Records and Other Poems By the late Robert Leighton |
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FRAGMENTS OF A MEDITATION. |
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 | Records and Other Poems |  |
273
FRAGMENTS OF A MEDITATION.
I have a clinging to the joys of earth
That lowly live within the animal.
But there are joys that be not of the earth—
Pure things of mind, having no kin to flesh.
Two tides are these that o'er the wide world flow,
Whose waters are apart, yet seem to mingle.
I envy him who can embark on either;
For surely he is happier than I,
Whose love so equal is, and so divided,
That I'll take neither, neither will take me,
But leaves me, like a bark without a pilot,
To drift and veer with the humour of the wind.
That lowly live within the animal.
But there are joys that be not of the earth—
Pure things of mind, having no kin to flesh.
Two tides are these that o'er the wide world flow,
Whose waters are apart, yet seem to mingle.
I envy him who can embark on either;
For surely he is happier than I,
Whose love so equal is, and so divided,
That I'll take neither, neither will take me,
But leaves me, like a bark without a pilot,
To drift and veer with the humour of the wind.
Between two streams there flows a backward current,
With eddies and with dimpling pools beset;
Which runs to nowhere, for its ending is
A losing of itself. He that is cast
On this, is lost to earth and heaven: such,
I know, am I: this shrinking of the soul,
This going into nothing—tell they not
The losing of myself?
With eddies and with dimpling pools beset;
Which runs to nowhere, for its ending is
A losing of itself. He that is cast
On this, is lost to earth and heaven: such,
I know, am I: this shrinking of the soul,
This going into nothing—tell they not
The losing of myself?
Is there no strength in mind, no firm-fix'd rock,
That may withstand the opposing floods o' the brain,
And turn them as it lists? Is there no Will?
Can strange upturnings of philosophy
Sweep from the mind the natural sense of freedom,
Telling we are but tools in the Artist's hand?
And are our souls but rays of the Mightiest,
Moved by the one Great-Mind?—We know thee not,
Poor soul, nor what, nor whence we are! And all
That priest, or sage, or poet hath said or written,
Is, to the unknown and all-knowing God,
The babble of a child.
That may withstand the opposing floods o' the brain,
And turn them as it lists? Is there no Will?
Can strange upturnings of philosophy
Sweep from the mind the natural sense of freedom,
274
And are our souls but rays of the Mightiest,
Moved by the one Great-Mind?—We know thee not,
Poor soul, nor what, nor whence we are! And all
That priest, or sage, or poet hath said or written,
Is, to the unknown and all-knowing God,
The babble of a child.
What seek we here? what means this earth? this body?
And where, and what the end to which we hasten?
O flesh! it cannot be for thee we live;
For all thy joys, desires, and appetites
Are counterfeits—sweetmeats that tempt our taste,
But turn to loathsomeness and disappointment.
Thou art of earth, and must to earth go down,
Our truest joys are those that need thee not—
Cool musings in the mind's deep cavern,
'Mid Thought's upbubbling wells, hid from the world;
Or high upsoarings of the heaven-wing'd soul,
That now looks up to an infinite height,
Imagining it sees a seat of rest,—
But anon the placid height is under foot,
And a higher overhead: thus ever, ever
Soaring and seeking—finding and wanting more;
And hoping ever, knowing there is more.
And where, and what the end to which we hasten?
O flesh! it cannot be for thee we live;
For all thy joys, desires, and appetites
Are counterfeits—sweetmeats that tempt our taste,
But turn to loathsomeness and disappointment.
Thou art of earth, and must to earth go down,
Our truest joys are those that need thee not—
Cool musings in the mind's deep cavern,
'Mid Thought's upbubbling wells, hid from the world;
Or high upsoarings of the heaven-wing'd soul,
That now looks up to an infinite height,
Imagining it sees a seat of rest,—
But anon the placid height is under foot,
And a higher overhead: thus ever, ever
Soaring and seeking—finding and wanting more;
And hoping ever, knowing there is more.
Let such our joys be ever; and that life
We look for after this, will be ours now;
And death come o'er us like a wakening,
That gives strength to the limbs, which, in our dream,
Bent under us.
We look for after this, will be ours now;
And death come o'er us like a wakening,
That gives strength to the limbs, which, in our dream,
Bent under us.
| Records and Other Poems | |