University of Virginia Library

Labors he then for naught, who thus pursues
What you misdeem a vision? Does he build
Vain fancies only, warm delusions, up,
And profitless chimeras;—still deceived,—
Cheating himself with hopes which haply cheat
None other than himself? Are these his toils?—
And you who work in more substantial ways,
And vex the seasons, man, all elements,
In multiplying gains—you are more wise,
And laugh to scorn the fool whose idle aim,
Like the warm painter of his own bright hues
Enamor'd, would impart to things around,
The glories that are growing in his heart
And kindling up his fancy into flame.

His are vain follies, but can yours be less,
And what are their delights? I will not ask—
But yon wild dreamer gazing on the stars
As if they were his kindred, what are his?
He gazes on them long, with musing mood
That thinks not once of earth. His spirit flies
Afar, on eagle pinions—he hath lost
The world which is around him—he hath gain'd
The world which is above him; and he feels
A mightier spirit working in his soul
Than thou hast ever dream'd of. He hath thoughts
That yield him strength and life—a treasury
In which thy gold is dross; and couldst thou give
Thy thousands in the barter, they could buy
No portion of the empire he hath won
In the fond thought he strives in. He hath felt
That life should have due play, and every nerve
Susceptible of consciousness, should do
Its separate function, ministering to the whole,
Or you have never lived, or lived in vain—
Having quick feelings, generous taste and blood,
At waste or rioting, or unemploy'd,
And damming up the system they should move.
You see no charm in those mysterious lights,
He follows evermore with eyes of thought,
And hold the worship madness which bestows
No worldly profit. Thou hast yet to learn
The things of highest profit to the heart
Are never things of trade. 'Twould be thy shame,
Star-gazing like yon dreamer, to be seen
By brother tradesmen. They would jeer thee much
With alehouse humor; and their truculent wit
Would bring the creature blood into thy cheeks,
And thou wouldst feel among thy brother men
As thou hadst done some crime, and for a while
Would shrink from the relation of thy deeds.

He thou rebukest in no kindly wise
Hath no such shame within him. In that star
He hath survey'd this hour, he joys to think
He looks on God's own handiwork and deems,
So far as he may venture on such theme,
The structure of that planetary light
Marvellous as his own, and born to shine
When he and thou, and all of us are dead!
Thence doth he draw a hope—a glorious hope—
That this poor struggle—thou, for earth's goods and gear,
And he, as thou hast thought, grappling at naught,
But fancies and a shadow—will not be,
What his quick spirit teaches him is life.
The difference 'twixt his hope and thine is great,
If thou hast never tutor'd thus thy heart,
Nor felt of these delusions. He, indeed,
Lives on them ever—is made up of them,
And glories more in that thou think'st thy shame,
Than any Greek who won a hecatomb,
Or Roman with his triumph. Nor in this
Alone, he gathers fuel for the mood
That lessons his wild spirit. In all things,
For the vain labor thou dost so deplore,
Mind hath its compensation. Ideal worlds,
Where spirits of departed myriads roam,
Are in the poet's fancy. He surveys,
In every leaf, each waving tree and bush,
Wild ocean or still brooklet, rippling down
Through twigs and bending osiers night and day,
The form of some enjoyment—some true word
From never-swerving teachers, building up
The moral of his faith into a pile,
Its apex in the heavens. Nor, in this work
Of self-perfection and self-eminence,
Lacks he for aid and fellowship. They come—
Spirits and whispering shades, that in the hush,
The stillness of deep forests, are abroad,
Obedient to his beck, whose lifted heart
May see them, and demand their services,
And make them slaves or teachers at his will.

Mock not the dream you may not understand,
Nor laugh to scorn the spirit whose pursuit
Stands not within the custom of the crowd.
The God who, to the offices of trade
Impell'd your aim, to him, perchance, assign'd
A duty—not like yours and yet not less
A duty—and he but pursues it now,
Even as assign'd him. The still flower that hides,
With speckled leaf, secure beneath yon cliff,
Gives odor to the breeze that cheers the heart
Of the consumptive—not less blest in this
Sad office, than the tree whose inner ring
Yields the small pouncet-box from which you feed
That nose you turn up, with so wise an air,
At the poor gazer on the journeying stars.