XXXIII.
A MYSTERY'S SOLUTION.
1
“I cannot tell you why; but ever when
I'm most depress'd in spirit, I still think
Incessantly of you.”—I'll tell thee why:
When of affliction's cup our spirits drink,
By the sad chances of the world fill'd high,
They sink into the bosom's inmost cell,
And from the feeling there most spiritual
Draw solace, though great grief within it dwell—
As the bee honey from the poison-flower.
One object lurketh in the souls of men,
Which still they look to with eternal eye,
Outgazing death! and with an unseen power
It swayeth action; 'tis the all-in-all
That prompts the doings which men Madness call:
2
And by this moved—when sorrow, or annoyance
Besets life's common path with weed and briar,
That all surrounding things seem void of joyance
And life a wretched clod 'twixt frost and fire—
Thou turn'st for refuge to the only feeling
Thou carriest with thee in all thoughts of heaven;
And love pervades thee, with a deep revealing
Of dews and flowers, and meadows green and even,
And gushing rivulets, and sunny vales,
Inlaid with waving shadows, and calm nooks,
And songs of birds and leaf-attuning gales;
All poetry of nature and of books,
Of passion-minglings and communings sweet—
And on a far-off shore all thy heart's billows beat!
