University of Virginia Library

Sceptres are mighty wands, and few are found
With strength to wield them; yet how many dare!
And kingdoms are the agonies of Thrones,
Yet men will die to face them! thus the Heart
Exceeds itself, nor calls the madness vain.
But, were it mine from kingliness to take
The tyrant witchery, I'd bid some young
Idolater of throne-exalted power,
In the deep midnight when the World lies hush'd
In her humility of sleep, to gaze
Upon a prince's couch. The crimson pomp
And glare of palace-chambers round him lie;
But on his cheek the royal spirit stamps
A weariness which mocks this outward show
Of kings; a prison would have graced it more!
A sad rehearsal of unhonour'd youth
When years went reckless as the rolling waves,
Till passion grew satiety; a proud
Regret for trait'rous hearts; and that keen sense
Untold, which monarchs more than subjects feel,
Of slavery; (for servile is the pomp
Of kings, though gorgeously it dares the eye)
With a dim haunting of the dreary tomb,
That often through the banquet-splendour gapes
Like darkness that defies a sun!—such dream
From out his slumber that calm beauty steals
Which Innocence delights to wear. Then, watch
His features, when some trace of dreadful thought
Endows them with a spirit-eloquence,
That speaks of Judgment, with its thronging host
Of terrors; Monarchs cited, and the vast
Account of sceptred kingdoms render'd up;
Could Envy listen to his waking groan,
How poor, how perilous, the state of kings!

Away with this:—transcendently endow'd
And in her mass of mind concent'ring more
Of awfulness, than nature in its might
Of rock or mountain feels, proud Europe spreads
Her living map before me now! What hearts
And souls commune! what countless tides of thought
And feeling, in electric flow, from breast
To breast, from clime to clime, prevailing here;
Here is the throne of Mind; th' arena vast
Where principles and passions run their course
And pant and struggle with conflicting play,—
Where men and angels, heav'n and hell are met,
And Life flings shadows o'er eternity!

Region of wonders! who yon scenes can trace,
Or on thy many-featured visage mark
Each motion of thy spirit, in the glow
Of changing impulse, and creative power?
There, is an ocean, darken'd by the wings
Of vessels, leaping like the waves they front,
While thund'ring to and fro their country's wrath
They tell her glory to the list'ning skies!
And there, a river like a liquid sweep
Of light, where Commerce welcomed by the gale,
Sails onward in the sun; but here, a scene
Of battle, crimson'd o'er with clotting blood!
Banners are playing, rich as unroll'd clouds
Hung loose upon mid air; the gleam of arms
Incessant flashes through the misty fray
Fierce as the lightnings when they flutter wild;
While mute and sad, a City waits afar
With Doubt and Anguish in her desert-streets,
Who catch the war-notes from the travell'd wind
And answer them, with living echoes there.
In dream-like contrast, 'mid the hush of noon
How meekly yon romantic village lies
Beneath a canopy of cloudless blue!
With elm-trees twinkling as they wave, the meads
Made golden for their harvest, and yon spire
In peaceful beauty pointing to the heavens.

Sprinkled with mountains, and with cloud-capt hills,
Helvetia swells majestic on my view,
In her primeval glory. Free-soul'd Land!
Summer and Winter for thy smile contend,
Witching thy prospects into fairy pomp
With beautiful abruptness. Verdure-clad
And deck'd with flowers, these undulating vales
Extend, while vines the terraced hills embrace,
And Landscapes, laughing o'er the clouds, may hear
The Tempest-howl in cavern gloom below!—
But Winter hath his triumph; let the rush
And roar of cataracts; the darksome lakes,—
Convulsive rolling in the midnight-storm;
The glaciers, billow'd like a frozen sea
Iced in the plunging madness of the storm;
And, chief o'er all, the silent Alp-king rear'd
Like Grandeur risen from eternity,—
Let these declare thee for a land sublime.
Home of the dauntless! on thy patriot-soil
While sternness of simplicity can breathe
A Roman vigour, and the name of Tell
Haunts like a harrowing spirit every vale
And mountain-hollow, Time shall honour thee,
When many an Empire shall have pass'd away,
And forests wave where Capitals are seen!

Southward of thee, where shining rocks ascend,
Pointing their cannon to the broad blue main
Defyingly, what region of the sun.
Is that, with green-dyed olive groves, and fruits
Whose ripeness glitters on the laden boughs?
'Tis Spain! the glowing clime of Luxury,
Of Chivalry, and dead Romance: her hills
Where aromatic odours scent the skies,
And bright-hued flowers, that in the mountain-breeze
Of wafted freshness dance their beauteous heads;
Her dark-eyed dames, and stately cavaliers
Whose brows are haughty with the dreams of eld;
Her pomp of palaces, her fountain-walks,
And many-templed Capitals,—betray
Her form'd for Pleasure's undisputed reign.
And yet, on History's most heroic page
Hath Andalusia an undying seal,
And Arragon a print of fame:—but deeds
Of blood, and Inquisition's torturing rack,
For vengeance when the world's arraignment sounds,
Will rise; and woe to Tyrants! they shall read
The chronicle stern Justice keeps in hell!

Here, too, the passions are despotic slaves
For me; and prove how features can reveal
The voiceless language of the varied mind.
The languor of luxurious eyes, for Love
Abounds; for Jealousy, the livid gaze
Which looks a murder where its meaning falls!
And for Revenge, an aspect darkly still
Like savage thunder sleeping in a cloud!—
And midnight is the mantle for them all.

Enchanting as thou art, romantic Spain,
The home of beauty and the queen of climes,
Loved Italy, whose oriental heavens
Are rich enough o'er Paradise to hang,
Outdazzles thee in splendour. 'Tis the hour
When noon-shine, dying into sunset-glow,
Suffuses, like a gorgeous wing outspread
In wanton glory, gleams of magic hue.
How radiantly adown those heaven-bright hills
The young streams tremble? Arno, mountain-born
With ling'ring progress writhes along the vale:
And groves and gardens on the cool wind shake
Their fragrance; while around vine-laden meads
Flush with their produce, and the playful breeze
Ruffles the golden corn-fields. Near yon lake
Mark sea-throned Venice in her island-pride,
Resentful dares the Adriatic-roar!
And o'er the river, where gondolas throng,
'Mid Palaces that frown with haggard Pomp
Out-arches her Rialto:—she hath reign'd
Her day; ducal tyrants are no more,
And blighted fabrics but reveal her fame.

And what is Venice to the wreck of Rome?
That Giantess of empire! blacken'd, bow'd,
And desolated on her seven-hill throne
Behold her seated by worn Tiber's banks!
Colossal ruin, like a noble mind
In desolation thou art haughty still!
Though Time hath conquer'd, can he equal thee?
Thy Temples huge where ages are enshrined;
The trophied porches, theatres august
Which heard the beating of ten thousand hearts;
And Fane sublime, on that Tarpeian rock,
Where Vengeance grasp'd eternity!—when Rome
Could trample kingdoms and o'erawe the world
What grandeur rivall'd these? Their very shades
Are solemn: but around them when the rush
Of life was heard; when chariots, bright as clouds
Which throne the morning sun, victorious came
Amid the tramp of war steeds and the shout
Of millions swelling with their country's fame,—
Thy glory was a terror, and thine arm
Omnipotence to nations! Through all realms
The throbbing of thy faintest anger thrill'd,
And when thou frown'dst, what kingdom dared be free?

Men look on thee, as Seraphs gaze on Light,
With silent rapture solemnised to awe,
Till the dead Past in resurrection-pomp,
Arises, and the Roman lives again!
Heroes and sages start beneath their feet;
Their eyes are dazzled with a starry dream
Of old renown; and, like thy vassal-states,
They deify thy name. And I forgive
The weakness of their worship, when the sun's
Bright mockery plays along thy mould'ring piles;
Or when the moonbeam through some cypress-tree,
Sheds rays of sorrow on thy weed-tress'd walls
And gray-worn monuments; from thy young dawn
Of being, ere thy roofless huts were piled,
To the proud noon of greatness, thou hast proved
A theme of wonder to infernal hosts,
Half demons and half gods thy heroes were;
And Roman teachers,—are they not still felt
And follow'd? deities of mind, whose words
Are wings of knowledge to the daring.—Rome
Is dead; but mental Rome is reigning still
With vaster sway than Pompey's eagles won!

Long may it reign so! that a fiery love
Of fame and battle, which defeatures earth
With scars eternity shall fail to heal,
May live by inspiration fierce as Rome's.
Many a “hero” hath by Her been crazed;
And fancied “Cæsars” yet will come, to chain
The world, or fool it with disastrous fame!
Yea, at this moment, in tyrannic hearts
Ambition hath a mass of burning thought
In secret treasured, like volcanic ire:
Kindle it, Time! and rear thy second Rome.

Few years have fleeted o'er this tomb-like haunt
Of ruin, since a Spirit who appall'd
The world, by giving thoughts a thunder-tone,
And feeling, that terrific lightning-flash,
That show'd the storm-depths of the soul within;
Who pour'd himself in passion o'er mankind
Making each heart to quiver with delight,
Like water thrill'd by an electric sound,—
Amid thy canker'd fanes and crumbling halls
Mused in the deadness of the midnight-hour.

It was a haggard night; when mortals dream
That conscious Nature in dejection pines;
As though the elements were all diseased,
The moon hung rayless, and the few faint stars
Gleam'd pale and glassy as the eye of death.
Alone, the victim of his darkest mood,
In the stern shade of ruin'd Palaces
And pillar'd wrecks of desolated shrines
The wanderer roam'd; and when some sickly break
Of moonlight lit his features into play
With all their lines of passionate excess,
The haunting Genius of the spot he seem'd
Lost in the workings of a wilder'd mind.
He sigh'd, and mused; and then from earth to heav'n
His eye was raised, but moisten'd with a tear
Of tenderness, wherein the pride of years
Had melted out from his rebellious soul,
Most haughty in abasement:— blighted man!
His nature was a whirlpool of desires,
And mighty passions, perilously mix'd,
That with the darkness of the demon-world
Had something of the light of Heaven. He breathed
The sighs that after-ages will repeat,—
The selfish eloquence of tortured thought
In words that glow with agony! Yet far
From him that deeper sadness of the mind
Which, gather'd from the gloom of mortal things
In moments of mysterious sway, o'erclouds
A soul, yet sanctifies those thoughts which feel
Eternity a spirit's home to be,
And time mere exile, which the man endures.

So worshipp'd, and so sad!—Oh, were not hopes
Destroy'd, the moral landscape Devils love
To witness, idols of this world might win
My pity for their portion. How deceived
And how deceiving, is the race they run!
The King and Hero, Bard and Sage, with all
Who in the storehouse of departed time
Have heap'd such treasure, as great deeds and words
Beget, what bright delusions have they been!

To fancied Edens of poetic bloom
On wings of sentiment can Genius roam,
And meditate on worldless Things, whence comes
A glorious panting for a purer State,
Than Adam saw, when Earth's anointed Priest
In purity, his life was incense breath'd to God.
But, martyrs to unhealthy thought abound,
Who out of earthly elements have sought
A happiness to reap whose soil is heaven,
And, failing, sunk to profitless despair.
Thus Learning, Luxury, and laurell'd Fame,
Vain phantoms, what a worship have they won!
The first, a shallow excellence; the next,
A malady of brutish growth, debased
And most debasing, turning soul to sense
Till nature seems unspirited; the last,
Magnificent betrayer! while afar
Beheld, the crown of heaven itself seems thine;
But when attain'd, how oft a brilliant Lie
Whose lustre was but hollowness conceal'd!
Oh! many an eye that in the glow of youth
Hath brighten'd, as it gazed on pictured worth,
Or linger'd round those everlasting shrines
Where tombs have tongues, and monuments are speech,
Where great inheritors of Glory rest,—
Hath wept the laurels that it once adored!

The atmosphere which circleth gifted minds
Is from a deep intensity derived,—
An element of thought, where feelings shape
Themselves to fancies,—an electric world
Too exquisitely framed for common life,
Which they of coarser metal cannot dream.
And hence, those fascinating powers of soul
That robe the heavens with beauty, and create
Romance which makes reality untrue,
Upon the rack of quick excitement live;
Their joy the essence of an agony,
And that, the throbbing of the fires within!

And thus, while Fame's heart-echoing clarions ring,
The voice and visions of ideal renown
In one vile whisper may be overwhelm'd.
Made mighty by its littleness, a word
Of Envy drowns the thunder which delight
Hath voiced! so oft the phantom of a cloud
In single darkness cowering on the air,
Looks fiercer for the frownless heaven around!
So Fame is murder'd, that the dull may live;
Or, to Herself grows false; then hideous dreams
And tomb-like shadows thicken round the mind,
Till, plunging into dread infinity,
It rides upon the billows which Despair
Hath summon'd from the stormy gloom of thought.
Dark victim! thus so ruinously famed,
What misery haunts thy smile of happiness!
Beneath the mountain of thy vast renown
There lives a mortal, unendow'd by aught
That Learning, Luxury, or Fame can yield,
And yet a Crœsus in his store of joy
With thine compared; the man whom sullied earth
Enslaves not, on whose soul the Truth hath smiled—
Truth which I loathe, but Hell cannot destroy!

A model first, and then the captive made
Of desolating Rome, the classic Isles
Of ancient Greece, beside yon full-waved sea
Laugh in the bright unbreathing air of noon.
Antiquity reigns here; see! on her throne
Of Athos, whence the giant-shadow sweeps,
As new alighted from a cloud she stands,
Waving her wand triumphant o'er her scenes;—
To hoar Parnassus, where the fabled spring
Of Castaly still flows; and time-awed wilds,
And mountain-pass, and Marathonian plain,
To every haunt heroic feet have trod
Her wand is pointed,—till the Past untombs
Her treasure; Athens is revived again;
The slave-isles hurl their shackles o'er the sea,
And Greece awakes to glorify the world!

Surpassing Clime! though man thy charms profane,
Nature bedecks thee with a bridal robe.
When moon-tints tremble on the Adrian-waves,
What sea so beautiful! what sun so bright,
So ravishingly deck'd with golden beams
As thine unequall'd orb!—And still yon skies
Are canopies of crystal; rich-leaf'd flowers
Ope radiant as the fairy wings of birds,
And fruit and tree wave luscious in the wind.

Again, thou upstart World, thy doom behold!
Where Valour with the sword of freedom fell'd
Her myriads down, like grass before the scythe;
Where Art and Science in perfection reign'd,
And Sculpture miracles of grace achieved;
Where Eloquence her spirit volley'd forth
In words that palsied Empires with their sound,
As shakes a forest in the deep-toned storm!
Where Poetry, by stirring passion bred,
From Feeling's heart responsive numbers drew,
While heavenly Wisdom to the soaring eye
Of sages half reveal'd her perfect form,—
There in that Land, surpassingly endow'd
With all that beauty wealth and art bestow,
Corruption in her darkest spirit dwells.
Then learn, Adorers of Athenian gods,
Learn, at the tomb of Glory laid in dust,
How human passions wither while they sway;
The Curse is living!—think of my revenge!

Northward of Greece, behold illustrious Gaul,
Britannia's rival, gaily doth outspread
Her scenery, and blooming flush of life.
She, too, hath beauty; and her sun-warm hills,
Which bare their bosoms to the mellowing sky,
With vine and fruitage, bountifully glow;
While rivers of romance, by wood and vale,
And bord'ring town, their sparkling waters lead.
Young, fresh, and gay, elastic as the breeze,
All spring and sunshine, her full spirit bounds;
Here vanity is virtue: out of hearts
Which seem to echo but what woman loves
A waking valour, prompt to dare, and proud
To die. And yet, true nobleness of mind
Is faintly seen; sincerity, too harsh
To please, is polish'd into courtly lies,—
The frothy incense of a faithless soul.

Once France and Freedom were a mingled name;
And now, when all their wrathful clouds are roll'd
Away, the shadows which they cast endure,
Clothing the soul of memory with fear.
Her Revolution, who that saw forgets,
Or who that felt, and does not feel?—The storm
Which makes a midnight of affrighted day,
Is weak, to that rebellion of despair
When buried passions, like an earthquake burst
From out an injured Nation's heart. And such
Was thine, afflicted France! the far-off Thrones
Of tyrants stagger'd, distant Empires quail'd
When, like th' embodied spirit of thy wrongs,
Dread Revolution darken'd on the world,
Ringing a peal that echoed Europe round
And died in thunder o'er th' Atlantic deep!
But thou wert too unholy to be free,
Too grasping to be great; and when thy thirst
For havoc brutalised the scene of blood,
As though re-action for all human wrong
Were centred in it for one dire revenge,
A madness fired thee; and thy human fiends
Rivall'd their lord in blasphemy and blood!

Bounding with gladness, by yon castled banks
Roll the green waters of the glorious Rhine
In fullness and in freedom, swelling on
For ever. There, amid some minds which hold
Each hallow'd creed by dreading Hell abhorr'd,
While Men to “Ego” germanise their God
Dark Speculation does my brain-work well
In many a school, where reeling heads grow wild
And godless! Hence, all moral basis fails
Wherein the judgment can alone repose
Secure and solid; while the eye of faith
Is darken'd, sacred conscience half extinct,
And doubts, refracting heaven's unbroken light
From Scripture, make the Man himself untrue,—
In reasoning pride irrationally lost!
Free though they look, my slaves all sceptics are;
Through mental fogs, or pantheistic gloom,
Blindly they grope their miserable way
And make confusion more confounded still:
Then, all is chaos, and the Spirit mine!—
Love, Faith and Law, a trinity of powers
Which shape the will, or sanctify the heart
For heaven, my human miniatures disdain:
Not grace for discipline, but truth for thought
Proud worshippers of Indecision love
Like mental antichrists: till God becomes
Impersonal, a Problem for the soul
To scan—mere Principle, and nothing more!
Hence, German thought a German Christ evokes
From misty depths, to speculation dear
Because unfathom'd. Now, my reign begins:
Let darkness be, where Deity said, light!
Till creedless mind call God an inward Myth
Of man's creation; and thus will sceptics prove
The incarnations of that Lie first-born
In Eden utter'd, when I whisper'd,—doubt,
Renounce Jehovah and thyself believe!

Fronting the wave-environ'd shore of France,
And bulwark'd with her everlasting main
O'er which the guardian-cliffs sublimely lower,
Like palaces of stern defence, behold
The Isle-queen!—every billow sounds her fame!
The Ocean is her proud triumphal car
Whereon she rideth; and the rolling waves
The vassals which secure her victory;
Alone, and matchless in her sceptred might
She dares the world. The spirit of the brave
Burns in her; laws are liberty; and kings
Wear crowns which glitter with a people's love;
And while the magna-charta of their rights
Is guarded, royalty is kept secure;
But let the cause of Liberty be wrong'd,—
The throne is shaken! patriot-voices rise,
And, prompt as billows by the tyrant-gale
Excited, loud and haughty is their roar!

Heaven-favour'd Land! where fitful climates reign,
And home-life from the ever-clouded skies
A bliss concenter'd more than France enjoys,—
Of mountain-pomp, and poetry of hills,
Though other climates boast, in thee supreme
A pastoral grace and gentleness abound;
Here all which quiet feeling love, or charms
The sweet sobriety of tender thought,
Is thine; a heaven whose beautiful, is change;
Or sunshine tinged by unreposing clouds,
That make bright landscapes when they blush abroad;
The dingle grey, and wooded copse; with hut
And hamlet, nestling in some bosky vale;
And spires brown-peeping o'er the ancient elms,
And steepled cities, faint and far away,
With all that bird and meadow, brook and gale
Impart,—commingle for romantic eyes
Which catch the sentiment thy scenes inspire.

But Ocean is thy glory: and methinks
Some musing wanderer by the shore I see,
Weaving his island-fancies.—Round him rock
And cliff, whose grey trees mutter to the wind,
And streams down-rushing with a torrent ire:
The sky seems craggy, with her cloud-piles hung,
Deep-mass'd, as though avenging thunder lay
And darken'd in its dream of havoc there.
Before him, Ocean, yelling in the blast,
Wild as the death-wail of a drowning host:
The surges,—let them each a tempest roll,
Or lash their fury into living foam,
Yon war-ship shall outbrave them all! her sails
Resent the winds, and their remorseless beat;
And when she ventures the abyss of waves,
Remounts, expands her wings, and then—away!
Proud as an eagle dashing through the clouds.

And well, brave scion of the empress-Isle,
Thy spirit mingles with the mighty scene,
Hailing thy Country on her ocean-throne.
But she hath dread atonements to complete,
And burning tears to shed. Thy lofty dreams
O England! may be humbled yet; behold!
Thy curse is coming;—mark! for in thine own
Great heart the darkness of rebellion breeds,
And frowns of Heaven hang awful o'er thy doom!

And now, the World before my view hath pass'd,
With multitudinous array of pomp
And power, of Kingdom, Plain, and Desert rude,
Of Oceans, garnish'd with their glitt'ring isles,
And the vast heaven which o'er-arches all!
How crime and havoc in dread union leagued
The fortunes of this fated earth have changed!
The present still is echo to the past;
Of both the future will an echo prove;
A rise and fall,—a fall and rise—the doom
Of men and empires thus gone ages tell.

And what of this proud Age, whose wings unfold
In bright expansion? Is she Wisdom's child?
From the dark catalogue of sin and shame
Is aught erased? Are passions more subdued,
The virtues laurell'd, and the vices dead?
The same in spirit doth the earth exist?
If so, then, Time, I hail thee! and the Curse
Shall multiply; new thrones and dynasties
May come, but Desolation shall foredoom
Their fate, though haughty be the aspect worn.
And as among the myriads who have lived
On earth, not many have our thrones regain'd,
So from the myriads yet to be reveal'd
In life and suff'rance, few shall face the heat
Of trial scathless; few shall overcome
The world, or win the crown apostles wear.

But lo! the day declines; and to his couch
The Sun is wheeling. What a world of pomp
The heavens put on in homage to his power!
Romance hath never hung a richer sky,—
Or sea of sunshine, o'er whose yellow deep
Triumphal barks of beauteous foam career,
As though the clouds held festival, to hail
Their god of glory to his western home.
And now the earth seems mirror'd on the skies!
While lakes and valleys, drown'd in dewy light,
And rich delusions, dazzlingly array'd,
Form, float, and die, in all their phantom-joy.
At length the Sun is throned; but from his face
A flush of beauty o'er creation flows,
Then faints to paleness, for the Day hath sunk
Beneath the waters, dash'd with ruby dyes,
And Twilight in her nun-like meekness comes:
The air is fragrant with the soul of flowers,
The breeze comes panting like a child at play,
While birds, day-worn, are couch'd in leafy rest,
And calm as clouds the sunken billows sleep:
The dimness of a dream o'er nature steals,
Yet hallows it; a hush'd enchantment reigns;
The mountains to a mass of mellowing shade
Are turn'd, and stand like temples of the Night:
While field and forest, fading into gloom,
Depart, and rivers whisper sounds of fear;
A dying pause, as if th' Almighty moved
In shadow o'er His works, hath solemnised
The world!

But that hath ceased; the herald-stars,
In timid lustre twinkling into life,
Advance; and, faint as music's rising swell,
The moon is rounding as she dawns. Fair orb!
The sentimental child of earth will say,
The sun glares like a warrior o'er his plain
Of morning sky; but thou, so wan and meek,
Appear'st a maiden of romance, who walks
In placid sorrow, beautifully pale.
Behold thy power! on tree and meadow falls
The loveliness of thine arraying smile.
How silverly the sleeping air is robed
Around me! Clouds above, like plats of snow
Which linger on the hills, and laugh the sun
Away with their white beauty, yet remain;
And now they vanish, and the soundless heaven
Forms one deep cope of azure, where the stars,
Bright pilgrims voyaging an unwaved sea,
Are strewn, and sparkle with incessant rays
Of mystery and meaning. Yet not heaven,
When islanded with all those lustrous worlds,
Nor cradled Ocean with the waves uproll'd,
Nor moonlight weaving forth its pallid shroud,
Is so enchanting as that stillness felt,
And living with luxurious spell, through all,—
Silent as though a sound had never been;
Or, angels o'er her slumber spread their wings,
And breathed a sabbath into Nature's soul.

No wonder moonlight made idolaters,
That their Creator in creation merged
As one surpassing Whole: for even I,
I who have look'd with archangelic love
On all the beauty and the blaze of heaven,—
E'en I, the burning of my soul can feel
Allay'd, when nature grows so near divine.
And man, when passionless and pure awhile
Amid the trances of unbreathing night
With adoration in his eye and heart,
He walks abroad, and measures at a gaze
The starr'd immensity above, becomes
Sublime; a shade of his primeval Soul
Returns upon him; chaste as e'er it fell
Heaven-ward the prayer-winged heart of faith ascends,
Beholding Angels in excess of light,
And joining in their chorus round The Throne!
Sublime, but impotent, he then appears:
The Fathomless, oh, who shall fathom? Time,
Eternity, and Truth,—those awful Three
That make the mystery God alone resolves.