love's Eye:
And each, as he sinks downward from the Sky,
Shines on the same —!» Oh might they but instill
In me the Spirit which impels them, how,
How blessed would Man's Being then appear!
No Strife, no Vanity, no Doubt to throw
Upon his Path a Shadow or a Fear,
But being calm itself, all Things would grow
Like to the Soul, by its own Light made clear!
'Till this so troubled Scene of Earth should seem
As lovely as those Stars which o'er me gleam!

146

IDOLATRY.

There are far worse Idolaters than those
Who bow down to vain Images of Stone
Or Metal: Men, whose Hearts have never known
One generous Thought! who worships falsely, shows
At least that still the Fount of Feeling flows
Within him. but directed ill alone:
But to these, God or Devil, 'tis all one:
Naught, naught is holy—so they but hold close
The one great Idol, «Self», in their Embrace!
These are the worst Idolaters, Men who
Their Maker's Image wantonly deface,
Who laugh at all high Thinking, at all true
And noble Feeling, as quite out of Place
In Weekdaylife, as having naught to do
Therewith: Proofs of mere Simpleness, and to
Romancers' Dreams akin! as if there could
Be any Field so fit for all that's good
And godlike as Man's daily Sphere! the Space
His most familiar Affections should
Comprize! 'tis here the great Mind gains that Mood
Of sublime Wisdom, teaching it to brace
The Sinews of its Industry, to see
Nothing as mean or little, tho' it be
To break Stones by the Roadside: but all good
Alike to help us to unfold the Soul
Within us — to become «quite Men»! to this
High Purpose making Good and Ill subserve,
Nay! making them indifferent! such is
Her divine Priviledge, her highest Goal!
Enough, if in all Stations he preserve
The Man, and what he wants, at least deserve:
And then he will want Nothing! for when he
Has himself worthy of the Blessings made,
Then they, like Angels, will be near to aid,
Nay! flowing from himself unfailingly!

147

LOVE.

Love is the Leaven of Life's daily Bread,
Without which it will nourish not; and oh!
Without, how salt is its best Fare! more so
Than the hard Crust on which the Beggar's fed,
If with one kind Word seasoned: Love can spread
A Banquet worthy of the Angels—tho'
The Fare seem coarse and scant, it is not: no!
But so, so sweet that nothing in its Stead
Could nourish half so much, for it doth make
Content: no Man is poor who loves indeed!
The scanty Bread which he doth daily break,
By Miracle like that whereof we read,
Is multiplied, and made too, for his sake,
More than sufficient for Life's every Need!
Would'st thou be rich, most rich? then love, love, love:
Love all, and thou'lt be rich as He above,
Who loving all lefore himself, is the
Great Focus of eternal Love, from whence
Each Ray that fosters this cold Earth must be
Derived, and to which it returns from hence!

MARTYRS.

Oh! there are other Martyrdoms than those
Of Rack, and Stake, and Fire! some are by
Their own Hearts martyred, and the Poesy,
Whose Perfume far excels the sweetest Rose,
Is wrung from out them, like the Sweat which flows
From the pale, throbbing Brow of Agony!
On the high Altar of Humanity,
Like costly Incense, the true Poet throws
His Heart, and there in its own holy Fire
Is it consumed: yet still the pure Desire
At which the Flame was kindled, that remains,
But more sublimed by all its Griefs and Pains,

148

And when in Ashes that Heart shall expire,
Consumed therewith, fresh Force thereby it gains,
And like pure Gold, still its first Worth retains,
Reducing all, of Origin no higher
Than Earth, to Dust, when into Contact brought
With it, the Lightning of eternal Thought!

The Desire.

THE UNUTTERABLE.

1.

Hast thou remarked the purpleclustered Vine
In Autumn, thus so meekly, silently,
With its rich Fruitage thanking thee for thy
Long Care of it? and is there naught divine
In this its Silence? speaks it not to thine
Own Heart? and if it had a Voice, whereby
To tell its Gratitude, could it reply
More godlike or intelligibly? shine
Not too the Stars with stillymodest Rays,
The Good they do their only Hymn of Praise?
And when thou pluck'st the ripe Grapes, does it ask
One least, least Recompense? it only lays
Aside its Treasures, meekly to its Task
Gathers its Strength within, and 'neath the Mask
Of deathlike Winter, 'till the coming Spring
Shall bid its Blossoms in the Sunshine bask,
Fulfills its godlike End unmurmuring!

2.

And thou, oh Man! wilt thou not act likewise?
Or shall the Flowers of the Field do more
Than thee with all thy Wisdom and vain Lore?
If Nature in thee first alone doth rise
To sublime Consciousness of Mysteries
Hid from all other Beings: if before
Thy godlike Eye this World, with all it bore
And bears, be as a Glass where it descries
The Forms of coming Things shown visibly,

149

Shadows cast down beforehand: Echos clear
That come from and fade in Eternity,
Which in the vast Bell we at all Times hear;
If the invisible Things of God are by
The visible revealed to thy sole Eye,
Then let that Consciousness in thee appear,
The Consciousness of wherefore thou art here?
For when thou workëst out most consciously
That End, then art thou too most godlike, ne'er
For getting in thyself the Deity!

3.

In this so lovely World their destined Aim
All Things work out, unconscious it may be,
Yet still they work it out as sure as thee,
Yea! surer with their Instinct, than, oh Shame!
Thou with thy Reason! with the Sword and Flame
Thou mar'st his Works, and oh! because thus free,
Because more godlike than all else that he
Has made, wilt thou alone belie thy Name?
Oh! if the human Soul within thee could
Work out the Godlike but as steadily,
As stilly, as that Vine does what it should
After its Kind, and knowing not the why
Or wherefore, but content with doing Good,
How bless'd wert thou in like Simplicity!

4.

Couldst thou but bear thy Gooddeeds as it does
Its Fruits upon its Branches, within Reach
Of all, yea! e'en the Child's! or could'st thou teach
Thy proud Heart to do even as the Rose,
Which casts its Perfume on the Air, nor knows
When next the Dew may fall! how all Things preach
In Language so, so eloquent, what each
In its high Maker's Service to him owes!
Not e'en the Bramble bears its Thorns in vain,
But inculcates this Moral with the Pain

150

It gives the rude Grasp, that not by brute Might,
But holy Gentleness, we surest gain
The End proposed, thus ever in our Sight
The Hand of God himself directs us right!

5.

There is no Word to utter all that the
Deep Soul contains: and God himself doth know
(Nay, this it is that makes his Godhead) no,
No other Way to utter all that he
Feels, frames, thinks, save by thro' all Things that be
Making some Portion of his ownself flow:
He is the Unspeakable! therefore below
The Soul that feels him most, is that which we
Hear speaking least of Him, is that which least
Can utter what it feels! the Deity
Takes to himself the undivided Breast,
And sends a holy Tear unto the Eye,
The best Blood to the Pulse, thus to attest
The Godlike, which must still unuttered lie!

6.

The Low, the Common, that is loud not deep,
The Love that bears no Fruit, but only Flower,
Is cradled, coffined, in one fleeting Hour,
And dwells much on the Lip, which it will steep
With honeyed Falsehoods—but that which can keep
The Heart warm in old Age, that dies before
It utters half of what within it bore,
E'en by its Deeds, not Words! it can but weep
And smile unutterable Things, and press
The Heart it loves in holy Consciousness,
Deeper and sweeter from its Secrecy!
Like unto God, in pure Meekheartedness
Creating from afar the Good whereby
It seeks all in its Influence to bless;
Or like some Star lost in the distant Sky,
But shining on contented not the less,

151

Yea! nearer, dearer unto God's clear Eye,
Because thus hid from mortal Littleness!

7.

Then thou, dear Soul, go home to thy poor Cot,
Content and happy with whatever Lot
The Heavens assign thee, for therein thou still,
Tho' but four narrow Walls embrace the Spot,
Canst work out all the Godlike, and fulfill
Thy Being's Aim, as well as if the Span
Of this widereaching Universe were thine!
Go, kiss the Brow of her who at thy Door
Meets thee, and of thy little ones, and feel,
Yea! with thine in most Heart, I tell thee feel
That which thy Want makes but still more divine,
The Consciousness of being «quite a Man!»
Nor call thyself but for one moment poor,
For that were Blasphemy! but break thy Bread,
And ask thy Father's Blessing, and then see
If'round thy Wife's and each Child's little Head,
A Glory, like an Angel's, be not spread:
And if thou seest it not, the Fault's in thee!
Then ask thy deep Heart what it feels, and sure
Twill say, I feel the quite Unspeakable,
Yea! God Himself! and more I cannot tell!

THE MAIDEN AND THE ROSE.

Oh! Maiden, view thine Emblem in the Rose,
And as the Flower guards its Beauties by
Its Thorns, enshrine thou so thy Chastity
In mildlysevere Thoughts, which may, like those,
Repel the Nature coarse and rude, that knows
Not the heartreaching Power of Modesty,
But wound not that which gently woos with high
Conviction of the Reverence it owes
To thee in God, and God in thee: for where
Meekness and Pureness most inhabit, there

152

Is he most too! and as the Heavensdew
Lies on that opening Rose, so fresh and fair,
So may its choicest Blessing light on you,
Heartfreshness, Feelings still to Nature true,
As Flowers trembling in the Sun and Air!

IRRELIGION.

God! God! I feel my very Heartsblood rise,
Boiling with Indignation at the Thought
That divine Things should thus be sold and bought.
Oh! send thy Son down once more from the Skies
To cleanse the Temple of such Blasphemies:
For Moneychangers there have so long wrought
Their Trade of Infamy, that they have brought
(In Minds that mark not where the real Ill lies)
E'en thy Name into Disrepute—not worth
Is longer deemed a Requisite for thy
Bless'd Service, but mere worldly Wealth or Birth!
And thus of Divine Things there is such Dearth,
That carnalminded Priests, yea! e'en close by
Thine Altar, make thy Word a Mockery!

A MAYDAYWALK INTO THE COUNTRY IN NOTTINGHAMSHIRE.

1

The Citybells were ringing loud,
I wot not well what it was for,
And in the Streets a motley Crowd
Was shouting Liberty and Law.

2

Gay Streamers floated on the Air,
Which kissed them with its Breath of Love,
Highsounding Titles written were
In golden Characters above.

3

Shout on, said I, within myself,
But Freedom answers not your Call,
Who couples her high Name with Pelf,
In other Ears the Fool should bawl.

4

She dwells above the starry Spheres,
And looking calmly down from thence

153

The pure Soul's sublime Prayer she hears,
Who grasps the Sword in Selfdefence!

5

But think ye on this Hubbub here
Where Idiots deaf each other bray,
She bends her from her Ether clear,
Or hears one Word of all they say?

6

In some low Clime, far short of that
Where her calm, serene Breath is drawn,
Those idle Sounds die out, where Bat
And dull Oblivion brood forlorn!

7

No Tenpoundfreeholders knows she,
No Sum of Gold can buy the Right
To that divine Equality
In which her Worshippers delight.

8

I heard the loud Forgehammers ring,
And saw the tall Smokecolumns rise,
With countless Proofs how everything
There aided Mammon's Victories.

9

It checked the Beatings of my Heart,
I hreathed as in a stifling Mine,
Whose few vile Crannies scarce impart
A Reflex of the Light divine!

10

I saw the greedy Hand clutched fast,
And Childhood martyred unto Gain,
Receiving from the cheerless Past
The Heritage of future Pain.

11

On the pale Lip no merry song,
No holy Meanings in the Eye,
And e'en the godlike Form by Wrong
Debased irrecognizably.

12

The divine Lamp within the Soul
Left void of Education's Light,
Vile Clay to mould the Knave or Fool,
As Chance might fashion it or Spite.

13

The Mansion left untenanted,
Where a bright Angel's self should dwell,

154

And Thorns upon the Pillow spread
Where hope in golden Dreams should revel!

14

I heard loud Voices boast of Gain,
Saw Envy, Bickerings, and Strife,
And Men who for a Shadow vain
Plucked out the Heart of social Life!

15

And Statesmen talked with loud Applause
Of national Prosperity,
Discussed divine and human Laws,
Then sealed with Blood Man's Slavery.

16

Mammon rudejostling God aside
Holds on his Altar Orgies wild,
The Church, Christ's once celestial Bride,
Is by Adultery defiled.

17

A Heart of Mire this God of Clay
Asks as his chosen Sacrifice,
And emptying their Breasts, away
Men fling the Joys of Paradise.

18

Love, Mercy, Truth, Humanity,
Are trodden in the Highwaydust,
And these pure Jewels of the Sky
For Earth's vile Mire are pawned in Trust!

19

These Jewels, which on God's own Brow
Fill the celestial Halls with Light,
By Panders' Hands are soiled below,
Void of all Beauty in our Sight!

20

Men pluck from out the Soul its Eyes,
That they may ne'er desire aught
Save Mammon, yea! they'd pay the Price,
Tho' e'en with God and Gospel bought.

21

Gold, Gold, the mighty Thief! he robs
The Maiden's Heart of its chaste Lore,
And in the Pulse, where first Love throbs,
Instils the Passions of the Whore.

22

Gold whispers in the Priest's quick Ear,
And while Godsname is on his Lip,

155

Mammon rules in his Heart, and there
Of sublime Faith the Wings doth clip.

23

Gold sits beside the sternbrowed Judge
When Justice rises wroth to speak,
And warnëd by the wellknown Nudge,
He shuts his Ears to Misery's Shriek!

24

Gold gives the Statesman Eloquence
To turn white black, and black to white,
To smooth and gloss with sly Pretence
Crimes to which Power and Greed invite.

25

Then in the Blackman's Blood his Pen
He'll dip and sign a Nation's Woe,
Heap Ruin on his Fellowmen,
Then smirk and smile, and cringe and bow.

26

We bring our Children up for Gold,
'Tis Life's grand End, the Wiseman's Aim,
No matter if the Heart be cold,
Be the Purse full, 'tis all the same!

27

No matter if the Lip ne'er glow,
Nor the Pulse beat to divine Thought,
If on the dusty Track they go,
And Gold in due Amount be wrought!

28

'Tis placed within the Baby's Grasp,
And glittering, snakelike, lures his Eye,
Then round his Heart its Folds doth clasp,
'Till all high Feelings stifled die.

29

The Cradle thus is made the Grave
Of Infancy, and Hope, and Love,
And from their Wrecks the Soul can save
Naught which it erst brought from above.

30

Oh England! thy once mighty Heart
Is wellnigh cold within thy Breast,
And its faint Beatings scarce impart
A doubtful Life unto the rest.

31

Thou might'st be as a Soul of Good
To the wide World, and make the Sea

156

As the Mainartery which should
Bear the Lifeblood of Liberty!

32

But Providence is just and good,
And forces us to reap the Field
Which we have sown with Love or Blood,
Whatever Crop the Seed may yield.

33

Gold, Gold, when sought as thou hast sought it,
Is Barbarism and Selfishness,
With thine own Barbarism hast thou bought it,
The Curse on thine own Head doth press.

34

Th' Indifference which thou hast shown
To human Happiness abroad,
With its unnatural Beak thine own
Bowels in Vulturewise hath gnawed!

35

The selfsame Spirit here at bome
Hath scourged with cruel Laws thy Sons,
And stained with Blood Streams that should come
Pure from the Fount whence Justice runs.

36

Thro' this too antique Prejudice
Begets on Change a motley Brood,
Halfman, halfsavage, Centaurwise,
Hermaphrodite of Bad and Good.

37

These Thoughts had made me very sad,
The City seemed a Smithy vast,
The Sun shone bright, the Earth was glad,
But Gloom hung o'er it from the Past.

38

But as I left its Din behind,
And all its evil Sounds and Sights,
A gentler Mood stole o'er my Mind,
Sadness which has its own Delights.

39

With every Step I happier grew,
And as o'er the sweet Flowers I trod,
I smelt the Perfume of their Dew
Sent like an Incense up to God,

40

Not in four, narrow Walls I stood,
With Worldlings fashionably drest,

157

Preserving in Godshouse the Mood
Of Life's vain Fever and Unrest:

41

No Priest mouthed o'er the Words of Love,
Or robbed them of their divine Grace,
But Inspiration from above
My Soul to her high Task did brace.

42

A lovely Vision rose before
My Sight, and like some Feverdream,
The City and its Din no more
Than a vain Fancyfreak did seem;

43

Wood, Hill, and Plain, before me lay,
At bright aerial Distance seen,
And still before I saw my Way
Leading by Stream and Meadow green.

44

Sunglancing Spires in Distance rose,
Some bosomed deep in antique Trees,
Of which each one its old Tale knows
But whispered only to the Breeze!

45

And by the Breeze to Poet brought,
Dreaming by haunted Wood or Stream,
And who can by celestial Thought
Some Fragments of the Past redeem.

46

Then many an old forgotten Song
Comes sweeping past upon his Ear,
And on his Mindseye Phantoms throng
From Graves of many a buried Year.

47

These waken 'neath the Poet's Tread,
Some stirring like a Trumpetsblast,
And others soft and sweet, as fed
By Memories of Loves long past.

48

Some whisper like a Womanslip,
Mourning o'er Guile and broken Vows,
And some like Tempestwinds which strip
The Autumnleaves from off the Boughs.

49

And with them come all mingled Sounds
And Sights that Eye or Ear can know,

158

Farechoing Horns and baying Hounds,
Reflected in a Lake below.

50

And Castles frowning o'er the Steep
Of some hoar, rivergirdled Rock,
Which down beneath in Eddies deep,
For Ages to the old Towerclock

51

Hath sung wild Music: then as on
The Phantasmagoria moves,
Cities sleeping in the Sun,
And learnëd Academic Groves;

52

Where Infant-Art and Science lay,
In the still Arms of Solitude
And Time longcradled, 'till the Day
When they grew powerful for Good.

53

Gay Tournement and Plumes that dance
In Fancy's golden Atmosphere,
Who with her Wand loves to enhance
All she presents to Eye or Ear.

54

Then up a Dustcloud rises high,
With Spears sunglancing seen above,
Hark! the Onsetshock, the Cry,
Tramp of Coursers, Thrust and Shove.

55

And now its Echo fades away
Longthrilling on the inward Ear,
And as his Dream that bygone Day
And all its Uproar doth appear!

56

Anon he looks o'er leaguered Towns
And Tents, War's Stir and Panoply,
With Glimpses, o'er greenswelling Downs,
Of Fleets and the bluebosomed Sea.

57

And as the Mirror lets us know
The Features else we ne'er should see,
So do these Visions truly show
Our doublefaced Humanity!

58

Then up he wakes as tho' he'd been
Years in another World, for Thought

159

Can crowd into a Momentsspace
What Time's slow Centuries have wrought!

THE WANDERER.

Barefoot he is, and scantyclothëd too
'Gainst Life's rude Blasts, yet Comfort's in his Eye,
And Age sits on his Greyhead cheerily,
Strewing with gentle Hand its gradual Snow.
Tho' he be worldforsaken, he doth show
No Signs of Desolation: evernigh
An unseen Power props him inwardly,
And to an ampler Shape his Soul doth grow,
'Till the Claytenement can hold no more!
He can create around an Atmosphere
Of Joy, and send abroad from his Heartscore
A Beauty and a Brilliance, still to cheer
The Forms of outward Being: with high Lore
His Faith is fraught, and by it he sees clear!

ON PURELIVING.

Oh live this Life as a Foresabbath to
The long, calm Sabbath of Eternity,
And ever in Imagination's Eye
Let this fair World, domed by the Heavensblue,
Be but as a Foretemple, Forecourt, thro'
Which thou must pass to reach the Sanctuary,
Unto the Holy of all Holies, nigh
The inmost Shrine, to spiritual View
Revealing the One God! when holy Death,
Sole Porter at the Gates of Paradise,
Shall let thee in—live pure then, draw the Breath
Of daily Life like Incense for the Skies:
And let thy Thoughts be innocent as are
The Flowers of the Field, without Disguise!
Tho' clothed with Beauty, they show forth not their,

160

But his sole Glory, who first bade them rise;
Go! let thy Life like Testimony bear!

ON THE ANTINOUS IN THE FLORENCE FINEARTSGALLERY.

Music!—what Music e'er was like to thy
Low Voice, Antinous, which fills the Ear
Like Seraphechos from some happier Sphere?
How often have I listened, while hardby
The vulgar Herd passed on unconsciously,
As if there were no Language save that here
Which we employ, distuned by Grief and Fear:
As if there were no Utterance, calm and high,
Whose slightest Whisper is far mightier than
The Thunder, and whose Echos die away
In Regions far beyond the Thought of Man!
Yet 'tis, alas! not always that I may
Hear those sweet Accents: Silence, chill and wan,
Seals the cold Lips, which speak not to dull Clay!

WISDOM.

Wisdom is ever young, she cherishes
A childlike Heart, and takes Delight in Things
Which seem of little Worth: and as his Wings
The Butterfly expands to Summerskies,
So she her Heart to the least Impulses
Of holy Nature— not a Bird that sings
By Wood-or-Streamside, but she thereto brings
A willing Ear, a Heart which strives and tries
In Lowliness and Love to comprehend;
And as to Love there is no Mystery,
So thro' the Birdsmouth Nature's self will send
From th' universal Heart an Impulse high,
Which hers with it in quiet Strength shall blend,
And pour a hidden Worth thro' Ear and Eye!

161

CONSCIENCE.

Oh thou sweet Voice, thou Voice of dearest Friend,
For ever prompting at my inmost Ear
To Thoughts of holy Awe, and wholesome Fear
Of that which is not right, 'tis thine to send
After a Gooddeed Music that doth blend
With our Soul's very Essence, and we hear
The far off Angelchoirs more sweet and near,
Whispering in Joy around: oh! that each End
Of Life may meet thy Praise, still gently give
Me holy Admonitions how to live:
Oh may I list thy sweet Voice evermore
Tuning my Soul to Music: let the Strife
Of earthly Sounds have o'er my Ear no Power,
But in thy calm, deep Wisdom be my Lore!

A PROPHECY.

When shall Man Brother be to Man, the Brand
Inglorious rust, or haply be but scanned
With curious Eye — a Token of those Days,
When the Sword reaped a Harvest of more Praise
Than Pen tho' wielded by a Milton's Hand,
And flashing sublime Lightnings o'er the Land?
The Dust of many Ages on his Wing
Must Time first gather, ere to Hope he bring
This rich Fulfillment—Men must first be taught
By what Means all enduring Things are wrought:
That Conquests of the Sword are palpable,
And, like the Hand that wields it, pass away!
That those of Mind alone enduring dwell,
Like the Soul whence they sprang, a Good for aye!
And they must learn too, that the beating Heart
Of human Love is still Man's noblest Part;
And that to God the Offering most dear,
Is of that Love, one little, heartfelt Tear!

162

HOPE.

Hope is the greatest Thief and Juggler! he
Robs us of this fair Present, of the Hour
Which is our own, and which he has no Power
To give us back, with all his Jugglery,
For that which we may never live to see;
He lures us on from each ripe Fruit and Flower,
Still promising us sweeter, 'till to our
Heartsgrief we reach that bright Futurity,
Painted so fair, and find naught but the Grave,
From which the Sunset has just died away!
And weary with the vain Chace which we have
Followed so long, we sit down on the gray,
Old, mossy Stone, and while the dark Yews wave
Above us, listen to the Sculls, which say,
«Here Traveller is the Bourne of thy long Way,
Take one more Look of Life, for soon naught save
A few Bones and vain Name, to such as stray
Here, will repeat the Warning which we give
Thee now, and bid the Fool make haste to live!»
He who has not learnt what Life should be 'till
Told by the Grave, its Ends can ne'er fulfill!

CHILDHOODREMINISCENCES.

1

Sweet early Years, pure early Years,
Oh ye are flown away,
Your pleasant Smiles are turned to Tears,
Your Hopes Time doth gainsay.

2

Like Summerbees, ye wandered o'er
The first, fresh Flowers of Life,
Yet now, alas, ye be bear no more
Your Honey to the Hive!

3

Oh 'tis a saddening Thought to think
On the oweet Days of Youth,

163

When Time has forced our Lips to drink
The bitter Draught of Truth.

4

There are whom Sorrow touches light,
Whose Joys do not fly fleet,
Yet the first View most charms the Sight,
And the first Taste's most sweet.

5

Yes, even these may sigh, to think
Their Hearts less pure are grown,
For who may Life's dark Waters drink,
Yet wish no Thing undone?

6

Who has not often wished to be
Again a little Child,
From Memory, Thought, and Passion free,
As artless and as wild?

7

Oh could I lay my weary Head
Upon my Mother's Breast,
I would give Wealth and Fame instead
For one such Hour of Rest!

8

But never on such Pillow more
My throbbing Heart can lie,
That Breast is now not as before,
And oh! changed too am I!

9

E'en on that Pillow Time has strown
The Thorns that wound me most,
And should I seek it, 'twould alone
Bring Dreams of what I've lost!

10

My Mother's Breast, on which the Flood
Of youthful Fancies fair
I poured, so happy! for how could
I dream of Sorrow there?

11

Whereon I wept my sweetest Tears,
Aye Tears more sweet than Joy,
And sighed in Peace the Moment's Fears,
Which stir but not annoy.

12

My Mother's Breast! on which I breathed
My Aspirations bright

164

For Fame and Name, while Fancy wreathed
Her Laurels for the Fight.

13

Fade Daydreams sweet, your Rainbowhues
Have melted all in Air,
Ye were as in the Flower the Dews
Which Midday finds not there.

14

Or if some few should still survive
Of the whole Swarm, scarce one
Returns unto the ruined Hive
Whence all it loved are gone.

15

The young Enthusiasm that shed
Its Light so brilliantly
Upon Life's Dawn, is cold and dead,
Or smouldering doth lie.

16

Yet Poesy her Torch has lit
At the expiring Flame,
And the pure Altarfire, with it
Enkindled, burns the same.

17

She can unweave Life's Web again
And blend it as she will,
She makes a Dream of Grief and Pain,
A Child at Moments still.

18

And tho' the Poet often find
His Inspiration bright
In his own Throes, th' immortal Mind
Sublimes them to Delight!

19

Yet there are Griefs which Poesy
In vain would seek to heal,
Yes, Griefs which have a Sanctity,
Which the true Heart must feel.

20

Sorrows which Love has holy made,
Where Fancy's Sacriledge,
Which never from fond Memory fade,
Which are Affection's Pledge.

21

The Ivy from the Tree is shorn
And leaves it slightly scarred,

165

But Graftboughs when once rudely torn
Are both by one Blow marred.

22

Sweet early Years, pure early Years,
Tho' ye be flown away,
Yet not for ye I shed these Tears,
Claimed from our poor, frail Clay,

23

I mourn the many Links intwain
Snapp'd from that chain of Love
Which binds our Hearts, that viewless Chain
By Angels forged above.

24

That Chain which binds the Earth to Heaven,
And blends them into one:
To which the least Touch by Love given,
Runs straight to God's own Throne!

25

My Heart is inly stirred and full,
With Thoughts of bygone Years,
I cannot see, mine Eyes grow dull,
Filled with unbidden Tears:

26

My Home, my Home! with all its bright
And gladsome Looks of Love
Once more I see, a Dream that might
The sternest Spirit move!

27

For as some green Nook smiles amid
The wildest Alpine Heights,
So in Man's Heart are Feelings hid,
Which the cold World ne'er blights!

28

Enough, 'tis idle thus to wake
A Sorrow half at Rest,
Yet Memory at Times will shake
The Stoic from our Breast!

29

Can I forget that such Things were?
Were! and to me how dear!
Look at the Leaves the Branches bear,
So sapless and so sere!

30

Vain Mourner stop: thine Hourglass take,
And thoughtfull turn it o'er,

166

Think in its Span how little make
A few, brief Moments more!

31

Would selfish Grief recall to Earth,
From Bliss undreamt below,
The Beings whem we loved, whose Birth
Linked Joy more close with Woe?

32

He who the Wound thinks fit t'ordain,
Gives too the Power to bear,
Cease then his Wisdom to arraign,
He visits but to spare.

33

Cheaply is bought the World to come
With thoughtbrief Pains in this:
'Tis o'er! Time's fleeting Dream is done,
We wake— to Life and Bliss.

HOPE.

1.

That which we hope, we have already: far,
Far loveher than if e'en now our own:
'Tis twofold beautiful, for it is shown
Like to an unreal Thing, or as a Star,
On Life's far off Horizon, whose Beams are
Sent thus into our Souls, ere it sinks down,
And the Spot where it stood remains unknown,
When we draw near to grasp it and to mar!
And yet 'tis real, more real than if it were
Already in Possession: thus thro' Hope
Do we enlarge a thousandfold Joy's Scope,
For all the Meanwhile by that Vision fair,
Like to a Glory on our Path, still there,
Are we attended, and by it we ope

2.

The Treasurechamber of the Joys which lie
In the far Years, and tho' they be but as
Shadows softgliding o'er the Magicglass
Held by the Future up to Fancy's Eye,
Yet they to us are pure Reality,

167

If we as real enjoy them, ere they pass
Away and are forgotten: when I was
A Boy, I do remember well how I
By mere Intensity of hoping made
My Fancies to come true: the Passingday
Was but a friendly Steppingstone, by Aid
Of which I speeded surer on my Way
Over Time's Torrent, which between me lay
And the dear Object after which I prayed.

3.

Thus what we hope we have: at least all Bliss,
(Nay more,) that it can yield is ours, and this,
Methinks, is the best Part of it: what more
Could the Thing itself bring? besides, before
Possession it has something vague and vast,
And exists unto Fancy, but when past,
It becomes a mere Fact, and Fancy is
Compelled to fold her Wings: it is then to
Mere Sense reduced: and tho' more real and true
In one Way, for the Hand grasps and the Eye
Beholds it, yet it is too palpably
Possessed, and thus the Soul its Part doth miss,
The best, methinks, the Sense of its Infinity!

SUGGESTED BY THE LITTLE STATUE OF LOVE SLEEPING ON A LION, WITH HIS TORCH BESIDE HIM, IN THE UFFIZI GALLERY AT FLORENCE.

1.

Oh thoughtless Love! thy Torch will burn away,
Thus sleeping: yet how many Hearts still need
To be touched by its holy Flame!—indeed
The World is not so much beneath thy Sway
As Poets feign, and Mortals go astray
When thou, their surest Guide, art gone: the Seed
Of all good Things thy quickening Warmth must feed.
It is no Time for Sleeping! wake, I pray:
Thou art the Civilizer, thou alone,

168

And in thy Absence human Beings grow
More savage than the Lion thou liest on.
I'll wake thee— but now that I think on't, no,
I'll steal thy Torch: alas! what Good were done?
Thou thyself in each Heart the Spark must throw!

2.

But thou art not the divine Love I sought,
Else would'st thou not lie slumbering idly here,
Thou art the fabled Love, whose Realm is sere
As Autvmn's withered Leaf, and good for nought,
Save for a Poet's Rhyme! How little thought
The Grecian Bard of that sublimer Sphere
Of Christian Charities, which thou shouldst cheer:
Thou art the Love of Poesy, and fraught
With many a fancied Charm, but thou couldst not
Descend to soften and sublime the Lot
Of poor and suffering Humanity!
No heavenly Ministries were thine, the Eye
Of Passion to unfilm: to free from Blot
And Stain the Soul, and fit it for the Sky!

5.
[_]

There are no sections 3 or 4 in the source text.

Thy Reign it over— therefore slumber on:
Thy Torch is fed with no celestial Fire,
And, fallen from thy Grasp, will soon expire.
Lo! thou thyself art changed by Time to Stone,
A Moral Fragment of a World that's gone:
Like antique Hieroglyphics, which require
Something to piece them out: with Meanings higher
By Time invested than those which their own
Inventors dreamt of! I could fall asleep
Beside thee, for such Glimpses calm and deep,
Into the Life of Things, break in on me,
That with the Body's Eye I no more see:
Thy Torch now blazes, and by it I read
Nature's Papyrusroll, before me spread:
Not Language she employs alone, but by

169

Man's Generations writes her History.
Each fond Memento left us by the Dead
Is as an Hyeroglyphic on the old
Sarcophagus of some past World, t' unfold
What lies within, if wellinterpreted,
Like Half reliefs, which yet serve to suggest
And help the Fancy to piece out the Rest:
We lift the Lid, and see the Mummy rolled
Up like a Chrysalis's Husk, whence Man
Has passed to purer Forms, an ampler Span
Of Being, as the cast off Sloughs attest!

WEALTHSNOTHINGNESS IN ITSELF.

Deem not the Richman envyworthy 'till
Thou know'st well what he is in his own heart!
For Riches themselves do not make us rich,
Wealth itself teaches not the Use of Wealth,
It bringeth no such Heritage, else were
It Wealth indeed, and worthy of the Name.
All Blessings of real Value still must be
Earned by ourselves, and not inherited
At others' Hands: our Labour makes their Worth,
They are the Labour itself, and the more
Of Sacrifice there be, the more divine
Their Nature: and in order to reward
Us fitly, they are felt to be so most,
When we have disciplined and schooled our Souls
To deem them cheaply bought at any Price,
By any sacrifice of vulgar Goods.
'Till toiling towards some seeming distant Goal,
Some Blessing which we fancy different from
The Labour leading to it, with Surprize
And Joy we find the very Toil become
The Blessing which we sought for! while the Bad
Believe that Labour to be bitter Pain:
And so it is, until we inly feel

170

Delight from it, and looking not beyond,
And asking nothing at our Father's Hands,
Beceive the Fullness of Reward from that
Which promised least of all! then Poorman be
Thou of good Cheer: if thou wilt but think so,
Thou art not poor: the proudest Monarch on
The Earth is not so rich, nor can he give
So generously! when from thy Daysbread
Thou giv'st a Mouthfull to the hungry Child
That begs of thee, thou givest more than Kings,
Who scatter thousands which they do not miss,
Nor know the Use of! does the Flower smell
Sweeter, or show more lovely to the Eyes
Of sated Wealth, than unto thine, when for
Thy Daughter's Hair, upon the Sabbathmorn,
Thou pluck'st them from the Rosebush twin'd around
Thy Cottagedoor, the Growth of thine own Hand?
My Friend, their perfume is so sweet e'en by
That very Sweat, that low, despisëd Toil,
Wherewith thou earn'st thy bread: for when God gives
A Blessing, that can make Life's seeming Bitter
So sweet, can make its very wants and needs
A Source of Overwealth, of truest wealth:
A Source of Virtues, which bloom forth like flowers,
Filling all round with sweetness and perfume,
And scattering on this coarse, familiar Earth
Seeds to renew, and thousandfold, the Joys
Which they first yielded: Joys of Paradise!
'Till e'en the sharp Flints 'neath thy naked feet
Are for thy Faith's sake turned to softest Down,
And o'er the hard stone upon which thou lay'st
Thy weary head, an Angel spreads one wing
To pillow thee, as soft as ever Babe
Was cradled on his Mother's beating Heart,
And with the other screens thy bare, poor brow,
And lightly touching with his divine lips

171

Thy sleeping mouth, breathes into thy sad Heart,
The Blessedness, the Peace, which fills his own!

EVENINGTHOUGHTS.

1

The Eveningstar is in the Sky,
And shineth with its holiest Light,
The Villagebells are ringing nigh,
Like Voices full of past Delight.

2

The Eveningbreeze wafts on my Ear
The Music of the closing Day,
And Sounds that wake the slumbering Tear,
With Thoughts of those who're far away.

3

How many Chords has Memory,
That link the Present with past Things,
And wake to Joy or Agony,
If some Chancebreath but kiss the Strings.

4

There is in that glad Villagechime,
A Voice as of my early Youth,
And yearning Thoughts of that sweet Time,
When words were things, and Hope all truth.

5

How many scenes are in each tone,
Of Home, and Peace, and Infancy,
Of many hearts blent as in one,
One Hope, one Joy, one Memory.

6

Those Hopes are nipped by Time's harsh breath,
Life woos, then stings the cheated mind,
The flowers fall, and leave beneath
But naked thorns, and scathëd rind.

7

Home's dear ones, one by one, depart,
And nought is left to tell their Lot,
Save a dull Void within the Heart,
The Cousciousness that they are not.

8

Those Eveningbells, those Eveningbells,
Sound merry to the careless ear,
But a sad tale their music tells
To such as mourn o'er times so dear.

172

9

They take their tone from man's deep heart,
To him who has a home 'tis glad,
But unto those who feel the smart
Of homeless griefs, 'tis sweetly sad.

10

Those Eveningbells will still ring on,
For other hearts, and other ears,
As blithe and merry when I'm gone,
And wake to Joy or stir to Tears.

11

Strange, that so blithe a Sound should wind
Like Passingbell around my heart,
But Memory, ever-wake, will find
A grief, where grief should have no part.

12

The mighty heart of Nature speaks
With the same calm, deep voice of yore,
But man interprets it and seeks
Vain echos of the passing hour.

13

Those sounds have died upon the air,
And like a snowflake on the wave,
They melt into my heart, and bear
It to that Land beyond the Grave.

14

The Eveningstar still shines above,
With a calm, clear, and steady Light,
And seems to chide me, but in Love,
Tho' Earth be dark, still Heaven's bright.

15

My hopes shall rise, oh God, to thee,
And like the dew that falleth now,
Return to fresh my heart, to free
It from the Fret of thoughts so low.—

ON ILLLUCKBEARING.

Vex not thy Soul with Troubles past and gone,
When coming, gather all thine Energies
To check or lessen them: for Victories
May even from what seems Defeat be won;
And to have done our utmost, that alone
Is Victory's best Part! for tho' the Prize

173

Proposed be missed, a sure Good ever lies
Within our Reach, the Strengthening our own
Resources, and that Man ne'er knows Defeat,
Who rises stronger from each Loss. Then treat
The Ill but just gone by as if it were
A timegray Grief, and lightly as on Air
The Child a Feather blows, so let it pass.
For to fret at it is to make what was
A present Ill: feel not that which thou art
Alone, for that is of thee the least Part,
But feel all that thou mayst become and be,
Then will the Calmness of Eternity
Descend on thee, for God is in thy Heart;
And where he is must it not be so? yea!
For what is Heaven if not God's Presence, pray?

REAL LIFE

Oh! lovely Things are yet untold, and still
More lovely yet undreamt of, neither Ear
Has heard, nor Eye beheld, that which I hear
And look on: yet 'tis no vain Dream to fill
Fancy's dilating Eye, called up at Will,
And lost when she her Eyelid shuts. Sleep ne'er
Could call up with her Wand such Sights as here
Truth's sober, waking Eyes look on; what Skill
Would not that Poet have who could but see,
Feel, and describe, Life's bare Reality,
Not dreaming it, but living it— awake
With Heart and Eye! but then, methinks too, he
Would deem it a vain Thing thereof to make
A few poor Verses, for itself would be
So, so godlike a Poem, that one Day
Would be worth more than Homer's Odyssee!
Then live thy Life— most richly 'twill repay
The Living it. The Real alone and True
Are godlike, make thy Life then so — then too

174

Will it be godlike, else an idle Dream,
A Shadow floating o'er th'eternal Blue!
For if thou thyself art not real, then to
Thine Eyes this World no longer real will seem.
But to feel it and thyself real, that is
The Life of Man— I mean not real in this
Low Sense of touching and of seeing, no!
But in that Sense in which 'tis real to his
Enlarged Capacity, who seeing thro'
It as if it were chrystal, yea! e'en to
The one allfilling Light that makes it so,
Thus «feels that we are greater than we know!»

ALL GOES WELL WITH US WHEN WE GO WELL.

«Aye, when the World goes better with me—then—»
My Friend, thou hast not spoken wisely: when
Thou goest better with the World, the World
Will then go well thee! Believe me, it
Is so! if thou dost right, and meanest well,
The World cannot go ill with thee, tho' thou
Hast nothing but the Heart within thy Breast!
Lose not the Good, in seeking thus the Better;
The Good, if once attained, will itself soon
Create the Better: thou canst not o'erleap
One least Link in the wise and lovely Chain,
One least, no, not the lowest, Step of all
On that bright Ladder of fair Virtues, which
Like Jocob's leads up to the Ether clear,
And whereby they like Angels still ascend
And descend, bearing Missions from God's Throne,
And holy Fire from Truth's Altar, which
Burneth eternally before God's Face,
Fanned by the Archangel's everwakeful Wings.
How canst thou become better, if thou art
Not good first? verily, one Virtue lays
The Basis of all others: the Keystone

175

Which best supports that goodly Arch whereon
Selfempire's Fabric rises, is no more
Nor less than «Patience», which can turn all Ill
To unmixed Good, by bearing it as if
It had no Poison: do but one Gooddeed,
And that which follows it will be still better!
The second stirs already in the Womb,
The chaste Womb of the first: the Angel's Wings,
You feel them fluttering, and with a Thought,
The Angel's self stands bright before your Eyes,
Holding one Hand out to thee like thy Child,
Thy firstborn, in whose Presence thou wouldst not
Be guilty of an impure Act, nay! of
An impure Thought— think but one noble Thought:
Let but its Warmth once circle thro' thy Heart,
And others, like the Stars that follow on
The Eveningstar, 'till Heaven be all Light,
Will link themselves to it, and gather like
A Glory o'er thy Brow, 'till thou appear 'st,
Nay art, an Angel, many, all in one,
Embraced in thee as all Things are in God!
For the Goodman enjoyeth all the Good:
Wheree'er a Gooddeed's done, a good Thought thought,
He does and thinks them, yea! as truly as
The Doer and the Thinker himself can!

NOTHING THAT INVOLVES A RIGHT OR A PRINCIPLE UNIMPORTANT.

1.

Know ye not that great Motives may be found
In what seem merest Trifles? small Things bear
Great Issues with them, and oft by a Hair
The Weal of Mankind is together bound
With that of its least Member: yet 'tis sound
And strong, yea! stronger far than if it were
Of Adamant: a Link of that so fair
Yet viewless Spiritchain, which stretches round
The Universe, and keeps the Life of Man

176

In due Relation to the mighty Plan:
Binding a Buonaparte or Cromwell just
As well as their least Subject; which nor Rust
Of Time can wear, nor Strength of Mortal rend,
So gently forcing all Things to one End!

2.

Then when thou seest the most despisëd of
God's Creatures injured, be thou not above
Resenting it: think not that he alone
Is injured, that 'tis his Cause, not thine own;
See not in him the Outcast that he is,
But the great God insulted thus in his
Poor Form, as in the Majesty of Kings!
Then will thy Thought unfold sublimer Wings,
And from this Point of View thou'lt clearly see
That those who injure him must injure thee,
For he who injures God, must injure all,
Since God is all—and that which seems not small,
Nor insignificant in God's own Eyes,
Wilt thou, oh erring Mortal, dare despise?

3.

Thus view Injustice in whatever Form;
Not when done to the Beggarman alone,
(For is not God his Father as thine own?)
But, yea! I say, tho to the least, least Worm
That crawls on God's own blessed Earth: for by
A purer and enlarged Humanity
Man blesses himself, blessing others! when
He guards his Fellow's Rights as his own, then
First truly are his own to him secured!
And that which for another he endured
Becomes an Egis, not for his sole Breast,
But for that of Mankind, the surest, best:
The heavenfallen Shield, on which depends
A Nation's Wellfare, which alone defends
It from all Foes— inviolable, yea!

177

As God himself, nay, one with him for aye!
No idle Fable but a Truth divine;
Then shield with it thy Fellow's Breast and thine!

NIGHTTHOUGHTS.

1

The sky-lamps one by one are lit,
And thro' night's gloom their faint rays flit,
Like thoughts that thro' Eternity
Wander 'till lost in mystery.

2

Or like the glance that Memory gives
At times to cradleyears, and strives
To lift the veil that hides for aye
The spirit's first Promethean Ray.

3

How manyvoiced the nightwinds sigh,
Seeming to speak as they whisper by,
To commune low with each dewy flower,
To give and to borrow a mystic power.

4

And as it were at their destined Call,
The withered leaves scarce murmuring fall,
While the springtide ones more blithely wave,
As if for them time had no grave!

5

And calm the Earth lies, fresh and green,
Laughing beneath the pure stars' sheen,
Like babe beneath its mother's eye,
Ere yet its lip hath learnt to lie.

6

As a Spellmirror the sky might seem,
Where of future things the shadows gleam,
And the stars are wove in wordlike guise,
But their Language is not for mortal eyes.

7

Oh who can gaze on their mystic ray,
Nor feel the Earth pass 'neath his feet away,
And his spirit plunge from Time's dark shore,,
Like a Swimmer afloat on Thought's frail oar

8

Alas! it is in vain we dive
The depth of things to be, and strive

178

To fling aside our nothingness,
And grow to Gods or little less.

9

E'en at the moment when, most free,
We ope our eyes, and trust to see:
The dazzling light but glances on
Our filmy sight, and all is gone.

10

I turn to Earth, alas! 'tis fair,
But what I seek I find not there,
'Tis beautiful, and calmly still,
But yet my heart is sad and chill.—

11

In the brake the bird is singing,
Echo's undersong is ringing,
On the sward the stars are shining,
All is peace, nought seems repining.

12

The mellowthroated Nightingale
Sings joyous, but it sounds a wail:
The far off brook is babbling on,
To me it tells of bright days gone:

13

Fond Memory wanders o'er the scene
And tells me what I might have been,
And Hope from life's vain Future brings
No Peacebranch on his drooping wings.

14

Alas! he must renew his flight
To farther realms, beyond the night
Of Time, or else for ever miss
The Olivebranch, the pledge of bliss.

15

There is no beauty on the Earth,
Save that which in the heart has birth:
And not a pulse the peace can share
Of Nature, if sin's fret be there.

16

By prayer we tune the Spirit's lyre,
And fit it thus for accents higher
Than aught that earthborn strains can wake,
That jar the strings, the true tone break.

17

Then merry shall the bird's note seem,
And Joy speak in the babbling stream,

179

And the Spirit on Faith's Eaglewing
Shall soar, and list the Angels sing.

18

Then shall the heart an echo be
Of Nature's Centreharmony,
Oft with the Bird again shall sing,
And drink like him at Nature's spring.

THE GRAVEHAUNTER.

1

Why sitt'st thou on that old gravestone,
Thou grayhaired Man of many Years?
Speaks it, like thee, of things bygone,
Why melt thy dim, old Eyes to tears?

2

Thereat the oldman tremblingly
Raised up his timebowed face of pain,
First cast a wistful glance at me,
Then bent it on the stone again.

3

Oh 'twas a sad, sad sight, to see
That poor oldman, forlorn and lone,
Like a stormscathed and leafless tree,
With all its Autumnfruitage strown.

4

Of the Churchyard he seemed a part,
So silent, old, so still and grey,
Sitting like Time, without his dart,
And mourning over Life's decay.

5

Then traced he, with Grief's finger slow,
A name which he had cleaned of late
From rank, oblivious weeds, that grow
'Till all we love be out of date.

6

Each Letter seemed to stab his heart!
Tho' from the tombs of those who sleep
Time may efface their names, his art
But graves them in the heart more deep.

7

When the oldman had traced the name,
He gazed into my face and said,
—She was the last of all—they came
Like springflowers, and are now all dead!

180

8

And yet I live, tho' old and gray,
Mourning for those should cherish me.
Thereat he bent him down, and lay
Lost in his own deep agony.

9

Alas! when from the Tree of life
Th' unopened Buds fall first to Earth,
Time steals the best sweets of Love's hive,
And what he leaves are little worth.

10

Such tears are holy, shed by one
Who suffers thus chastised by Heaven,
Swifter than prayers their way is won,
And pardon for their sake is given.

11

And when those natural drops were shed,
The oldman rose from off the stone,
And then his tottering steps I led
Down the Yardpath his Daywalk grown.

12

When to the Churchyardgate we came,
He turned with lingering step once more,
For the Towerbell had chimed, the same
That speaketh with the voice of yore.

13

Thereon he heaved a deepdrawn sigh,
And passed his Hand athwart his Face,
«Heaven's will be done» he said, for I
Am a poor sinner, needing grace!

14

Then as we left the Church behind,
And objects varied as we moved,
The scene induced a calmer mind,
The oldman talked of those he loved.

15

I was a happy Man indeed,
The father of five goodly Boys,
And one sweet Girl, who in my need
A ministering Angel was;

16

My Wife died first, and one by one,
My goodly boys were torn away,
Once scathed the stem, the fruit thereon
Sank with it, ere my head was grey.

181

17

Yet still my dear, dear girl was left;
In us the spirits of the rest
Seem'd blent in one, and tho' bereft
I felt I was not allunblest.

18

But Heaven was pleased still more to try
My fortitude, and lest I should
Forget that nobler Bourne on high,
Chastised me unto mine own good.

19

There is a fitter place of meeting
For spirits severed here below,
To teach me what I was forgetting,
My girl was soon snatched from me too.

20

Oh stranger, hast thou ever known
What 'tis to be alone on Earth,
Having been loved? thy homehearts strown,
And by their absence feel their worth?

21

My girl, she had such winning ways,
I half forgot in her the rest,
She was to my old eyes like rays
Of light, each loved the other best.

22

Oh had you heard her softtoned voice,
Or seen her seek my Bedroomdoor
With tiptoe caution, lest the noise
Should break my rest, and list an hour!

23

And if she saw me hide my Tears,
She'd kiss me, then point to the skies,
She had a sense beyond her years,
For Love perfects the faculties!

24

Then she would read the Biblepage,
On some calm, quiet Sabbatheve,
She seemed an angel sent to 'suage,
With words of promise, those who grieve.

25

But she is in her grave, and I
Am here, a lone oldman, of Years
And Sorrows full; but Misery
Shall turn to Smiles, tho' born in Tears!

182

26

The Oldman's simple tale was done!
And we had reached his cottagedoor,
Where a wild Eglantine had spun
Its thriftless tendrils, pruned no more.

27

The old Man looked, and shook his head,
His grey hairs stirrëd in the wind,
«It used not to be so, he said,
Time has left naught to mourn behind.»

28

They are but emblems of what's gone,
Of what has faded from the Earth:
Of all that's noble, no not one
But has in Heaven a second birth.

29

And with these words the oldman turned,
And prophetlike his features glowed,
A holier spirit thro' them burned,
And thro' the Man th' Immortal showed.

30

If of an oldman's blessing thou
Disdainest not the humble gift,
'Tis thine, and when this frame lies low,
Some thoughts of me thy soul may lift.

31

Tho' baffled oft on this cold Earth,
The Love we bear our household-hearts,
Hath its fulfilment, and imparts
E'en by its Anguish higher Worth.

32

The oldman's blessing and his words
Sank thro' my heart, like fresh'ning dew,
And as I turned away, the birds
Their strains seem'd blither to renew.

33

Oft have I passed the oldman's cot
In Afteryears, and other Mood,
And soothed my own with his sad Lot,
And learnt in evil to know good.

34

There is a wisdom which doth bow,
Heartwisdom, born of sufferings,
That wound the Heart, therein to sow
The seeds of future blessings.

183

35

And there are tears which those who weep
Are holy in Godssight above
The vain Lipworshippers, who keep
The Letter, but from Fear, not Love.

36

Where Love is not, there is no Law,
A Law unto himself He is:
Instead of Law, fulfilling Law,
And in fulfilling finds His bliss.

37

There's Wisdom in simplicity,
And dignity in lowliness,
And to be last is still to be
Great in our very littleness.

38

And Joys there are in misery,
That happiness has never known,
A Service which is Liberty,
And visions but to virtue shown.

39

Then let our eyes be dimmed with tears,
Our hearts be purified by pain,
Faith still can bear the weight of years,
And make Mortality a Gain!

ON FEELING IMMORTAL.

Wouldst thou feel and be as Immortal, here
On Earth, tho' a frail mortal Man? then be
Completely occupied with that which the
Mere passing Hour brings with it. Thus Fear
Of coming Ills, or Thought of pass'd, will ne'er
Disturb thee: Past and Future are to thee
As Naught, each Moment an Eternity,
Without End or Beginning! Time, a mere
Unmeaning Word—upon a small Scale, thou
Art like to God himself: for, thinking naught
Of thine ownself, thou art not conscious how
Or what Change by the Years in thee is wrought.
And if the Soul feels itself only now,
It feels th' Eternal only, as it ought!

184

THE WOODWALK IN THE SOUTH.

It was an antique Wood of untold Growth,
Primeval Shades! not by the busy Hand
Of Mortal planted, but by Nature's self,
As is her Wont, when she luxuriates
In all her boundless Wealth, and scatters round,
With more than Fancy's rich Variety,
Her neverending Multitude of Hues
And Fairyshapes, yet all in perfect Taste
And Keeping with her comprehensive Plan.
The Wood, with living Verdure dense, stretched far
In sightoutreaching Loveliness, o'er Hill,
And Dale, and Rock: and where the Eye could trace
The ridgelike Heavings of the changeful Earth,
In Waves of Vegetation, as it were,
The Greenery flowed on: 'till o'er its Skirts,
The deep blue Heavens in sweet Contrast, where
The rosy Flush of Sunset lingered still,
Brooding shut out all View of Scenes beyond.
The Stars were gathering: one by one they broke
The balmy Twilight, like to Eyes of Love,
Full of deep Meanings to the thoughtfull Heart;
For all Things have their Mission, and are fraught
With gentle Visitations to the Soul
That links them with the one great Cause of all!
But of a brighter Beam, more calm and clear,
They seemed to me, than when from this dim Earth
Beheld, this Earth by its own Mists made dim.
And my Soul spake to me: how stilly God.
Accomplishes his Wonders! see yon Stars,
So countless, that Imagination sinks
Oppressed by merest Fact! that what the Eye,
Thro' the farreaching Glass, takes in, can scarce
Find Room within Man's Brain, Man's narrow Brain!
And yet he thinks to grasp the God who made

185

These Wonders, when the Wonders themselves are
Beyond Conception! so that Wonder, no
More capable of itself, grows to doubt
That which it sees, outwondered of itself!
And yet how stilly all moves on, so still,
That but to pluck a Dayseye from the Grass,
Makes more noise than the Setting of a Star!
So stilly works He out the Godlike, so
Sublimely, modestly, that we, we Men,
Not comprehending aught so unlike what
We feel and do, forget that He exists:
Because he is not little like ourselves,
We disbelieve the Godlike that he is!
Because He does not every Day appear,
As in the Firebush, and on a Scale
Adapted to our Faculties work out
Some little Wonder, (and what was the Bush,
But as a Spark from out the Blaze of his
Unutterable Glory?) He is no
More God forsooth! and does he not each Day,
In far, far other than the Firebush
Appear to Faith's clear Eyes? does He not shine
And glow thro' this whole World, thro' countless Worlds,
Scattered like Sparks of Glory o'er the Sky?
But it demands the Eye of God himself
To see this Wonder as it is! that so
Sublimelymodest Eye, which will not look
On its own Glory, and which watching still,
Looks on the least Worm crawling in the Dust
Rather than on itself! for even God
Keeps not his Eye fixed on himself: and yet
'Twere pardonable in him so to do,
Were he not God!—and if it be not then
Excusable in Him to do so, be-
Cause he is God, how much less so in Man,
Because he's Man'! so measurelessly less

186

Than God, whose sublime Modesty exalts
Him above all his Creatures, more than all
His Might and Glory! who shows forth in them
His Power, as if it were but something
Inherent in themselves, and not of Him!
But Man, Man understands not how God works:
For 'till he is himself godlike, how can
He comprehend the Godlike?—he it is
Who keeps his Eye fixed ever on himself,
And being little that can fill his Eye
And Heart: not like to God's, capacious, vast,
And comprehending all Hearts, or at least,
The godlike Part of all Hearts, in its own
Calm, sublime Pulse, the Life of all Things' Life!
Such Thoughts came o'er me as I gazed up to
The gathering Stars, that preach so eloquent
The Wisdom and the Goodness of the Lord,
And casting down mine Eyes I felt him there,
There also in the Dayseye at my Feet:
I saw no Littleness in it, for I
Felt Him alone, and most in mine own Heart,
Else could I not have seen him in that Flower:
And therefore I could see no Littleness
In it, for feeling Him, I was myself
No longer little: thus attuned, I passed
Into that Wood, as thro' a Temple vast,
Where the Highpriest himself officiates
In Person, and administers unto
The Faithful that sublimest Sacrament,
From Nature's own Communiontable, of
The Bread, the spiritual Bread of Love
And Life: and where can it so fitly be
Received as at that Altar, by the Hands
Of God himself administered to all!
Around the foremost Trees were Creepers twined,
And chrystalbunchëd Grapes, lowdrooping with

187

Their lipripe Nectarberries, in Festoons,
As by the Fingering of Fairyhands,
Closetwined, to form a rainproof Covering,
Where Thunderdrops for half a Summersday
Might patter, and not moisten on her Nest
The Wren's Breastfeathers: underneath no Light
Came from the peering Stars, save here and there
Some Straybeam, falling with a Perfumelight,
Thro' Honeyblooms and breezekissed Openings,
On the Dewgrass below: or that soft Ray
Of Spherelight, which the Firefly had stole,
Betraying his bright Theft: the Nightingale's
Soft Notes, like Dewdrops, fell on Blade and Leaf,
Making them tremble light: and as I crushed
The Perfumes in my Path, which made the Air
Wingheavy as he crept from Bough to Bough,
More sweetencumbered than a Noontidebee,
I could distinguish, more by Smell than Sight,
(Which left Imagination free to strew
The Path at her own Choice, and from the Womb
Of Darkness call dim Shapes of Loveliness)
The Flowers, which, with every passing Breath,
Breathed rich Intoxication: — then I caught
The Babble of a neighbouring Brook, and soon,
The Pathway opening up, I saw it gush,
In beadëd Bubbles and bright Waterbells,
From out a deepmouthed Cave, whose shaggy Brows
With the redberried Ash and Weepingbirch
Were thicko 'ergrown: and soon it shot along
Thro' chequered Shades, broadening into a Leap
For the hothunted Stag, when baying Hounds
Make Rock and Dingle echo in his Rear.
With this my joyous Guide, I wandered on,
As if eternal Nature, with her own
Still Hand, had led me, and regained at length
The open Ground, delighted and refreshed,

188

As ever, by this Commune with herself,
Whose Hand so oft had sprinkled on my Brow,
The fresh, clear Dew, in Token of sincere
Regeneration, as a Sign that I
Was baptized to her Service thus once more!
Her blessed Service, where the Fret of Heart
And Fever of vain Hopes is calmed away:
Her Ways of Innocence, in which we walk,
'Till of her mighty Heart the quiet Pulse
Attunes our own: to that communicates
Its own sublime Serenity, 'till naught,
Naught more can trouble us! 'till evil Tongues,
False Friends, Unthankfulness, and Hate, and Wrong,
Grow like to Words without a Meaning, yea!
Are such to us, for none can wrong us more,
None injure, none provoke us, for we feel
It not! esteeming it mere Folly to
Disturb, for Things so measurelessly less
Than it, the Soul! sublimely blind, we see
No Loss where all Men see it, and therefore
There is no Loss to us! God dwells in us,
And who can injure Him? who rob him? none!
And with Him what Loss can there ever be?

VERSEOFFERINGS.

Here, Reader, here are garnered up for thee,
My first fresh Years of Youth: the Scent of those
Pure Flowers of Love and Hope, which, like the Rose,
Most fragrant ever in Lifesspringtide be.
Chuse at thy Pleasure, haply thou mayst see
Some little, modest Floweret which grows
Unconscious of the Charm, to which it owes
Thy Preference; and which perhaps, when the
More gaudy ones are withered, shall not fade.
For oft what in our Pride of Heart we made
To witness for us, passes like a Thought,

189

And that, which we ourselves esteemed as naught,
Becomes the Theme of Praise, bursts from the Sha de,
Like Violets, full of Nature's Perfume fraught!

ON IMAGINATIONUSING.

I do remember well the Day on which
I wrought a Miracle, yet I had not
Medea's Wand, or Archimago's Spell,
I had them not, yet still less did I need;
I wrought no Charm, I wove no mystic Words
To pluck the Stars down from their orbëd Spheres;
I only thought: and lo! the Thing was done!
A Wonder— yet not wonderful, save to
The Man who knows not what he is and has.
I was in Sorrow, for the Grave had closed
O'er one whom I much loved: I sat, and heard
The Birds that sang so blithely, and I saw
The Flowers unconscious of my Misery.
And yet they soothed me, more, far more, than Words
Of studied Consolation: for tho' they
Are voiceless, yet they are a Language to
Be felt, and God can speak as well by them,
As by Man's Lip! and viewing them, I said,
«Why do I weep when all around is Joy,
Teaching in silent Wise the mighty Truth?»
Is not Imagination mine? then why
Should this sublimest of all Faculties
Be left disused? this Faculty which is
Health to the Sick, and Riches to the Poor,
And unto him who will Eternity:
Youth to Oldage, and everything to each,
Who knows but how to use it, and believes,
For without Faith there is no Miracle!
I thought a little while, and he who thinks
Deeply is far beyond the Reach of Pain,
Withdrawn, like some far Star within the Depths

190

Of the blue Ether, from the Storm below.
A Tear, which had just gathered in my Eye,
Fell on my Hand and roused me, and I looked
Upon it almost with a Smile, and half-
Surprized, scarce conscious whence it came from, said
«What do'st thou here, sad Messenger of Grief,
Who hast forgot to tell what thou wast bid,
And now art free to bear a Message for
What Master Chance may send thee?» and, methinks,
Thou might'st do Wisdom better Service far!
Go mingle with the Dewdrop on that Rose,
Thus do I hallow thee to Joy, and give
Thee back to Nature, even as my Soul
Is mingled oncemore with this lovely Whole,
Partaking of its Meaning and its Calm!
Unconscious that the Shadow of a Grief
Had rested on it, as the Sun, now from
Yon' Cloud just passing, still and unobscured!
I call the Dead from out their Graves, and kiss
The Lips which now are cold, and by my Side
Sit the belovëd Forms of early Days,
As they were wont to do. I still enjoy,
In spite of Death, all that I once possessed:
For all that we have felt, and thought, and loved,
Abides with us, and in our Souls we build
The lovelier World, which we enrich with all
The Stores of our past Being, with all Forms
Of Beauty, and all Sounds of early Joy:
And like our Maker we have Power to say,
«Let there be Light, and there is Light.» No Thing
That ever has delighted us, is lost;
The Hope which oft has made the Heart to throb,
Will visit it again, yea, we ourselves
Can realize it, tho' the outward Life
Deny it a Fulfilment; we can fill
The Heart with Joy by it, and how, how then

191

Can it be better realized? for so
Long as we hope, the Thing we hope for is
A Joy to us: and tho' we have not it,
Have we not all the Joy which it could give?
And is not that the best Part of it? yea!
It might be realized, and then that Joy
Would be like to a Flower, whose rich Scent
Had filled the Air afar, 'till drawing near
We pluck and crush it in the little Space
Of our poor mortal Hand, and for but one
Brief Moment smelling it, behold it fade,
Leaving the disenchanted Air forlorn,
The cold, prosaic Breath of weekday Life!

ON HIGHER APPLICATIONS OF MACHINERY

1.

I see, as in a Dream, or on the Face
Of a calm Lake, the Images most clear
Of coming Wonders; Instruments appear
Therein as glorified, which but of base
Or lowly Ends as yet have borne the Trace,
Unto the Body dedicate: but here
They show like Weapons fashioned in the clear
Fire of Heaven, to work out Deeds of Grace.
That which in Mammon's Hand had wrought for no
High End, in Wisdom's and Humanity's
Becomes a mighty Lever. Light doth flow
From the Smithsforge, and on his Anvil lies
Metal soon fashioned for Truth's Victories,
Far other than vain Sword and Spear; and lo!

2.

Her Seeds, like Corn beneath the Plough, are sown:
Amid the Oceanfurrows Tracks of Light
By each Barkskeel are left, like Stars by Night
Shooting athwart the Firmament: and down
The viewless Winds her mighty Voice is blown
Calling upon the Nations. — used aright

192

The most familiar Means acquire Might
Celestial: they operate alone
Steadily, at all Times, all Places, on
All Hearts, within the Reach of all, and by
All comprehended; Wisdom's Hand upon
All household Objects may impress some high
Conception, and the Soul to Good be won
E'en by the coarse Wants of Humanity;
This is her Triomph: by the daily Eye
And Heart she lasting Changes works alone!

ON MONEYSEEKERS.

By God! one Handfull of a Milton's Dust
Were worth the Souls of all the modern Race
Of Wealthadorers: one Look of his Face,
Nay, e'en a Plastercopy of his Bust
Placed in God's Temple, would from out it thrust
With unendurëd Frown, the Brood so base
Of Moneychangers, to some fitter Place
For their Abominations! but we must
Be dumb as Stones! it is illbred, forsooth!
To use plain Terms and speak the naked Truth,
It shocks us! we are Dwarfs—mere Bastards, yea,
Bastards in Soul, and mincingly we tread
Where Gods have left their Footsteps; we must pay
E'en for the Reverence we owe the Dead:
We cannot near a Milton's Ashes stray
To commune with his Spirit, without Gold!
And at God's very Templedoor we're told
The Price of our Admission! e'en the Ray
Of his own Light is taxed—Shame, Shame I say,
How long must we endure that thus instead
Of hevenly Things, vile Gold be worshippëd?
How many Knaves and Dotards buy their Way
To the Statespinnacle, who 'neath should stay,
Were Bags of Gold not sought, but Heart and Head!

193

Ye Fools! if ye exalt such Men, will they
Not sell ye like vile Sheep? but still your own
Brute Vices scourge ye in them, yours alone!
For were the Roots but sound, the Fruit would be
Of generous Taste, and worthy of the Tree:
Not rotten at the Core, as now we see!

THE POETSHARP.

The Strings with which the Poetsharp is made
Are those of his own Heart, no Wonder then
Its Music stirs so deep the Souls of Men,
As tho' his Hand on their own Heartstrings played,
And so it does!— And oh! how lightly swayed
Are those selftrembling Chords, which thrill e'en when
His Hand is sleeping, and wake up again
Old Melodies, wild Music, which had strayed
O'er them in bygone Days: for he scarce knows
Himself whence comes the Spirit of his Lay:
Oft 'tis aroused by some far Note, that flows
From Angels hymning on the newborn Day;
And like the Seashell is his Heart, for aye
With living Sounds and Echos filled from those
Far Spheres, to which he longs to soar away!

REAL GOODS HOW EARNED?

Life's genuine Goods by Rich and Poor are won
In the same Fashion: they are neither bought
With Gold nor go by Precedence, but wrought
By our own Labour: nay, 'tis this alone
That gives them Value— Patience must be shown
In Bearing and Selfsacrifice, but naught
Is harder practiced by, or rarer taught
The Rich, than this, whose Minds in Ease have grown
Enfeebled, dazzled by mere Shine and Show:
Too many Goods are none— they are enjoyed
Imperfectly, the Heart's not filled, but cloyed:

194

They injure too that greatest Good, which no
Infinitude of lesser Goods can e'er
Supply the Place of, nay, these are not so
Without that great Good, the «true Feeling, clear
And godlike, of Man's Life!» which once destroyed,
Then is the Compass lost, by which to steer
All Action and Affection to fit End!
For without this, we shall be apt, I fear,
To set Life's Byaims above those which lend
It all its Worth and Grandeur, and to make
Th' Essential's Place the Accidental take:
To merge the «Man» in that which is but here
The Mask and Mumming in which they appear,
Or rather disappear, to speak aright!
The Poor now is most likely to be quite
«A Man,» for in him Heart and Feeling tend
To rouse, and to keep steadily in View
The grand and simple Duties, which delight
A Spirit quite a wake, to Nature true.
Then would the Richman win this Good, he too
Must cast his Wealth away, which dissipates
Life's Oneness, fritters it away, creates
A Multiplicity of Details, where
The one grand Feeling of this so, so fair
Existence, is quite lost: 'tis like a Glass
Shattered in Fragments, 'till the Form, which was
Grand, whole, and godlike, can no more be there-
In recognized: and since 'tis the full Light
Of this same Feeling brings out clear to Sight,
The Outline both of Man and God, if we
Once lose it, we are no more «Men,» and he
To us not God! he must from that lone Height
Descend then to the Level of those who
By common Wants of frail Humanity
Keep sound the Heart by Contact, faithful to
That Law which brings the Tear into the Eye,

195

The divine Law of human Sympathy!
For not to need our Fellowmen that is
The worst Ill— thus from having naught to miss,
We miss all, nay, grow a Nonentity!
But if by casting Wealth away he grow
Patient, what other Wealth needs he below?

ON HOLYLIVING.

Be pure, be good, be holy, for the more
Thou art all this, the more shall all Things grow
In Beauty to thine Eyes. let thy Soul be
Like some calm Star that in its Orbit moves,
Then shall the Harmony of this fair World
Reveal itself to thee, for thou thyself
Art then a Part thereof, else will it seem
Confusion, for thy Being is confused.
Respect thyself the most of all! and that
Which thou before another wouldst not do
Out of Regard to him, that do still less
Before thyself, out of Regard to thine
Own Self!—for whom does it behove thee most
To honor? thyself, and in thyself all
Thy Fellowcreatures, or another, and
Not thine ownself, and therefore— neither him!
For he who honors not Man's Nature in
The Abstract, and in his ownself, can ill
Respect it in another! then respect
Thyself, thus too in others' Presence thou
Wilt seldom give Offence: and if in thy-
Self thou respectest God who made thee in
His Image, be assured thou wilt respect
Him then in others too— admit no Thought
Which thou wouldst not proclaim unto the Ear
Of everyman: act always as if thy
Breast were of Chrystal, and each Passerby
Could read thy Feelings as he runs: and oh!

196

Remember that there is one, to whose Eye
It really is of Chrystal! stand thou then
Always as in his Presence: then will thy
Whole Being grow transparent, with his Light
And Glory filled, like to a Diamond when
Held up against the Sun!— seem what thou art,
And be that which thou seem'st, then all may read
What passes in thee, just as well as if
Thy Bosom were of Chrystal: let thy Soul
Be as a Telescope, thro' which thou mayst
See shadowed forth the Forms of coming Things;
Live in it, as already up with God
In Heaven: feel Him in it—let it be
As a calm, clear, deep Water, giving back
Life's changeful Forms, reflected in, but not
Disturbing it: nay, borrowing from thence
That Calmness, which seems foreign to themselves!
Force not thy Thoughts or Feelings—let them spring
Of themselves, like the Flowers of the Field,
From natural Influence of Seasons, Times,
And Circumstances, then will they be fresh,
As are the Flowers, full of Life and Sap:
A Light unto the Moment, in whose Soil
They struck their Roots, and took their Colouring.
Not like the cold Abstractions of dead Books,
But springing from the Heart, and full of that
Best Wisdom, in which all are wise, the pure,
Deep Wisdom of Humanity and Love!

198

LIFE.

Oh! what were this Life if it did not lead
To something better? how could we endure
The Heartache and the Fever without Cure,
Save from allhealing Death, if on a Reed,
Shook by vile Chance's Breath, in this our Need
We were compelled to lean? how far more poor
Than the worst Beggar, if we were not sure
That this our Hope is something more indeed
Than a mere Fancy of the idle Brain!
But that Conviction, springing as it does
From Being's Depths, can pour in Spite of Pain
Its sovereign Calm upon the Soul's worst Throes:
Can quell rebellious Doubts, and place again
Faith on her Throne secure from all her Foes!

MOTHERSLOVE.

What speaks of Heaven most on this dull Earth?
What kindles in the Eye its holiest Ray?
What is that Love which weareth not away
With Years or e'en Neglect, that knows no Dearth,
No base Alloy, no Stain of mortal Birth?
That, bless'd and blessing, asks for naught, but aye
Gives still more largely, and from each Outlay
Of fond Affection reaps a Harvest worth
The Revenue of Crowns? oh is it not
A Mother's deep, unutterable Love,
Of holiest Yearnings, fondest Hopes begot?
All earthly Feelings and all Fears above,
On its Snowpurity no smallest Spot,

199

And in Excess itself naught to reprove
Or wish away! who that has gazed once on
A Mother and the Child she lulls to Rest,
Bat feels his Nature beautified, his own
Bes Sympathies awaked, as thro' his Breast
Love's Hand above th' electric Chords had flown,
Touching his inmost Being to its sweetest Tone!

FREEDOM.

All are not free Men whom the State makes so
Or deigns to name so — can a paltry Space
Of Earth or a vile Sum of Money place
Within our Reach that precious Boon? oh no!
Nor Gold nor Land release from Thralldom low;
We may with these be Men whom Freedom's Face
Would scorn to look on, who to Custom's base
And palsying Yoke their Necks unmurmuring bow!
We must be Citizens by divine Right
Of a far other State than this, and by
Far different Means! unto our Being's Height
We must first rise by Truth, 'till that the Eye
Be single, full of her celestial Light,
And clear from Film of dull Mortality!

WHAT SHOULD BE MOVEABLE AND WHAT IMMOVEABLE.

Let Thought and Feeling be awake in thee,
As lightlystirred as Leaves upon the Oak,
In Sunshine quivering to the slightest Stroke
Of Zephyr, or the Bird's least Breath: but be
Thy Principles as firmset as that Tree
On its deep Roots; that these, e'en when the Shock
Of earthly Sorrow or of Ill have broke
The Fruits of Promise, when they seemed to the
Fond Eye of Hope sureripening, may still
The Sap unto a nobler Growth supply,
And with maturer Juice the Fruitage fill.

200

And as towards Earth's Centre those Roots, by
Which the Tree lives, still tend, so too let thy
Deep Thoughts towards the Centreprinciple
Of spiritual Gravitation bend,
Thence draw still their Beginning and their End!

ON A FRIEND ASKING IF HE DISTURBED ME WHEN WRITIN.

1.

Oh! think not that thou interruptest me;
A warm Shake of the Hand, a kindly Look,
Inspire me more, far more than this dead Book,
Which quickens not, by divine Sympathy,
Those genial Affections which must be
Cherished by daily Intercourse: I brook
The simplest Sheepherd's Converse, who of Crook
And Dog talks naively, better than to see
That cold, dumb Oracle, Philosophy!
I like to hear the Feelings of the Heart
Speak, not in formal Phrases clipped by Art,
But with the natural Eloquence of Eye
And Voice, and Gest, which better can impart
Wisdom than all the Books beneath the Sky.

2.

In the pure Light of Things I love to stand,
To see them as they are, nor more nor less;
I need no spectacles of books t'impress
Or magnify the wonders of God's hand.
I with my natural sight have ever scanned
His Volume, comprehended it far more
By my own Heart's plain Comment, and the Lore
Of pure delight, than by all that the band
Of Pedants and of Sages ever penned!
Then fear not that thy voice disturbs me, Friend;
It tunes my thoughts, like pleasant chimes they fall
In order, and a healthy glow thereby
My cold Abstractions warms: and after all,

201

This is real Life, that is but Poesy!
And Life the highest Poesy I call!

SLAVERY.

Firstborn of Sin and Darkness, Slavery!
How shall I name thee, Foe to all that's good?
Thou that canst change the Spirit's vital Blood
To Poison — where does thy true Power lie?
Thy petty Hate may dim the Body's Eye,
And wear the Flesh, but the Mind's constant Mood
Can shake not; nay, such Woes by Faith withstood,
Feed but the Lamp of Immortality:
And from Earth's Hopes, returning to their Dust,
Spring up the Fruits of spiritual Life!
'Tis in the Heart subdued to Sin and Lust.
Of all real Ill ourselves the Seeds have nursed,
By our Cooperation they grow rife:
Ill is to us so thro' our ownselves first!
And the Selfslave of all Thralls is the Worst;
What boots a Body free, a Mind with Truth at Strife?

THE WIND.

Poet! what Poet's Strains can vie with thee,
Thou manytonëd Wind, whom all the Strings
Of Harmony obey; when Thunder rings
'Round some hoar Mountain's Brows, there wilt thou be,
(While Echo sets the old Cavevoices free
From their Rockslumbers,) with thy mighty Wings
Sweeping the headlong Waterfall that flings
Himself in Air's Embrace: and when the Sea
Tunes all his Waves from Pole to Pole in one
Worldfilling Concert, art not thou alone
The Masterspirit of the Minstrelsy?
Yet canst thou mould thy Voice unto a Tone
Soft as in Woman's Ear the whispered Sigh
Of Love, for all sweet Things fit Company!

202

MONEYCOVETERS.

How many sweat and toil for thee, how many
Seek thee from Day to Day, and Year to Year,
As the sole Good that Life can offer here,
Letting thee drop at last reluctantly
From Age's palsied Grasp! and when the high
And blessed Hour of Freedom draweth near,
When the prophetic Sight has Glimpses clear
Of Glories inexpressible, caused by
Some Angel's Hand uplifting partially
The aweful Veil, still unto thee they cling,
With one Foot in the Grave, and drag thee down
With them into it, tho' the Weight must bring
Damnation on their Souls: still Mammon's own
Vile Thralls, when Heaven itself is opening!

TIMESUSE.

Pay all thy Debts, first what to God is due,
Then canst thou owe to no Man anything!
Then shall the Earth and all her Voices sing
Sweet Music to thine Ear, and Spring shall strew
For Age her Flowers as when Life was new!
Be not closehanded, wisely mayst thou fling
Thy Bread upon the Waters, Time will bring
All back with Interest: for what unto
His Care Man trusts, thereof he loses naught,
But, like an Usurer, with Joy or Pain
He pays each Moment surely back again,
According as 'twas spent: by Wisdom wrought
Into the Substance of eternal Gain,
Or still by Folly deemed a mere Sandgrain!

INNOCENCE.

Oh cherish in thy Heart a Nook where ne'er
The cold World's Strife may enter, where of Peace

203

The still, low Voice of Conscience may not cease
To whisper still unto the inward Ear,
Serene and ample, and awake to hear
Voices from other Days, that come again,
To teach us that our Yearnings are not vain:
Echos from other Worlds and Answers clear!
Alas for him who in Misfortune finds
No Comforter in his own Bosom, who
Has forfeited his Birthright: Conscience winds,
Snakelike, around his Heart, she, who should strew
With Joys the Path, him as a Bondslave binds
To Pain, still to her double Office true!

LAMENT.

Oh! that a Milton would rise up once more
To lay his Hand on the old Harp, again
To wake the Music of past Days, the Strain
Which, like Spheremelody, from Shore to Shore
Passed o'er the Nations, making in its Power
The Thrones of Tyrants tremble, nor in vain!
Alas! we are are but Dwarfs, we cannot strain
Our weak Grasp to the Strings! the Days are o'er
When Sagespen and Poetsharp could wake
The World from out its Lethargy; we have
Naught of that antique Flame which erst could make
Menslips like Angels' eloquent, which gave
The Faith that, looking still beyond the Grave,
Life's godliest Prospect from its Brink could take!

POVERTY.

Oh God! it is a soulsupporting Thought,
To think that ever the more poor we be,
The richer in all genuine Wealth are we,
If we have but the calm Belief that naught
Life yields has Value, save as it be wrought
To fitting Use and Application by

204

That shaping Spirit which within doth ply
Its godlike Office! save as we be taught
By it to see that all Things take their Worth
From our ownselves, yea, even from the Way
In which we look at them! this ample Earth
At one Man's Feet its ample Stores will lay,
While of all inward Good another's Dearth
Deprives him even of the Light of Day!

MYSTIC POETRY.

1

There is a Poesy where Words do seem
Like Hieroglyphics to the practiced Eye,
A Shorthandwriting with fit Imagery
Penned as by Angelshands, or with the Beam
Of living Truth enwoven; words that teem
With grand and lofty combinations, high
And sweet suggestions, signs and tokens, by
Which we can piece the fragments of some dream
Of Beauty, and fill up the outline clear
Of the dim vision veiled in its own Bright-
Ness, which from time to time our dull path here
Crosses, then vanishes again from Sight,
Halfconscious Recognitions from a sphere
To which we tend as flowers to the Light!

2

But this is Poetry which he alone,
Whose soul is pure, can comprehend, whose mind
The perfect Beauty in itself can find,
And concentrate the scattered rays of one
Eternal Truth, whereever they have shone
Upon it, in one Socket, where enshrined,
Like to a living Eye among the blind,
The blessed radiance, glancing ever on
All objects, shows them in their genuine Light.
The Wisdom which is not of Earth, whose Sight
Is single, calm and serene, and whereby,

205

Through Hope and Faith, he looks beyond this Night,
These changeful Mists of Time, and in his Eye
Receives the Light of Immortality!

3

But to the worldly soul these words have no
Deep meanings, give no Intuitions clear,
No glimpses far into the life which ne'er
To chance and change is subject: but like to
The poor skygazing Savage, it can know
Naught of the wheels of Harmony which bear
The starry chariots thro' the silent air,
While on the other Heaven's least star can throw
The radiance of all, and lead him on,
From orb to orb, thro' all the Galaxy,
From link to link, yea! even to the throne
Of God himself! for to his ample Eye
Earth's meanest flower or that one star alone
Are signs and tokens of Infinity!

4

The least sandgrain on the seashore is fraught
To him with wonder, and it speaks as well
As the loud Ocean: is a miracle
As great as any in the old times wrought
For those who in their souls had never sought
The miracle of miracles, to quell
All Doubts; that most incomprehensible
God in our Breasts, who grapples with proud Thought,
As with a babe, and flings him back to Earth,
When without Faith he would investigate
The mystery that hovers o'er Man's birth;
For Faith and Thought to Wisdom's rich Estate
Are Coheirs, Twins in Heaven they were, and so
No perfect Being when divided know!

5

There is no Littleness to him who sees
God in all Things; nay, often that which is

206

Despised as insignificant, in his
Esteem is but more wonderful: Degrees
Of Wisdom unobserved he marks, by these
Goes deep and rises high, still fixing sure
Each Spoke of Truth's vast Wheel, 'till it endure
The Weight of the whole Universe; where cease
The Stare and Wonder of the World, there he
Is lost most in Astonishment and Awe:
Amid the Chaos and the ceaseless War
Of human Passions, it is his to see
These jarring Elements, by one grand Law,
Made Parts of Nature's boundless Harmony!

HOW TO MAKE BEING COMPACT.

Why is the Wheel so strong? a Child knows why!
Because the Spokes towards one same Centre tend,
Which combined Strength to each and all doth lend.
So let God be the Centre of all thy
Life, Thoughts, and Deeds: and if unceasingly
They flow from him, to his sole Glory bend
Their Energies, and constantly ascend
For Motive and for Sanction to the Sky,
Then will thy Life, all Parts thus knit in one,
Be firm and compact! and what is this whole
Vast World but such a Wheel? of which, as on
In ceaseless Agitation it doth roll,
And all is Change, that which we stand upon,
And we ourselves, unchanging he alone
Is the unshaken Centre and the Soul!

THE POET'S LAMP.

What matters it, tho' to the godlike Toil
My Health, nay, even Life itself must be
Offered, the Price of Immortality?
Let no low Thought the Sacrifice then soil;
The Poet's Lamp is nourished not with Oil,

207

Gross and material, like that which we
Employ the Labour of our Hands to see,
When busy with low Cares and Life's Turmoil,
But with the purest Naptha of the Soul:
Purer than that which from the Stars doth shine:
And kindled first by Truth, with her divine
And quenchless Torch, it lights him to the Goal:
To the great Spirit of this lovely Whole
Burning like Lamp before the inmost Shrine!

ON USING THE PRENENT.

1.

Live thou each Day as if 'twere thine alone,
Then wilt thou of its Worth become aware:
Then wilt thou too enjoy it in its fair
Reality, and learn when it is gone
How great has been thy Gain: for to live one,
One signle Day without a Touch of Care
'Bout Past or Future, is to be as are
The Birds and Flowers, who have never known
A Morrow or a Yesterday: the Hour
Which passess leaves alone the precious Dower
Of Life: it yields enough to exercise
All Faculties, and calls for all our Power
To draw forth all its Good, and realize
The golden Vein which unworked therein lies!

2.

For Time to us is but as Marble to
The Sculptor's Hand, and as he in this wakes
The sleeping Statue, and the coarse Block takes,
Beneath his Touch, the Shape which it should do,
So we call forth the Beautiful, the True,
And Godlike from the other. He who rakes
'Mid the spent Ashes of past Pleasures, makes
The Present useless, and 'tis only thro'
This that he can move onwards, or attain
Life's Goal— what boots it to live o'er again

208

The Past? the Past has served its End, 'tis gone,
And wherefore should the springtide Tree retain
Its withered Autumnleaves, and not put on
The living Beauty of the passing Hour?
The green, the ripe Fruit, must succeed the Flower,
Each is a Step linked with the former one;
Man's Course is onward, yet to dream upon
The Future also is unwise: for by
The intermediate Steps we reach alone
Its Blessings; nay, there is no Future, none,
Without the Present! Life is as a Chain,
Each Part linked with the other viewlessly:
Oft fine as Gossamer, yet by the Eye
Of Wisdom traced, and no least link is vain,
In their Connection lies their only Power;
The intermediate Steps alone prepare
And fit us to receive the Goods which are
Still distant, else perhaps a Source of Pain,
Nay, Curses! to the feeble Child what were
Man's Strength of Reason but a Curse? gray Hair
Which Manhood has not fitted us to wear?
Then live the Present, this alone can be
Clasped to the Heart, substantial, solid Bliss;
Past, Future, are but Shadows, cleave to this!

RICHES.

1.

He who has least, has most—richest with nought
Beyond Life's grand and simplest Goods, an Eye
Not easydazzled with vain Glitter, high
Yet sober Feeling of what this Life ought
To be—a loving Heart, a Spirit taught
On Nature's solid Ground to build up, by
The firm Materials of Reality,
Its Happiness, not by vain Fancy wrought
From airy Nothings, but substantial Bliss:
Bliss to be pressed unto the human Heart

209

By which we live, thereunto to impart
That daily Warmth of human Love, which is
God's chosen Altarflame; for know, thou art
Not yet a Man, unless thou liv'st by this!

2.

He who has most is poorest, for he goes
Not into his ownself enough, to find
His Happiness—for still from our own Mind
Must it be fashioned forth, and with the Throes
Of our own Heart must it have Birth, like those
Which to the poorest Mother's Bosom bind
The Child of her own Womb, and make her blind
To all that it may want; see what Love does,
The Beautifier! he who makes this so,
So rude, imperfect World more lovely than
The Hues by Raphael thrown above the Brow
Of his Madonna!— all that Riches can
Teach us, is in ourselves this Truth to know,
That they are needless to be «quite a Man»!

3.

They loose the Sinews of our Industry,
Make Purpose faint, and Execution slow,
Religion a mere Form, impelled on no
Unwearied Wing of Faith towards the Sky,
But glancing still, with dull and filmy Eye,
On those bless'd Words, which no true Meaning show
'Till quickened into Life by holy Glow
Of Feeling; in our bitterest Misery
They first shine forth with their celestial Light.
And oh! methinks, it were worth while to be
A Beggar by the Road, to feel aright
The Force of that divinest Prayer, as we
Should do, «our Father which art in Heaven», see
Thy Child, and keep him ever in thy Sight:
«Thy Kingdom come, thy Will be done on Earth
As 'tis in Heaven»! and if thou feel'st the Worth

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Of these few words, then to thee straightway his
Kingdom will be already come, and Bliss
Will fill thy Heart, and flow from it, as flows
The Perfume from the summeropening Rose!
And if his divine Will be done in thee
As up in Heaven in the Angels, He
Will enter into thee, and thou, like those,
Wilt be a perfect Angel, blessed as they!
Tho' thou hast not a stone, whereon to lay
Thy Head, yet thou shalt sleep so sweetly, yea!
Such Sleep as Wealth on pillowed Down ne'er knows;
In God's own Bosom shalt thou sleep, and o'er
Thy Head shall Visions of the Blessed play,
Life's bitter Breath thou shalt not breathe of more,
But Ether, and be served upon thy Way
By Spirits, still obedient to thy Sway!

LIFEKNOWLEDGE.

Experience and Worldwisdom! oh how dear
They cost us, these same vaunted Treasures! how
Many sweet Streams of Fancy cease to flow,
How many Gushings of the Heart grow sere,
How many Flowers must be withered, ere,
Creatures of Form and Custom, we can bow
And smile, and play our Parts in this vain Show,
Where no Love is! 'till we have schooled our Ear
And Eye, and checked the Beatings of the Heart,
So that it no more throb, e'en tho' the Theme
Were God and Freedom! can we not redeem
Our Souls from this worst Thralldom, or must Art,
And Form, and Custom, mould us 'till we seem
Automatons, Machines in every Part!

RAPTURESTEARS.

Oh! blessed Tears, come once more to may Eyes,
That, glittering thro' you, I may see all Things

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As beautiful as tho' an Angel's Wings
Had dropped the Heavensdew, fresh from the Skies,
Upon them once again; the Glory dies
Which Youth and Hope breathed on the Earth: the Strings,
By Time too rudely touched, their Minist 'rings
Unto Hope's Hand refuse! in vain it tries
The wonted Chords, it can call forth at best
But Chimes of jangled Music, which too well,
By what they are not, to the sad Heart tell
How much is wanting; but when from your Rest,
Ye Tears, ye start, at Joy, th' Enchanter's, Spell,
Seen thro' ye Earth as erst seems fair and blest!

LAMENT.

My Heart is sad, and my Harpstrings have grown
Weary of this eternal Theme of Woe;
Oh that some good old Song might wake e'en now
The Spirit which so long from them has flown!
My Hand is heavy, and its Touch is thrown
Reluctantly athwart them, for they know
No Voice but what from blank Despair doth flow,
Their Mirth is forced, and turns into a Moan!
And if the blessed Music of old Days
Come back by Fits unto the Strings, it finds
No Ears that comprehend its Wisdom, Minds
Whose Music is the Clink of Gold: it plays
Like wandering Minstrel from some far Countree,
Who finds all strange where his dear Home should be!

NONE need BE POOR.

1.

Had we but that which really here below
Is ours, how poor then would the Beggar be?
But, with a little Fancy, all we see,
As far as the Enjoying it can go
At least, may be made ours; and who so
Truly the real Possessor then as he

212

Who draws most Good from it? a Thing to the
Richman may be as if 'twere not, of no
Value or Use, it charms no more his Eye,
Because fastidious— but if thou quietly
Walk'st thro' his Field, and view'st it as thine own,
Pleased with it as it is, if it were thy
Own really, wouldst thou then possess it one
Jot more? 'tis no more his, but thine alone!

2.

So walk thou thro' this lovely World, this Hall
Of Wonders, as if thou wert Lord of all:
Mar not thy Pleasure by the Wish to be
So in Name too: the Fruit is tinged for thee
With Gold and Purple, and the Flowers spring
Beneath thy Feet to give thee Welcoming!
Think that all, all is good, nor fancy aught
Could better be, and then there will be naught
To be made better: all will perfect grow,
If thou enjoy'st it perfectly, with no
Vain Retrospects, nor Hopes of greater Bliss:
The greatest, if thou art but wise, is this
Which thou now tastëst, for it fits thy Mind
For greater, in that Fitness thou wilt find
Not one Joy, but all Joys summed up in one:
As on the Instrument in perfect Tone
All Music which its Compass can comprize
May be performed: thus in thy human Soul
The Harmonies of this so boundless Whole,
Tho' on a smaller Scale, yet still, if wise,
Unutterably sweet, thou mayst epitomize:
'Till, in somesort like God's, thy human Heart
Grow as the Whole, pervading every Part!

TO WONDERSEEKERS.

Yea! Miracles are wrought (and none shall make
Me change my Faith) by common Agencies!

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The dovelike Glance shot from a Maiden's Eyes
Its stubborn Purpose from the Soul can take,
And bid it to its inmost Centre shake,
When Thunders, bellowing thro' th' affrighted Skies,
Would find it calm: herein we recognize
A Power, ever jealously awake
Within the human Soul, there to maintain
Of divine Things the due Supremacy:
These hold Communication, and reply
By Means which Sense would penetrate in vain,
Godlike to Godlike speaking, and still by
The Spirit Spirit loving to constrain!

WORLDWEARINESS.

Ye good old Thoughts, once more upon the Ear
Of sober Contemplation, long stunn'd by
The Jar, the Noise, and manyvoicëd Cry
Of this loud Babel, steal ye with the clear,
Sweet Chimes of other Days, with Fancies dear,
Dearer from Interruption: with all high
And blest Associations be ye nigh
To soothe the Soul, that it again may hear
The calm, eternal Voice discoursing sweet
Music of Things beyond the Reach of Chance
And Change, there where no busy Sound of Feet
Toiling in Mammon's dusty Paths, no Glance
Of Avarice or wrinkled Vice, may meet
The Ear or Eye, to break that blessëd Trance!

WISDOM.

Methinks I would not paint thee with grey Hairs
And a thoughtfurrowed Brow! I rather would
Give thee a Child's young Heart, and bid thy Blood
Dance joyously, unchecked by Life's dull Cares!
Is not Bliss Wisdom? if then Wisdom wears
Pain's Livery, it is a sorry Mood,

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Hard Service and worse Wages! Wisdom's Food
Is joyous Thoughts, and with these she repairs
The Injuries of Time: a wayside Flower,
A passing Cloud, can make her happier
Than Mammon's Darling 'mid his hoarded Ore!
And if in this so troubled World her Hour
Of Grief she too must feel, she has a Lore
Can make its Bitterness more sweet to her,
Than e'en Prosperity to those who know
Not its true Use, nor whence its Blessings flow!

LAMENT.

Shame on ye! dull, cold Hearts, who seek to gain,
By Prostitution of celestial Thought,
The Wages of vile Mammon! ye have brought
Divine Things into Disrepute, made vain
The Sage's Labours, to the Poet's Strain
Untuned our Ears, 'till we are fit for naught,
In Thought or Action, with true Grandeur fraught:
'Till we no longer comprehend the plain
And blessed Gospeltruths, but mouthe them o'er
With Apegrimaces, like the Pharisees:
Vain Forms and Ceremonies, where no more
Aught quickening survives pure Faith's Decease!
Alas! our Hearts are rotten to the Core,
And the Lifeblood there stagnates thro' Disease!

GOLD.

I value thee but even as thou art
In Wisdom's Sight, yet thou too mayst be made
The Minister of generous Thoughts, and aid
The nobler Beatings of the human Heart
In thy brute Fashion! Wisdom can impart
Even to thee, so oft to vain Parade
By Folly's unreflecting Hand betrayed,
High Uses, and by her discerning Art

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Reedem thee from the Dust! but shouldst thou e'er
With Feelings, Thoughts, and Hopes, of divine Birth,
Into Collision come, with Things that ne'er
Have bowed themselves from their celestial Worth
To thy lowthoughted and changetroubled Sphere,
I tread thee down into thy kindred Earth!

TO MY MOTHER.

I would not rashly lift the Veil which lies
Upon thy Face, my Mother! lest below,
Tooclose examining, I learn to know
E'en in those Features, holy to my Eyes,
Our coarse and common Clay! past Times arise,
When the Heart's first Affections for thy Brow
That Veil of Reverence wove, with Thoughts which grow
Only in early Years, with blessëd Ties
And high Associations: it is long
Since we have met, and thou may 'st no more be
The same whom I so loved! thou dost belong
To a bright Dream, and should Reality,
As he is wont, approach it but to wrong,
Who shall restore me what I lose in thee?
Then wear it still— thus shalt thou to me seem
Life's best Reality, and— fairest Dream!
At once Life's most real Good, and what of best
The Fancy has, and of idealest!

A PRAYER.

The ardent Thirst hast thou not granted me,
Oh God! and wilt thou not accord me too
Wherewith to quench it? some few Drops of Dew
Celestial, from that richfruited Tree
Whereon all Knowledge grows, eternally
Watered by Truth's pure Fountain, and brought to
Me in an Angel's Palm, enjoined to strew
My Lips with that bless'd Moisture, 'till they be

216

Fit for the Utterance of divine Thought.
Far other Inspiration than was known
To Grecian Bard, tho' by the Muse 'twas brought
Descending visible, e'en such as on
The Harp of David its high Wonders wrought,
Whose Spirit down from Heaven direct had flown!

FAME.

1.

I thought I should be happy, if the Wreath
Of Fame might but for once o'ershade my Brow,
But I have learnt from others' Fate to know
My Error, for the Pulse still throbs beneath
Those idle Laurels, and the withering Breath
Of Disappointment not the less doth blow
Upon our Hopes— alas! it is not so
Real Happiness is won: these Joys to Death
Are offered up, like Flowers on the Grave!
A more substantial Bliss the Heart doth crave:
Life was not meant to be a Dream, and we
Abuse that divine Gift of Fancy, save
When we employ its sublime Agency
To raise the Real by Hope of Things to be!

2.

For this End was Imagination made
Our Heritage, that we therein a Sign
Might have of Birth and Destiny divine:
That still as from Life's flowers the bloom should fade,
And narrower grow our Cares, by its bless'd Aid
We might enlarge our Realm: o'erstep the Line
Within which Life's vain Sorrows would confine,
And see the Promiseland before us spread,
Wider and wider, like the growing Day.
The bitterest punishment that falls on those
Who worship Mammon, is the sure Decay
Of Fancy: she her glorious wings must close,

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And no more soar up for the divine Ray,
To feed Faith's Altar burning fast away.

ON MINGLING WITH LOW NATURES.

What can the Contact with vile Natures do
To disennoble one that is divine?
Some Freshness at the Surface it may tine,
The frank Reliance, the Belief, which drew
From its own Nobleness its sublime View
Of Life: awhile into the inner Shrine,
To purer Worship, loftier Design,
The Spirit may retire, to renew
Its Purpose, and to gather Energy,
But for this, its first Disappointment, by
The Oracle consoled, returns again
To Life, and works with tenfold Industry
The Good and Godlike for their own Sakes! for
True Gold, tho' rubbed, remains without a Flaw,
Gold in all Shapes and Uses 'neath the Sky:
But the mere surfacegilded can retain
Its Lustre only while not tested: when
By base Materials rubbed, it changes, or
By Contact grows like them insensibly!

THE HOMELESS.

1

Hark! 'tis but the sere Leaf which makes
Me with its Footfallmotion start,
Like to a guilty Thing that shakes,
As all were not right at the Heart.

2

The same Star now is overhead,
Which so oft on my Boyhood shone,
As homeward sent to guide my Tread,
Alas! where does it now lead on?

3

I know not — 'tis not to my Home;
The Home I seek is very far,

218

Farther than whence yon' calm Beams come,
Yea! up above yon 'still, fair star!

4

Oh Eveningstar, that leadëst now,
Unto the household Hearth so dear,
So many Hearts, oh how, oh how,
Canst thou forget me mourning here?

5

Mine Eyes are dim at Sight of thee,
My feet mechanically move,
Thou draw'st me on resistlessly,
Softbeaming like the Eyes I love.

6

Ah cruel Star, why wilt thou cheat
Me with this Dream of Things longpast,
Home has no Threshhold for my Feet,
No Warmth is from that Hearth now cast!

7

Thou art but a mere Star to me,
Like those that near thee coldly shine,
The Home, that gave the Charm to thee,
Is gone, and thou no more divine!

8

They tell me even on thy fair,
Calm Silverdisk, that Night and Day
Alternate, and that Sorrow there
Too claims o'er human Hearts his Sway.

9

Then roll thou on thro' boundless Space,
The Home I seek is not in thee,
My Heart would find a Restingplace,
The long Rest of Eternity!

LIFE.

How often, seated in my Armchair, by
The Fireside, with, save its fitful Blaze,
No other Light, have I mused o'er the Ways
Of God, as they have been revealed in my
Own Life, for 'tis this Revelation I
Have drawn most Comfort from, this to the Maze
Has lent a Clue— our own Heart is the Place
Where we may best consult him: evernigh

219

The Oracle is ready at our Call,
And if we but do or forego what it
Bids or forbids, our Feet will seldom fall
Into the Snare— what other Men have writ
Instructs us: but the Comment best of all,
For us, is that of our own Hearts— when lit
By their Light, then the perplexed Page grows clear,
For none can tell us what we are or were!

TO THE DAISY.

Flower, that in the Soil of Memory
Growest, whose Roots with mine own Heart seem knit,
As tho' they sprang and took their Life from it,
Fed by its Yearnings, would that I could see
Naught but a little careless Flower in thee,
Upon whose Leaves the bygone Hours have writ
No Records, thus to make me by thee sit
With glistening Eye, and con the History
Of Joys, which sprang at every Step, like thy
Sweet self! why from the cold, forgetful Earth
Dost thou shoot up thus unconcernedly?
Spring sees thee with each Year renew thy Birth:
Yet art thou no more to my saddened Eye
The outward Emblem of an inward Mirth!

THE EVENINGSTAR.

Homestar of Eve! with what a lovefull Eye
Must the poor Labourer look up at thee,
When, all his Daytoils ended, he doth see
Thee shining o'er his Cot, so calm and high!
O'er that dear spot, from the World's Vanity,
From all its brute Uproar and Turmoil, free;
What Bliss is his, when, dandling on his Knee,
To his least Babe he sings its Lullaby!
But to the Richman that fair Star is nought,
It sweetens not the Sweat upon his Brow:

220

It is no Herold unto him of aught
That hallows still alike both high and low,
It has no beauty for him, brings no thought
Of Joys that from wise toil, their Springhead, flow!

FREEDOM.

Tho' thousands call on thee, fair Liberty,
And with thy hallow'd name on their false tongue,
Work deeds of crime and blood: tho' often sung
By Hirelingbards, who prostitute their high
And holy Calling, for the Wreaths that die,
Ere Fame's vile Reek be past, yet ne'er among
Thy servants nam'st thou these: for strife and wrong,
The visible Powers which work their Victory
With Steel, and Nerve, and Sinew, and brute Might,
Thou, knowing whence Strength is and what, dost scorn!
Thine are allbloodless Conquests, calm as bright,
For Liberty and Virtue were twinborn;
Thine make man Master of himself, for he
Whose State is selfdivided is not free!

CHARITY.

Sweet is the smallest Act of Charity
As a foretaste of Heaven, worth, I weet,
Eternities of vulgar bliss: 'tis sweet
To have some quiet nook of memory,
Where, like a bright glimpse of the glad blue sky
Amid surrounding clouds, our gooddeeds greet
The back ward glance with blessings; can Wealth bring,
Pomp, Power, or Pride, a Balm unto the Smart
Of stinging Conscience? no, their utmost art
A veil o'er hidden pangs at best can fling.
They never toil in vain who serve aright
The Giver of all Good, who truly seek
His Glory, not their own: tho' Fortune wreak
Her wayward Spleen on them, they find a Light

221

E'en in their very darkness, and a Might
Beyond Earth's strength; for man is then most weak
When he would stand alone, and if he break
From Virtue and Selfcontrol, 'tis to bite
The dust of which he's made in Selfdespite!

HAPPINESS.

Oh! Happiness, how few who seek thee, find
Thy priceless blessing, not that on life's tree
Of manytasted fruits, the true one be
Above the feeblest reach, but that with blind
And thoughtless haste we pluck; it is the mind,
Whose pruned or unpruned Wishes set us free
From Earth's worst cares, or turn to mockery
The Gifts we covet most; the tempting rind
Hides bitter ashes: Wisdom hath no power
To make us happy, if it teach not how
To draw enjoyment from the passing hour;
The simplest hind from his despisëd plough
Reaps more than all Ambition's princely dower,
From our own breasts, all Good or Ill doth flow!

WISDOM.

Whig, Tory, 'tis all one! true Wisdom knows
Naught of Distinctions varying with Place,
With Times and Prejudices, nor to base
And selfish Partyends perverts she those
Eternal Cares and Duties which she owes
Unto Mankind at large. She views the Race,
But higher Things therein doth ever trace,
Than those engaged in it strive after, whose
Exertions are but for themselves: like to
The Rat in Wisdom, just enough to do
As it, to leave the Building e're it fall,
But not repair it duringly for all
That's precious in Man's Heritage, a Store

222

For them and others, thus made tenfold more.
She swears not by a Name, her Sympathies
Are catholic — her Eye is single, clear,
Looking before and after, like a Seer,
Unto the Heart of Things — she doth despise
The Watchword of a Sect, the Badge of Clan,
Her Party is Mankind, her Watchword, «Man!»
Then be ye wise, thus straightway shall ye know
Your Answer, and to which Side ye should go!

REAL WEALTH.

1.

The daily Use of what we have alone,
The actual Consciousness thereof, that is
Our genuine Wealth: grasping at more we miss
E'en what we have — a Thing is then our own
When it is present to the Mind — when known
And felt, it first contributes to our Bliss;
Too many weaken but eachother — his
Enjoyment, who has many Goods of one
Same Kind, can scarce be greater than his who
Has one alone: by Repetition he
Gains naught, nay loses! one Rose smells like two
Or three, for one by one still must they be
Enjoyed — and one small Room is worth to thee
A Palace, nay! if content is one too!
And haply far, far more, it is thy — Home!
The Heaven from which thy Wishes never roam;
A godlike Palace! for God is there, and
Where He dwells, who lives better in the Land?

2.

But what now are those Goods which we most have
The daily Use of? our own Faculties,
Thoughts and Affections, from their Exercise
Springs all real Wellfare: do not then deprave
Them from their true Direction — if we crave
Life's Tinsel and vain Show, how can we prize

223

Aright its solid Goods?— our Sympathies
Should tend to godlike Things, and by these brave
The Shocks of Suffering, like Ivy twined
Around the Oak:— the Wealth of his own Mind
The poorest Man can have the Use of, yea!
More than the Richest: and therein may find
A Treasure everpresent. which from Day
To Day still multiplies, as 'neath their Sway
His true Affections bring Life's Forms, and bind
Them to the Heart enduringly for aye,
With Tendrils strong of Love, from the Springhead
Of natural Affection ever fed!

HEAVEN'S VISITATIONS.

God's Gifts to us are perfect— it is we
Who, by receiving them improperly,
Do make them otherwise— it is the Eye
Of Faith, in each of Life's Events, must see
Their Uses, and the Good which thence may be
Extracted— E'en in Pain and Misery
God wills our Good: let Patience then stand by
The Sickbed, yea! the Deathbed too, for she
Is Life's best ministering Angel, and
Sole Healer! Thou receivest at her Hand
More than Misfortune takes, a Foretaste of
That Heaven, which is to thee no more above,
But round thee, in thee! for if thou hast got
So far to be content with any Lot,
To say with heartfelt Gratitude and Love,
«Thy will be done on Earth as 'tis in Heaven,»
Then unto thee that Heaven will be given;
For but to do His Will on Earth, that is
In its sole Self, the Sum of Heaven's Bliss!
Then thankfully receive the Gifts he sends,
Whate'er they be; according to the Ends
Which thou direct'st them towards, will they prove good

224

Or evil: but which of these two they should
Be turned to, that on thy sole Self depends!
For costliest Blessings, when received amiss,
Are none, and Sorrows give an Angelskiss
Of Peace to such as meet them in fit Mood!

ON A LYREBEARING APOLLO.

And hear'st thou not the Music? are not those
The very Notes that floated on the Ear
Of blind Meonides, to whose so clear,
Inspiring Sound his full Heart sank and rose,
With Beatings mightier than Ocean knows?
See, see, the Etements take Shape, and near
The God, departed Forms of Beauty rear
Themselves to Sight! a Temple yonder shows
Its gleaming Marbles thro' the antique Trees,
Beneath whose Boughs, lightstirrëd by the Breeze,
A Band of Maidens o'er the new Grass speed;
Oh happy Vision! which with so much Ease
I have called forth from nothing, what we need
We make ourselves, and do become indeed!

GRAVECHUSING.

1

Oh! Father, let me buried be
In yon 'sweet Churchyardnook,
Beneath the shadowy old Yewtree,
Hardby that pleasant brook:

2

Its voice, tho' I shall hear it not,
Makes music very meet
For that same calm and quiet spot,
The injured's last retreat.

3

It is a song of early days:
Snatches of happy times
Still meet my ear, as on it plays,
But too like jangled chimes.

225

4

And let there be no stone above
To tell its idle tale,
But freshest turf with flowrets wove,
And perfuming the gale,

5

For I should wish no curious eye
To know who I have been,
The few who love me, easily
Will find the spot I ween:

6

And let there be no ruder sounds
Than greet the dawning day,
The voice of that sweet stream, which bounds
So merry on its Way.

7

Let children sport above my grave,
And pluck the flowers there,
Enjoying, as I myself have,
Those hours so fresh and fair,

8

Let them not think on whom they tread,
The silence that's below,
But laugh as tho' there were no Dead,
And Life were ever so!

9

These tremblingvoicëd words had brought
A tear into her eye,
For still it is a bitter thought
So very young to die.

10

Then from her father's breast she raised
Feebly her sinking head,
One moment in his face she gazed,
Yet not one word she said.

11

There was a something at her heart
That could not uttered be,
She pressed his hand, as those who part
For an Eternity.

12

He answered not, there came no tear,
He clasped her to his breast,
He listened for awhile to hear
Her heart, but 'twas at rest!

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13

And when I pass'd again that way,
The birds were singing there,
As tho' there had been no such day,
Nor man e'er felt despair.

14

I wandered thro' the churchyardnook,
The stream was flowing on,
All things wore just the selfsame look,
Save one small spot alone.

15

A little mound of turf was there,
Which was not there before,
No other mark to point out where
Slept she who was no more!

16

The old yewtree its shadows threw
Upon that humble sod,
And on its breast the flowers grew,
Emblems of trust in God.

17

And thus we pass away, and leave
No void in the vast chain
Of Being, and scarce one will grieve
Or think of us again.

18

Our name is cast upon the winds,
Our memory is gone,
And all the curious searcher finds
At best is a gravestone.

19

Ask of this manycenturied tree
Who sleeps beneath his shade,
Will Nature, think'st thou, answer thee?
She cares not for the dead!

MAN.

Hast thou not given us the eye to see,
The ear to hear, and spread before our eyes
This glorious World of beauty, Earth, Sea, Skies,
With all their rich and rare variety
Of soulawaking charms? yet we pass by,
Tho' wonders at each heedless step arise,

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As men who had no hearts! Mercy, allwise,
Allbounteous God: chastise, but let it be
In Love not Wrath, reclaim us to thy ways.
We are but lipfree, our worst fetters are
In our own souls: baser no tyrant lays
On his least thrall, than who with self at war,
And with his being's end, can pass his days,
A selfchained captive to vile Mammon's car!

AMBITION.

Ambition, like the kite, will soar full-high,
Yet are his heart and ken still downward bent,
His base prey's still beneath him, most intent
On that when highest soaring; Folly, by
A little gilded Dust thrown in his Eye,
Makes a mere Crown seem a bright Halo sent
By Glory's self to wreath his brows; the tent,
Where like a God he sits, th' Idolatry
Of foolëd hosts, blind tools and framed aright
For such a hand, the shout, the feast, the fight,
The bloodstained triomph, such the Steps that bear
Ambition to his selfo' erbalanced height,
Whence, on his Earth-Olympus, he will scare
With his Claythunderbolts, to vulgar sight
A God— and most fit too, for such as make
Their Deity of Clay, and consecrate
In him their selfscourged Sins: but drowsy Hate,
Drugged by Oppression, shall at length awake,
And the vain Momentsidol rudely break,
Hurled to the Dust from whence capricious Fate
Had raised him! of the Virtue of a State
Its Rulers give the Measure— for they take
Their Measure from it: this is the sole true
Thermometer, which sinks and rises too
As Good or Evil may preponderate
In that great Mass, whence it the Impulse drew.

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Vices must rise, when pressed up by the Weight
Of those beneath, and sink just as these do!

PHILOSOPHY.

1

Why por'st thou, old Philosopher,
Upon thy wormeat book,
When the winds are making such a stir,
And the leaves from the tree are shook?
Think'st thou from that dead page's Lore,
To strike Truth's warm lifespark?
No! thou mayst pore, and pore, and pore,
And make God's daylight dark.

2

Like the spider thou spinnest, and spinnest on,
The web of thy flimsy brain,
Some solid Truth breaks it, and thou anon
Must patch it up again.
Oh! look thou forth on the sunny Sky,
On the Earth, whose flowers are springing,
Or draw thy lore from the laughing Eye
Of the child, unconsciously singing.

5

Wisdom is Bliss! to flourish and bloom,
It asks both air and sun,
Like plants, when shut up in the studentsroom,
It loses its color anon!
Yea! Wisdom grows in the Wear and Tear
Of manycolored Life,
And the fruits which the closet alone doth bear,
In the open air ne'er thrive.

4

Oh! wisdom comes by ear and eye,
From their vast and ample domain,
From the changing face of humanity,
In joy, and sorrow, and pain:
And he who walks the same dull Round,
And views the selfsame things,
His heart, like his eye, hath a narrow bound,
And his soul has lost its wings.

229

GRAYHAIRS.

1.

Can Time accord a fitter ornament
To Age's brows, than its own silver hairs:
Brought by his Messengers, the winged Years,
A mark of his high Approbation meant?
The seasonable Gray. by hours wellspent
Strew'd with a gentle hand, which Wisdom wears
As her best token: by no idle fears
Disturbed, no tremblings thro' the calm heart sent,
Where sublime Faith sits firm upon her throne:
Counting in serene hope, as past they fly,
The Sandgrains, lessening gradual, one by one:
And looking on the grave with steadfast eye,
'Till worms and darkness vanish, and alone
Remains the sense of Immortality!

2.

Gray hairs are then like to a holy Wreath,
By Angels wove for Virtue here below!
But oh! how ill do they become the brow,
When prematurely touched, and by the Breath
Of Dissipation whitened! when beneath
The temples, where no sanctity they throw,
We trace the Feverpulse of passions low,
Desires writhing in the grasp of Death,
Yet prurient still: engrained by habitude,
Tho' able scarce to warm the halffroze blood:
Oh! then they are a bitter mockery,
Placed there by time in his most scornful mood,
A sign and token of his Triomph, by
The Voice of Conscience sanctioned inwardly!

NEWYEAR.

Another year has flown!— what means this year,
Or what this idle phrase with which I break

230

My Fancy's Rest? how many days then make
This year? what boots how many days there are?
Let's take its measure in the heart— aye there,
Alas! 'tis oft a baseless dream, the wake
Of a Bird thro' the Air: save by the Ache,
And vain Regret it leaves, as if it ne'er
Had been! 'tis then indeed gone by, and flown
Recallessly: no Gooddeeds which, like flowers,
Smell sweet, long after they are past and blown,
And leave behind them ripened seeds for hours
Of future bliss: but when the soul has known
To use it well, past Time is still our own!

THE SEASHELL.

What is there in thee, thou deepvoicëd shell,
That when unto my ear
I hold thee, I do seem to hear
Th' eternal Ocean's hollowsounding swell,
Tho' distancesoftened, as might be
His low rockmusic, borne on the windswings
To the sweet secrecy
Of some embowered inland haunt:
A spirit of wild murmurings,
Like to a distancedying chaunt!
What is there in thee, thou mysterious shell?
For not unto the sensual ear,
But rather to the soul, thy voice doth tell
Its tale of wonder: and we hear
The mighty Ocean rolling as of yore,
When in our childish awe we stood upon the Shore.
What Soul, what hidden Power,
Hath taken up its haunt in thee,
Crowding the Melodies
Of multitudinous waves and echoloving caves,
Within thy narrow boundary?
I do remember in my boyish days,

231

When wonder and delight
Clothed, more than fancybright,
The most familiar forms of weekday Being:
Ere yet the Eye had lost the power of seeing
With Joy's clear vision, and transfiguring rays
Of Heavensplendor fell on this dim Earth:
That Light which lingers round us at our birth,
Dyings out of Glory,
Scatterings from on high,
The Beauty, and the Blessedness, and Love,
Which, like a Garment, interwove above
By Angels, clothes our Innocence:
How I, not knowing whence
Those shellborn sounds, that gushed on my young ear,
Could come, did break in eagerness and fear,
Their Mansionhouse, in hope to trace
The Minstrel to his Dwellingplace!
And when the shattered fragments round me fell,
I did repent me: for I learnt too late,
That in the Whole that Music's soul did dwell,
Not of one part a function separate!
And such too is the soul of man!
He, who would its mistery scan,
With his vain anatomy,
May cut, and analyze, and try
On his knifespoint the soul to fix,
As Doubt upon the Crucifix
Did Christ, yet allinvain, for Soul
Is felt and known but as a Whole:
And all that he can hope to find,
This vain blindleader of the blind,
Is but the shell, from whence the mind,
Hath fled to the Immensity
Of its own home, Eternity!
But he who seeks the Oracle,
Where alone 'tis wont to dwell,

232

In the boundless living Whole,
Unto him the human Soul,
Be it in the breast of man,
Or in Nature's sublime plan,
(For by one same spirit they
Are upheld and linked for aye:)
Shall make clear and full reply,
Authentic tidings from on high,
Imparting warnings, holy fears,
Visions as of olden seers,
Thro' the changing mists of Time,
Glimpses of a sunnier Clime:
Snatches of far Melody,
Dying in th' Immensity
Of those realms beyond our thought,
Whence their music's spell is brought!
And as to the heedful ear,
The shell gives notice full and clear,
Of the hollowvoicëd Ocean,
And his timeunchangëd motion,
So the soul discourses well,
Things which words in vain would tell,
Of a faroff world of bliss,
Whose voice at times is heard in this,
Answering our souls, as Echo here
Our body's voice, and not less clear:
The chain of sympathy around
All things invisibly is bound:
And as Earth unto Earth tendeth,
Spirit still with Spirit blendeth!

THE GRAVE.

Hast thou e'er wept above the grave of those
Whom Love and Youth's affections bound to thee?
Or in thy Afteryears, by Memory
Recalled unto the spot, poured out thy woes

233

There where the rank grass of neglect still grows
As to reproach thine absence silently?
Oh how it thrills the heart, that fain would be
In its wild outburst as the clod that knows
No sense of being: but as tears gush o'er
The rank, parched weeds, Contrition's dew, the stream
Of passion flows subdued to grief, no more
Rends the poor heart intwain: oh then 't might seem
As tho' some voice spoke in that calm, and bore
Its mission to the soul, unheard before!
And bade us turn unto the grave, and pray,
Humbled and meek, as tho' the body there,
With all Earth's withered hopes and follies, were
Blent with the dust we love: the grave has aye
A Spell of Mystery, that stirs the heart
E'en to its inmost core, where hidden lie
Thoughts that are not of time, that never die,
Tho' they be smothered: it can heal the smart
Of woes immedicable elsewhere: why
Should we then turn to seek earth's cozening art?

LIFE.

Is it not written that man's portion here
Must be of good and ill, a sojourning
As in a Passageland, where everything
That this life offers him must wither, sere
As Autumnleaves? well were it if the tear
Where shed alone, a holy offering,
O'er nobler losses; but alas! we cling
Unto the fleeting Moment, as it were
A rock of Safety in Time's troublous sea.
Wouldst thou be happy, then submit the Shows
Of this vain life to the Supremacy
Of Faith, who can transfigure e'en the throes
Of the emprisoned Essence, 'till it be
Sublimed and strengthened by its very woes!

234

A SONG.

The Greenwood with songs is ringing loud,
The stream, 'neath the wing of a passing cloud,
Is eddying fretful, like child at play,
When chided, and then it hurries away
In the bright sunshine, gleesome and glad,
Like Joy, when calm Wisdom has touched the sad
And darkling thoughts into Pleasure's hue,
Turning our Fancies to channels new;
Ye Greenwoodbirds, ye Greenwoodbirds,
Oh tell me what sweet mystery
Lurks in your notes, that thus, like words
Of bygone days, they sound to me?
Is it that in the heart of man,
The feelings which with life began,
Tho' gone, still leave their echos there,
And when ye sing, they from their lair
Start into life once more?
Oh give me of your gentle lore
But just so much that I may sing,
And charm you on the stirless wing
As you charm me:
A touch of your own holy glee,
Where selfdisturbance dwelleth not,
Nor shadows of past faults to blot
The stainless page of Memory!
The Evening oalls ye to the nest,
And bids her star watch o'er your rest,
Twinkling so softly thro'
The dewleaves, where your gleesome eyes
Are closed, and hushed the harmonies,
That from your bosoms flow.
And when the sun's cloudgilding ray
Falls on ye, up ye start, and away,

235

To the Greenwood again,
Thus is your life, from day to day,
A joy and a beauty, a charm for aye,
With not a shadow of pain!
What silent Wisdom do ye teach
To us, who, in our Pride, still preach
Of God's high Word and Grace;
We mouthe the blessed Truth, yet ne'er
The seed within our hearts can bear
Its fruit, or leave a trace.
For oh! a fretful, stiffnecked Will,
Is quicker than the thorns to kill,
And choke the wholesome seed,
But ye are wise, ye learn, not teach,
And practice, while we idly preach,
Of rules ye have no need!
Ye find a bed 'neath every leaf,
Your joy is long, your toil is brief,
Ye live much in short time!
Ye bring me sweet, sweet memories,
Of times when I was e'en
As ye are, with your gladsome eyes,
Tho' no more what I've been!
Farewell, farewell, ye happy things,
Oh that I had a pair of wings
With ye to fly in bliss,
From this vain scene of cares and fears,
Where Joy faintsmiles thro' Sorrow's tears,
And all but seems, not is!

ALL'S RIGHT.

Oh God, with thee whatever is, is right,
Still will I hold my faith in weal or woe,
And when it is not given me to know
Thy boundlessness, when this unaided sight
May not pierce thro' the mists that lie, like night,

236

Betwixt my glance and Truth, I will not grow
Fainthearted or impatient, but will bow
In humble confidence and hope, and light
Shall not be then refused me, for thou art
Allwise, alljust; when least thou seemest nigh,
Thou'rt in us and around us: let the smart
Of suffering touch my spirit then with high,
Calm revelations, still a contrite heart
I'll offer thee, all else is mockery.

EVENING.

The last, faint, rosy Tinge is shot up by
The Sun into the Clouds, on Ocean's Breast,
Still as a sleeping Flower, sunk to Rest!
How soft and balmy is the Air! the Sky,
Startwinkling, spreads like a light veil on high,
Betwixt our glance and heaven: from the West
The Day's last blush has faded: pure and blest
As on the primal Eve all Earth doth lie,
Bound with the eternal chain of Love, which far
And near extends, linking the loneliest star,
That sparkles in its Solitude of light
'Mid Heaven's blue depths, with the least flowers that are
Strewn o'er the untrod Wild: oh glorious sight!
Better than man's vain lore when read aright!
This holy Calm can check the idle War
Of Passions, and, with its so gentle Might,
Bend, as these Flowers are bent, our Hearts to Prayer!

THE WIFE.

1

The Lovesmile's on thy Lip, my dear,
And in thy darkblue Eye,
Yet dimming not, a soft, bright Tear,
Is melting dewily.

2

Art thou the same, unaltered now,
As on the Bridalday,

237

With downcast Eye, and blushing Brow,
Thou trod'st the Altarway?

3

Has Time who changes all Things round,
Wrought not some Change in thee,
Have Marriagevows been but a Sound,
And Hope, a Mockery?

4

Thou art the same, my Heart doth say,
What tho' brief Flowers die,
Life's Fruit matures 'neath true Love's Ray,
And ripens for the Sky.

5

Thou sworëst, with an Altaroath,
To love and honor me,
And in thy Life thou hast done both
In Truth and Honesty.

6

As Graftboughs, on a nobler Stock,
Do lose Illqualities,
So from thy Heart mine also took
High Capabilities.

7

In loving thee, I loved the Truth
And Virtue clothed to Sight,
And loving thus, Man feels his Worth
Increase, 'tis Love's Birthright!

8

Thy Brow is still as fair to me,
As in thy Maydayprime,
Truelove has never Eyes to see
The Changes wrought by Time.

9

Thou art Reality to Hope,
The Wakingday to Youth's wild Dreams,
And Fancy, in his Rainbowscope,
Grasped scarcely more than Fact now seems!

10

More! no, not half so much as one
Beat of thy human Breast,
This gives the Dream a Charm unkno wn,
Itself Worth all the Rest!

11

Our Hearts have learnt to beat as one,
And when thou think'st on me,

238

It is but as an echoing Tone
Of what I think of thee,

12

And as we near our Journeysend,
We 'll fling all Fears away,
Death shall light Hymen's Torch, and lend
It Strength to burn for aye!

EARLY MORNING.

Yon' lazy Clouds are touched, and as with a
Soft, sleepy Light they kindle, rent into
Transparent Fragments: stirless lies the Dew-
Drop on each Leaf, as if the waking Day
Held in his Breath, still loth to scare away
Those Clouds, which, like to Dreams fantastic, strew
The eastern Sky: in Masses Objects thro'
The glittering Mists loom out: there, Mountains grey,
Whose Peaks gleam clear above: here, Woods in one
Broad Shade, Hue blent with Hue, and Tree with Tree.
Oh Fancy stay those Clouds, and bid yon' Sun
Shine ever on them thus, let nothing be
Resolved into its Elements, that on
The Vision I may gaze, and when I see
It still unaltered, think that over me
No Change has passed, that Time's a Dream alone!

HAPPINESS.

The happiest Man, my Friend, in this dark World,
Who bears the Evil best, and thus inclines
The Gods to smile on him: when we are free
From Selfdisturbance and Selftreachery,
At one within ourselves, oh then we fight
Righthanded and righthearted: 'tis a Cause
In which we are ennobled, and the Strife
Itself is Gain: for Man has but one Foe,
And that the worst, himself! and tho' no Wreath
Time bind upon our Brows, for Conquests vain,

239

Where nought is won, and most is put at Stake,
Our Peace of Mind, yet are we rich at Heart:
For Faith with Selfcontent her Sabbath there
Has made: and all our calm Affections bend
Thither, as Fruits to the riperaying Sun,
Drawing their Health and Durableness thence:
Nor is our Virtue less a Gain, tho' here
Below, it reap no vain Reward of Wealth,
No fickle Smiles of Fortune: these are but
A Recompense to such as value them,
(And poor is he whom they can recompense:)
They worship but the empty Shows of Things,
Not the eternal Essence, which, in them
Belied, is an avenging Presence, not
The godlike Truth, that moulds them to the Shape
And Likeness of Immortals! other Meed
And fitter Recompense the Deity
To such accords: the Consciousness Worth,
That on the weekday Strife of this brief Scene
Can shed a Sabbathpeace, a Confidence,
And Selfrespect, which neither Hope delayed,
Nor venomlippëd Hate, nor Calumny,
Backsliding Friends, nor anyother Shape
Of Ill can undermine or shake!

LIFE

Man's life is as a torrent that flows on
Its barren bed all chafed and frettingly,
Fuming and foaming o'er the stones that lie
In its unquiet track: his Course is run
'Mid fretting hopes and fears, that one by one
Wear the heartspeace away, and dim the eye,
As streams mine out their banks: some gilded Lie,
Wealth, Fame, Ambition, Power, which when won
Yields no Fruition, save a feverish Joy,
That bursts in Foam, and on the barren shore

240

Of Disappointment breaks, still hovers o'er
His cradle to his grave: a greyhaired boy,
He stands upon the brink, nor dreams before
The Edgeearth crumbles in, that life's no more!

NATURE.

Pluck the stillgnawing thought from out thy heart,
Forget thyself a while, and turn thine eye
Unto the varied forms, that round thee lie,
Of pure and sinless happiness; each part
Whispers a holy calm, which doth impart
A sense of some deep Presence ever nigh,
Felt, like the wind, tho' viewless: nor would I
Exchange the eloquent silence, the dumb art
With which kind Nature woos me to her breast,
For all the finespun rules Philosophy
Weaves in her flimsy web: her everblest,
Eternal smile, reproving silently,
Contrasts our petty momentgriefs: her rest
Is a calm centralpeace diffusëd outwardly!

VENICE.

Venice, the Past's dark shadow on thy brow
Of Sadness, veillike, rests! so the shroud lies
Above a recent corpse: yet still the ties
Of gratitude, the thoughts of what we owe
To thee and thine, forbid that thou should'st know
The fate of meaner things: the heart denies
Thy name to cold Forgetfulness, and tries
To make the Past a Future, and to throw
Above thy Sunset the rich hues which speak
Of a more brilliant Dawn! thy name evokes
Shadows of might and glory, and unlocks
A World: but now thy light is dim and weak,
And the shipcradling billow proudly rocks
No fleets of thine: thus Fate, where Envy fails, will shake!

241

RHINEFALLS BY SUN-AND-MOONLIGHT.

1.

How gloriously it comes dashing on,
As absolute in its lone Majesty
As is the deepvoiced Thunder, flashing by,
Dazzling the Eye and Brain! the parting Sun
Has wove the Spray in Rainbowhues that run
Like a Triumphalarch, where Phantasy
On winged Step may tread, and fearless eye
The seething Gulf below! and now 'tis gone,
And now in Beauty it appears again,
Like Bliss wrung out from mortal Sense of Pain!

2.

See how the flashing Waters foam along,
Bursting the sullen Calm, in which but late
They seemed to slumber, with a Bound, like Hate
Springing upon his Victim, and among
The jaggëd Rocks below, as with a Song
Of Triomph, hurry onwards and abate
Their Fury, in the Distance, to a State
Of calmëd Agitation— what a Throng
Of Thoughts such Scenes awake within the Breast
That seeks to lay a weary Heart at Rest
'Mid Nature's Tumult: for this deafening Roar
Of maddened Waters, can, methinks, arrest
All other Thoughts, drawn from the inmost Core
Into their Stream, like Bubbles on its Breast!

3.

The Moon is up, and e'en the Cataract's Pain
And Torture seem beneath the Smile she flings
To grow more calm and hushed! thus Love's Glance brings
Balm to the bruisëd Heart, tho' still in vain
All Grief she would obliterate: now sings
The merry Nightingale, from Tree to Tree,
Flooding the Earth and Air with Harmony,
Essence of Bliss, no Reflex of past Years,

242

A Moment's feverish Joy, but holy Glee,
Exuberant Innocence of Heart, that fears
No Diminution, nor can saddened be!

4.

How holily the soft Moon's silver Light
Falls on the boiling Waves, that foam below,
As if with calm Composure on her Brow
She chid their Fret and Fever: oh how bright,
Unutterably dazzling to the Sight,
The paley Foam that o'er the Edge doth flow
Of the halfmoonshaped Rocks, until it grow
Into a white Flamewreath, and from its Height
Melts off in Silverflakes, like Snow! the Sky,
Studded with clustering Stars, within the Stream
Floats undulating; might not Fancy deem
That the bright Heavens glided swiftly by,
Rent into glittering Fragments, Beam on Beam,
And Star on Star, 'till lost 'mid Spray unto the Eye?

5.

O God, how glorious are thy Works, how fair
In evervarying Beauty! I could gaze
Upon this Scene for ever, in a Maze
Of sweetentangled Thoughts, which seem to share
The Colors, Sights, and Sounds, that on the Air
And Waters float; amid a silver Haze,
As thro' a gauzelike Veil, the Forms we trace
Of Rocks and Trees, and the soft Breezes bear
The Music of their dewy Leaves, the low
And gentle Breathing of the Birds at Nest,
And the glad Things that on the Sward below
Take their due Share of undisturbed Rest,
With which kind Nature seals up every Woe,
As each lies hushed on its great Mother's Breast!

THE GRAVE.

Behold yon Grave, that in the golden Light

243

Of the slowsinking Sun is steep'd so fair!
The Flowers, growing on it, by the Air
Are scarcely stirred, and to the musing Sight,
By Nature's self thus taught to read aright
The Forms of Being, it seems as it were
Selected by the Elements, that there
Some holy Wonder of their gentle Might
May fitliest be display'd! it is indeed
A Type of perfect Rest: and as it lies
So calm and still, e'en superstitious Dread
Smiles at itself, and all the Calumnies
Which sadden o'er the Grave; then be thou wise,
And by the Light of Nature learn to read,
(For thus alone thou canst) her Mysteries!
She hereself explains all Things: let her lead
Thee then into the Temple— if thine Eyes,
And Ears, and Heart, be open, thou canst need
Nought else: to such the Oracle replies!

THE WORLD.

Like to an Alabastervase, made by
The Light within transparent, even so
Is this vast World, whence ceaselessly doth flow
The Light of God on Faith's calm, ample Eye!
Like a clear Diamond, everlastingly
Sparkling and flashing with an inward Glow,
And which, reflected by the Soul, will throw
Into it Light direct from the Mosthigh!
God looks on us from everything, if we
Have but the Power him in all to see:
And to that End naught else is requisite,
Save that as one with him we feel and be;
Thus having in ourselves His divine Light,
We cannot fail to read His Works aright!

244

LOVE.

The Heart has need of Love, 'tis the pure Air,
The vital Air, on which the Spirit lives
And breathes: and all the Honey that it hives,
Like that of the Sardinian Bee, must bear
Some taint of earthly bitterness, if there
Love his diviner Sweets mix not! Heart strives
To blend with Heart, and baffled, but survives
To a dull sense of being, thus to wear
And turn upon itself in agony!
Life stagnates, like a dammed up stream, instead
Of flowing sweetly on, and passes by
Waste, unproductive, like a vile, rank weed.
Man may not live unto himself alone
And not call down a curse: for God has said,
«Increase and multiply»: the Heart must wed
Another Heart, for happiness is won,
E'en as the body's offspring, not from one,
But union of two: and it doth need
Community and intercourse to feed
Its holy flame, which else dies out anon!

FREEDOM: ON THE FIRST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Ye fools! that rend the calm and silent air
With insane noise, and shouts of Liberty;
The thrall today tomorrow cannot be
A freeman, still the shackles must he bear
Within his soul, tho' from his limbs they are
By the brute hand of Force struck off! think ye
That in one brief and noisy hour the tree
Of Freedom flourishes? oh never were
Her golden fruits plucked by the sudden hand
Of Violence, they ripen gradually!
And never were her divine features scanned
'Mid Passion's Chaos; with calm Majesty

245

She snaps the sword and treads out the firebrand,
For of brute means she scorns the ministry!

TO F. L.

Shall the rude enmity of Time consign
Such features to forgetful apathy?
Dim the soft lustre of that starry Eye,
Wherein so much of Heaven's light doth shine,
Or mix those ringlets with the dust, that twine
Their rich profusion unrestrainedly,
O'er thy fair brow? what tho' each charm should die,
Each beauty wither, and to Earth resign
The tints, the hues, the forms, which every bright
And loveliest thing had lent thee; still the Might,
The starry Lustre of thy cloudless Eyes,
Time shall not dim: these with the source of light
And truth shall mingle, and thy spirit rise,
Like dewdrop from the flower, exhaled to purer Skies!

DANTE.

Hail, Eaglebard, that on thy fearless wings
Bear'st Heaven's Judgmentfire, and from on high
Swoop'st down the dread abyss, where howling lie
The damned, whose throes thy aweful Poem sings,
Awards, and measures out! before thee kings
And nations pass, like stern Reality,
Thyself the dread Minos whose firmset Eye
Strikes terror thro' the guilty Throng; Hell rings
With sullen shrieks of Woe, and grim Despair,
The Maniac, thence pale, trembling Hope doth scare!
Dante! what mighty Task was thine, to be
The Deity on Earth, in his stead there
To punish and reward, to bind and free!
Yet if allmighty Genius might share
Allmighty Power, not ill such task befitted thee!

246

TO AN OLD HOMESONG.

1

Oh sweet, sweet Music of the Past,
Sweet Voice of early Days,
How much of Joy and Pain thou hast,
How much dwells in thy Lays!

2

Let others lend the outward Ear
To newmade Fancysongs,
But let me still thy Music hear,
Which to the Heart belongs.

3

Time robs thee not, but to thee lends
Tones of old Melody,
And mellowing, with thy Music blends
Thoughts, Hopes, that cannot die.

4

He makes thee as a holy Thing,
And when we hear thy Lays,
Our Hearts grow as a Child's again,
Full of those early Days!

5

Unconsciously at Eventide
Thy Words steal to the Tongue,
For in the deep Heart doth abide
The Spirit of thy Song!

6

Voiceing itself by Words alone
To which Time gives a Power
Of ampler Utterance, unknown
To those framed for the Hour!

7

For they are Words which human Fears
And Hopes have holy made,
Of which each as its Portion bears
A Spell that cannot fade.

8

Thee by the mossy Graves we sing,
Where Voices, silent long,
Awake from their deep Slumbering,
And mingle with thy Song!

9

But fare thee well, thou sweet, sweet Strain,
Thou Voice of early Years,

247

Thou fill'st my timedim Eyes again
With Childhood's blessed Tears!

10

The bygone Heart beats in my Breast:
And what are we but as
The Heart within us, grieved or blest?
Thus I am what I was!

SLEEP.

1.

Oh Sleep, oh Blessedness! come, sprinkle thou
My feverparchëd lips with freshest dew
Of thy Lethean Wreath; pluck me a Bough
Of the songfabled Fruitage, which erst grew
In that imagined Isle, by Atlas-wave
Kept sacred: so my pale cheek shall once more
Be pleasureflushed: and on my eyelids squeeze
Thy drops of sweet Forgetfulness; I crave
No vulgar boon, nought save
That thou wouldst give me back the days of yore,
When sense was bliss, and Earth's least sight could please!

2.

I am a child again! the pleasant dew
Lies on the grass and flowers, yet untrod,
Those drops, which, once trod on, naught can renew:
And Echo, like the Voice of some high God,
Comes on my ear; it is enough for me,
To feel these things, I would not seek to know
The why or wherefore; for what can I learn
From proud Philosophy,
Who lifts the veil from Nature's holy Brow,
And shows a Skeleton by brute Springs made to turn?

3.

Pleasure grows on the Earth, like its Wildflowers,
Who will, may gather them, and twine a wreath
For unoffending brows; the passing hours
Are winged with Joy, but he who sees beneath
Each bloom a sleeping snake, he is the thrall

248

Of melancholy Thought, and he will find
The Ill he fears: his Fear a worse Ill is!
Joy dwells in great and small,
'Tis in ourselves, a Light from out the mind,
And bubblelike, the World gives back but this!

4.

Oh Sleep! thou leavest me: delicious dream!
Or why should I not say reality?
Have I not been in blessedness? a stream
Poured back to its pure Springhead in the sky!
Aye! let the proud Philosopher exclaim,
«Tis but a dream!» aye! let him kill the bee,
To thus dissect its honeybag! yet if
A Dream can give back Youth, set free
From cares that dull the Pulse of waking Life,
Reality's by far the idler Name!

MOUNTAINTORRENT.

This cloudborn Stream, cradled'mid Mists and Snows,
Whose Lullaby, the Wind, a rude Nurse, sings,
'Till, like a foaming Steed, itself it flings
From Rock to Rock, with Impetus that knows
No salutary Check, here onward flows
In calmer Beauty, and the Flower springs
Round its moist Marge, whose soft Meanderings,
Leading thro' Greenwoodnooks and under Brows
Of overhanging Crags, with Ivy grown,
Might tempt the Naiad to her Noontidesleep!
Its Course resembles and instructs Man's own:
In its vain Tumult it was loud, not deep,
And on its Brink, no Flower as yet had blown,
But here its calmer Path with all sweet Things is strown!

AGAINST ABSURD AND UNJUST PREJUDICES.

1.

Why Bastard? wherefore should ye then disclaim
Relationship with him? in what Sense is

249

He Bastard, pray? is God not as much his
Father as yours? and if God by that Name
Proclaims him his own Child, shall ye feel Shame
To call him Brother? but if ye do this,
Ye are the Bastards, and, as such, must miss
Your Portion of that Love, which, in the same
Degree, all, all His Children share in, yea!
The very meanest! for how can ye be
His Children without Love? for is not he
Love itself? were ye then His Children, pray,
Must ye not in this be like Him? must ye
Not by Love your divine Descent display?

2.

God casts off none, not e'en the Sinner! no!
But opens wide his Arms, will he but say,
«Our Father which art in Heaven,» thus to show
His Penitence! and wilt thou thrust away,
Thou scornful Heart and hardened! that which may
Lie even in God's Bosom? then take Heed
Lest he too thrust thee from Him in thy Need!
For thou hast cast Him off, in casting Love
Aside, for he is Love! and without this,
None, none can enter Heav'n! for Heav'n is
But Love, be it on Earth, or up above!
And both alike, thro' Unlove, thou must miss!

CHARITY.

Hast thou e'er loved, or for thy human Brow
Wove that best Wreath, of kindly Charities,
Which, with perpetual Spring, 'neath rudest Skies
And polar Snows, will bloom, as bright as tho'
'Twere cheered by southern Sun's ne'erwintering Glow?
Hast thou e'er plucked the Thorn that gnawing lies
In Sorrow's Heart, or with soft Sympathies
Bound round Life's blighted Tree, and bade to grow
Again the crushed and trailing Tendrils, which

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The Storm had beat to Earth, or heedlesly
Some rude Step bruised, not sought to raise again?
If thou hast loved such deeds, then art thou rich
Beyond all Wealth, and happy, for if by
These Means it be not won, thy Search is vain!

THE GREAT MAN.

The great Man, tho' above his Fellows he
May tower like a God, stands meek before
His Maker as an Infant! yea! the more
He in his Wisdom near to God may be,
The vast Space but the clearer will he see
Which parts them still; he cannot pluck a Flower,
A Dayseye from the Grass, and not adore
Therein the Masterhand that framed it! the
Worst Ills of Life embitter not his Mind,
Nor make the godlike Eye within him blind!
He cannot doubt a Moment, for that would
Be the most bitter Ill of all which could
Befall him, since he'd cease to be thereby
The godlike which he is! and how, how should
He doubt that, for that would be to belie
Himself, a willful Putting-out the Eye
Of Reason: but as he sees by it, this
Can never be! and Reason is not his,
But God's Eye likewise! and therefore he, who
Sees with it, must see godlike, must see true:
And, seeing so, will estimate aright
That chiefest Good, and hold all others light
Compared with it, the Godlike, which he is
And feels, Man's highest Duty, Recompense, and Bliss!

FALSE GLORY.

1.

Fame, Power, Gain, Conquest, every specious Name
With which Men gild those Objects here below
Of such loud Prayers and Hopes, as they do grow

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From rank and unpruned Wishes, naught save Shame
And Disappointment fruit: if Folly sow,
Destruction's Sickle will the Harvest mow!
Poised on his giant Wing of Ages, o'er
Life's changeful Scene Time flies, at every Sweep
The Dust of dull Oblivion piling deep
On Crowns and Sceptres, and the Pomp of Yore,
Shattered beneath his kingdomcrushing Step!

2.

Empires from out the Dust of Empires spring,
Unborn, undying Substance, still the same,
Yet everchanging, purg'd by penal Flame,
And scourging Miseries, due to Crimes that bring
A Curse of Vengeance on their bloodstained Wing,
And call from Earth to Heaven, on the Name
Of watchful Justice: and as if there came
A Voice from out their Depths, the Heavens ring
In Answer, tho' to Man's untunëd Ear,
'Tis allunheard, or seems but lost in Air:
Whereat he laugheth to himself, in Scorn
Hardening his Heart— but Heaven, quick to hear,
Shall register, and of Time's Fullness born,
Vengeance shall smite him, and his Pride be shorn!

3.

For God, allwise, alljust, whose boundless Sight
Can grasp the vast and dread Immensity
Of Worlds unborn, to whom all Space is nigh,
All Times are «Now,» deigns not to stoop his Might
To crush Sin's mightiest ones, but to the Blight
Of their own evil Counsels leaves them, by
Their own Snares caught at last, a Mockery
And Byeword to all Time! when at the Height
And selfo'erbalanced Summit of his Power,
(For with allmeasuring Compass evernigh,
Wisdom marks out to future Worlds their Hour
And Space unto a Hair, as easily

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As she congeals the Snowflake, or on high
Gathers the Clouds, or paints Earth's tiniest Flower,)

4.

When at the topmost Aim, and fullest Swing
Of his permitted Licence, Crime shall bite
The Dust he spurns, hurled from his dazzling Height
By the same Whirlwind whose so sudden Wing
Had borne him thither from Men's wondering Sight!
When Time is ripe, the Elements of Light
Bestir their Agencies, and gathering,
Like Summerthunderclouds surcharged with Fire,
The good and evil Principles in dire,
But brief, Collision hurtle, 'till once more
The moral Atmosphere be as before.

5.

For Light and Truth are in their Nature free
From Contact and Contamination: tho'
The Powers of Hell were leagued to lay them low,
They mount direct, in stainless Purity,
As purer Flames from gross, and join the Sky;
While Evil, like the Thundercloud below
On downward and earthladen Wing, can show
Wrath but to kindred Matter, that may be
Corrupted like itself, and wreaks its Ire
On the Earth's prone and sinpolluted Breast,
Strewn with its base, material Bolts, the Fire
Stolen from grosser Elements, opprest
By its own Earthliness, and in the Mire,
From which't was drawn, soon spent: thus Earth has Rest!
The Spirit of eternal Wisdom o'er
The troublous Waves of Time pursues his Flight,
Gathering the Thought of Ages, while the Light
Of Truth falls on his bright Wings more and more!
Empires have crumbled, like sere Leaves, and save
The pregnant Moral speaking from their Grave,
What Truths have thence enriched Man's slowhiv'd Lore?

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6.

Time's mighty Panorama still moves on,
A Dream of Ages: Empries, Cities, Kings,
Ambition's Triomphs, Pride's vain Boasts, are Things
Which pass away, like Clouds that with the Sun,
In Thunderfragments rent, when Day is done,
Sink in the Womb of Night, which Morn back brings,
Moulded to other Semblance: thus Time rings
His mighty Changes, 'till his Race be run!
Phantom succeedeth Phantom, Shadow Shade,
Coming we know not whence, and pass we know
Not where or how, like Sounds the Wind has made,
Dying in boundless Space: the Strife, the Woe,
The Crimes and Pomps of Ages fleet, and lo!
Time's gone— Eternity is in his Stead!

KIRKSTEAD-ABBEY.

Art thou lonetowering wall, whose stormbeat brow
The darkplumed ravens make their airy Nest,
The soleremaining remnant to attest
The Might and Majesty which here lie low?
Wild Flowers and the Ivy's leaves o'er grow
Thy oncecloudcleaving Towers: all is rest
Around, as tho' deep into Nature's breast
The Spirit of Religion, which once threw
Its charm o'er thee, had sunk, thus blent again
With her calm heart! to us, who live alone
In the Soul's Essence, Time destroys in Vain:
We can create anew, recall the tone,
Whose echos sleep 'mid these old stones, the strain
Of choral hymns, and bid past scenes be shown!

ON A WATERFALL, SEEN FROM A GLENSTREAM, BORN OF THE SAME.

Seest thou yon' far off waterfall, which flows,
Yet seems airfixt immoveably? the ear
Its loud, rockshattering foamstep cannot hear,
By Distance spellbound: even so Youth shows

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To Wisdom's sobered eye, that grows, and grows,
To that calm Mood from which nor Hope nor Fear
Of passing Nothings claim one tributary Tear!
Youth's noisy moments, Fancy's selfsought woes,
The World's vain temptings, loudvoiced promises,
Seen thro' the Vista of departed days,
Are like yon' waterfall; while at a wise
And sober distance, thro' the soothing ways
Of selfcontent, Life's now calm stream supplies
With quiet Strength all that around it lies,
Like this sweet brook, tho' born of yon' wild Cataract's sprays!

TO WASHINGTON

Ambition's gilded baits, the fleeting reek
Of popular favor, thou didst alldespise,
And Power among her greedy Votaries
Numbered not thee, her heartless ones, who seek
Their own weal not the common, whom the weak
And fickle herd bows down before as to
Its benefactors, 'till the chain be so
By Custom rivetted no force can break,
Unless by such as thee the way be shown:
The nations, with one voice of praise, hail'd thee
Their true deliverer, and Liberty
Knelt in thy path to bless thee! we do own
Thy Name an Inspiration, that alone
Might be a Talisman of Victory!

HEARTKNOWLEDGE.

1

O God! what tho' from thine allseeing eye
The consciencehaunted Sinner shrinks in fear,
Yet to the injured man, whose breast is clear,
'Tis sweet to think that thou art evernigh,
His one sure friend: that thou unerringly
Canst read the heart, and trace the sudden tear
To its true source, when Malice will not hear,

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And Calumny cuts off from sympathy:
Our actions may be misinterpreted,
False motives urged, good blackened into ill,
And proud Philosophy at best can read
The changeful features with a skindeep skill;
Can a few lines, traced by years longsince fled,
Make known the inmost Movings of the Will?

2

Dull Fools! the Heart has deeper mysteries
Than may be pierced by philosophic ken,
It is not made to beat, as Pedantspen
Propounds fine rules and sounding theories:
Nor can we regulate it as we please,
Like the timesplitting watch, still Joy and Pain
Disturb and make our calculations vain:
And Malice, busy Fiend, tho' she have eyes
Far sharperken'd than dull Philosophy,
Yet sees all thro' the medium of Hate;
'Tis God alone who knows the when and why,
How Hope and Fear the heart's poor fibres try,
The sufferings which Follies must create,
Which, while they blame, the Good commiserate.

HISTORY.

If thou'rt welloracled in History,
If thou look'st 'neath the surface, to the Soul
That animates, upholds, and moves the Whole,
If thou hast traced the vast machinery
Of moral causes to its source on high,
Then wilt thou ask no palpable miracle
To show thee that which thou canst prove as well
By weekdaylife's familiar agency;
All seems Confusion to the Sceptic's sight,
For still he wants the inwardguiding light:
He dwells not in the Harmony of things,

256

And therefore cannot read their forms aright:
'Tis Faith alone who gives to Reason wings
To view the mighty Maze from a due height!

THE FLEETINGNESS OF EARTHLY THINGS.

1.

Are these the grand results, which Centuries
Of toil and crime, which conquerors and kings
Have built up to their glory? fleeting things
That fade almost beneath their maker's Eyes,
For soul and worth are wanting! who replies?
From the Past's Ruins a stern Voice. «Time brings
All Deeds, Names, Works, to Proof, with errless wings
Winnows the true from false, and onward flies,
Bearing the good towards Eternity,
While, like to withered leaves, the evil die!

2.

And what is this dull Present, which e'en now,
E'en as I think and speak, has ceased to be?
Which is, and is not, like a cunning Lie
Made but to cheat and cozen fools! e'en so,
By this the grave and cradle touch, as tho'
The Interval were but a Mockery,
A Moment's feverish Dream, where the Mindseye
Dwells on a Phantomtrain, which straight below
Th' horizon of another life in fears
And mystery is lost, where keenest sight
Discerns no track: the torch that Reason bears
But tells us that we stray, yet sets not right;
We live not when we should, the Past with Tears
We mourn, the Present for the Future slight,
Whose dim veil Hope lifts with a Throb of fear:
For when we turn unto the Past and raise
Time's Pall, a Skeleton alone is there,
And from the hollow Jaws a Voice that says
To Fancy, such shall be the Future, fair
In Prospect, but in Retrospect, like me: 'tis where?

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3.

Like to a giddy Child, that hears no more
The warning voice, but hurries headlong on,
Lured by some fly that sparkles in the sun
Above the dangerous brink, e'en so before
The fullgrown Child Hope dances with her store
Of bright Illusions, 'till Life's Game be done,
Shaped to his thoughts and wishes: one by one
The Present's slighted moments steal, and o'er
The treacherous brink of dread Eternity
His heedless foot is stretched, and on the air
His arms are flung, to clasp the gilded Lie
Which Hope still offers to his cheated eye!
It fades, he sees th' Abyss, in wild despair
To the lost Past he looks, then sinks for ever there!
And sounds as of the damned ring in his ear,
While Memory, like the lightning thro' the night,
Scattering the gloom, evokes unto his sight
Life's spectretrain, the deeds of doubt and fear,
The moments lost, the cradle and the bier!

ENDVERSES.

1.

Thanks, thanks, great God, Part of my Task is done,
The Labourer in thy Vineyard now may rest
A while, and if the Thought that I my Best
Have essayed can reward, then want I none!
The Harp is now laid by, to gather Tone
And Strength, yet ready at the least Behest
Of divine Love, to plead still for opprest
And suffering Humanity— this one
Great Thought still prompts me, still doth it impart
High Revelations: 'tis God's Voice, and oft
It seems to come direct from upaloft,
Now pealing with the Thunder, 'till I start
Like Prophet from his Visions, and now soft
As a Babe's Lisp, pressed to his Mother's Heart!

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Yet mightier far in his least Cry than in
The rolling Thunder's heavencleaving Din!

2.

And as my Lyre first awoke for thee,
Sublimest Spirit of Humanity!
With that best Inspiration which must come
Fresh from the Heart, and finds in all a Home,
So let thy Spirit prompt the Closingstrain,
Be thou but here, all other Muse is vain.
The fabled Hoof of Pegasus could make
The Poetsfountain from the hard Rock break,
But deeper, from Man's universal Heart,
The living Poesy of Life must start!

3.

And now, like Lark, softdropping from the Sky,
My Song must fold its Wings, and silent lie,
As Flower closing with the Eveningstar;
But tho' it soar, the Godlike is not far
From its low Nest in Earth's familiar Lap:
No not one Tittle further than the Sap
Is from the Blossom, or than God is from
The Goodman's Heart! there is no need to roam,
For God is with us here, as up above,
Yea! in us, if we do but live by Love!

4.

Then feel it so, and the least Flower, that lies
Before thee, will in its own silent Way
So touch thee, that the Tears shall fill thine Eyes,
And thou wilt kneel down by its Side to pray!
Yea! 'till the Bird's least Note, or Babe's least Cry
Will wake up Nature's boundless Harmony,
Now gliding o'er the Eath, now pealing far
Thro' Heaven's blue Depths, from hymning Star to Star!
It is the Heart first opens all the Ear!
Then do but feel, and thou 'lt not fail to hear!

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5.

Now lay my Verse aside, and turn again
To Weekdaylife, and if not allinvain
I've struck the Chords, then often wilt thou catch,
Amid its harshest Sounds, some divine Snatch
Of Melody, some Chancenote of my Strain
Will, ever and anon, break on thine Ear,
Recalling this poor Verse, made haply dear
For Nature's sake, else littleworth indeed,
Lasting thro' her, for that grows never sere
Which with her Forms is linked! yes, thou shalt hear
Heartreaching Music, if thou wilt give Heed,
Oft, like the Cricket's Chirrup, where thou ne'er
Wouldst have expected it; first faint and dim,
But straight upswelling to a mighty Hymn!
Strike but one Note, and then thine Ear shall by
The whole deep Music of Humanity
Be ravished, and if I have done but this,
Enough is done, the Rest thou canst not miss!
Then shalt thou hear far other Lyre than mine,
A mightier Lyre, and touched by Hand divine,
Of which the Hearts of all Men are the Strings,
Filling the wide World with its Murmurings!
This shalt thou hear, nay, with thy mortal Hand
Shalt play thereon, and have at thy Command
The Stops of all its wondrous Harmonies!
But first thy own Heart must be tuned—and to
That End, go turn to bright Realities
What here are idle Words: in Actions true
Embody these poor Thoughts, then wilt thou be
The Poet, and not I: the Wreath to Thee
Is due, and from my most unworthy Head
I pluck it, to adorn thy Brows instead!
Yes, he, he is the Poet, who can make
That Life which was but Poetry, who views
The World, like God, Thro' Love clothed in such Hues
As Landscape ne'er from Fancy's Touch could take!

260

The Sense of human Life, in its most low,
Unelevated State, to him brings no
Rude Disenchantment of some cherished Dream;
The more awake he is, the more 'twill seem
Sublime! he would not dream, not if he could,
For to be quite awake that is the good
Man's Priviledge alone!— awake unto
And with God, labouring His Will to do;
This is to be awake in godlike Wise,
And who would mix vain Dreams, or close his Eyes
But for a Moment? since where can he be
So well as in God's Presence, or what see
More lovely than the waking Eye looks on?
For God is in all Things, 'tis him alone
They glorify, and Him recall to Mind!
And who would lose the Consciousness of Him,
Tho' but for one least Moment? then grows dim
The Eye, and dull the Heart, and we are blind!
Awake thou then with the whole Heart and Eye,
Feel and see nought but God eternally,
This is the godlike Way of seeing, this
Likens thee unto God, and makes thine Eye as His!

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LAMENT

FOR LOVE, FAITH, AND POESI.

Written in 1832.

1

In all this wide World, not a Thing the Eye
Dwells on, but taketh Sweetness from the Heart
And giveth, 'till 'tis brimmed with Ecstasy,
Like a rich Beehive, stored from every Part
Of the Twinrealms of Nature and of Art,
Wherein, as in a twofold Mirror, we
Behold all Beauty multiplied, and start
Back at the Outline, which we therein see,
Of the Eternal's Form reflected visibly.

2

Thus to the Grecian Poet's raptured Sight,
Each Part of that romantic Landscape, where
His Breath he drew, grew redolent and bright,
And fairylifed, and thence his Thoughts so clear,
And Fancies, like his blue Skies clouded near,
(In sculptured Verse, and Marbles calm and chaste,
Hived up), were drawn. Passions that fret or sear,
Nor false Refinement, had as yet effaced
The Freshness of the Heart, nor with vain Forms replaced

3

And secondhand Impressions, the first deep,
Fresh Movements of the Soul: the natural Eye
Interprets Nature best, not taught to sleep
O'er Pedant's Page, stuffed Specimens, and dry,
Dull Terms of Art, that Chaff threshed so oft by
The Flail of sweating Logic, while the Grain
Is ripening free and strong'neath Rain and Sky,
And Nature's vigorous Sons, with Might and Main,
Are reaping the good Field, which none e'ersow in vain.

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4

The Heart interprets Nature, not the Head:
Its Yearnings and Affections are the Key
To many Secrets; thus the Poet, fed
On Nature's freshest Milk, could clearest see
The Link 'twixt Things which ever kindred be;
The Spirit must in spiritual Forms
Embody its own Essence: to be free
Still striving, it blends with, and all Things, warms,
Like Element thro' all it passes, and informs

5

With its own Consciousness: in this like Him,
The mighty Spirit who informs the Whole.
Unconsciously, and only in a dim
Instinctive Way at first, the yearning Soul
Takes after him who made it, as the Mole
Works upward towards the Light: but Man is no
Vain Hieroglyphick, from which Time has stole
All Meaning, an obscure Inscription, to
Which no Solution lies, of some old Tongue laid low!

6

Like that on an Etruscan Urn, e'en by
Tradition's self forgot, to mock the Lore
Of proud Philosophy, with filmy Eye!
He is a Part, fresh, living as before,
Of Nature's living Language: nay, is more:
Man is the Alphabet by which to know
The Rest thereof, and he in vain will pore,
Who learns not this, on Nature's Volume; no
True meaning will it have, nor as a Mirror show

7

The Invisible Things of God—this felt the Greek,
The Poet, he whose viewless Wings by more
Than mortal Airs were borne above the Reek
Of Mammon's Dwellings. He on Rock and Flower,
O'er bubblebeaded Fount, and fabulous Moor,
On Bud and Bell, bright Dewdrops shed around
Of his fresh Fancy, 'neath whose spellful Power
A thousand sweet Shapes rose, whose Voices sound
In the soft Lapse of Streams, or from the Grove profound.

263

8

Then first the gentle Dryad saw the Day,
The leafhid Guardian of Wood and Bower,
Chaunting 'mid choral Shade and Bough her Lay,
But if upon her still and chosen Hour
Unholy Footing broke, or aught that bore
Less Sanction than a Poet's Step, sworn to
Her Rites, then Echo conned her Song no more.
Then with her Oak the Hamadryad grew,
And died: coborn, cofading, as true Love should do.

9

Then first the Nymphs above the moonlit Fount
Passed with their printless Feet, and sweetened o'er
The gurgling Waters: or from Dale and Mount
Responsive Voices rose with gentle Power,
By Echo syllabled thro' Glade and Bower,
To charm the willing and quick Ears of those,
The chosen few, to whose high Faith far more
Than mortal Music's given, such as rose
On our first Parents, at the first sweet Evening's Close!

10

Earth wore a charmëd Life in each fair Part,
And Spirits sought her Bosom holily:
The fond Creations of some dreamnursed Heart,
That drew them from their bright Abodes on high
To haunt old Wood or Stream, and cherish, by
Such Commune, those pure Thoughts which ever shun
The Fret and Fever of Man's Life, and die
Allhomelessly, like Flowers denied the Sun,
If tied to this dull Earth's so dusty Track alone.

11

But are these Fancies wild or waking Bliss?
And where between them may the Difference lie?
What we believe is real, and all else is
As if it were not: so, so bounteously
Joy's Seeds are sown in our own Heart, that by
Itself unto itself it may be thence
Sufficient: and thus quick and easily,
Denied the grosser Joys and Goods of Sense,
Draw still a selfderived and lasting Bliss from hence!

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12

Is there no Wisdom save that of the Head?
Has then the Heart no Wisdom? when with Eye
Dilating o'er the Feast by Nature spread
For her sweet, artless Guest, so lavishly,
Thou seest the Child, whose Thoughts are Imagery
Of Bud, and Leaf, and Bird, is he not wise?
The truly Wise some Touch of Infancy,
E'en when the Frost of Age upon them lies,
Would still retain, and view the World with Childhood's Eyes!

13

They have no Time in Autumn's withered Leaf
To mark the Emblem of Decay: far too,
Too busy with Existence sweet and brief,
To count them as they fall: or if they do
Observe them, 'tis with sober Pleasure to
Remark each brighten as it fades away:
Drawing a Likeness, solacing as true,
'Twixt Man and Nature, who e'en in Decay,
Prepares the coming Spring, calm and serene for aye!

14

Alas! the Poet's Visions seldom bless
Our laggart Age, whose dull, dim, earthward Sight
Can ne er attain such airy Happiness:
For we are selfish Men: 'tis this foul Blight
Has nipped the Buds of Promise, dimmed the Light,
The better Light, which in Man's Heart doth feed,
With its impulsive Warmth, all holy, bright,
And upward Thoughts: this is the deadly Weed,
Worse than the Brambles far, to choke up all good Seed!

15

The Dryads too, like frighted Nightingales,
Are flown from all Earth's Groves, back to their Sky:
Their Trees are all forsook, and the Wind wails
'Mid Leaves that now no more responsively
Murmur their gentle Undersong: and dry,
Their Founts make Music now no more among
The vocal Pebbles, but with feeble Sigh
Weep their last Drops away: the Nymphs are long,
Long fled, nor mortal Ear now listens to their Song!

265

16

And ye, ye too, with them are flown away,
Love, Faith, and Poesy: your Temples now
Are desecrate, and Men no longer lay
High Offerings on your Altars: on the Brow
Of Saint and Prophet ye no longer throw
Of Immortality the Reflex clear,
Your Angelhands no more are seen below,
Uplifting the dark Pall which wraps us here,
To give us Glimpses bright from Realms beyond the Bier!

17

Aye, ye are flown away, and gone with ye
Is that bright Ladder, by which Man could rise
From Truth to Truth, stepwise, to God on high.
That Ladder which appeared to Jacob's Eyes,
With radiant Angels, 'twixt the Earth and Skies,
Ascending and descending: but no more
They come to commune with us here: Man dies
Like the vile Worm: when Life's dull Farce is o'er,
He's shovelled into Earth, and Time rubs out the Score!

18

Oh! ye that of all human Wisdom are
The Perfume to the Flower, as the Seed
Within the Fruit: who in yourselves do bear
The Life of Life, without which we were dead,
Unquickened, all Things else serve but to feed
Time's fleeting Ends and Purposes, but ye
Supply that Lore whereof the Soul has Need,
Which wanting, we have Ears and Eyes, yet see
And hear not, and still worse, know not our Misery'!

19

Alas! the Flowers on your Altars laid
Breathe no celestial Perfumes: planted here
For no eternal Blossoming, they fade,
Scarce durable enough to grace the Bier,
By Heavensdews unmoistened, therefore sere
Emblems of quick Decay: touched by the Breath
Of one wide Desolation, all that's dear
Unto Man's Heart, is by the Scythe of Death
Mowed down, like Summergrass, and as a barren Heath

266

20

The Earth is left, alljoyless, unendeared,
O'er which with sad and weary Steps we go,
Our Restingplace the Grave: and that too feared
As the dark, drear Abyss, where we can know
No Visitations of blithe Sunlight, no
Glad Beatings of the Heart, no Thrill of Hope,
The Tenement of Bones and Darkness! so
Imagination (loving still to grope
'Mid Emblems of Decay, within the Coffin's Scope,

21

When she should soar into the bright blue Sky,
Beyond the fleshless sculls and worms, which here
Preach better far than both the tongue and eye
Which filled those hollow Gaps,) hath stationed near
The Tomb's dark Gates, the very shape of Fear,
To scare us from our own dear Home: when none
But a bright Spirit's form should hover there,
The blessed Angel of Repose alone,
To whom all secrets of eternal Life are known!

22

Why should we shudder on the dark Grave's Brink?
One Step! and we are in Eternity,
Beyond Earth's idle Uproar: and we drink
With our whole Hearing the Sphereharmony,
Which oft in Snatches, interrupted by
The Jar of Passion and discordant Thought,
Had reached us here below: we close the Eye,
But for a Moment, and then back is brought,
More beautiful, the Beautiful which we had sought

23

On Earth so long, and haply sought invain:
More lovely than the Dream which hovered on
The eyelids of our Youth: for all again
Shall be restored to us, which, 'neath the Sun,
Has brought the soft Tear to the Eye, or won
A Recognition from the throbbing Breast:
Yea! in the Darkness of the Grave not one
Sole Truth is lost: that Darkness is at best
The Veil which hides the Glory of our place of Rest,

267

24

Lest being suddenly revealed, to sight
Unfit for such high Glories, it should make
Us blind and desolate: to read aright
The mighty Mystery, Faith's hand must break
The seal, and in the unquenched embers wake
Their wonted and primeval fires: the Grave
Is not a bottomless Abyss: we quake
Like children on its brink, because we have
No Faith, no steady Light to guide us on, none save

25

That vain Worldwisdom, which, acquired here,
Has served its turn, unfit to be applied
Beyond the Limits of its narrow sphere:
From which the glorious Stars in Heaven hide
Their radiance: who circling in their wide
And ample orbits, discourse to the eye
And ear wherein high faculties reside
Music most eloquent: unheeded by
The herd, whose souls within them allunconscious lie!

26

The grave alone reknits the holy ties
Which it hath severed, therefore is it dear
To Love as unto Faith: no Spectres rise
From out the fancied gloom, no shapes of Fear:
To their calm, steady glance, the veil grows clear,
And they can trace the shapes of coming Bliss,
The foil of Nature's mighty Glass, which here,
Like Echo, gives back merely that which is,
Falls off, and all the Spiritworld, unseen from this,

27

Grows visible: like some fair Landscape shown
At sunny Distance, from a Mountainsbrow:
At sight whereof, deep yearnings, which had grown
More absencestrengthened, gushing sweet, o'erflow
The wayworn Pilgrim's soul: as far below
He sees his quiet Home, embosomed deep
'Mid tufted trees: and all that he is now,
And has been, rises on him, past Thoughts leap
From Memory's Hidingplaces, as from Wintersleep

268

28

The flowers in Spring, and breathe upon the air
The freshness and the bloom of early days,
When young as they, he sported with them there
In Peace and Innocence: the Grave betrays
No trusts, no secrets: all that we may place
Therein, if not corruptible, again
Becomes our heritage: by Faith's calm rays
The darkness is dispelled, the sting of Pain
Plucked out, and scared all Phantoms of the coward Brain!

29

E'en Death himself assumes another form,
In the void sockets shine an Angel's eyes,
And for vile fleshless bones where crawls the worm,
Imperishable plumage of the skies;
No shaking hand its fearful office plies,
Dartarmed and lank, but beckoning sweetly on
He welcomes us: more like to Victory's
Triumphant shape, than that Scarecrow of bone,
That Skeleton, the sensual eye of Doubt beholds alone!

30

But ye are gone, Faith, Love, and Poesy:
And the dark clouds beneath your skyward flight
Have closed, and shut all Heaven from our eye;
No glimpses of pure Ether cheer our sight,
No Angle bearing your celestial Light
Upon his Wings, descends in Poet's dream:
No Glories burst the Pall of solemn Night,
Shedding on Prophet's upraised brow a beam
From God's own face; no more from out the Rock the stream

31

Of Truth, in this Life's Desert, springs. oh Woe!
Oh Desolation! hark! the Veil is rent
Intwain, as by th' indignant Godhead; lo!
The Altarfire by viewless hands is spent,
And with the ashes each bright spark is blent,
Lost irrecoverably; from the Shrine
Th' indwelling Spirit, which from thence had sent
Forth Oracles, is fled, and that divine
And beauteous Temple of high Art must now resign.

269

32

Its Sanctity, and be as common Stone,
Its Pavement trodden by unblessed Feet,
And by unholy hands its Statues thrown
Down from their Pedestals; the Musesseat,
Instead of that full Chorus, strong and sweet,
Which like an Incense rose, from Voices blent
In solemn Harmony, that well might greet
Immortal Hearing, to the merriment
Of Mammon's obscene votaries, (thither sent

33

To place their Idol in the very Shrine
Where stood the Form of Beauty), echoes now:
None comprehend the glorious design
Of that vast Temple, for our souls are so
Cramped in vain forms, so shackled to these low
And passing hopes of Earth, that when we see
The Perfect and Eterne, we no more know
Or feel their Charm, we have no Sympathy
Now with the True; and what is Beauty, if it be

34

Not Truth? or how can that man recognize
The forms in which its Presence is made known,
If to its high Proportions he applies
The measure of his senses? can the Crown,
That baubles a king's temples, sit well on
Imagination's ample brow? can Thought
Fashion a fitting home in crumbling stone?
Or can eterne materials be wrought
With fire by Inspiration not from Heaven brought?

35

Alas! for us; the divine Truth has drawn
The veil o'er her bright face, lest we should see
Her beauty, and, not knowing it, should scorn
And mock Her; Falsehood is our Deity,
And for our Gospel do we take a lie:
E'en with our Mothersmilk into our veins
We such the poison, and our Infancy,
Like a distorted member, ne'er regains
Its strength, and all that to our Afterdays remains

270

36

Of those fresh Years, so full of Love and Life,
Of Sap and Promise of all blessed Things,
Is but a Heritage of Sorrow, rife
With Evil, but a Leprosy which clings
To the sick Soul, and of its sublime Wings
The Sinews gnawing, rots them to the Core;
Then no more its immortal Chaunt it sings,
No longer up the brightblue Sky can soar,
But tumbling back to Earth, there grovels evermore!

37

Therefore no Highpriest for the Temple now
Is to be found, no Soul that in God's Sight
Is worthy on his broad and sublime Brow,
The Seal of the Divinity, in bright,
Unfading Characters, with divine Light
Engraven, to receive — therefore no more
The Choir with its long, fair Robes of White,
Sweeping the Templespavement, as of yore,
Is to be seen; no Lips that utter divine Lore,

38

With firetonguëd Eloquence, like those
Of Milton, are now heard: no Raphael now
The Hues of Heaven o'er the Canvass throws,
Calling the fair Skychildren down, to show
The Glories of the divine Mansions; no
Cathedralpiles embody in their vast
Proportions an whole People's Faith, no Glow
Lingers on Heart or Lip; the Days are past,
When Faith and Genius, like Twins, abroad would cast

39

Their Wonderworks, impressing upon all
They touched the Seal of Immortality!
Upon each other they no longer call
For Help and Consolation: to the Sky
Genius no longer lifts his raptured Eye,
No longer with the Chisel doth he wake
The Marble into Life, Faith standing by,
And whispering what Form the Stone should take!
No longer from his Pen flow forth the Thoughts that make

271

40

The Universal Heart to beat more strong
In all its thousand Pulses; on his Ear
No longer steals the far off Angelssong,
No longer to his Eye there starts a Tear
Of Rapture, for both Love and Faith are sere,
Sere as a withered Leaf: thus from the Tree
Of Life all Verdure falls, the Sap which ere-
While nourished it is dead, and sad to see,
E'en as the blighted Fig Christ cursed, will it soon be!

41

Our Faith is as our Churches, dwarf'd into
Chapels of Ease, mean, little, paltry, low,
Embodying the Feeling whence they grew:
Matters of Pounds and Pence, patched up as tho',
In this enlightened Age, Men did not know
How long God might be needed—as it were
Mere Form and mere Convention: 'twas not so
The old Cathedrals towered into Air,
Men then had Souls to plan and Handsinspired to dare!

42

Faith and Imagination held the Line,
And not the Bricklayer looking for his Hire!
The Call they answered was a Call divine:
The least felt something of that sacred Fire
Which urged the Hand of Milton to the Lyre,
E'en the Daylabourer! and as he wrought
The brute Stone, still he toiled for something higher,
The Hand responding conscious to the Thought,
Which better than all Rules inspired him and taught!

43

But Faith is dead, Religion a mere Form:
In Trifles oft great Changes best are shown,
Our Curches must be comfortable, warm
And matted, and our wordly Pride will own,
E'en in God's Sight and kneeling at his Throne
For Pardon, no Community with those
Who're poorer than ourselves! we pray alone,
Each in his Pew, which as an Emblem shows,
By this its outward Separation, how Wealth throws

272

44

Like Barriers 'twixt Heart and Hear! not so
Of old when by the Lord the Poorman took
His Seat, and as in Fact, so there was no
Distinction made! then haply from one Book
(For genuine Nobleness will ever brook
Such Contact, nor lose aught of Grace,) they read,
As on one Bench they sat: but now we look
At outward Things, we must not do as Head
And Heart sublimely prompt, that were, forsooth, illbred!

45

The Hand must not be stretched out to a poor
And illclad Friend, e'en tho' his Bosom were
The very Shrine of Truth! we must make sure
That he is dress'd in Fashion, that his Air
Be modish, else he is unfit to bear
The Name of Friend! the warm Words must not start
Unto the Lip, nor holy Fire dare
To light the Eye, we must take nanght to Heart,
As if naught godlike in Life had or could have Part!

46

We must not even be supposed to know
A poor Man, tho' he were a Milton, by
A World not fit to lick the Dust below
His Feet neglected: who still in God's Eye,
Eating the Bread of Immortality
In calm and sublime Confidence, toils on,
One of his Prophets on some Mission high,
Whom, like Elijah, ere his Race be done,
He in a Firecar might fetch back to his Throne!

47

The Body must be cared for first, and then
The Soul! we cannot kneel on the cold Stone
As did our Forefathers, good, simple Men!
They needed no soft Cushions, thought alone
Of God, and therefore He too as his own
Thought of them: for who feels and thinks of naught
But God, he to whom this one Thought has grown
Habitual, he for himself has wrought
Out God! God then is near, yea! near as his own Thought!

273

48

Then let all have Him near, yea! near as their
Own Hearts, by thinking ever on Him! so
Will they avoid all Ill as if they were
Led by His own Righthand, but there is no
«As if», it is so really, as all know
Who ever felt Him: for until the Thought
Of Him enforces godlike what we owe
To Him, 'tis not the Thought of Him, 'tis naught,
For by that Thought the Godlike must be surely wrought!

49

They are as closeconnected as the Rose
With its own Perfume; and what can, if this
Cannot, produce the Godlike, or whence flows
It then? and if this does not do so, 'tis
Not the true Thought of God, for that is His
Own Spirit, His ownself in us! and He
Must work the Godlike to be what He is,
In Himself, Man, the Flower, and the Tree,
Tho' the Mode differ 'tis the Godlike equally!

50

What boots it that we mouthe from Day to Day
Our Faithprofessions, if we still remain
Thus hard of Heart? he who believes must lay
His Sins aside, else his Belief is vain,
It is not felt, and Feeling can constrain
Alone to Action, godlike Feeling to
Pure, godlike Action; now, I say again,
He who believes the Godlike, he must too
Feel it, and he who feels it must the Godlike do!

51

What saving Health can be in God's own Word
When we so mince and lisp it, that thus by
The fashionable Ear it may be heard
Without a Yawn? when Vice, if decently
Concealed, must be respected, and if high
In Station, strong in Purse, may show his Face
Where Virtue with an illmade Coat would try
In vain to pass! when e'en God's Worshipplace
Draws stronger still the Line which it should first efface!

274

52

But God is just; in vain the Rich make their
Vicarious Offerings, who scarcely know
The Name of Sorrow: the unmeaning Prayer
Scarce reaches the cold Roof, for it has no,
No divine Influence, nor draws below
As by sublime Constraint God's listening Ear!
But the poor Man whom Wrong, and Want, and Woe,
Have left naught but a broken Heart, a Tear
To offer, his Prayer, yea! ere uttered, God will hear!

53

And what is our Religion? she is now
The Handmaid of the World, she fears it, to
It is obsequious and bends her Brow;
Not so of old with sublime Call she drew
The Nations in her Train, for God spoke thro'
Her Mouth, and as one with Authority
She urged on and rebuked: then Men were true
To her, for she was true to them, thus by
The sublime Interchange they gained reciprocally!

54

Churches are not Religion, nor Police
Morality, nor Vote by Ballot the
True Freedom, if Men still to Prejudice
Do Homage: they must first be good, then free!
Mortar and Stone make not a Church, else we
Should have enough, nor Bills of Rights free Men,
Nor many Laws good Men! much, much must be
Still added to all these, as to the Pen
The Inspiration, without which 'tis nothing, then

55

Words kindle into Poesy, and dead
Forms into Life, and Life to Harmony
Divine! where one or two are gatherëd
Together in God's Name, tho' 'neath the Sky,
There is a Church, yea! and a Church raised by
The living God, himself its Priest! there where
A Man has cast off Sin is Liberty,
And where is one sole Law, the godlike, there
Is a good Man and free, for more then needless are!

275

56

The Temple is before ye, there baptize
Your Child in the first Stream, for God has bless'd
The Water, and no holier Font supplies:
There let him eat at that sublimest, best
Communiontable, spread from East to West,
Of universal Love the ungrudg'd Bread!
Let him by holy Nature be impressed,
Not with the outward Sign upon his Head,
But with the inward, spiritual, in its Stead,

57

Deep in the living Heart! and from her so
Grand Volume, where the Lord with His own Hand
Has wrote in such clear Characters, that no,
No Eye which reads, can fail to understand
What 'tis he would forbid and what command,
Let him be taught his Creed, and with each Day
Turn over a new Leaf in that so grand
And sublime Breviary, whence all may
Draw golden Rules of Life, alike for Priest or Lay!

58

Thence let him learn, in its true Spirit, the
So pure Religion of his Master, there
Revealed so grandly, simply! let him be
Taught it in all the Forms of this so fair
And faultless World, where all Things, all, all bear
A Testimony not to be mistook!
Better is this than mumbling over Prayer,
And conning Words by Rote from out a Book,
Be ye yourselves the Hymn, as is the Bird and Brook!

59

Not that I disapprove of Churches and
Of Prayerbooks, God forbid! I deprecate
That Selfishness which paralyses Hand
And Heart, and which, ere yet it be too late,
I would see rooted out— I reprobate
Its Introduction e'en, alas! into
The Holy of all Holies! at the Gate
Of the eternal Temple therefore do
I sit, and warn the Nations, to my Mission true!

276

60

My Tongue is not my own, and I am naught,
'Tis not my Voice that calls, oh God! 'tis thine!
Jerusalem was freed by Blood, but Thought
Is what I work with, and as more divine
The Means, so higher is this Cause of mine!
That was to win the outward Temple to
The Cross, but mine the spiritual Shrine,
The inward, in Man's Soul! and from a too
Far worse Defilement than Mahometan or Jew

61

Inflicted on the palpable Shrine of Stone,
Even from that of Mammon, who has there
Cast down the Altars, thus to reign alone!
Then sublime Thought! Thought subtler far than Air,
Against whom is no Armour, who wilt dare
To pass the guarded Gates of Kings, and smite
Those who of God and Mercy have no Care,
Be thou my Weapon, forged from Heaven's Light,
'Tis the Lord wields it, if I but direct it right!

62

Of old't was in the Firebush that to
His People God appeared, but now shall He
Reveal Himself more grandly! yea! e'en thro'
Mankind's own godlike Heart, ye Nations, ye
Shall feel Him, and as one Man moulded be
In Christ, into one mystic Body, one
Great Heart! and how should it not then be free;
For who can bind it? and, whence it begun,
Back to God's Heart 'twill go, when here its Race is run!

280

THE SIBERIAN EXILE'S TALE.

FIRST PART.

1

Oh! Love, if I should venture now to tell
Of one who did thee honor, grant to me
A Portion of thyself, a gentle Spell,
That, like the Theme, my song may sweeter be.
Nor, if heartreaching Faith be deemed fit plea,
Wilt thou deny my prayer: for noble Deeds
To those who cherish their pure memory
Impart a portion of their Worth, which breeds
Moods of high thought, and of like actions sows the seeds.

2

A deed of virtue is a thing of Beauty,
And should be as a Householdword upon
All lips, a Watchword for all Hearts, to high
And noble Imitation — 'neath the sun
There is no beauty like it; we may run
The manyacted page of History o'er,
And while Time's noisy Nothings do but stun,
We linger on a Gooddeed evermore,
And from it catch a spark of true soulquickening power.

3

A Gooddeed is a life of life, it shall
Not perish — it has a Vitality
Within itself: shall the Straybird let fall
The Chanceseed, that had withered, on some high
And manunclimbëd Mountain, which thereby
Grows verdureclothed? and shall not, with like care,
Just Providence forbid a truth to die?
Shall not some chancewinged words the good seeds bear
Unto some human heart, and bid them take Root there?

281

4

It cannot, cannot pass to Nothingness!
No, it shall be a Joy eterne to those,
Whose souls have bowed not to the Littleness
Of earthly things: who, 'mid these changeful Shows,
Have kept their spirit's Oneness, which still flows,
Like the songfabled River, thro' the Sea
Of the World's Troubles, pure as when it rose
From the deep fount of Truth, unmixedly
Regushing 'neath a faroff Land's unclouded Sky.

5

And thou, thou Puredeed prompter, holy Love,
To whom my Lip shall ever offer praise,
Thou Source of all that raises man above
His paltry self, and this vain World: our days,
If thou wert not, were dark and thornstrewn ways,
Leading athwart a Desert, where alone
At thy sweet Bidding some Joyfountain lays
Its freshness at our feet: to win thy crown frown!
Martyrs have braved the flame, and tyrants' selfawed

6

And if the deeds, which do but shadow thee,
Be thus allbright and holy, what art thou
In thy own Essence, beautiful, and free
From all Impediments, Conditions low,
Changes of time and place, which here below
Oft mingle with our Love, as smoke with flame,
Dimming its brightness: thou, whose least Breath so shame.
Sublimes the soul, that feeble woman's aim
At times atchieves such deeds as put mail'd Warriors to

7

Thy deeds, thine perish not, for most of all
They are the Heart's inheritance, a Lore
Knit with its highest Instincts, and in small
Space of sweet Selfcontent accomplish more
(Spreading like circles everwidening o'er
The charmëd waters of a happy Life)
Than mad Ambition's Rainbowscope of power,
With means so infinite, if unto strife
It were permitted aught of inward bliss to hive!

282

8

Thine is no thankless service, for therein
Who loses, still has won a mighty gain,
The conquest of himself, redeemed from sin
And selfishness: a cure for his own pain
In others' bliss he finds; not his the vain
And unshared Joys of self, which barren die
In our own breasts, blighted to weeds of bane.
For Bliss from Heart to Heart, and Eye to Eye,
Must be imparted, the fair Child of Simpathy!

9

There is a power in Love, which from life's woes
Can fashion blessings, making itself wings
From that which with dull leaden grievance bows
A meaner passion down to earth; in things
Of noble Natures and high Aspirings,
It burns on like a pure, strong Altarflame,
And all Impediments, all Hinderings,
Herein consumed, give fuel to the same.
Thus Love our weaker parts to uses high can tame!

10

Oh Love, thou burnest bright amid the snows
Of bleak Siberia, as 'neath the skies
Of sunloved Climes: thy holy Essence knows
No diminution from Contingencies
Of heat and cold: the Body's sympathies
Affect thy Workings not: from these apart
In th' human soul thou dwell'st, which never dies,
Which place and time can change not: every part
Of the wide world still offers thee a home, a heart!

11

Why should we limit thee to Time and Space?
Are we not cooped within the boundaries
Of this frail flesh enough, but must debase
Thee to the dim perceptions of our Eyes
And these dull Senses, making that which dies
Measure of that which lives unchanged for aye,
Finite of Infinite: of Harmonies
How do we take the measure, of their Sway
How judge? with th'outer ear or Soul's? let Memory say.

283

12

Can the ear keep them? does the passing wind
Not bear them on its wings in mockery,
To teach us that we have no power to bind
Such Joys to outward sense? yet long passed by,
Make they not far, far sweeter melody
To th 'inner Ear in Afterdays, and bring
Forgotten music, with all fancies high?
Hence is it that old songs have power to fling
Us back into the Past, cheating Time's baffled wing!

13

And Love? shall lesser priviledge be thine?
Thou that art not a portion of the soul,
But as the spirit of its inmost shrine,
Each Being's Highest, and at once the Whole,
From whence and whither, as to their one Goal,
All Rays of Truth and Beauty tend: all things
That, with or without Shape, have ever stole
Bright Fancy's hues, all soulheard murmurings
Of sweetest note, all Flutterings of yet unfledg'd wings!

14

Thou Love, thou art the Centre-harmony,
From whence all lesser strings of Being take
Their true Accord: from hence the outer Eye
Receives its worth, and for the inner's sake
Stores full the mind with Beauty-shapes: hence wake
Old Songs such thrilling Echos on the ear,
Which else were allinert: hence too we make
Our hearts a portion of the changing year,
And sympathize with Nature still in Joy and Fear.

15

Thou Love, hast ever been, and aye shall be,
Best matter of high argument: fit theme
For mightiest bards to show their Mastery;
Soulstrengthening task, wherein, like some strong stream,
That, as it flows, runs pure, they learn to deem
Rightly of truths which thou alone canst teach:
The Heart that works or writes thee wrong must teem
With feelings to be pitied, nor can reach
Its Best, as e'en the Rose! most punished in the breach

284

16

Against thy Majesty, oh Love!— for he
Who has not loved has never lived: far more
Unblest, tho' kingly Pomp around he see,
And want for Nothing, yea! than the most poor,
Doordriven, houseless beggar, if but sure
That one eye looks on him with Love, that one
Heart beats for him! oh! he who has been sore-
Tried by the Loss of all he loves, has won
A Bliss beyond him who has lost, and yet loved, none!

17

For unto him at least the boon of life
Is not all Barrenness: he, like the flower
Which to the fleeting winds its scent doth give,
For other Hearts has hived his Being's store,
Caring not when or how the passing hour
Might rob him of his all, and leave him there,
Withered and lone, of Joy to taste no more:
Tho' Time might from his Soul its fond ones tear,
Still must he love, to live, for without no Life were!

18

Oh Woman's heart, how beautiful art thou
In thy deep, calm Intensity of Love!
What is there on this Earth like thee? we bow
Selfawed to deeds heroic, for, above
The sphere of common spirits, they do move
The soul to adoration: but, oh thou!
So sole, that in the bosom of the Dove
Bearest the Lion's strength, to thee we owe
Heartworship, beyond all of Fair and Good below!

19

How different from Man's cold Love is thine,
Which gives with Joy all for the loved one's sake!
E'en Sacrifice itself grows Bliss divine:
Denial is no more so, it doth take,
(For Love's transfiguring Power well can make
Things most opposed exchange their Qualities,)
The Form of full Enjoyment: thus from Ache,
Pain, Toil, can he bid rich Possessions rise,
And where all wanting seems, the whole of Heaven comprize!

285

20

For is not Heaven Love? to live then by
Love only, is to be in Heaven, is
To live as do the Angels up on high,
To live as God himself, for is not this
His highest Priviledge, that Love is his
Existence, his Godhead? yea! there is naught
Without Love, neither Life, nor Heaven, nor Bliss!
Then be your Hearts, like His, with Love but fraught,
And ye will have at once the Heaven which ye sought!

21

But Man lives not by Love alone, therefore
It is not Heaven unto him, as to
Diviner Woman! she bows down before
No other God, to this one ever true;
But he has many Idols, changing thro'
His Life: now from the Clarion would he hear
His Name blown forth, now on his proud Brow strew
War's or Thought's Laurels, now the kind Heart sear
For some vain Helen of the Brain, to him more dear

22

Than her who sits beside him, who oft on
Her faithful Breast has pillowed his sick Head:
That Pillow heavenly Love might rest upon,
And sleep as chastely as if Angels spread
Their Plumage for his Rest! alas! instead
Of seeking for his Poetry in his
Own Life, like Woman, Man by Fancy's led
Astray, oft leaves, sick of such divine Bliss,
The Helen of his Dreams for some vile Harlot's Kiss!

23

Thus Extremes meet again: and there he lies,
Grovelling amid the Dust, 'till, sick once more,
He shakes it off his Wings, and to the Skies,
E'en to God's Throne itself, anew would soar!
Strange Contrast! now with Angels to adore
The God of Love, and now profane him by
Coarse, prurient Lusts, degrading in a Whore!
Alas! that earthly Films should dim the Eye,
And Passion fire the chaste, pure Lips of Poesy!

286

24

Happy he, who has that sublimest Skill
Within the Framework of the Picture by
Imagination wrought, thro' steady Will,
And sober Keeping open of the Eye,
Broad, broad awake, alike to laugh or cry,
The living Forms around him to comprize:
To see things as they are! that is the high-
Est Way, it is God's Way: and to God's Eyes,
Methinks, far fairer than the Poet's Dreams must rise!

25

For God falls not asleep and dreams not: he
Is broad awake: what Dreams could e'er supply
To Him that which His waking Eye can see,
His waking Heart can feel? then let us try
To do like Him: to see all Things as by
Him they are seen, as godlike! and then where
Is he who needs to dream? then Fancy, thy
Fastidious Hand may crown with Flowers the Hair
E'en of our mortal Love, and find the true Muse there!

26

And if from Love, deep, lasting, and sincere,
We draw our Inspiration, can there be
A higher? comes it not direct and clear
From God himself? and who then, if not He,
Is the one Source of Life, Love, Poesy?
Then cleave unto thy human Partner's Side,
In her Form shall the Muse appear to thee,
Urania, not she whom erst the Pride
Of Poet feigned, a higher far shall be thy Bride!

27

Yea! one of God's own Spirits, in whom He
Himself dwells with thee: in thy House! so near!
Keep her as such then, let her never be
Aught in thine Eyes but godlike: never hear
Her Voice but as if God himself in clear,
Intelligible Wise, spoke to thee, by
Her Lips: then really He'll speak to thee here,
And treating her as godlike, she thro' thy
Treatment will grow so, and make thee so equally!

287

28

Love is of all her Children justified,
And God accords to perfect Purity,
A perfect Strength: a Strength which doth reside
In its own Innocence: a Mystery
Was, in the birth of Him whose mission high
Redeemed the World, unveiled to man's dim sight:
A truth illknown, yet one that could not die.
From a pure Virgin's loins came forth the Might,
That flamelike withered Falsehood, and put Hell to flight!

29

God's ways and means are many, and by those
Which oft to man's blind, erring Judgment seem
The most unfit, he in his Wisdom knows
To perfect that he wills: one divine Beam
Of Truth dispelled, as daylight does a dream,
The monstrous Pile of Superstitions: made
The Sword's of twenty Legions idly gleam,
Like brittle Reeds: and in its Meekness bade
The proud Schoolwisdom of the stubborn Stoa fade!

30

With that which is not he can bring to naught
The Things that are, and put to utter Shame
The Glories of this World: nor wills he aught
That men deem needful to work out his aim!
Nor strength of Nerve or Sinew, Sword or Flame!
Not such brute Agents his— all these are weak,
For o'er the Soul no inward Sway they claim;
The chains they forge an Infant's hand can break,
Things only like themselves of dust their slaves they make!

31

With Wisdom meek as Childhood, nourished by
The Milk of Innocence, doth he delight
To prove the Wisdom of the Flesh a Lie!
For Truth is one: but the Worldsteachers fight
Together, seeking her celestial Light
In dim, earthkindled Lamps: nor doth he deign
With mortal Weapons to assert his Right!
'Gainst the skytempered Armour these are vain,
Which shields Truth's divine Breast, from whence they fall again,

288

32

Shivered to thousand fragments: while the arm,
That dealt the blow, is paralyzed, as by
The sudden Working of a mighty Charm;
Nor seeks he his Apostles 'mong Earth's high
And favored Sons: these to a barren Lie
Would turn his Word, and make it a mere Screen
For Creeds, Forms, Priestcraft, and Statejugglery!
Therefore on Poverty fair Faith did lean,
And Hand in Hand they went, in Courts full seldom seen!

33

Therefore God chose the lowly and despised
To do him Service, and above the Throne
Of Kings he raised them, He etherealized
Their Natures, gave their Lips that mighty Tone,
By which, on the four Winds, his Word was blown
Abroad unto the Ends of Earth; He sent
Them forth to teach that Innocence alone
Is Strength: that to her Nakedness is lent
Skypanoply, not forged by mortal Instrument!

34

Why did He not stretch forth his mighty arm,
And, reedlike, snap intwain the fullblown pride
Of those that mocked him? why not with the Charm
Of one sole word lay prostrate far and wide
The Hosts who in their Nothingness denied
His wise Omnipotence? or why, ye say,
Ye moleeyed Seekers, who cannot abide
Truth's radiant brow, who find your only day
In doubto'er clouded night, by false pride led astray,

35

Why with swift Thundervengeance did he not
Work out his Ends, and force the stubborn Will
Of Sinners to his Faith? ye Fools! ye Blot
On the fair page of Wisdom's book, to Ill
Who turn the gifts she gave ye, ye are still
The same old Serpentbrood, that with the Slime
Of its Fooldoubts has toiled the Truth to kill!
God has for all his Ends his own good time
And means, tho' ye do turn his Wisdom to a Crime!

289

36

Yea verily, I say, such Miracles
He could have worked, if Need were, or if Good
Had come thereof; and his own History tells
Of even-such, that yield a sensual food
To vulgar Faith, which, to support its Mood,
Asks for these palpable signs: but the wise Mind,
Whose Faith on such frail basis has not stood,
Will seek its best proofs, not in Shows that bind
The outward sense, but fuller Revelations find

37

In the deepworking, sensehid Agencies,
Which to rightthinking minds do yield most high
And sweet Astonishment. Allgood and wise,
By simplest and most despis 'd Ministry,
By humblest Means, he perfects noiselessly
Mightiest results, that bring man 's pride to naught.
He is no Wonderworker for the eye!
Hearthomage asks He by brute Fear not bought,
And Freewillofferings by Love, not Wonder wrought!

38

Yea! verily, the Thunders are his own,
The Winds, and Lightnings, and the mighty Sea
Are at his Bidding, and with these, 'tis known,
He can work Miracles! yet still there be,
Far greater, marvellous exceedingly,
Where Strength and Force are not, save such as lies
In Truth and Wisdom's selfdrawn Mastery.
With these he can o'erthrow the Mockeries
Of steelclad Hosts, and put to Shame his Enemies!

39

Yea! with a simple Truth he can put down
The mighty from their seats, and humble Kings
By the despisëd means themselves disown:
Thro' the Babesmouth refute the Questionings
Of the Worldwisest: and with meanest things
Confound the Mightiest! yea, He alone
With weakness can bind strength; to the Dove's wings
Impart the Eagle's Might, and make Pride own
Himselfby Lowliness subdued, by Worth despis'd, unknown!

290

40

There is a Strength, which dwells not where the Worms
Are called to banquet, which far deeper lies
Than in these perishable outward Forms
Of nerve and sinew: nor by aught that dies
Does it reveal to man its mysteries,
Tho' over these it has a godlike sway!
Its Shrine is in the Soul, and from the skies
Thither descending with its pure Liferay,
It keeps the Spirit young, tho' Grief the head make gray!

41

When these frail Limbs, on which disease and pain
Have done their worst, fall one by one away,
Like faithless Servants: when Earth's weight again
Lies heaviest on us, still this hidden ray
Maintains its priviledge: e'en in the clay
Remingling with the dust, its Birthright lives,
Still gaining strength by meaner things' decay:
Allconquering Death of his worst Fears deprives,
And o'er the Grave a sober Victory reaps— and gives!

42

This is true Strength: too deep for outward Show:
Too vast in perishable forms to be
Made manifest to sense: no Emblem low
Of Earth can grasp its bright Immensity,
As little Thought can grasp Eternity!
It is the Soul of things, and felt, not seen.
Therefore those basest Thralls, those Thralls of Eye
And Sense believe it not: had Christ but been
A Giant, he had gained more Votaries far, I ween!

43

Had he, cloudthroned and thunderarmed, among
Earth's senseled sons appeared, or sent before
Wonder and Fear his Messengers, the throng
Had bent beneath him in the dust, with more
Than slavish baseness: but a higher power,
In its own simple Majesty, that made
Conquest of Will alone, left to persuade
Itself, not forced, and by no Proofs, no Lore,
But those which to itself, without Parade,
The soul supplies, on brute Force leaning not for aid,

291

44

But working soft as dew within the flower,
And fecundating by Love's warmth alone
The seeds of high Belief, to them such Power
Was allincomprehensible, unknown,
Unfelt, unrecognized, a Glory thrown
On the unconscious Clay, which still remains
Brute and unvivified: the Strength they own
And worship, is mechanic, that which strains
Sinew and Nerve, and by brute Means brute Ends attains!

45

But ye, ye blessed few, ye Innereyed,
Who see into the Life of things, whose Gaze,
Quiet and calm, looks thro' the forms that hide
The mighty Workings of the Eternal's Ways
From grosser sense, ye find best cause to praise
And glorify His name, whose Ministrings
Are felt thro' all, where others cannot trace
His wondrous Hand: the smallest Flower betrays
To ye that Wisdom, which so gently brings
In its vast Grasp the Issues of all earthly things!

46

Ye see it not alone, when forced upon
The dullest Mind, in grand Events, that shake
Realms to their Centre, and eclipse the Sun;
Ye would not stare when Paralytics take
Their Beds up, or when buried Men awake,
So much as ye do at what every Day
Ye look on! greater Wonders far, which make
No Noise, but still as Thought, wrought ever; yea,
The Thought which from God works on in Man's Heart for Aye!

47

Controlling, punishing, correcting still,
Like to a viewless Arm laid lightly on
The Necks of Kings, and to a higher Will
Bending their haughty Schemes, of which not one
Works out that which 'twas destined for alone.
Thine are the Wonders, God! thou thrself, by
And in Us', work'st them as if not thine own;
Withdrawn from View, in sublime Modesty,
Thou mov'st all, yet still as thy least Star in yon Sky!

292

48

Ye trace him always, everywhere, in all,
Because most in yourselves, ye chosen few;
In most familiar Things, however small,
Ye feel him grandly, there Allmighty too,
In the least Sandgrain and the Drop of Dew,
As in this whole, vast World! Ye see him draw
From warring Falsehoods the eternal True,
Make Discord serve the selfsame End as Law,
And Peace and Love spring like Twins from the Womb of War!

49

This World his vast Laboràtory, where
Experiments are ever going on
Upon the grandest Scale! now to a Hair
To regulate a Comet or a Sun,
And now unerringly to solve some one
Of Life's grand Problems! while, as Ages fly,
In Time's vast Crucible remains alone
The one eternal Truth to test all by,
Good, Good alone endures, like God, unchangeably!

50

Ye know what Strength is: by the running Brook,
And Faith was Sampson fillëd with the Might
Of Hosts, to smite God's Enemies; a Book,
With a few worlddespisëd Truths — the Light
Of high Experience, gathering strength by Right,
And its own inborn Majesty of Worth:
A feeble oldman's Words, who at the sight
Of axe and fire swerves not, can give birth
To mightier Issues far than all the powers of Earth!

51

This is true Strength, whose chosen home is still
The Soul of man, when with himself at one,
His Being's End he strives but to fulfill
In meck Lowheartedness: which dwells alone
In that which Chance and Change have never thrown
Low in the dust: which Time assails in vain!
In an old Song its Essence oft is shown,
In which the eldtime Spirit lives again,
And in all Forms kept pure by Soul from earthly Stain!

293

52

Thinking on such things, need we wonder still,
That Love, tho' in a feeble Woman's breast,
Can draw from pure resolve and fixëd will,
The strength to execute the high Behest
Of the Soul's Oracle? all times attest
That there be Wonders, tho' no more the dead
Rise up to prove them from their tombëd Rest.
Faith still can work them as of old, when need
May be, and Love, twinborn with her, has equal Meed!

53

Oh that my Lips might with the Altarflame
Of Truth be purified, thus, with all good
And fitting Utterance, to sing thy Name,
Thou Worth of Worths: thou that deriv'st thy food
From noblest sacrifice of each low mood,
Each selfish feeling: 'till the soul, left clear
From sensual stain, the Image of its God
Full, mirrorlike, gives back! Oh be thou here,
Prompting my feeble Song, descend from thy calm Sphere.

54

Ye Elements, that wage eternal Strife
With man's frail Handyworks, and seek your prey
In his Highplaces: that which draws its life
From what yourselves are made of, ye may lay
Low in the dust, and after its brief day
Of brute-existence to Oblivion
Consign for ever: strewing thus your way
With aweinspiring Ruins, which Truth's sun
Gilds for a Moment's Space, like Motes, and lo! they' regone!

55

Nor will the wiser mind mourn o'er the fall
Of Tower and Temple: nay, draws thence a Kind
Of holy Solace: Spiritvoices call
From out the eldtime ruin, and the mind
In the Past's Echos stronger proof doth find
Of its own infelt Immortality!
Faith dwells with us, an Eye among the blind,
Looking before and after! Centuries fly,
The outward form may change, the spirit still is nigh!

294

56

Itself it is the Form: the Form is naught
Without it — and where it is not, there is
No Form, for by the Spirit that is wrought.
It moulds, etherealizes, now in this
And now in that Shape, Man still after his
Great Archetype— it glows, and casts away
The Dust of Ages— and tho' we may miss
It for awhile: lo! with diviner Ray,
In Book, Thought, Deed, and Word, it shines, godlike for Aye!

57

Its home is the cloudpillared Firmament,
From God it comes, to God returns: below
'Tis man's best Heritage: that spark unspent,
From whence her Torch Faith kindles, which can throw
Light thro' the darkness of the Grave: on woe,
And human suffering: and has a power
O'er Nature's lifeless forms, until they glow
As with a Soul. Winds, Flowers, Ruins hoar,
Bring haunted Memories, and dreams of days of yore!

58

'Gainst this, ye Elements, in vain ye strive,
Nay, rather ye subserve thereto, and make
High Memories holier still: for ye do give
Tradition unto Truth: and for the sake
Of our Forefathers' deeds, we love to wake
The voice of eldtime songs, that in the heart
Of Nations have their home: ye may downshake
Freedom's Strongholds, but'tis not in your art,
To dim the Truths, that from her Wrecks, like Spirits, start!

59

Above the timeworn Ruin hangs the Power
And Beauty of departed Years: it seems
Like Something taken from the passing Hour,
And having naught to do therewith: strange Gleams
From Suns long set shine on it, and the Streams
Rustle, tho' real, as in a Fairytale!
It looks like something visioned in our Dreams,
Standing apart: ghostlike seems Hill and Dale,
And as Ghosts we glide on, 'till Comprehension fail!

295

60

Ye fleetdestroying, conquestspurning Waves,
Strew the foamcradled Cities of proud Kings,
Like Autumnleaves: let the Winds o'er their Graves
Leave less Trace, than man's Memory to things
Of meanest note accords: ye Tempestwings
Scatter the Conqueror's Boasts unto the Dust,
From whence they rose, to which their nature clings
With downward Baseness: thou, steelgnawing Rust,
Feed on his vain Warspoils: ye Snails, deface his Bust!

61

Thou Time, Destruction's Playmate! thou Headfoe
Of earthencumbering Records of dark Deeds,
Built up with human Blood, and human Woe!
Reaper of Ages' harvests, o'er the seeds
Of high Truths watching, Rooterout of Weeds
Which Crime and Folly nourish: Critic sure!
Tester of Systems, Sects, Religions, Creeds!
Winnowing the vile Chaff of the passing Hour power!
From the good grain, which springs, sureripened by thy

62

Haste to the widespread Feast which Man prepares
For ye, ye Harvestreapers of the grain,
The everspringing crop of foolish Cares
And fruitless Toils, of Ignorance bred: the vain
And outward pomps, wherein high Truths disdain
To linger, seeking still a fitter home,
In the few chosen hearts: outliving Pain
Hate, Persecution, Change, and Error's Gloom,
Like Torches handed down, 'till happier days may come!

63

Hurl to the dust the topless Citytowers,
Skypointing Columns, and all mockeries
Of clay and stone. Worth has far other powers
Than these: far more enduring Testimonies!
Ye cannot wrong the Truth; her Enemies
Are but as clouds unto the sun, which tho
'Tis hid awhile from man's dimsighted Eyes,
Shines not less bright tho' hid: yea, even so,
Doth Virtue free her from all Contact base and low!

296

64

But to my tale: far 'mid the snowclad plains
Of bleak Siberia, where Tyranny,
Who wages Warfare with his dungeonchains,
With fire and sword, against Truth's majesty
And Freedom, sends his foes to pine and die:
Breathing the breath of shame and banishment,
Far from all Homeendearments, where the Eye
Shrinks at the joyless scene, to which is lent
The heart's own Hopelessness, from which no smileissent,

65

There dwelt a banished family, whose fate
Was less heartsearing than is oft assigned
By the lynxeyëd Monster, who by hate
And fear metes all offences: for the Mind,
When it has that it loves, will solace find:
And they were severed not, but in their woe
Heart beat on kindred Heart: and thus entwined,
Like Ivytendrils, could support a blow,
Which, striking singly, must have laid each torn Branch low.

66

The sorrows which we share with those we love,
Which prove how they do love us, these, these have
A power beyond e'en Fortune's smiles to move
A deep, sweet Selfcontent: for as the wave
Will surfacefoam and break, when tempests rave,
While Ocean's heart beneath sleeps calm and still,
So in man's soul, what outward Ills it brave,
There is a Centrepeace which naught can kill,
A Joyfount which from Love and Faith itself doth fill.

67

Husband, and wife, and daughter, they did live
Soullinked together in Adversity,
As in their former Joys: and still life's hive
Might have been honeyfilled: for to the high,
Selfcentred spirit, in its unity,
Changes of Time and Place, of outward things
And Bodycomforts, are but mockery:
'Tis selfsufficient, and the soul has wings,
Whereon it soars away, and far off pleasures brings.

297

68

Spirits there be, that with the sober Eye
Of truediscerning Wisdom, glancing o'er
This pleasureteeming World, can yet deny
Themselves, and without pain all other store
Save what they bear within them: ask no more
Than that small sum, which frugal Nature needs,
Of food and raiment: and like some sweet flower
That blooms unto itself, where no foot treads,
They live to their own hearts, spurning the World's false creeds!

69

With allunsparing hand they cut away
The prurient Wishes, the rank Growth of vain
And whimborn fancies, which so thick o'erlay
And clog the Soul's free movements: drawing Gain
From that which unto feebler minds is bane
And selfconfusion: like the o'ergrown vine,
Whose wild Leafwantonness does but restrain
The precious Fruit, 'till needful Wounds incline
Waste strength to knit in clusters for the generous Wine.

70

The wiser heart still gathers inwardly
The lifesap of its being: ripening
To selffruition, selfdependency.
And as the bird on evenmotioned wing,
So it from all the downward bents, that cling
To this low Earth, can free itself, and rise
To higher aims: nor from its Eagle-swing
E'er stoops unto the Carrionprey that lies
In mad Ambition's path, whereon he gluts, and dies.

71

Our Joys are likest halfsunn'd fruits, which grow
On one side harsh, illflavored, sourhued,
On th' other overripe: alas! we know
Not when to pluck the little that we could!
We will not when we can, and when we would,
Time is beforehand, lets us not twice chuse;
But once he offers, then takes leave for good.
Thus Nature's gifts Foolwisdom doth abuse,
And misses all, by grasping more than he can use!

298

72

But he, the Father, he was nursed elsewhere
Than in that sober School, Selfmastery;
He had not learnt its Wisdom, nor could bear
To be worldsevered: tho' he still had nigh,
Truehearted, those to whom the soul may fly
For solace 'gainst the cold World's bitter hate,
'Gainst fickle friends, and outward misery;
He would not seek the bliss his present state
Might yield, nor learn what Time all teaches, but too late!

73

Warcradled and strifenurs'd, his school had been
One where the soul, selfstolen, is left bare
In worse than nakedness. Oh who can glean
A Peacesheaf from the bloodsown field of War
To store Life's Wintergranary? what are
The Battletriomphs, the eyedazzling Sheen
Of banners and sunglancing spears, that mar
God's holy Image: what the Afterscene,
The Deathpause, and the deathstrewn Earth whereStrife has been?

74

What are all these (save that reality
Makes them more dreadfull) but a feverish dream
Of some sick, nightmared couch, which, when passed by,
Leaves the soul without Power to redeem
Those Feelings which the wise alone esteem
Aright, of all good Growths the Root and Sap.
Its Peacetastes are destroyed, it will not deem
Itself its Wealth; longnursed in Strife's rude Lap,
Wisdom's low Voice charms not who loves War's Thunderclap!

75

The Clarion has untuned his Ear for sounds
Of gentler note, discharmed the Homefireside
With its few chosen hearts, within whose Bounds,
However scant they seem to largeeyed Pride,
Most ample realms of Happiness reside;
And harvests, golden harvests, of that Grain,
One little Sheaf whereof, in all his wide
And barren fields, Ambition reaps not: Gain
Like this is not for him, he sows War's field in vain!

299

76

But Woman's heart within itself lives more,
And in her Homeworld she can happy be,
Loving and lov'd: from Nature's founts her Lore
Instinctive flows, she drinks it fresh and free
From those deep wells of pure Humanity,
The early Loveexchanges, which endear
Cottage and fireside: as round the tree
The weak grape twines, so woman's heart will bear
Its Joyfruits still, if some supporting heart be near.

77

And if she have Ambition, it is still
To rule the Heart, which she so well doth know
In all its weekday movements; nobler skill
Than that, which seeks in greatness still to grow
By Sacrifice of all that here below
Is best and dearest, to the World's turmoil
And hollow vanities; from whence can flow
Heartaches, Heartbarrenness alone, the Coil
Offretting hopes and fears, which each high Impulse spoil.

78

But man 's thoughts are elsewhere, and home to him
Is but the Cage 'gainst which he wounds his wing
With fretful Effort, 'till his heart grow dim
In fancied Thralldom. Pride, Ambition, fling
Their Darkness on his mind, and vain dreams bring.
He, like the Oak, must cast his arms abroad
Into life's tempest, 'mid its deafening,
Heartsickening Uproar take his Part, with Word
And Hand still strive to make himself obeyed and heard.

79

So it befell this man: shorn were his beams
By the first cloud of passing misery,
And his soul darkened by Despair's vain dreams
Of Pleasures past and Sorrows yet to be.
In his own heart he bore the fount of free
And joyous thought, but knew not his own power
To strike the Rock and bid it gush, for he
Walked in no selfdrawn Light: the passing Hour
Shone on, and left him as it found, all Clay once more!

300

80

His wife and daughter, they lived in the heart
And by the heart, careless of outward things,
Which they missed not: in Love they breathed apart
From vain regrets; and he who loves has wings
Of Eaglescope, fit for high Aspirings
To that calm Atmosphere, where earthly fears
And cares vex not: in all his Wanderings,
Love has one Centrepoint to which he steers,
One Haven sure whence Angelwelcomings he hears.

SECOND PART.

1

And now, my own Soul's Sister, Prascovy,
Let us wend on our Way in steadfast Wise,
For the Lord's Hand is on thy Purity,
And in thy Weakness is He strong: arise
And doubt not, for the holy Mysteries
Of God to Faith's calm, steadfast Glance are clear,
An high Astonishment, a blest Surprise,
Shall ope his Heart who lends thy Tale an Ear,
And Rays of Heaven's pure Light oft cross his dull Path here!

2

And I would fain believe, tho' all divine,
Thou, in whom Love thus ripened into high
And perfect Faith, (for of Religion's Shrine
Love is the Cornerstone,) that even I
Possess that Faith whose Hand of Purity
Still touches into Glory common Clay,
And on the Brow of poor Mortality
The Stamp of true Divinity doth lay,
By Time and Sorrow uneffaced, the same for aye!

301

3

Tho' Art should fail, unable to renew
The Forms of eldtime Poets, forced to take
Casts from the antique Statues, Nature, true
To her creative Priviledge, can make
In her eternal Mould (tho' Time should break
Her Masterworks to Pieces one by one)
Fresh Beautyshapes, which unto Being wake
Perfect as Eve, by Sin not yet undone,
Her Mould remains the same, tho' endless Forms be gone!

4

And on thee has she tried her mighty Hand,
Her choicest Craft, thou new Antigone!
Tho' no blind Father, treading Grecian Land,
Leans on thee, not less beautiful than she:
Tho' one with all the Sheen of Poesy,
The Atmosphere of Beauty, the Goldlight
By Inspiration breathed, o'er mantled be,
And thon in Nature's simplest Garb art dight,
Yet fairer than all Pomp, for Truth is thy Birthright!

5

Thou tread'st no Poetground, no Legends hoar
Hover around thy Head, nor do 'st thou seem
Fit Subject for the Bard's fastidious Lore:
No Oracle, (save that celestial Beam
Within thy Heart,) no goldenwinged Dream,
By high Jove sent, sheds Glory upon thee,
But on Life's common Path, where ill Sights teem,
That shock the nice Regards of those who see
With Fancy's Eyes, an Angel in thy Purity,

6

By Faith upheld and meek Lowheartedness,
Thou trod'st, on Misery's scant and bitter Bread
Oftnourished, and the salt Tears of Distress!
Oft without Pillow for thy weary Head,
Or Friend, save one above, tho' He instead
Of every earthly Aid might well suffice,
Yea! the good God by whom the Raven's fed,
Altho' he has no Voice to ask, who tries
The Heart of Man, and by high Suffering purifies,

302

7

Entering into the Temple when 'tis made
Holy by Expiation! even He
Who in his Mercy and his Love hath said,
«Blessed are they that suffer, they shall be
Inheritors of Immortality»!
Who gives most e'en when most He takes away:
Who takes the good Things of the Earth that we,
Thus wean 'd from them, may not be led astray,
But Faith's good Things receive instead, and live for aye!

8

Thou trod'st Life's thorniest Paths, yet murmuredst not,
And 'mid its Fret and Fever thou wast still
Calm and content, and envied'st no Man's Lot,
O'ercoming Evil by an ardent Will,
And a fixed Soul of Good, which can instill
Into opposëd Natures its own Worth:
Rousing Men's inert Sympathies to fill
Their wonted Channels, and by very Dearth
Of earthly Means, prolific in those not of Earth!

9

The more of Mammon's Means the less of God's!
The more of outward Things the less we here
Use spiritual: on the Reed that nods
With the least Breath Man in his Hour of Fear
And Doubt will rather lean, on palpable, near,
And present Aids, how frail soe'er, than on
Faith's viewless Arm, which more than Sword or Spear
Can bear a Nation up! this Strength alone
Endures, for being Spirit Change in it is none!

10

But Mammon scarcely can relieve Wants to
Which this frail Flesh is subject: he may pillow
The Head on Down, yet Conscience still can strew
Unquiet Thorns! he can but feed the low
And sensual Propensities, but no
Inspiring Breath to aught Godlike supply;
Hr cannot stir Mens' Hearts, or bid Kings bow
As to God's Voice, when inlymoved as by
Some heavenly Presence, which their Souls dare not belie,

303

11

They hear a friendless Girl ask Mercy on
A Father, in the Name of him whose Grace
Hes led and visibly before her gone!
This is Faith's Priviledge: he who will place
His whole Trust in her, by no Fears debase
Her Impulse, or by brute Mistrust undo
Her Triomphs, he all Ills unmoved shall face,
By her and in her shall he conquer too,
For ne'er breaks she her Pledge to those that love her true!

12

But he who leans on her, as on a Reed,
And trusts her not, 'neath his Weight will she break,
For she will not support the earthly, dead,
Unquickened Pressure of brute Doubts, that make
The Soul distrust itself, and from it take
The Sceptre of its spiritual Sway:
And he who seeks her not for her sole sake,
But thinks by Mammon's aid to smooth the Way,
His Toil is lost, in Mammon's Service must he stay!

13

But to thy steady Worship Faith could naught
Refuse, she tried thee, and then led thee on
To thy far Journey's End, smoothing, like Thought,
The Difficulties which Earth's Power alone
Could not o'ercome; thy lofty Goal was won
By that same Spirit which has Strength to move
The Mountains, and which stayed the Middaysun
Over Jehosaphat, for from above
With Might of Hosts it comes, yet meeker than the Dove!

14

And Actions full of Beauty, like to thine,
Are far beyond all Meed of mortal Praise
And mortal Guerdon: being alldivine
Their Worth Earth's vulgar Wages would debase,
Tarnish and sully their celestial Grace,
In their uncomprehended Beauty therefore,
Like Angels with a Veil drawn o'er their Face,
They pass unguerdoned 'till their Toils are o'er,
Unrecognized, save by the few, to reap the Store

304

15

And Fullness of all Bliss at God's Righthand!
Celestial Things are measurëd alone
By that which is celestial, who has spanned
With an Ellwand the Rainbow or the Sun?
And Virtue were not Virtue if unknown
And unrewarded she were not the same,
If toiling not for Love, but Wages won
Like Mammon's Hire, if Obloquy and Shame
Could make her once forget from whence her Glory came!

16

If like the Sons of Earth she needs must have
Base Compensation and Indemnity
For Loss of earthly Goods, ere she will brave
The Perils of her Mission: verily
There be some who of Immortality
Would make a Bargain between God and Man,
Turn Virtue into a deformëd Lie,
And with brute, worldly Cunning dare to span
That Wisdom which composed the allembracing Plan!

17

But verily they have their own Reward,
Their Light is Darkness, and by it they're led
To Selfconfusion: ever on their Guard
'Gainst Trick and Guile, by Trick and Guile they're fed,
'Till to all nobler Food their Taste be dead,
Foxes 'mong Foxes, Fools among the Wise!
And as, when by Man's Hand the Net is spread,
The Brute's low Cunning ill with Reason vies,
So too the Toils of these are Folly in God's Eyes!

18

And now, my Prascovy, wouldst thou but aid
My feeble Lip to tell thy simple Tale
In calm Simplicity, with no Parade
Of dazzling Metaphor, whose Arrows fail
Full oft to hit the Mark, tho' flowery Dale,
Groveshaded Streams, and Voice of Summerwind,
Be wanting to my Song, with Stroke of Flail
And merry Vintageshout, still may it find
Impulse and Utterance to please a kindred Mind.

305

19

Do not the Hills give back the Voice of Man
When flung abroad at Random, tho' they be
Of brute, insensate Earth? Heaven's wise Plan
Binds all Things with the Chain of Sympathy,
Heart answers unto Heart, tho' they may be
Severed by Seas and Mountains, Thought with Thought
Still communes, Soul with Soul, they mingle free
As Sounds in Air, and from all Things is caught
The Voice of one, sole Truth, if rightly it be sought!

20

Behold her! this young Angel! where and how?
Pride look thou on her, yea! look down and see
Her who finds Favor in God's Sight: tho' low
Her Dress and Gait, bespeaking Poverty,
Yet no mean Being be assured is she,
God's Eye is on her, tho' she knows it not,
A Saint, tho' Crown and Jewels wanting be!
On her poor Head a Wheatsheaf has she got,
Contented with the Gleanings of a Beggar's Lot!

21

Yet not less beautiful, methinks, is she
In this mean Garb, by Patience triomphing
And calm, pure Faith o'er mortal Misery,
Nay, lovelier, for 'tis 'mid Suffering
That to Religion's Altar Faith doth bring
Celestial Fire, to kindle thereupon
The grosser Elements that bow her Wing
To Earth; behold! her coarse Daytasks are done,
And homeward she returns with yon' slowsinking Sun!

22

She has ne'er known another Fatherland,
Or if she has, in earliest Infancy,
It is an unremembered Being, and
E'en the bleak Iceplains to her joyous Eye
Are beautiful: she throws o'er all the Dye
Of her own happy Heart, her only Woe
To see her Father's Tears, and not know why
He weeps; unseen, herself had seen them flow,
And hers, because she could not bid his cease, gushed too!

306

23

And often, when the soft, dreamwingëd Sleep
Stole from her Eyes Life's passing Scene, arose
Her Father's Form, within her Breast so deep
Had sunk the Wish to heal his secret Woes,
So strong her Love; for she was one of those
Whose Forms to beautify Humanity
Nature unto Man 's wondering Vision shows
From Time to Time, like Rainbows in Life's Sky,
Or Angels 'mid its Storm and Darkness passing by!

24

Behold her! on the Threshold now she stands,
Full of her Thought, but as she lifts her Eyes,
She starts, her Gleanings fall from her young Hands,
For lo! with mingled Terror and Surprise,
Her Father, pale and gloomy, she descries,
Her Mother bathed in Tears, and knows not why.
Sudden her Father's Grief bursts forth, he cries,
«Behold my Child (so spake Impiety)
Given by Heaven's Wrath to fill its Measure high!»

25

«Wasted by servile Toils I see her pine
Away before me, and a Father's Name,
To me a Synonym of Wrath divine,
Is as a Curse, a Heritage of Shame!»
Thus spake he in his Bitterness, with Frame
By Passion shook! illjudging Man! for she,
Who like the Rainbow mid the Tempest came,
Mingling her Tears with his, was sent to be
His Guardianangel here, from Bondage to set free!

26

And thus it is, when Heaven 's Hand is nigh,
We push it back, unknowing what we do,
When God is nearest to our Misery,
Our Souls are most estranged! yea! even so,
Poor Worms that lift their petty Stings, and throw
Their Vemon up to Heaven, charging on
The Giver of all Good each Wrong and Woe
Which our own Folly or Man's Hate upon
Our Heads hath brought, as tho' God bade the Ill be done!

307

27

And from that Day the Soul of Prascovy
Was stirred with one high Thought, and as the Wind
Drives all the Waves with one same Tendency
Before its Breath, so in her deepstirred Mind
An Inspiration rose: each Impulse blind,
Each Thought and Feeling, with a sudden Light,
And a fixed Bent of high Resolve refined,
Gathered to one same Point their scattered Might,
And like concentred Rays upon her Path shone bright!

28

Then by calm Faith unfilmëd were her Eyes,
And from the Bosom of Futurity
She saw the Vision in its Glory rise,
Not faint and dim as to the doubting Eye,
Seen thro' the Mists of frail Mortality,
And suddenly withdrawn, but firm and clear
As when before the Throne, her Mission high
Accomplished, she knelt down in Awe and Fear,
And felt she had no more to do or ask for here!

29

One Day her Prayer was over, and awhile
With Soul o'ersteeped in Blessedness, e'en there
Where Heaven had opened in a radiant Smile,
Revealing the calm Realms of upper Air,
The Mansions of the blest, still in her Prayer
Absorbed she knelt: her Lips moved not, her Brow
Calm as a Summersea, for all Words were
Vain Sounds for what she felt, all Utterance low,
God was in her and from God did her Being flow!

30

Then, like a Lightningflash, a Hope came o'er
Her Spirit, with a sudden, dazzling Gleam
Of Blessedness: awhile it troubled sore
Her inmost Soul, as when from some glad Dream,
Too lovely for Reality, where teem
Celestial Sights, we wake, but soon it drew
Her into its blest Sphere, and like a Beam
Melting in Sunlight, so did she renew
Herself in that deep Joy, a Being calm and true!

308

31

And in it did she live for evermore,
And by it did she live: Thought, Feeling, Deed,
Sprang out of it, as Perfume from the Flower,
Refined and purified, from all Soil freed,
And fit to mix with Ether! Self was dead,
One Thought was Present and Futurity,
She had no Life but in it, asked no Meed
But once to see it realized, then die,
That Thought! to free her Parents from Captivity!

32

Like to a Revelation of God's Will
This Thought flashed on her, like a heavenly Ray
Which all her inmost being did o'erfill
With Light, and soon she knelt again to pray,
But Words came not, she knew not what to say,
For Bliss o'erpowered her! her Soul alone
Existed, but her Body was away,
The one to Earth, the other to Heaven was gone,
And for a while it seemed that this brute Life was done!

33

And when she found her Voice, amid the Press
Of mighty Thoughts, she pray'd God fervently
Not to deprive her of the Blessedness
Which then she felt, so indefinably
Filling her Veins with liquid Ecstacy:
All other Things she left (herein most wise,)
To his good Time and Place, with mortal Eye
Not daring to peruse Fate's Mysteries,
With mortal Reason fearing to direct the Skies!

34

And often, when around her houseless Head
The Clouds of Sorrow gathered, that same Thought
Upon her Path its eldtime Radiance shed,
Dispelling Mists of Doubt and Fear, still fraught
With Blessedness, as then when first she caught
Its Inspiration: like the dawning Ray,
It grew and grew in spite of all that wrought
'Gainst its Omnipotence, 'till in Broadday
All Things o'ersteeped in its celestìal Radiance lay!

309

35

It seemed as if the Heaven's Glory still
Mantled her Form, an Angel from the Sky,
Whose Beauty Earth's dull Contact could not kill!
Great Nature too inspired her, and by
All natural Forms she schooled the Ear and Eye
To teach the Soul: to those who learn to see
In her the Shadow of the Deity,
She makes high Revelations: they are free
To hear God's Voice upon the Winds that past them flee!

36

And oft amid a silencehaunted Wood
Of antique Growth, beneath the chequered Shade
Falling in dappled Flakes, in holy Mood
Of solitary Musings, had she made
Her Sodjourn, 'till allconscious Nature bade
The Earth lift up its Voice in Awe and Fear
And speak of God: listening the while she stayed,
'Till forth unconsciously she broke in Prayer,
Feeling one God within, around, and everywhere!

37

Thus (her own Soul her Oracle,) she grew
Unto the Bloom of fifteen sunny Years,
Like an halfopen Flower which the Dew
Of Heaven, working silently, uprears,
'Till this one Thought the Source of all her Fears
And Hopes was grown, the very Breath whereby
She lived! 'twas this which e'en to Suffering's Tears
Imparted Rapture worthy of the Sky,
For Love can turn e'en Pain to purest Ecstacy!

38

Where Selflove rules, there of all Good is Dearth!
For lofty Things are born of Sacrifice,
Yea! 'tis the Sacrifice that gives them Worth,
And makes them what they are! then if thou'rt wise,
When that which of all Things thou most dost prize
Is at thy Hands required, thou will there-
At be rejoiced, wellknowing that the Skies
Will thro' thy Heart tenfold the Loss repair,
By making God more truly thy one Good! and where

310

39

He has become so there is little more
To wish or seek for! and this Good is one
Which thou canst not be robbed of: but, before
This greatest of all Blessings can be won,
Thou must have brought thyself to think of none
As comparable with it, to feel this
Worth every other Good beneath the Sun,
And if thou really feel'st that so it is,
Then 'twill be really so, and none of these thou'lt miss!

40

But mere Word-faith, without the living Deed,
Is worth far less in the Allgiver's Eyes
Than is the future Fruit within the Seed:
The perfect Man in every Creature lies
As Growth in that, and what the changeful Skies
And Elements accomplish for the one,
Faith works out for the other: she supplies
Thro' the Belief therein that Power which none
But they who live by Faith from Faith have ever won!

41

And Truth if we sincerely seek her, to
Her divine self ourselves assimilate,
Will herself be our Recompense, the true-
Est, best, for she will perfect us, create
The godlike Heart, by being made too great
To think of Pay best pay'd! but doubtingly
Received, (as simple Food spoilt Stomachs hate,)
Her Nature changes then avengingly,
And the Soul draws from her the Poison of a Lie!

42

Oft had she visited the chosen Wood,
A natural Temple, framed by Nature's Hand
For simple Worship, and that selftaught Mood
Which in her Forms adores the Love that planned
This goodly World, in its least Parts so grand!
A great Artificer is Nature! she
Builds in true Taste, her Works in Beauty stand
Simply sublime, from those vain Changes free,
Which in all finite Wisdom 's ever needfull be!

311

43

Here would she pray within the simple Aisle,
Pillared by Treestems branching up on high
Into a shady Leafroof, whence the pale
And greenish Light fell on her upraised Eye:
The Wind lowwhispering, as it murmured by,
A natural Music suited to the Place,
No proud Display of Man 's vain Melody,
Tickling the Ear when he should bow for Grace,
With haply some Bird's Note, to break, but not efface,

44

The holy Quiet of the stilly Air,
So soothing to the Soul, when allalone
It would hold Commune with itself, and bare
Its inmost Wishes, kneeling at the Throne
Of Mercy, and in Meekness calling on
The Heavens for Aid. for she had formed a Plan,
(And what we trust we can do is half done.)
By Love inspired with that Faith which can
Impart prophetic Powers, and make the Will of Man

45

Rockfirm and fixed! for when the Anchor of
His Hope is cast into Futurity,
No passing Tempest of Time's Sea can move
The Lifebark riding calm and quietly
Amid its Uproar! thus Man's Will, which by
Frail Passion's every Wave and Breath is blown,
When it has bent its Energies to high
And holy Ends, is not upheld alone
By mortal Powers, when pure God makes the Cause his own!

46

And what so pure as hers? can Angels feel
A purer Love than that whose deep Roots grow
In a Child's Breast, which for a Father's Weal
Would sacrifice each cherished Hope below,
Refusing thro' all Grief and Pain to know
A single Joy save that of Sacrifice?
Whose Love thro' Life's cold selfish Sea could flow
Fresh as the Fountain when its Waters rise,
Without one bitter Drop, one Stain in its pure Dyes!

312

47

Love is the Well of Blessedness, not sweet
Itself alone, but making too the Taste
Of each Bliss doubly so; unlike Earth's fleet-
Ing Joys, which, when the first Sweet is effaced,
Like Poisongoblets honeysmear'd, and placed
To lure us on, behind them leave for aye
The Bitterness of Death and Sin! then haste
To this Elysian Fount, of which all may
Drink largely, then let all do so, for far more, yea!

48

Than Pegasean Fount, can it inspire
To all high Thoughts and Deeds! now to the Wood
Her Path she traced, full of that one Desire,
And after praying for due Fortitude
To Him whose Grace imparts all that is Good,
All holy Thoughts and Inspirations clear,
That He would please uphold in her the Mood
Of calm, unswerving Faith, that doubteth ne'er,
When all seems Doubt, nor fears when all gives cause for Fear,

49

Homeward she turn'd, with firm Will to address
The first of her dear Parents she should meet,
But as she neared the House her Heart, did press
Its Prisonbars, for on the Doorsideseat,
Placed opportune to catch the Middayheat,
In such a Clime no Idler's Luxury,
Her Father sat: tho' overhead no sweet
And beeloved Sycamore rose shady by
It. as in sunnier Lands, with fanlike Majesty,

50

Where Age may sun himself, and blithe Youth sport
Life's sweet, brief Holyday away in Peace;
Selfmastering her Fears, and cutting short
All Doubts by timely Action, she did ease
Her Heart in Words, and ever by Degrees
Her Speech grew warm with that sweet Eloquence
Which pleases without studying how to please:
For what the Heart prompts ever is good Sense,
And oft a godlike Call, for God's Voice speaks from thence!

313

51

She pray'd her Father's Leave that she might go
And ask his Pardon of the Emperor,
Where, In his Pride and Pomp, by Neva's Flow
Of icy Waves he sits, upon whose Shore,
(Almost dreamswift), a barren Waste before,
Th' Imperial City rose: a helpless Maid,
Worldignorant, and, save in Faith, most poor!
Yet oft the weakest Vessel Heaven hath made
The Medium of its Revelations, and arrayed

52

Its own invisible Powers on the Side
Of Innocence and feeble Womanhood!
Not with the Warrior's Arm, nor with the Pride
Of Sword and Spear, doth Heaven work out the Good
It has in View, nor wills one drop of Blood
Be shed in aught to which its Agency
May be vouchsafed! but oft in gentlest Mood,
Like the Springsbreath, we feel its Power nigh,
Filling all Things with Life, Peace, Love, and Harmony!

53

Oft has the Majesty of Innocence
Atchieved what Nerve and Muscle could not do,
Oft worked a Miracle upon the Sense
Of hardened Guilt, 'till Consciousness would flow
Of something before which all Strength must bow,
On the crimedarkened Soul: a Babe's weak Cry,
As 'twere God's Voice, has stayed the Murderer's Blow,
Yea! it is God's own Voice, for he speaks by
The Babe's Lip, and in perfect Innocence is nigh!

54

There is a Weakness far above all Strength!
Its Power in calm, enduring Faith doth lie,
Tho' baffled oft, its Triomphs come at length,
E'en as the Ice is soonest melted by
The gentlest Breath, not by the Storms which ply
Destruction's Task, allpowerless to create!
This Weakness has no Pride nor Vanity,
'Tis meek and fearful, tho' of high Estate,
But Pride is frail, for he his Strength doth overrate,

314

55

Selfconfident where Wisdom takes most Heed!
Therefore the Lord delights exceedingly
To make a Pillar of Strength of the frail Reed,
By Weakness to put down the Proud and High,
And turn to naught by meek Simplicity
The Wiles of Craft! there is no Thing so low,
So despicable in Ambition's Eye,
But he can hallow it to Good, and show
By it that Hosts are needless to him here below!

56

Yea! thus He works his Miracles, by Means
Worthy of that He is, the God of Love,
Of Truth, and Mercy, while we Men, by Scenes
Of Strife, Destruction, and brute Uproar, prove
That Nerve and Sinew cannot lift above
The Beasts that perish! wonder not then ye,
(For not the Eagle but the gentle Dove
Was missioned for the Olive) when ye see
God's Wisdom working by this Maid's Simplicity!

57

Older her Father far in reckoned Years,
Yet but a Child, the merest Child indeed,
Compared with her: for not by Days or Years
Faith measures Man's Perfection! Flesh may need
Seasons and Times to ripen, like the Seed,
In its brute Fashion, but the Soul is free
At one bold Bound, by perfect Will selffreed,
To leap at once into Eternity,
And to anticipate what shall hereafter be!

58

She was beyond all Years, all Age, all Time,
As old as Love and Truth, and they were born
Before this Earth, and in a happier Clime!
Her Father's Date was but as he had worn
This fleshy Husk, 'twas young, now old, and shorn
By Time of its first Bloom: but she, oh she
Had lived the Life that dyeth not, had torn
The Veil from off the Future, and could see
The Shape she was to live in everlastingly!

315

59

A greater than Medea thro' her Veins
The true Lifeessence had infused, the high,
Calm Pulses of eternal Life, from Pains,
And Doubts, and Fears, set free, allequably
Beat in her Bosom, and she could not die!
Time could not bring her Wisdom who had learned
The Lore already of Eternity!
Nor perfect where no Flaw could be discerned,
Nor yet reward whose Wages were already earned!

60

That godlike Selfcontedness had she
Which of all other Blessings here below
Is the Beginning and Epitome,
In which they all are centered, even so
As the Rose into its ripe Bud doth throw
The Essence of its purest Energies!
Naught had she, yet had all Things! asked for no
Increase, yet had that Wealth which multiplies
The more the more'tis used, and which all Wantssupplies!

61

Oh blessed Thought! to think that in our own
Soleselves we have all that which we require!
Thus nourished on Faith 's daily Bread alone,
The Goods of Earth to her were but as Mire!
Ether unconsciously did she respire,
She was an Angel to herself unknown,
Rich beyond Wealth, and blest beyond Desire!
Thus without Search and Effort had she won
The perfect Treasure, which is every Good in one!

62

Such was the Being who now prayed in vain
Her Father for Permission, but he made
Light of her fond Request, and she in Pain
And Shame burst into Tears: not that afraid
She felt herself, tho' no Voice spoke to aid
Her Prayer: for all their Anger she had come
Prepared to meet, but Ridicule betrayed
That Weakness which still finds a secret Home,
When for its other Shapes the Heart will make no Room.

316

63

And now the Roses of three Summers more
Had mantled on her Cheek, and Womanhood
Gave to her Purpose Strength unfelt before:
It had grown with her Growth, and was the Food
Of all her daily Thoughts, and oft she would
Repeat her former Prayer more earnestly;
Chidings and Ridicule she had withstood,
For ever a still Voice within was nigh,
Which cheered her, whispering that her Hope was not a Lie!

THIRD PART.

1

She was not skilled in Learning as 'tis taught
In Colledges and Universities,
In all the idle Nicknames with which Thought
Is labelled by those Bookapothecaries,
Logic and Metaphysics, Husks where lies
No Soul of Good; true Wisdom still will thrive
Without these, Love more than their Place supplies!
And «he who made the Lips and Heart can give
Wisdom and Eloquence», that noblest, how to live!

2

She had no Booklore, and was little wise
Save to Salvation, yet the Soul can make
Itself an Education from what lies
Around it, keep its Faculties awake
By Things at which the Bookworm scarce would take
A passing Glance: Life has a living Lore
Not like that of dead Books, and they who rake
The Ashes of the Past may pore and pore,
Yet learn not half so much as from one acted Hour

317

3

Of what Stuff they are made, what capable
Or not to do: true Wisdom does not lie
In the much Knowledge, but in knowing well:
Oft in much Knowledge is much Vanity,
'Tis but an inert Mass, unquickened by
That Love which puts it into Act and Use
For God's high Praise; there is too frequently
A Pride of Knowledge leading to Abuse,
And to Hearthardness Faith all Grace doth still refuse.

4

That she had Wisdom in the truest Sense,
They who know what the Gospelpreachers taught
Will doubt not, Wisdom free from all Pretence,
Childlike in its Simplicity, and fraught
With that Meekheartedness so vainly sought
In the proud Schools of Earth's Philosophy.
He who, according to his Means, in aught
Relieves a Fellowcreature's Misery,
Is wise not unto Time but to Eternity!

5

Fulloft the Words of Life seem meaningless
In the broad Glare of Earth's Prosperity,
But in the Darkness of our sore Distress
The Soul is forced to seek internally
A Strength not yet put forth, obscured oft by
The Pomp and Glitter of the World: then on
Our Sight the Lifewords shine exceedingly,
With a celestial Radiance, unknown
Before, like Phosphorwriting when Daylight is gone!

6

The Wisdom of the Earth is as the Earth,
After the Flesh, and filmy is her Eye,
It looketh not beyond her Place of Birth;
The Earth is very cunning carnally,
And he whose Wisdom cometh from on high
Would be a Jest and Mock to the worldwise,
His Wisdom Foolishness! how can Earth by
The Earth embrace the Spirit's Mysteries?
God's Truths to carnal Comprehensions turn to Lies!

318

7

And Wisdom to be Wisdom must be sought
And loved for her own Sake, else of her Lore
The Spirit will evaporate, and naught
But Dregs remain; one sole Seed from the Core
Of her Hesperian Apple is worth more
Than all the Fruit beside, for in it dwells
The pure Lifeessence: like the genuine Ore,
When made a Traffic of, her Principles
Are mixed with baser Stuff and earthly Particles.

8

Unto the World the Gospel was and is
A Stumblingblook: the carnalminded seek
Wordwisdom, vain Display, and so they miss
That pure Illumination which the meek,
Being fit, receive, and the World's Strength is weak
To strive with Foolishness: for strong Desire
And Wish to comprehend alone can break
The Seal of God's high Truth, which, like the Fire,
Cleanses true Gold, but burns the drossy in its Ire!

9

Three Years had flown, and Time, who severs oft,
Had twined the Tendrils of their Hearts more close,
And Love, whose sweet Breath can make sweet and soft
E'en Bondage's bleak Air, had soothed the Throes
He could not heal, and thus the Thought to lose
Their only Daughter, when Oldage drew on
With his accumulating Load of Woes,
Sickness, and Pain at being left alone,
Wassnapping the last Thread Life's frail Hope hungupon!

10

And oft, when in their Sor row they would pray
Her not to go, she answered but with Tears,
For her Heart coul not find to say them nay,
Yet her firm Purpose bent not to their Fears:
As Water Drop by Drop the hard Rock wears,
So did the Minutes one by one remove,
(And with their paltry Space Time builds his Years,
And makes and mars) all Obstacles that wove
The Net of Difficulties, rent intwain by Love.

319

11

Yea! for Love's gentle Touch is mightier far
Than that of strongest Giant, and can make
A Host recoil, if such her Course should bar!
The Gordian Knot of Hindrances, which shake
The Warrior's Will, which brute Strength cannot break
Asunder, she undoes in gentlest Guise,
Naught can resist, all Things for her sweet Sake
Lose their worse Natures, of her holy Eyes
One Glance can conquer him who all brute Force defies!

12

Behold her by the Streamside, she has done
Her hard Daystask of Washing at the Brook,
And she is stooping down to place upon
Her Shoulder its moist Load. Pride do not look
So scornfully, as tho' thou couldst not brook
Such Things, illsuited to fastidious Ear:
Of human Life, not in a giltedged Book
Of fanciful Romance, thou readest here,
The Trappings are cast off, that clearer may appear

13

The godlike Outline in its sublime Truth!
Nor can, I trust, Time quench entirely
The holy Fire that warmed the Breast of Youth:
And Form and Custom tho' they dull the Eye
And Ear to Life's real Scenes that 'round us lie,
And shut us in a hothouse Atmosphere
Of sickly Prejudice and Vanity,
Yet cannot conquer Nature, still the Tear
Of Pity Chance calls forth, tho' dull, cold Hearts will sneer!

14

After some Cross-signs and a mental Prayer,
She was about to take her Load, when lo,
One, whom she knew, stopped short, and with an Air
Of Mockery accosting her, said, «so
Now of itself your Linen Home would yo,
Had you but made a few such Trifles more:»
Thereat, for tho' a Fool he was kind too,
He placed on his own Back her Load, and bore
It to the House, not thinking on his Speech before.

320

15

Arrived, he boasted in his Pleasantry
Of having saved the Girl a Miracle,
For being half a Sceptic, he must try
His Wit on sacred Things, which Fools love well
To turn to Jest, tho' why they cannot tell;
Poor Wretches! they are to be pitied more
Than else, for, like the Clapper of a Bell,
They but repeat what Fools have said before,
'Tis the Beast's Nature, Bell or Fool, so pass it o'er!

16

They are but as the Child by the Seaside,
Who digs his little Trench, nor doubts that he
Can compass in its paltry Space the Tide;
So these Men, who before their dim Eyes see
The mighty Ocean of Eternity,
Can comprehend it not: all that they view
Is some small Fraction of Infinity,
Some Sandgrains which they weigh, and yet these too
To Wisdom prove as much as Suns and Worlds can do!

17

The vast, capacious Intellect looks on
This goodly World, and being itself wise
Can trace the Wisdom in its Workings shown:
The Heart that looks abroad with Love's quick Eyes
Can trace the Love that framed the Earth, and plies
Its daily Tasks in sublime Confidence!
But here nor Head nor Heart we recognize,
They mock their Maker with the vain Pretence
To hide from others and themselves their Want of Sense!

18

And such was this Man, yet rebuked he stood
By Wisdom speaking thro' the Lips of one
Whose Mind was simple as her Heart was good:
Who by her Piety would fain atone
For Evil, tho' 'twere by another done;
And thus she spake, «could I do otherwise
Than place my Trust and Hope in God alone,
Seeing that He in thee hath made arise
A Servant to his Will, whose Will thou do'st despise?»

321

19

Thereat abashed the Sceptic quick withdrew,
All his gay Rhetoric and Fence of Thought
Foiled by an artless Girl, whose Lip ne'er knew
A single Witstroke save what Truth had taught;
And many an Example, if 'twere sought,
Would History afford, to teach us how
E'en with the Fool and Sceptic God hath wrought
The Glory of his Name, turning the Blow
Aimed by Impiety to lay the Smiter low!

20

Catching within the Net himself had spread
Th' Ensnarer's Foot, and thro' the Mockery
Of Scoffers raising up a Cause nigh dead;
For in the moral World's Machinery
(Whose Movingimpulse comes but from on high,
That regulates vast Spheres, least Atomies)
A counteracting Principle doth lie,
And Foeattempts, as 'round the Circle flies,
Prepare the Way for Truth's most glorious Victories!

21

E'en as the Earth transforms the Filth we throw
Upon her Bosom into goldeared Grain,
So from Man's Crimes and Vices there doth grow
The perfect Growth of Good; he toils in vain,
To Selfconfusion, selfinflicted Pain
And Misery, save when he works with God,
A mightier Power his Efforts doth constrain,
And Men and Nation's Sufferings surely goad
Back to stern Duty's Path, when they forsake her Road!

22

Oh mark his Wisdom, yea, observe it well,
Working vast Change by simplest Agency,
Selfregulated: in Man's Heart doth dwell
A comprehensive Principle, an high,
Corrective Spirit of Humanity
And Justice, oft obscured, extinguished ne'er:
Thus Man by Man, and Nation ever by
Nation is judged, thus are we forced to bear
Selfwitness, to selfpunish every Crime done here

322

23

Acknowledging it just by our own Deed
And proper Act! nor can we inculpate
Our Maker, for ourselves have sowed the Seed
Whose Crop we reap in Bloodshed, Guilt, and Hate,
'Till Humannature, roused, doth reprobate
Its own Misdeeds, and on itself doth call
For and inflict due Sentence, every State
Is subject still, how greatsoe'er or small,
To universal Conscience overlooking all!

24

All Men condemn in others Sins which they
Themselves are guilty of, thus each is by
His own Lips sentenced when he goes astray;
And this pure Spirit of Humanity
Speaks as invested with Authority,
It summons Nations to its Bar, and there
Foredates the Judgment too of the Mosthigh,
Nay, it is his own Voice, for if it were
Not, it could not do so, nor that high Office bear!

25

God does not punish us as we believe:
Evil and Good are at Man's Choice, his own
Will makes them, his own Hands the Threads still weave
Into the fatal Lifewoof, he alone
Dyes them, with his own Deeds! black, blue, or brown,
Or bloodred, as may happen, as they leave
Fate's Distaff one by one, for all at first
Are white as Innocence! tho' he may groan,
And rail at Fate, and call himself accurst,
Yet by himself and no one else the Seed:“are nursed!

26

Evil is like the Earthquake, calm and still,
In the Earth's Bosom cradled, lo! it lies,
As a Babe on its Mother's Breast, untill
The Elements supply it Force to rise
In Action, then at Havoc's Call it flies
Forth to lay waste, and level Tower and Town!
So in Man's Breast, 'till he himself supplies
The Fuel, and the Breath by which 'tis blown,
His Deeds the Fuel, and his Will the Breath alone!

323

27

Or this Illprinciple within Man's Breast
Is like the Tigercub from Infancy
Handfed, and reared up as a tame Housebeast,
The Babe may play with or beside it lie:
But if Blood wet its Lip, with sudden Cry
Instincts that slept awake, and terrible
The Wildbeast glares with furyflashing Eye!
The first bad Thought to this Illprinciple
Is as the first Bloodtaste, and breaks the fatal Spell!

28

Then take ye Heed to think no ill, for Thought
Is the first Germ, and without this is none:
No Finger can be lifted up, nor aught
Said or but looked, unless a Thought has gone
Before: the ripened Fruit that hangs upon
The Bough, the Bough itself, the fullgrown Tree,
All are but an Unfolding of the one
Small Seed, then tame thy Thoughts, or they will thee,
Still as the Seed was first the Fruit's Taste too must be!

29

Thus of all Ill is Man himself sole Cause,
But yet 'tis passing, Good alone can be
Eternal, coming from God: for still his Laws
Uphold and give it a sure Victory;
But he who with the fearful Ministry
Of Crime and Guilt would make ill Things to thrive,
Calls a dread Spirit from the Abyss, where lie
The dormant Elements for Mischief rife,
To work with his own Will'gainst his own Peace and Life!

30

But if he labour for God's Wages here,
Not in the frail Works of Man's foolish Pride
And vain Imaginings, he need not fear:
A mighty Champion is at his Side
Who for his Fellowcreatures has denied
Himself: the Spirit of Humanity
Avenges and upholds, his Works abide,
For not in Time but in Eternity
Their Base is cast, and they the Elements defy!

324

31

And ye, ye filmyeyed, whose dull Moleken
Cannot embrace the wide Horizon of
Eternal Truth and Wisdom, ye, who when
Ye see a Steammachine almost selfmove
By the brute Aid of Springs, extol above
The Skies this wonderful Invention, by
Which Man's creative Powers ye would prove,
Yet cannot trace the vast Machinery
Of moral Causes to a Source beyond the Eye!

32

Ye Fools! when ye behold a Steammachine,
Ye trace it to its Maker, and with high
And sounding Names pronounce him half divine!
And what is this fair World to Faith's clear Eye
But a like Piece of vast Machinery,
Only incomparably grander and
More perfect? where not one least Spring is by
Time worn away, nor aught demands the Hand
That made it to improve the least, least Thing it planned!

33

Where, from the Glowworm to the Stars, all is
As when he first created it, where tru-
Ly all selfmoves, not needing even his
So sublime Hand to alter or renew!
The Clouds float onward thro' th' eternal Blue,
No one knows whence or wither, and in the
Vast Workshop, from the Framing of a Dew-
Drop to the Darkening of Suns, does he
Prepare and foresee all, yet Himself none can see!

34

And yet all feel him, all, down even to
The least, least Heart that beats! all, all save ye,
Who feeling Him not, therefore feel naught tru-
Ly or sublimely, for since in each he
Its Highest constitutes, how can it be
Save thro' Him known or estimated right?
Therefore in all this lovely World ye see
Him not, nor trace Him in the Stars by Night,
Too vast the Characters, too dazzling for your Sight!

325

35

Yet there his Name is writ more legibly
Than the Word «God» is in the Prayerbook! yea!
So much more so that e'en the Infant's Eye,
Who from his Mother's Lip has learnt to pray,
Ere he can spell the Words he is too say,
Can read it there as nowhere else! in no,
No Book, however eloquent it may
Show forth his Praise! but ye cannot spell so
Well as the Child that Name, tho' much ye' ve read and know!

36

Ye very Fools! what is your Ignorance
But Impotence of Heart and Mind to see
And feel what is so clear? all is but Chance
And blind Result to your dull Sight, for ye,
Being reasonless yourselves, think it must be
More reasonable that the World should know
No Ruler, than that, harmonised and free
From Contradiction, all Things should be so,
So grandly made one supreme Being's Power to show!

37

But e'en of ye is Wisdom justified,
As of her better Children, ye do show
That Ignorance is still the Root of Pride,
If for no higher End ye live below:
The Wiseman points ye out, as by ye go,
Like the poor drunken Helot, to deter
From such brute Imbecility, and so
Wisdom is even with ye, tho' to her
Sweet Voice the Driveller's Bray your Assesears prefer!

38

And now I leave you to the scornful Sneer,
The Jabber, and the insane Mockery,
With which ye would assail me, could ye hear
This most deserved Rebuke: tho' ill can I
With my weak Voice uphold the Majesty
Of oftinsulted Truth: she does not need
A Weapon from my scanty Armoury,
One Glance of her calm, sunbright Eyes can breed
Dismay and nerveless Fear, and like a windshook Reed

326

39

Her base Foes quail when retribùtive Light
She flashes on them, and like Chaff they're blown
By her calm Breath into Oblivion's Night!
From ye I turn to one whom she doth own,
The purest Jewel in her starset Crown,
If not the brightest: others there may be
More dazzling, to the vulgar Eye made known
By Gloss and idle Splendor, yet is she
The calm, clearlustred Gem, from Earth's least Flaw quite free!

40

Which will support the microscopic View
Of those who put no Faith in the proud Claims
Of human Virtue, for the Heart is true,
And thence a steady Brilliance (not the Flames
In sudden Snatches, with which Passion aims
At dazzling the Beholder) but calm Light,
Pure Centralfire, is thrown: Virtue which shames
Those showy Efforts, a vain World's Delight,
Which on its wide Stage love to strut in all Men's Sight!

41

Six Months had taken Wing, since, happy Day!
She saw the Messenger depart, who bore
Her Father's Prayer to Tobolsk: who shall say
How her Heart beat? the Summertide passed o'er,
The Peasant gathered in his Winterstore,
And Time, who ripens all Things, saw again
Their deepest Sundyes on the Corn, before
The Messenger returned: oft would she strain
Her Eyes along the Road, and watch, and watch in vain!

42

Oh Bitterness of Hope delay'd, that takes
All Charm from Ear and Eye, she could not see
How the green Wheat grew gold, or how the Brakes
And Flowerbanks reechoed to the Glee
Of Bird and Insect, with the Ministrelsy
Of the Hedgecricket rang. Spring, Summer sped,
Setting Bud, frozen Grass, and Flower free,
Kissing the Apple's Cheek to rosy Red,
And strewing in the Path where Winter's Step must tread

327

43

The Year's ripe Glories! but she saw all this
Like one who to its Joy is not awake:
She marked not how the Summer's quickening Kiss
Worked on the young May, saw not the lean Snake,
Long unsunn'd, creep from out the ferny Brake,
Nor counted by the Cornear's deepening Dye
The Hours, nor heard the Breeze the Wheatsheaf shake:
On Hope's unrëal Breath she lived, not by
The present Atmosphere, but in Futurity!

44

At length, oh joyous Thought! the Answer came:
Hope longsince chilled within her Father's Breast,
Nighspent 'mid its own Ashes, with faint Flame
Burnt up, tho' but enough just to attest
That still it lived, then sank again, opprest
By Certainty: for tho' the Letter said
That Tyranny's strong Hand dared not arrest
The Daughter being free, yet well he read
In its fixed Silence that all Hope to him was dead.

45

The bitter Drop was poured into the Cup,
And it ran over: Hope is sweet, altho'
More baseless than a Dream, for Flowers spring up
Wheree'er his Summerbreath has leave to blow,
And none without that Breath on Earth will grow:
Still in Reality's harsh Atmosphere
They fade: the Future with Hope's Seed we sow,
And hoping for the Fruit, e'en tho' it ne'er
Should ripen, by that Hope enjoy it Year by Year!

46

Her Father took the Passport, and he said
She should not go: but the Heart's Augury
The inmost Thought writ in the Face can read,
And there she saw that, selfunconsciously,
He cherished still a Hope that would not die.
Therefore she Solace took with her own Thought,
Not questioning God's Will too curiously,
Since to its Consummation he had brought
Thus far her Hope, and for her visiby had wrought.

328

47

And she did well to trust to him who reads
The Hearts of Men, and shapes as they arise
The inmost Thoughts, and quickens all the Seeds
Of Good within the Soul that still relies
Upon his Mercy, who unfilms the Eyes,
That Good and Evil unto them may be
Made clear; for he who doubts alone descries
Clouds and thick Darkness, and then laugheth he
In his own Heart at those whom Faith has taught to see.

48

He says, «all is but Darkness», even so
To him it is: but from the Point of View
Whence we should look, all Things to Order grow,
We see Link joining Link in Union true,
And God's allpresent Wisdom reaching to
The smallest Fibre of the Web; the Eye
Of Faith alone the dread Handwriting knew,
And carnal Wisdom stood abashed, when by
The Voice of Daniel spake the Wisdom of the Sky!

49

One Evening as the Twilightshadows threw
Their lengthening Forms along the Earth, these three,
Father, and Child, and Mother, sought to woo
Oblivion to their present Misery,
Cheating their Thought to seem awhile to be
That which it was not, and therein most wise:
For after all Man in his Thought is free
To be that which he will, with Fancy's Eyes
We may transform Life's Waste into a Paradise!

50

Thought itself is Eternity, for thro'
What Means save this can we be so? its Scope
Is boundless, Thought alone is us, thus tru-
Ly we are what we think! and sublime Hope
(Not like the earthborn Antic, wont to grope
Amid its Dust, and laugh at us when we
Hape clasped a Shadow) to our Sight can ope
Glimpses into a calm Futurity,
And taste the Joys to come from all Mutation free!

329

51

That sublime Hope which changes not with Things
Of Earth, but down from Heaven, like the Sun,
On Man's else guideless Path its calm Light flings,
By Mists undimmed; all else is Dust alone,
The Victory soon or late by Time is won:
He dulls the Edge of earthly Joys, and takes
The Bloom from our young Years, strews Thorns upon
The Pillow of our Rest, and like the Snake's
Envenomed Tooth, when cherish'd at our Hearts, he makes

52

The deadlier Wound, with treacherous Injury
Repaying our Foollove of Things so base!
He takes Delight to give our Hopes the Lie:
Each apish Morrow wears a double Face,
One wrinkled sere, the other full of Grace
And winning Smiles; thus still he lures us on,
Till Hope with his swift Step no more keeps Pace,
Then leaves us in our Misery alone,
To count and comment the last Sandgrains as they run!

53

The Moon had risen, o'er the sickled Corn
Her soft, calm Radiance fell, where here and there
The goldeared Sheaves lay piled against the Morn,
When the blithe Reaper should return to bear
The Residue away; the scarcestirred Air
Seemed to bring with it Summer's dying Breath,
Barely uplifting in his leafhid Lair
The Owl's Breastfeathers, or the Grass beneath,
Where o'er the Glowworm's Lamp it wove its Fairywreath!

54

The Dewdrops, sparkling, on the Branches hung,
Or fell scarcemarked, shook by the passing Wing
Of nestreturning Bird: the Squirrel clung
To the Beechboughs, most joyoushearted Thing,
Blithe Tumbler! for his own Sport wantoning,
Careless what Eye looked on him, while below,
Along the Ground, would run a Twittering
Of some E arthdweller, overhappy to
Consign his Heart to Sleep ere Joy had had full Flow!

330

55

Oh blessed Calm of Nature, could we tune
The passionjarrëd Strings of Life by thee!
If we were made Partakers of that Boon
Of Blessedness and Peace, which all we see,
By sweet Compulsion led insensibly,
Inherits at thy Hands! the Bird his Song
Carols at Will, the Squirrel in his Glee
Neither with Surfeit nor Defect doth wrong
Thy wise Indulgence, and his Life thro' Joy is long!

56

All Things that breathe, in their own silent Wise,
Approve their Maker's Goodness, all but we,
We Men, who dare to scan his Mysteries,
To doubt and question, when we'd better be,
Like the blithe Bird, from Selfannoyance free,
Enjoying his good Gifts; when Reason wakes
As Children we no longer feel and see
Life's Blessedness, by us his stand he takes,
And disenchants, and where he finds no Evil makes!

57

These three were gathered, striving to beguile
Themselves of their own Thoughts, in that poor Cot
Which was their Dwelling, Silence a brief While
Followed the Biblereading, which had not
Soothed to Forgetfulness of their sad Lot
These sorrowstricken Hearts: hopesick were they,
For when the Body's tied to one dull Spot,
And goes its Tetherslength from Day to Day,
At Times the Soul will flag, and suffer with its Clay!

58

But she, the Daughter, knew nor Doubt nor Fear,
Hope smiling beckoned ever at her Side,
And tho' the Autumnwinds came, whistling sere,
To disenchant the Woods, and strip their Pride
Of gold and purple Leafage, strewing wide,
Like Winter's chill Forerunners, Earth's green Breast
With all her withered Offspring, yet she eyed
The saddened Scene with joyous Fancies blest,
For in the Brightness of a coming Bliss 'twas drest!

331

59

And as they sorrowsilent sat, she said,
Wishing to change the Channel of their Thought,
Open the Bible, Mother dear, and read
The Line I mention: so her Mother sought,
For Hope and Fancy take Delight in aught
That brings the Future more within the Sphere
Of bright Conjecture: and from Omens wrought
By seeming Chance our Guardianspirit here
Draws sweet Convictions, and we feel the Presence near

60

Of Powers ever watchful unto Good,
E'en in the merest Chance, the commonest Thing,
Which Minds by Scepticdoubts disabled would
Not comprehend, no Faith interpreting
The else dead Forms, in which, e'en as a Spring
Deepbosomed in the Rock, unknown, unsought,
The high Truth lies, 'till heavenly Ministring,
Enlarging our Capacity, have wrought
So that, by Tokens meaningless to others taught,

61

The Soul, where all seemed dark and blank, has bright
Glimpses and Openings up, and groping tries
By these to feel its Way towards the Light!
Upliftings of the aweful Veil that lies
Over the Life of Things, the Mysteries
Of the Soul's Bourne, whence ever and anon
Some Recognition to our fond Enquiries
Is echolike sent back, as half were won
Of Death's great Secret e'en ere yet the Race be run!

62

Faith has her Pisgahs, whence we catch afar
Clear Glimpses of a Life not realized,
But where, in Spirit, we already are,
For the Soul in these Bounds is not comprized;
Tho' the Grave be a Barrier devised
To mark its seeming Limits, yet it has
High Priviledge, and, as it sympathized
Still with its Source, mysteriously doth pass
From these Fleshshackles to the Life that is, and was,

332

63

And ever will be: e'en as from the String
The Music starts away, and then anon
Is there again, true to its Ministering,
Still hovering with airy Presence on
The palpable Instrument, which is alone
Its earthly Tenement, when from the Spheres
Its Spirit, to the Poet's Fingering won,
Springs 'neath his glowing Touch to charm Men's Ears
And Hearts unto his own immortal Hopes and Fears!

64

And now the Bible's blessed Page displayed
The following Words, with Characters of Light
As in Faith's own Handwriting there arrayed,
As tho' an Angel's Finger to her Sight
Had pointed out the Passage, so, so bright-
Impressed with divine Love, and bade her by
A firm Belief interpret them aright,
«God's Angel called to Agar from the Sky,
And said, what dost thou there, fearnot,» thy Lord is nigh».

65

Thereat o'erjoyed the Maiden kissed the Book
With her whole Soul upon her Lips, for she
Felt at those Words as if empowered to look
Into the Future's Womb, and there to see
Th' Event not yet conceived, mysteriously
Revealed beforehand; yea! for God makes known
At Times his Presence unto those whom He
Has not found wanting, by a Sign will own
Their Faith, and send his Star to lead them duly on!

66

What matters it tho' to the outward Eye
No seraphwinged and radiant Form appear,
Firetongued to speak the Will of the Mosthigh?
These are but palpable Means, and needless where
A high Conviction gives the Mind a clear
And perfect Vision for God's Mysteries;
The virtuous Soul is ever in and near
The Presence of its Maker, here still plies
Its former Tasks, and communes with its native Skies!

333

67

By our own Thoughts he works his Miracles
The best, informs the Mind with inward Light,
And gives that Faith which its own End foretells
And realizes! school then these aright,
Think always upon God, then will His Might
Guard thee, yea! Himself in that Thought draws nigh,
Still at our Side He is, tho' palpable Sight
Behold Him not: the Light within our Eye,
The Soul itself whene'er it thinks aught grand or high!-

68

But soon her Father's Voice from this sweet Dream
Recalled her, and he spake in Irony,
As one of little Faith, «do ye then deem
That God will send an Angel from the Sky
To give ye Food and Raiment, or reply,
Like to a Fortuneteller's juggling Tongue,
To all that Man's vain Curiosity
May prompt him to demand?» but he was wrong,
For when with Faith we ask, the Lord delays not long.

69

And at his Bidding all Things find a Voice,
Even the very Stones: it is the Ear,
The Sense, earthdull'd, that (when we should rejoice
At the bright Visitations scattered here,
Like Sunbeams, allaround, with Radiance clear
From Heaven falling upon commonest Things)
Will not perceive: the Heart Doubt renders sere
And dead to all celestial Visitings,
Still should we distrust tho' an Angel's sunbright Wings

70

Flashed o'er our Brows, for all is from within,
And outwardly can come no Proof, no high
And calm Conviction: from ourselves we win
The Power to read the Language of the Sky,
Th' Eternal to the Eternal must reply:
But he who questions Sense on divine Things,
Heaven's Oracles to him are as a Lie;
For still to Earth his downward Spirit clings,
And recognizes that alone which from Earth springs!

334

71

All this knew Prascovy, and therefore she
Replied, «I have no Hope, my Father dear,
That God will send his Angel down to me,
Yet have I firm Belief that everywhere
My Guardianspirit will be by to cheer
Me in my Hour of Need, and that tho' I
Myself opposed this Impulse, Heaven's clear.
And inward Prompting, 'twould be uselessly,
For with a mightier Bidding I do but comply!

72

And she was right, for be assured if to
Ourselves we be but true, that Heaven ne'er
Will fail us, yea! to be so is our true-
Est, surest Guardianangel, ever near,
There where he most should be, in that one Sphere
Where he can most effectually aid
And counsel us, in our own Hearts! 'tis here
The Angel must be sought, and we have made
Him for ourselves if we his Voice have but obeyed!

73

Yea, she was right: for in our Hour of Need
If God send not his Angel visibly
With Heavenmanna the forlorn to feed,
Yet He himself still as we call is nigh,
Working his Wonders so, so secretly
With weekday Instruments, which Fools despise
As being too familiar to the Eye!
For what were God if He could not devise
Fit Means, without disturbing Nature's Harmonies?

74

If everytime he would work out some Aim
He were compelled to use strange Agencies,
To stop the Course of Things, disjoint the Frame
Of firmfixed Custon, and affright the Eyes
Of old Experience by Juggleries
Of Sense, Interpositions palpable,
And vain display of vulgar Ministries?
These are but Proofs of Impotence, as well
As Want of Wisdom: when He works a Miracle

335

75

'Tis not by disjoint Change, or palebrowed Fear,
Or the eyedazzling Lightning, that he makes
His Purpose known, his Will obeyëd here!
'Neath Life's habitual Forms his Power wakes
The Elements it works by, yet ne'er breaks
Asunder the least Link in Nature's Chain
Of daily Operations, Wisdom takes
Things as they are, the Forms unchanged remain,
But a new Spirit works within, nor works in vain!

76

There is a gentle Strength, whose Symbol may
Be oft a Child's weak Voice, a Woman's Prayer,
A whispered Word, which yet none dare gainsay,
For 'tis of God himself, and ever where
This Strength is felt, it conquers, God is there,
And the Soul bows before its Maker, whose
High Presence fills it like a Breath of Air!
Such Strength was Prascovy's, and few could chuse
But feel its Sway, when hallowed to such holy Use.

77

Another Month had flown, yet still her Heart
Beat with its unaccomplished Wish, in vain
She hoped that Time, with his own silent Art,
Would smooth the Way: deceived, she hoped again,
For Hope in her was Faith, naught could restrain
Or check its Growth: yet of her Father she
At Times unto herself would half complain
For thwarting thus the high Divinity
Which oracled her Breast, and Thought soon stole the Glee

78

From her young Voice, and threw a Cloud of Care
O'er her onceopen Brow, and oft away
She would steal from her Home, to wander where
The Branches, with the Autumnwinds at Play,
Made sadden'd Music, in that Wood where lay
Her summerfavored Haunt: to her young Thought
Made holy by sweet Fancies since that Day,
When Faith's first Miracle for her was wrought,
And to her inward Ear an answering Voice was brought.

336

79

There would she listen, while the sightless Wind
Whistled in fitful Snatches thro' the Trees,
With other Meanings far than those which find
Fit Utterance in the flowerscented Breeze
From Summer's ripe Lip blown; there would she teaze
Her Heart with Fretting, while, before her Feet,
Time counted with sere Leaves the Year's Decrease,
Warning her how all earthly Pleasures fleet,
Like the Spring's withered Glories, once so fresh and sweet!

80

Prime Moralizer! pointing still a Tale
Of quiet Wisdom for a sober Eye
With any casual Object, trite and stale,
That Fools with heedless Step and Glance pass by:
Employing Nature's sublime Imagery
To teach the Lesson ever on his Tongue,
Stamping the fallen Leaf with Meanings high,
And mingling his deep Warnings with the Song
Of Winds, and with all Things that to the Year belong!

81

He bids the Flowers spring up on the Grave,
The careless Moss o'er Earth's proud Names, for so,
In his own quiet Way, he loves to have
A harmless Triomph, teaching Fools to know
The Difference He makes 'twixt high and low!
He loves a Jest, and practical ones too,
And where the Monarch's Palace stood bids grow
The Dayseye, that Mankind may learn the True
And During, which resume their Placeas they should do!

82

Truth is his Fosterchild: neglected by
The World, since from her starry Home she came
To bless this thankless Earth, with Contumely
Oft treated, oft unrecognized, to Shame
Abandoned, oft robbed of her very Name,
'Till Time, her firmest Friend, secures her high,
Calm Triumphs, touching with her living Flame,
One after one, Men's Hearts, until thereby
They Glow with divine Warmth, and clearer secs the Eye!

337

83

Here communed she with Nature, 'till the Soul
And Spirit of the Universe into
Her Heart had sent that Impulse which the Whole
Imparts to all with it in Union true;
'Till every Thought and Fancy that she knew
Was but an Echo of that holy Lore,
That Poetry, which, by Degrees, will hue
The Hearts of all who're fitted to adore
And feel God present in his Love in Earth's least Flower!

84

For 'twixt the outward World and our own Hearts
There is a secret Intercourse, whereby,
Like Echo to the Voice, the one imparts
A Consciousness of answered Sympathy
Unto the other; all that Ear and Eye
Can furnish us, are Symbols of our Thought,
'Tis one same Truth conveying diversely
Its high Convictions, and the Earth has naught
But to a Type of inward Feeling may be wrought.

85

Here, in deep Selfforgetfulness, would she
Oft tarry, 'till the thickening Shadows made
A pleasant Twilight for the Bat, here, free
From all Intrusion, oft the first Star bade
Her think with Selfreproach how much afraid
At her long Absence must her Mother be,
Her Fears still growing as the Sunbeams play'd
Feebler along the Leaves of some far Tree,
Or on the Cottagedoor, 'till she no more could see!

86

Then would she hurry homeward, counting by
Her beating Heart each Step, the while she thought
Upon the Hours of quickpulsed Agony,
Which to her Mother's Bosom she thus brought
By her Unkindness; then, with her untaught
And simple Eloquence, she'd win their Ears
To her Request, and beg, if they felt aught
Of Love for her, or Pity for her Tears,
That they would let her go, nor listen to their Fears.

338

87

And once, when more than was her Wont she stay'd,
Her Mother thought that she was really gone,
Like nestflown Bird, for aye, and all dismay'd
Embracing her, with Eyes where faint Smiles shone
Thro' gushing Teardrops, with reproachful Tone,
«We feared that you were gone, my Child,» she said,
«Gone, gone, and we were left to mourn alone,
Life were but as a Flower whence has fled
All Perfume and all Bloom, soon waste and witherëdl»

88

To which her Daughter, with sad Voice, replied,
A Tone so melancholy, deep, and low,
Like that of one who can no longer hide
The whole Amount of some longcherished Woe,
Which allunconsciously itself must show
In each least Word and Look, so deep the Well
From whence it springs to Life, so far below
The Surface its full Source, «alas! too well
My Mother knows what she would force my Lips to tell!»

89

If you do fear to lose me, you will know
That Pain too soon, for I can no more stay,
And with or without Passport must I go,
For 'tis a divine Finger points the Way;
And if you should refuse, oh then some Day
You will repent thereof, when I am far,
Far, far away from you: yet whate'er may
Betide, it is as vain with God to war,
As think with idle Prayers to stay yon' sphereborns Star!

90

By these sad Words her Mother was so moved
She sought by soothing Speech to tranquillize
Her agitated Daughter, whom she loved
The dearer for Life's many Miseries,
Which had but rivetted more closely Ties
Prosperity's warm Sun oft melts intwain,
As tho' they were as cold and frail as Ice!
She promised her Consent, if she could gain
Her Father's Approbation, or from him obtain

339

91

The Passport, without which she could not go;
For there, where she was born, Man is not free
To move as he may please, like Winds that blow
Unshackled where they list, there Tyranny
Is hundredhanded, Arguseyed to see,
Its Spidermeshes far and wide are thrown
In all Directions; soulless Slavery
Has there no Voice to make his Insults known,
And Life's brute Breath is all that Man dares call his own!

92

At length the sweetest Word that mortal Ear
Had ever listened to her Father spake;
One Morming in the Garden she drew near
Him and embraced his Knees, thereby to make
Her Prayer more moving, and his Heart to shake
With that sweet Language of the Face and Eyes,
More eloquent than Words, Looks which can take
Prisoner the Soul, its inmost Sympathies
Reach with electric Shock, when in vain Echos dies

93

The lagging Speech upon the unmoved Ear.
She prayed him to believe she was urged on
By divine Impulse, begged that he would hear
God's Voice appealing to him in her own:
Besought him not to thwart this only one,
This only Prayer that she had ever made,
Nor force her by, what he had never shown,
Undue Severity, to trust for Aid
In God, and Pardon for thus having disobeyed

94

A Father's Wishes, most unwillingly,
Because her Love could chuse no other Way;
To these her Supplications, aided by
A half Conviction of some heavenly Sway
Making its Presence felt, some latent Ray
Of unextinguished Hope, and his Wife's Tears,
The Father could no longer say her nay.
Then as when suddenly the swift Wind clears
A Space of azure Blue, and smiling forth appears

340

95

The mistdispelling Sun, so was the Face
Of Prascovy, when with her joyous Ear
She drank those Words, to her so full of Grace
And all sweet Meanings; then around her dear
And halfrepentant Father, with the Tear
Which Sorrow lent to Joy still in her Eye,
By one Thought's magic Light transformed, she, ere
He could find Words, her Arms flung lovingly,
An unrestrained poured forth her Heartin Utterance high:

96

Coined into sweet Caresses, Looks of Love,
And rapturebreathing Words; «oh Father dear,»
Thus spake she, do you think that He above,
Who thus has touched thy Heart, and bade thee hear
Thy Daughter's Prayer, cannot incline the Ear
And Heart likewise of him to whom I go,
Our Emperor, tho' not one Friend be near
To aid my Voice, from his own Heart he'll know
I come not of myself, that Kings themselves must bow

97

To Him whom I obey;» thus spoke the Maid,
Already in the Future; naught knew she
Of all the Circumstance and vain Parade,
Eyedazzling Pomp, and hollow Pageantry,
That hem in Power, lest it seem to be
That which it is, all Nothingness and Show;
For having in itself no Majesty
Of native Worth, to which the Soul can bow,
It wraps itself in Silk and Ermine, decks its Brow

98

With that same gilded Bauble called a Crown,
And hides its Vices from the vulgar Eye
In outward Splendor: she saw not the Frown
Of liveried Office, ready to deny
The Sufferer's Prayer ere asked, the Mockery
Of multitudinous Forms that hedge a Throne,
Thorny and hard to pass, the Guards that by
The Palacegate keep Watch: she saw alone
The Emperor, and grasped the Prize she deem 'd her own!

341

99

These Obstacles her Father, who well knew
The World and its dark Ways, to her young Thought
Painted in Hues to sad Experience true;
He knew that Justìce by the Ounce is bought,
As any other Merchandise, that naught
Is such a Luxury, or costs so dear,
Had learnt that Truth far less than Gold is sought,
That Innocence from Guile has all to fear,
And that few Pilots know on Life's dark Tide to steer!

100

But she replied, «that Providence, which reads
The Hearts of Men, will aid me even there,
Place on my Lip the moving Words it needs,
And keep my Steps from falling in the Snare,
Breathe into other Minds the Hopes I bear
In mine own Heart: a Father's Liberty
The Lord will Grant unto a Daughter's Prayer!»
Seeing her thus resolved, reluctantly
He fixed the Day, and left the Issue to the Sky.

FOURTH PART.

1

Spirit of olden Times! that on the Brow
Of Saint and Prophet with thy starry Wings
Of Glory wouldst descend, be with me now,
Uphold and cherish, and from earthly Things
Free thou my Thoughts, with heavenly Ministrings
Create in me the Temper which I need,
Give me that Faith which ever with it brings
A Boon of Glory when 'tis felt indeed,
Wisdom unto the Heart, and Eloquence to feed

342

2

The Lips with all high Utterance, that I,
Tho' undeserving of such special Grace,
May, with the Breath of Inspiration high,
Scatter the Clouds that hide thy radiant Face,
And give clear Glimpses of his Dwellingplace
To Man's earthdarkened Soul: bright Paths of Light
E'en to God's Throne, to which his Eye may trace
The Radiance oft bursting on his Sight
'Mid Mists of Earthliness, whose Majesty and Might

3

He bows before unconsciously, yet knows
Not well from whence it comes, 'till he be taught
To recognize the Fount from which it flows
In his own Soul: for from one Source is brought
The Spirit with which his own Breast is fraught,
And that same Majesty to which he bows,
A kindred Essence, differing in naught,
Save as its Mode of Operation shows
Forth more or less His Praise to whom all Worth it owes!

4

Spirit that bor'st Elijah up to Heaven,
In Firecar whose Path burned thro' the Skies,
By whom to Sampson's Victorarm was given
The Might of Hosts to smite God's Enemies:
Who in a later Day unto the Eyes
Of Socrates reveal' dst thy radiant Form,
And gave to Milton's Pen high Victories,
Oh with thy Presence deign thou to inform
My Heart, and with Faith's purest Altarfire warm!

5

Glory to thee, bright Spirit! onceagain
I Sing thy Triomphs of a later Day,
Divine as in past Ages! not in vain
We call on thee, and 'mid our Sufferings pray
For inward Light to cheer us on our Way,
Still canst thou work thy Miracles as in
The olden Time, not palpable it may
Be, yet most clear to Eyes undimmed by Sin,
And still thy low, calm Voice we hear 'mid Earth's harsh Din!

343

6

Glory and Gratitude! for still bright Gleams
Of Light celestial across our Eyes,
Our dim Eyes, pass, when all around us seems
Wrapp'd in the Mists of Earthliness: in Skies
Lowering and sad bright Openings-up arise,
Some Angelswings divide the dark Midspace,
And Glimpses of pure Ether, as he flies
Down from God's Throne, we view, the Realms of Grace,
And turn contented back to this brief Sojournplace!

7

The Partingday was fixed: who does not know
Those Moments, doubly dear, that intervene,
On which we lavish our whole Hearts, as tho'
Our All was summed in them: her Father mean-
While sought the few who seemed, or there had been,
His Friends and Fellowexiles, asked for Aid,
But these Lipfriends, as is their Wont, I ween,
Gave readytongued Advice, Excuses made,
And, when their Curiosity was quite allayed,

8

Took Leave, muchgrieved, no Doubt, that they could do
So dear a Friend no Service in his Need,
At any other Time they would have so,
So much Delight to help him, but indeed
Just now they could give naught! such Fruit the Seed
Of daily Intercourse brings forth in those
Who wear the Yoke of Mammon, in whom Greed
Is the foul Source whence every Action flows,
Selfpunished, for the sordid Heart no real Bliss knows!

9

Men who would not stretch forth their Hand to save
A starving Fellowcreature, or deny
To their own Mouths one Drop of all they have,
One smallest, most superfluous Luxury,
To moisten the parched Lip of Misery!
Two Friends alone he found, who with them brought
Not empty Words, but heartfelt Sympathy,
Pursepoor, loverich, and tho' possessing naught,
Yet willing to give all they had, unasked, unsought!

344

10

They brought the precious Balm of Sympathy
Unto the wounded Heart, they gave away
What all the Gold of Misers cannot buy
One Grain of: Wealth does hold a mighty Sway
O'er earthly Goods, but there are some Things, yea!
Some Things there are, of which ye wot not, ye
Who revel in proud Pomp and vain Display,
That all the Gold that ever Eye might see
Can purchase not, yet unto which the Beggar's free

11

As is the proudest Monarch, and of which,
By Right divine, he claims as large a Share!
They are his Heritage! in these still rich,
Tho' scarce a Rag his naked Back may bear!
Love, Wisdom, Truth, Religion, Faith, these are
Still free as Light to all Men, yea! I say,
So long as this glad Sun shall shine, this Air
Be breathed by Rich and Poor, these things for aye
Shall be the Soul's high Dower, and own no earthlier Sway!

12

Then fill your Coffers to the Brim, ye who
Bow down to Mammon as your Idol here,
Be your Prayers heard, and let him heap on you
The yellow Dust ye covet, but no Tear
Of Love or Sympathy, quickstarting clear,
Like a sweet Messenger of holy News,
Shall tell that ye have Hearts, no Joy or Fear
For others' Good shall change the cold Cheek's Hues,
Nor from your Hoards shall ye e'er draw one genial Use!

13

Then grovel in the Dust, and take your Fill
Of earthly Goods, celestial Things to ye
Are Pearl to Swine: I wish ye no more Ill
Than in Truth's Glass to know yourselves, and see
The perfect Shape of your Deformity!
For who could envy you, that in his Breast
Feels an Heart beat? still proud to think that he,
Tho' to him e'en the Crumbs would be a Feast
Which from your Table fall, is not like ye at least!

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41

Ye cannot rob us of our Heritage,
Your desecrating Touch ye cannot place
On our Soul's Treasure: God for us doth wage
A holy Warfare, and with Love and Grace
Sweetens the Toils of this our earthly Race:
The Goal decides the Winner; let Earth be
Unto the Rich and Strong, let Power's Face
Frown at Truth's fearless Voice, still are we free,
And Lords of all the Earth can yield far more than ye!

15

What tho' ye be her Favorites! what tho',
Spoilt Children, in her Lap she pampers ye,
'Till every Pleasure to a Surfeit grow!
'Till, in the very 'midst of Luxury,
Ye envy each poor Toiler that ye see,
Who in the daily Sweat of his own Brow
Eats his coarse, scanty Bread! think ye that we,
Nature's uncared for Children, never know
One Joy, because your Eyes and Hearts are dull and slow?

16

Poor Fools! the Lark sings for the Peasant's Ear
As to the King's, the Mountains and the Streams,
The Woods and Waters, unto all are dear!
The Clouds build up their Palaces, with Beams
And purple Hues of Evening, bright as Dreams,
Not for the sated Eye of Wealth alone,
But for the Poet, who in Rapture deems
That to this dull Existence may be won
The glorious Colors of a Life not yet begun!

17

Aye! and pure Feelings, Aspirations high,
And Fellowcreaturelove, and starry Lore,
May oft be found 'mid Rags and Poverty!
There where Fools least expect to find the Power
And Majesty of Worth, it loves the more,
In modest Privacy, to hide its Head,
For it gives forth its Sweetness like the Flower,
That allunseen by heavenly Dews is fed,
Looking not for Reward, by this repaid instead!

346

18

And such were these two Friends: tho' poorer far
Than all the rest, and Beggars but in Will,
Tho' small of this Life's Goods their hardearn'd Share,
Wrung from the niggard Grasp of Want, who, still
Their stern Taskmaster, hardened them to Ill
And Suffering, yet left their Hearts at least
Unchilled and kind, and ready to fulfill
Each holy Prompting, and each high Behest,
Of that pure Soul of Love still reigning o'er their Breast.

19

'Twas a Septembermorn: the Month was now
But eightdaysold, yet waxing strong apace,
Like to a lusty Child in Youth's first Glow,
And these two Friends had come to see the Face
Of her they loved, to take Farewell, and place
The scanty Sum that bought their daily Food,
(A few poor Pence, yet still a Gift to grace
A King) at her Disposal; but she would
Not take it, no, tho' sore in Need herself she stood!

20

Reader, the Godlike enters into this
Coarse weekday Life — «a few poor Pence», to thee
Sounds ill no Doubt, but unto me it is
Full, full of Poesy, and just thro' the
So seeming Vileness of the Means we see
Employ'd! the Godlike, of which those poor Pence
Are but the Bearers, hallows them to me:
Is perfect Love not perfect Recompense?
Then with them God himself might be payedin this Sense!

21

The Dawn, the bright Dawn, glows in the far East,
And the Sunsteeds are flashing forth the Day
From their lightbearing Orbs: with ample Chest,
And firemanëd Necks, curved haughtily,
They blow the Darkness from Earth's Face away,
With prouddistended Nostrils! and e'en now
Upon that parting Group hath stole a Ray,
Celestial Messenger! the Hour to show,
Sent by her God himself to bid the Wanderer go!

347

22

The Time is come, she said, and we must part;
So saying, she sat down a while, and stay'd
'Till she had checked the Beatings of her Heart,
Then thanked she those good Friends for their kind Aid,
And promised that if Heaven should persuade
The Emperor to set at Liberty
Her Father, she would think of them: this said,
As if to cheat the Sense of Misery,
And steala Moment's Joy from Time's Wings as they fly,

23

They talked of casual Subjects, a brief Space,
The Weather, with forced Carelessness, as tho'
Each could not read the Secret in each Face,
The illfeigned Calm, the hollow Mask of Woe,
That makes the Lip to quiver, pale to grow
The Cheek, which strives to look itself in vain,
For Nature, tho' subdued awhile, will show
In some poor twitching Nerve the inward Pain,
The Stoic's Mask must drop, and Men grow Men again!

24

But such the Russian Usage: wise, 'tmight be,
If we could conquer Nature; but, alas!
The big Tear, and the beating Heartpulse we
Cannot command! it is an idle Farce,
A vain Attempt, Pride's Effort to o'erpass
The Frailty of our mortal State, to seem
That which he is not; each big Moment has
A double Weight, with twofold Grief doth teem,
A stern Reality within a painful Dream!—

25

Imagination! paint thou what my vain
And feeble Words are allunequal to;
Reader, let thy Heart speak, live o'er again
The bitter Time, if such be known to you,
When first, from thy dear Home, from kind, and true,
And loving Hearts, at stern Necessity's
Inexorable Call, removed, on new,
Strange, loveless Faces thou didst turn thine Eyes,
And the World's harsh Voice chill'd the Soul's warm Sympathies!

348

26

Still will the Heart beat quick, still to the Eye
In Afterlife th' unbidden Tear will rise,
When on those Moments of deep Agony,
Thro' the dim Veil which Time, still as he flies.
Throws o'er the Past, we look! then sympathize
With what this godlike Spirit felt, the Throes
By Duty claimed, a stern, high Sacrifice,
Yea! more than to her Altar Virtue owes,
When friendless, pennyless, her noble Part she chose!

27

Behold her kneeling at her Father's Feet
For his last Blessing! and if ever on
A mortal Head a Blessing fell, with sweet
And benign Influence, oh! then upon
Her Virginbrow there surely hovered one,
Brought by some viewless Angel from the Sky!
We ourselves make the Blessing, we alone!
It falls upon the Ear, a Sound passed by,
Or by Belief becomes a living Agency!

28

The last Embrace is o'er, that Heart to Heart,
And Lip to Lip, had bound them: the big Tear
Still trickles down unchecked, yet must they part,
Unknowing when again they may meet here,
On this cold, selfish Earth, so dull and drear!
Which thrusts its icy Hand in Mockery
'Twixt Heart and Heart, and with its Breath so sere
Breathes on our young Affections, and they die,
Withered up in the Bud, ere yet Hope's Dew be dry!

29

And she is gone, nor turns back once her Head
To look at her dear Parents, fixed, like Stone,
Upon the Threshold, waiting, while she sped
In Distance from their Sight, to give her one,
One more Farewell, one Handwave, or one Tone
Of the unconscious Voice, that murmurs still
A vain Adieu! alas! their Child is gone,
She dares not trust herself to look if still
They watch her, lest her Heart should rise against her Will!

349

30

And there they stood, with straining Glance, until
Their Daughter's Form, receding from their Eyes,
In the far Distance disappeared: yet still
They gazed and gazed, as tho' the Boundaries
Of Space retired, and they saw arise
Object on Object to the Journeysend;
Then waked they from their Dream, with Tears and Sighs
Turning to their sad Chamber, there to spend
The childless, desolate Hours, 'till Heaven Relief should send.

31

No more that sweet Voice broke upon their Ear
With the glad Music of its harmless Glee,
Blithe as the Lark's, no more, like Sunbeam clear,
The Loveglance from her young Eye did they see;
Nature's Interpreter to them was she,
The Voice of all its Joys, from her the Light
That brightened all Things came, and there could be
No Joy when they saw not with her glad Sight,
For Grief on their own Senses had diffused a Blight!

32

And now those falselipped Friends accused him sore
Of having urged his Child to go: they made
A Laughingstock of him, and sneered the more
Because they had refused him every Aid!
As if, forsooth, from Love to him they stay'd
The ready Hand, lest of a foolish Thing
He should repent, or to their Charge be laid
The Blame of Illsuccess! thus did they bring
Upon the griefbowed Head Shame's heavier Visiting.

33

But let us leave them to his Mercy, who
Hath Cosolation for the broken Heart,
When human Aid is vain, and turn to view
The Wanderer whom we have seen depart,
With whom we shared the bitter Pang, the Smart
Of that Homeseparation; let us deem
That we behold her, half in Terror, start
To find how strange all Things around her seem,
On waking the next Morn, how like a painful Dream

350

34

To be thus allalone: to feel no more
The loving Handgrasp, that electrical
Communicates its Message sweet, before
The Words have from the dear Lips Time to fall:
To want henceforth, and feel the Worth of, all
Those little, daily kindnesses, which are
Poured in Life's Cup like Honeydrops, which small
As they may seem, viewed singly, sweeten far,
Far more than prouder Joys, that dazzle with vain Glare!

35

Come now, Imagination, thou wouldst spread
Haply thy Wings, and soar up to the Sky,
But this once with me in the Footsteps tread
Of poor and suffering Humanity:
Yet are they holy, yea! as tho' they by
An Angel walking on this common Earth,
For the Fulfillment of some Mission high,
Had been imprinted! thou art nothing worth,
Savethou canst make this Scene bright as thy Place of Birth!

36

Fold then thy Wings, thy rainbowplumëd Wings,
For in an Angel's Steps thou walkest now:
Think not thou lowerest thyself, tho' Things
Of earthly Import seem to thee but low,
For in Reality they are not so!
Tho' boundless be thy Ether, and thus dear
To thee, yet haply 'tmay be found below,
Yea! e'en four narrow Walls embrace that Sphere,
To which thou lov'st to soar, as vast, as bright, and clear!

37

I talk no Riddles, tho' of Miracles!
Yet Miracles which everyday are wrought:
Familiar, as Householdwords, the Spells
By which we work them, yea! the Spells are taught
Not in dark Forms such as Medea sought
To sway the Stars with, but in Language clear,
The clearest Nature speaks! in Actions fraught
With human Feeling, and the Voice of dear,
Domestic Love, still sounding sweetest in God's Ear!

351

38

A little Child, that on his Mother's Breast
Lisps forth his Prayer, and smiles up in her Face,
Ere softly she hath laid him down to Rest,
Who, tho' unconscious of all Sin, for Grace
Prays unto God, yet pure, and without Trace
Of human Frailty, can work Wonders too:
Can call down Angels to his Dwellingplace,
To watch o'er it, and is the Medium thro'
Which Love eternal works to quicken us anew!

39

Then come with me, yet, ever and anon,
Thou shalt have free Use of thy restless Wings,
To soar wheree'er thou list'st, to gaze upon
The Archangel's Face, when by God's Throne he sings,
To tune thy Harp to his, and fit its Strings
For holiest Themes! and when thou comest back
Refreshed with thy ethereal Wanderings,
To aid and to support, oh! be not slack,
Speak with my Voice, nor let thine Inspiration lack!

40

Away vain Forms of glozing Poesy!
Upon no fabled Muse I call for Aid,
But on thee, Father, nor wilt thou deny
My Prayer, for thine own Spirit still has made
Itself felt in me, it alone has prayed!
And tho' it be by these frail Lips of Clay,
Yet in thy boundless Mercy thou hast bade
Us call thee «Father,» raise thou then my Lay
Into a Hymn of Praise: hear! 'tis thy Child doth pray!

41

Come then, Imagination, we will pass
Lightly the Ground her slow Feet measured o'er,
With easy Wing shalt thou observe what was
To her a weary Way and Travail sore:
Yet must thou pause, and wonder how she bore
Such sharp Discomfort without e'en a Sigh,
And, to a noble Mind, that Wound far more
Hard to be borne, the Insult, and the Eye
Of Scorn, the threatening Lip, the grudged Humanity!

352

42

But God is merciful, He tempers to
Our Bearing what were else so hard to bear,
To the shorn Lamb the Wind! and the Soul too
Doth something of His Infiniteness share:
Things are but as we view them, foul or fair,
Aids or Impediments: in all Things lies
A genuine Treasure for those who know where
And how to seek it, and from worst Things rise
Their Contraries, as Joy brings Tears into the Eyes!

43

How hard th' Apprenticeship of th' human Heart,
The Entrance into actual Life, for one
Who only in her Dreams has taken Part
Therein: brought up in Love's own School, with none
But Laws which to obey is Heaven, for
Is Heaven not Love? yea! Love is the true Law-
Enforcer and Lawgiver, he alone,
And light as Gossamer his Chains are thrown
Around us, yet so strong no Jailor ever saw!

44

'Tis hard to school the Heart, and teach the Tongue
Another Utterance than that which by
The Feelings, gushing fresh, unchecked, and strong,
Is prompted! yet this Lesson Prascovy
Must learn, soon taught that human Sympathy
Is slow towards that which first would claim Esteem;
In Pity is Superiority
Implied, and all Men willingly would deem
That those who ask their Aid are 'neath them as they seem.

45

How often must she turn in Tears away
From the shut Door, and season bitter Bread
With that still bitterer Salt! oft make Assay
Of Humannature in its variëd
Conditions, now from Luxury half dead
To Pity, which in poorest Soils most grows,
Now by the Hand of Fellowsuffering fed,
For such is Humannature: our own Woes
The true Extent of others' Sufferings disclose!

353

46

How godlike is that Mind which e'en in Ill
Sees only Good, and makes the Evil so
By bearing it as none! which Suffering still
Ennobles but the more, not renders low,
Stamping the God more clearly on the Brow!
Which in its Fellowcreatures sees alone,
With Thankfulness the Godlike only know,
The little Acts of Kindness to it done,
Forgetting all the Ill, which thus forgot is none!

47

Then learn by Littles and by Littles to
Forget and to forgive the Injuries
And Insults which thy Fellowmen may do
Unto thee! view them as the Stone which lies
By mere Chance in thy Way, and which, if wise,
Thou kick'st not, not to stumble! do but so,
'Till thou on Earth hast no more Enemies,
Till none can injure thee! 'till e'en the Blow,
Forgiven, wounds not thee, but works the Smiter Woe!

48

This is the godlike Lore, the Lore of Life,
The Lore of Love, which, seeing Good alone,
Lives as if nothing Evil could arrive,
And Good were only! 'till all Things have grown
To Good or Good, partaking of its own
Inherent Goodness! proud Philosophy,
Is this Art in thy Schools so little known,
While a poor Girl, with but a loving Eye,
Can see beyond thee, yea! for Love's Infinity!

49

The Eye of God Himself! and he who sees
Without Love, nothing sees, but is as blind,
Tho' he can trace the Planets' Course with Ease,
And analyze the Motions of the Mind!
While he who sees with Love, will all Things find
Godlike, for sees he not with God's own Eye?
Then even on the lowest of Mankind
Look thou with Love, then will he seem as high
As Monarchs on their Thrones, for God in Him is nigh!

354

50

The Shades of Night are gathering, the Forms
Of Things grow indistinct, the Owlet gray,
And Bat flit 'round her, and her Fancy warms
At Thought of that dear Home so far away,
The Kiss of Wellcome at the Close of Day,
Pressed by a Mother's Lips, the Fireside
So homesome, but she starts, for lo! a Ray
Breaks from yon' Cottagewindow, and the wide,
Wide Distance 'twixt that Home, by Fancy halfdescried.

51

Comes chilling on her Soul! 'tis not the Door
From loug Familiarity grown dear,
The Threshhold pressed by Feet now heard no more!
It is a Stranger's Dwelling, and, in Fear
Of Insult or Refusal, she draws near
And knocks — it opens — and with trembling Tongue
She begs for Shelter: 'tis denied or e'er
Her Prayer is uttered, Insult joined to Wrong,
And spoken by a Voice harsh as the Raven's Song.

52

Oh! ye in Plenty cradled, and fed by
The Bread which in your Mouths drops as a Thing
Of Course, picked up like Manna from the Sky,
Without one single Effort, can ye bring
Home to yourselves the Sense of Suffering
Felt then by one whose Heart was not as those
Of Beggars, deadened by long Buffeting,
Coarse Natures, hardened, like their Skins, to Blows
Of Fortune, and touched only by the Body's Woes!

53

Oh if ye can, be merciful, break not
The bruisëd Reed, but bind it up — away
She turns, but hark! a Voice from the same Spot
Recalls her, the same Voice that said her nay;
It was a Man with Hair already gray,
Who offered her the Shelter just denied,
And half loth, yet not daring to gainsay,
She followed, like an Angel at the Side
Of some dark Spirit, moved by Thoughts the Soul would hide

355

54

E'en from itself; a dim and dusky Light
Halfbroke the Chambersgloom, which flickered on
The bare Walls, cold and comfortless to Sight,
As the hard Features of the aged Crone,
Who, like a Witch, sat muttering all alone
With fixëd Eyes, of cold and glassy Stare,
Bent on poor Prascovy, and with a Tone
Fitted but Words of harsher Sense to bear,
Sheasked her whence she came and what her Purpose were?

55

When answered, she rejoined, with ghastly Grin
That showed her gummy Jaws, «then you must have
Much Gold, so long a Journey to begin»;
In vain poor Prascovy said no, she gave
But more Cause for Suspicion, and to save
Herself would willingly have given all
She had, or slept in some coldroofëd Cave,
Where Wolves and Foxes to each other call,
And Dropstones slowly count the Minutes as they fall!

56

They bade her then go rest, and when they thought
Her wellasleep, with eager Hands and Eyes,
Long for her fancied Wealth they vainly sought,
Then fearful Whispers heard she, and Replies,
«None saw her enter, none will make Surmize»!
Terror, with frayëd Eyes, watched by her Bed
Instead of Sleep! she saw the old Hag rise,
And felt her loosen from her Neck, halfdead
With Fear, the Bag where she her Passport carriëd!

57

Then they gave o'er their Search, and fell asleep,
And wearied Nature mastering her Fears,
She felt the poppied Slumber o'er her creep
Likewise: but who knows in her Dreams what Leers
The old Hag's sleepsealed Eyes still cast, what Tears
She shed, or what mysterious Warnings were
By unseen Powers whispered in the Ears
Of those two guilty Souls, what Visions rare,
What vital Beatings of the Heart, thus touched to spare!

356

58

Perhaps they dreamt an Angel had that Night
Crossed in Disguise their Threshhold, from the Sky
Descended, hiding his celestial Might
In a poor Mortal's Semblance, thus to try
Their Hearts: and that without Humanity
Received, he at his Parting sudden grew
Into his primal Shape, with Language high
Warned them of Punishment, if they should do
The Purpose of their Hearts, and back to Heaven flew!

59

Thus these three lay asleep, the guilty and
The guiltless, of eachother's Presence no
More conscious than so far as Dreams demand
Matter of Memory, or some sharp Throe
Of Conscience sting the Sleeper — Dreams are so,
So wonderful, and often they may be
The Vehicles, tho' how we scarcely know,
Of Revelations, changing that which we
Had purposed, for change but a Thought, and we must see

60

Things in another Light; and tho' a Dream
Be unreal as a Fact, it is not so
Unto the Soul: enough if we but deem
It real, and real Effects will from it flow,
'Tis then a Motive to us, because tho'
A Dream, it still has close Analogy
With all we think and feel, do, hope, or know,
Past Elements are moulded in and by
Our Sleep, and vital Gleams imparted from the Sky!

61

Thus slept she, like a Flower, folded sweet
In its own Fragrance, tho' the Sun now shone
High up in Heaven, 'till the Sound of Feet
Awoke her, and the Hag, with softer Tone,
Invited her to eat: her Breakfast done,
She took her Leave, and to her great Surprize,
On opening her Purse, found not alone
The Coins she had, but more! thus in strange Wise
Their Hearts were touched that Night to human Simpathies!

357

62

And truly too the Angel had that Night
Crossed o'er their Threshhold, as their Dream had shown,
And at departing in a Form more bright
Appeared unto them; not that it had grown
Unto another Stature, but their own
Hearts being touched, their Vision was more clear
Than when, from Want of Love, they saw alone
An Outcast to be robbed: and to their Ear
Her Farewellvoice was as the Angel's, yet no Fear

63

Its sweet Tones caused, but rather seemed to leave
A Blessing on them for the Ill undone,
And sounding as a Message of Reprieve
From threatened Punishment! Oh! there are none
To whom such Angels are not also shown
From Time to Time; then drive them not away,
But open wide your Doors, for tho' unknown
Angels as Beggars now appear, some Day
Beggars will Angels be, and able to repay

64

A hundredfold your Kindness! nay, e'en now
They leave you richer than they found you! yea!
For you give them but earthly Goods, and how
Can spiritual Goods be better, pray,
Bought than with perishable, which one Day
May rob thee of? then open wide thy Door,
But most of all thy Heart, that thus it may
Receive in its Embrace the misnamed Poor,
Who give more than they take, and make their Gifts more sure!

65

September now was tottering to his Grave,
And Aguefits possessed him quite, for lo!
Winter has smit him; bark! the Frostwinds rave
In gusty Snatches, and thick falls the Snow,
Burying Man's busy Track so deep that no
Foottraveller dare venture on his Way;
And Prascovy, tho' eager still to go,
Must view the Snow heaped by the Winds at Play,
And by their Flakes count out the dull Course of each Day!

358

66

But lo! the Snowdust is whirled up amain,
And o'er the whitened Track comes gliding on,
With Sound of Bell and Voice, a long Sledgetrain,
Glad Sight for hopesick Eyes to look upon;
A Place is straight procured from Hearts soon won
To Pity, and she now resumes her Way:
But bittercold it blew, and Sun was none,
The Bear had Need of all his Fur that Day,
And she of all her Patience, not the vain Display

67

Which some make of it in Life's fancied Ills,
But the stern Virtue taught by actual Throes,
Which in the Breast a godlike Calm instills,
The Calm of that blessed Place to which it owes
Its Origin, and which it brings to those
Who feel it truly. Fancy, speed them on,
Let Catharinestown its wished for Towers disclose,
Touched faintly by a setting Wintersun,
And briefly tell the Love her Piety there won;

68

Real Friendship in one who had Means to make
Her Wishes Deeds, a Lady, and far more,
A Christian, who did for Doing's Sake
Alone all Acts of Kindness in her Power.
She heard the Exile's Tale, and with her bore
The Wanderess, instructed, sheltered, taught
To read and write, and gave her of her Store:
Not the mere sensual Goods which are as naught,
But the refinëd Feelings and the lofty Thought!

69

And yet, alas! it was a dangerous Gift
For one whose Mission was like Prascovy's!
The Feelings which refine, the Thoughts which lift,
The keen Sense of Life's sweet Proprieties,
Raised above Want and coarse Necessities,
Whose galling Pressure leaves the Mind no Thought
For nobler Things, tho' making us despise
What is so low in itself, profit naught
To better Bearing: nay, unfit our Minds when brought

359

70

To the stern Trial, and we shrink away,
Not so much from the Suffering and Pain,
As from the coarser Accidents, which lay
The inmost Nerves bare, quivering again;
And thus this precious Boon is rendered vain!
Our Feelings are the Test of Suffering:
Thus Ills at Sight of which some scarce contain
Their Laughter may the Heart's deep Fibres wring,
To which, longintertwined, our dearest Habits cling!

71

But that Increase of Suffering had made
No Difference in her still unwearied Love,
Tho' henceforth she felt oftentimes afraid
To enter some poor Inn's low Door, does prove
That it could only be from up above:
Else had the Triomph not been so complete,
That never one least Thought of Self could move
The sublime Purpose, or the sacred Heat
Diminish which within her Breast had ta'en its Seat!

72

Here learnt she from her Friends to read and write,
To multiply her Being and to grow
Many in One: the Wisdom and the Light
Of Mankind, what they think, and feel, and know,
Becomes the Heritage of one Mind, so
All Form the one, and without all the one
Advances little: thus all to all owe
Their Weal reciprocally, and yet none
But receives far more Good than he has ever done!

73

How much Cause have we then for Gratitude!
How zealous should we toil to pay, as best
We can, our Fellowcreatures for the Good
Which we thro' them enjoy, as tho' one Breast
Were that of all Mankind and had the Zest
Of many thousand Lives! here learnt she too
To pray in studied Phrase, as Men do, lest
They should forget, unless reminded thro'
Set Forms, that God exists, as they too often do!

360

74

How sweet it seemed to her so simple Mind
The Feelings of her Heart, in ready Phrase,
Thus in the Prayerbook all expressed to find:
How happy they, she thought, who thus might praise
Their Maker: but still Piety decays,
Churches are not Religion, nor loud Prayers
Real Worship! tho' the choral Voices raise
The sounding Hymn, and Music breathe soft Airs,
Yet God delights in other Melody than theirs!

75

Tho' Words be needful between Man and Man,
They are not so 'twixt Man and God, for he
The unuttered Thought within the Soul can scan:
And if there such a Thing too really be
As the Unutterable, how can we
Express it? and he who has not felt this,
Has not felt God, nor therefore fittingly
Adored Him, for the highest Worship is
The still Communion of our own Soul with His!

76

Come Fancy, turn the Hourglass, and let
The Moments fly, as if they ne'er had brought
A Sorrow, as if Heart had known no Fret,
And Eye no Tear, meanwhile! now be there wrought
A gentle Wonder, sudden as a Thought,
And lo! 'tis done! green Leaves are on each Tree,
And Flowers scent the Air, and Sounds are caught
As of the Streams from icy Thrall set free!
So sudden that it scarce could swifter be

77

Worked out by Fancy's self! a Threedaysspace
Parts Spring and Winter: look! thick lies the Snow:
Now close thine Eye, and fold thy Arms, and place
Thee like some old Stonestatue, and wait so
As for a Resurrection! meanwhile, lo!
The Earth has changed, as sudden as the Dream
Which passes thro' thy Mind: awake, and go
Thou forth, and haply, wondering, thou 'lt deem
Thyself in some new World, so strange the Change doth seem!

361

78

And now as from this second Home must she
Depart: stern Duty's Voice alone she hears,
And, bitter as the Sacrifice must be,
There is a Rapture even in the Tears
Shed at such Times, and Memory endears
Beyond all Joy the Hour of Agony!
For looking back at it, the Pangs and Fears
Are gone, we see ourselves as 'twere thereby
Transfigured, and past Pain grows present Ecstacy!

79

Behold her then take Leave of her kind Friends,
Left once more to that Providence which wise-
Ly in Life's weekday Forms works out its Ends,
Subliming into divine Agencies
Familiar Events: to Faith's clear Eyes
The greatest Miracles are those worked by
Such Means as Nature everyday supplies,
And not those which disturb her Course, for why
Should God not thro' Men's Thoughts work Wonders still more high

80

Than those which with the Elements are wrought!
Where is He more than in Man's Soul? and where
Should Wonders be more naturally sought
Than there where He is most? and yet we stare
At Seas rolled back, and Portents in the Air!
The Springheaddepths of Wonder are alone
In us! the Wonder of all Wonders there
Exists, we are ourselves it, 'tis our own
Highest Existence, and without it we have none,

81

For then we are not e'en ourselves! but he
Who lives the Spirit which he is, lives by
That Principle which is the Soul of the
Great Whole, he lives in its Infinity,
Therefore his Faith is infinite! his Eye
Steady and calm, for his Belief is no
Mere Creed or Dogma, something outwardly
Professed, it is his Being, and doth flow
From Nature's self, the Sum of all that he can know,

362

82

And be, and do, for without it he's naught!
Without it Wisdom, Action, Life, is none!
Now as by Nature this Belief is wrought
Out in him, nay, as she herself alone
Lives in him, as the Groundtruth of her own
Existence it must be regarded, thro'
Him in its highest, purest Aspect shown!
And he in this full Feeling calm and true
Of the great Whole, regards but as a few Grains to

83

The Seasands added, all the Wonders by
The Pen of History recorded! for
He feels God's Presence in him evernigh,
The greatest Wonder, such as Eye ne'er saw,
Nor Thought conceived! now Wonders 'gainst the Law
Of Nature God worked out in Pity to
Man's Frailty, but he claims far higher Awe
For those wrought quietly by it, the tru-
Est, suitablest, and which He most delights to do!

84

The most conformable also to his
Own Nature: being Spirit he loves by
The Spirit to reveal that which he is!
Therefore be Spirit! thus most casily
Thou'lt comprehend Him, for is he not thy
Own Soul? then understanding it aright,
Thou understandest Him! then too thine Eye
Will need no fiery Bush to show his Might,
For the whole World reveals him clearer to thy Sight

85

Than did that Bush to Moses! And what need
Wilt thou have then of Tables, with thereon
The ten Commandments graved, when thou canst read,
And that too written by God's self alone,
His Law eterne in thy own Heart? the one
And allembracing Law, the godlike, the
First Duty! which fulfilled, then there are none,
All being summed in this, which is, to be
A Law unto ourselves, like God, sublimely free!

363

86

Behold! the snowcapt Ural-mountains rise
In the far Distance: Clouds hang lazy on
Their Summits, purpled with the Eveningsky's
Last Glory, and in Violettints upon
Th' Horizon, barred and streaked with Gold, are thrown
The craggy Outlines, sharp, distinct, and clear!
Soft, golden Vapors, from the sinking Sun,
Mantle their Summits, and as if quite near
Seem Crag and Torrent in the aerial Atmosphere!

87

Now Fancy steep thy Wings in Rainbowtints,
Bathe in the purple Light, and with thine Eye,
Which no dull Film of human Weakness stints
Or dims, behold the Vision! momently
The Clouds into new Shapes are moulded by
The sightless Winds, and, more intensely bright,
Burn unconsuming, steeped so goldenly,
Like to the Angelsplumage in the Sight
Of God, when standing in his full, transfiguring Light!

88

The Landscape fades, but gaze on, for it is
The Smile of the great Father, with which he
Bids Goodnight to His Children! in its Bliss
All Nature's steeped, breathless with Ecstacy!
Now, Fancy, let the Past and Future be
As two vast Wings to bear thee to yon' Height,
And thence, as in that Smile transfigured, see,
From its ideal Summit, (such as might
Have been that whence the promis'd Land rose on the Sight

89

Of the great Prophet, in the far-off Beam
Of Suns as yet not risen on the Eye
Of Man!) of bygone Ages the long Stream
Unrolled, the mighty Waters swelling high
Between the Banks long Centuries left dry,
And where, more pure and deep, they sweep on to
The dimseen Ocean of Eternity!
All this behold, for is not thine Eye too
The Eye of God, then see godlike, and thou 'lt see true!

364

90

Yea, as a Seer! for the most Godlike is
The most True, most Enduring, it is the
Basis and Ground of all Things, e'en of this
Coarse Being, not is only, but must be:
For is not God the Ground of all, is he
Not in each what is most enduring, true,
Essential? then the Godlike whence would ye
Save from Him draw? if then the Godlike you
Make the Ground of your Life, God must be its Ground too!

91

And this Ground will not fail thee, it is thy
Own self, if thou art godlike: then be so!
And as it is the Ground of all Things, by
Death it cannot be altered, undergo
Change, save in Form, and that can be of no
Importance, so long as the Ground in thee
Is godlike: and as Form alone can flow
From Spirit, that must also godlike be,
E'en the Ungodlike thou mayst godlike feel and see!

92

So Fancy from that spectral Height look on
Mankind, and what ungodlike there may be,
Shall at that sublime Distance seem as none!
And thou, thou too, the promised Land shalt see,
For nobler is that Height, the View more free!
The Real shall mingle too with that bright Dream,
And clear Rays from a far Futurity
To those, which now on Moscow's Towers gleam,
Prophetic Brightness add! for even as the Stream

93

It stands on will flow still the same, when all
That Pomp has crumbled into Dust, so too
The Heart of Man shall Nature's sublime Call
Bring back unto the Godlike and the True,
Its only lasting Elements, and thro'
Which only can its sublime Destiny
Be wrought out: yea! these are the Portals to
That promis'd Land of Freedom, whither by
Greater than Prophet they are led, yea, the Mosthigh!

365

94

'Tis gone, 'tis gone! resolved once more into
The Elements! that Day so long pass'd by,
But which is present still to God's Allview,
As Today or the farthest Morrow, thy
Eye too, which shares in His Infinity,
Divinest Fancy, still beholds! each Ray
Has fled, Night's ebon Sceptre rules the Sky,
And from the Womb of Darkness on their Way
The newborn Torrents rush, tracked by their thundering Spray!

95

With these wild Truants let us to the Plain
Descend, to where the Khama hurries to
The Volga's Embrace, with whose Stream again
Our Journey we must follow; but, still true
To thy high Priviledge, thou shalt have due
Use of thy Wings to help thee on the Way,
Imagination! and, lo! full in View,
The Towers of Nijeni, on which the Ray
Of Sunset gleams, so swift the Elements obey!

96

Behold the Bridge where Prascovy must land;
Thus far th' eternal Stream of Volga to
The Consummation which her Love had plann'd
Has helped her on: the Lasting and the True
The True and Godlike, as it still should do,
Assisting: lo! where two Streams blend in one,
A fair, large City rises on her View,
From whose thronged Streets each Soul long since is gone,
As their own Shadows will be now, when sinks yon' Sun!

97

Near to the Bridge a Church and Convent stood,
And thither Prascovy her Steps has bent:
And, as she enters, hears in solemn Mood
Sweet choral Bursts of female Voices, blent
In Eveningworship, like an Omen sent
From Heaven to her; then first in her grew
To take the Veil the strong Wish and Intent,

366

Her Heart, already cloistered and dead to
The World, looked on it as Nuns thro' their Grate might do!

98

And, as she left the Church, she stopped to gaze
Upon the Scene before her: gleaming lay
The Volga's Waters in the Sunset's Blaze,
And breathless Silence on the closing Day,
As upon one about to cast away
The garish Pleasures of the World, and take
The Veil, like Nun, in Twilight's sober Gray,
Attended: not a single Leaf did shake,
Nor, save the rippling Stream, a Sound that Stillness break!

99

A wide Plain stretched before her, far and near,
And Solitude lay on it like a Dream,
Or Calm upon the Ocean, still as Fear!
She gazed. and gazed, and watched each sinking Beam,
The rosy Twilight fading from the Stream,
Nature's eternal Smile! and softly o'er
Her own Face stole its Blessedness, its Gleam
Divine, as tho', when elsewhere seen no more,
On Man's so godlike Face, diviner than before,

100

It reappeared, as it would ever do,
Were Man, like Nature, pure and innocent!
Sublime Reflection, like that which unto
The Moon, when perfect and at Full, is sent,
Tho' long before the Fires of Day are spent
In Ocean, and the Orb to which she owes
That Light has sunk; like the Omnipotent,
Whom no Eye sees, tho' in all Things He shows
Himself, whom none can grasp, and yet each feels and knows!

101

And where or what He is, none, none can tell,
Save that He is all, and is everywhere!
Who in each proves by such a Miracle
His Being, that no Heart can ever dare
To doubt Him, yet lays not that Being bare!
Thus the first Miracle and greatest is
Proved by almost as great a one! yet are
Your Hearts but godlike, then too will ye His

367

Being best comprehend, for ye yourselves are this!

102

Thus gazed she! but as yet she'd had to do
With Nature only, and her Sympathies
Were by that Intercourse kept sound and true,
For there its godlike Nature naught belies,
Each Flower of the Field, each Bird that flies,
Is what God meant it to be, and it shows
His Glory forth thus in most godlike Wise!
The Rose has never ceased to be a Rose,
And the Bird's Heart is as the Song which from it flows!

103

But now she had to do with Man, vain Man!
The crooked Paths of human Policy,
And not the sublime Ways of Nature's Plan,
Where he who follows but his Heart and Eye,
Need go to no School for Theology!
He learns it from the Master, and that too
From His best Work, and therefore thoroughly!
And finds its Practice illustrated thro'
Examples such as Poet's Fancy never drew!

104

Clear as the Stars, sweet as the Perfume of
The Rose, and so, so easy to put too
In Act and Use, that we have but to love
To fulfill all its Precepts, make as true
A Comment on it as the Sage could do!
She turned her Head, and, lo! before her lay
The peopled Solitude, not like that thro'
Which she had lately passed upon her Way,
The sublime Solitude of Nature, where Faith may

105

Draw nearer to her God, for there is naught
To intercept; but like the Scene, so He
Is by its Boundlessness more grandly brought
Home to the Heart in all we feel and see!
Sense fails, and Thought their Substitute must be
This was the Solitude of Heart, where 'round
Us thousands stand, and yet among them we
Are lonely as a solitary Sound
Voiced in a Desert, without Answer or Rebound!

368

106

This is the worst of Solitudes, where no
Heart beats for us, when for its Sympathy
Our own is yearning, where our Fellows throw
Upon our passing Form a careless Eye,
Which, like our Shadow, is as momently
Forgot; where 'mid Abundance we must pine,
And where the Ice of Form and Ceremony
Chills all high Thoughts and Impulses divine,
Where God himself is but a Sunday and a Sign!

107

All this, for the first Time, felt Prascovy,
With a sad Sinking of the Heart, as she
Beheld that City, with its thousands, lie
Before her, 'mong whom not one Heart would be
Glad at her Coming, not one sole Eye see
Her with a Smile of Wellcome! then there came
The Thought of her dear Parents bitterly
Upon her Mind, with Doubts and Fears, and Shame
At those same Doubts, 'till she herself began to blame

108

For slack Faith in her God; therefore into
The Church she once more entered, half afraid,
Lest God that Spirit should deny her, thro'
Which He so oft had lent Advice and Aid;
For if He sends no Spirit, we are made
Ourselves the Spirit thro' firm Faith, which is
Far better! and if this Faith be displayed
In Word and Deed, that Spirit then is His
Own Presence, and what Spirit need we beside this?

109

Here prayed she with such Fervour, that she drew
The Notice of a Nun, to whose kind Ear
She told her strong Disinclination to
Seek Shelter at an Inn, related clear-
Ly, simply, with that Eloquence which ne'er
O'ersteps the Modesty of Nature, all
Her Story, and thus gained new Friendships here,
Thus God reveals Himself in Things so small,
Yet far from small if felt to be from Him a Call!

[_]

No third volume of this work was published.

TO BE CONCLUDED IN THE THIRD VOLUME.

The Khama is a River which flows from the Ural-Mountains into the Volga.