Ranolf and Amohia A dream of two lives. By Alfred Domett. New edition, revised |
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Ranolf and Amohia | ||
VIII.
Whose reveries then could our vexed Student lure?
Whom sought he next?—
Whom sought he next?—
That lofty Spirit and pure
The march majestic and the genuine ring
Of whose high eloquence on one high theme,
How best aloft the expanded Soul may wing
Her way, and best sustain her flight supreme—
Had all the warranty a life could bring,
The faithful mirror of his faith—sublime
In self-dependent stateliness severe,
And steadfast single eminence of aim;—
Fichte—whose name recalls a dearer Fame—
A Power intenser—trenchant—towering—true;
In Custom's ocean-strata prompt and prime
Impassioned insight's dynamite-mines to spring;
Of Spirits in unspiritual days who cling
To Spirit—stanchest if the most austere;
Right sympathiser though to satire wedded;
Rich lode of gold in rugged quartz imbedded!—
He whose capacious soul's ascending Sphere
Oft looms obscure while flashing brightness through
Dull mists it kindles till they disappear;
Who, rolling back the ponderous stone of Time,
Makes the dead Past, upstarting clear in fine
Fork-lightnings of Truth's poesy, outshine
The living Present, whose loud shams—with might
And hammer like his own white-knuckled Thor's,
And scorn that pities while it most abhors,
And humour laughing at his scorn's wild flight,—
His rough right hand was ever clenched to smite!—
Fichte—great voice to rouse, great heart to cheer!
This greater could not hear it and not leap
In unison, ‘Deep calling unto Deep;’
Could not from such a credence and career
Withhold the dower of his undying praise;
Which saw therein the far-reflected gleam
Of high-endeavouring old illustrious days;
Heard solemn echoes or the etherial flow
Of Attic pacings of the Portico
And whispers from the groves of Academe,
Where Truth alone by sages world-renowned
Was sought, and made Life's rule at once when found;—
Fichte struck out once more for truths that shine
Instinctive and immediately divine.
In consciousness is all of God we know;
But consciousness proclaims Him; neither dim
Nor doubtful He; all Being's source and stream;
Nature exists in us, and we in Him.
For ‘Me’ and ‘Not-Me’—Universe and Soul
Are one—not two—and Consciousness the whole:
Nature its passive, Soul its active side;
In Consciousness are both contained—allied;
Nature—a picture by that ‘Me’ supplied—
A glorious web which from fine stuff within
Itself the Spider Consciousness can spin.
So all is Spirit—Matter there is none
But part and product of the Soul alone.
The march majestic and the genuine ring
Of whose high eloquence on one high theme,
How best aloft the expanded Soul may wing
Her way, and best sustain her flight supreme—
Had all the warranty a life could bring,
30
In self-dependent stateliness severe,
And steadfast single eminence of aim;—
Fichte—whose name recalls a dearer Fame—
A Power intenser—trenchant—towering—true;
In Custom's ocean-strata prompt and prime
Impassioned insight's dynamite-mines to spring;
Of Spirits in unspiritual days who cling
To Spirit—stanchest if the most austere;
Right sympathiser though to satire wedded;
Rich lode of gold in rugged quartz imbedded!—
He whose capacious soul's ascending Sphere
Oft looms obscure while flashing brightness through
Dull mists it kindles till they disappear;
Who, rolling back the ponderous stone of Time,
Makes the dead Past, upstarting clear in fine
Fork-lightnings of Truth's poesy, outshine
The living Present, whose loud shams—with might
And hammer like his own white-knuckled Thor's,
And scorn that pities while it most abhors,
And humour laughing at his scorn's wild flight,—
His rough right hand was ever clenched to smite!—
Fichte—great voice to rouse, great heart to cheer!
This greater could not hear it and not leap
In unison, ‘Deep calling unto Deep;’
Could not from such a credence and career
Withhold the dower of his undying praise;
Which saw therein the far-reflected gleam
Of high-endeavouring old illustrious days;
Heard solemn echoes or the etherial flow
Of Attic pacings of the Portico
And whispers from the groves of Academe,
31
Was sought, and made Life's rule at once when found;—
Fichte struck out once more for truths that shine
Instinctive and immediately divine.
In consciousness is all of God we know;
But consciousness proclaims Him; neither dim
Nor doubtful He; all Being's source and stream;
Nature exists in us, and we in Him.
For ‘Me’ and ‘Not-Me’—Universe and Soul
Are one—not two—and Consciousness the whole:
Nature its passive, Soul its active side;
In Consciousness are both contained—allied;
Nature—a picture by that ‘Me’ supplied—
A glorious web which from fine stuff within
Itself the Spider Consciousness can spin.
So all is Spirit—Matter there is none
But part and product of the Soul alone.
And what ideal does Consciousness proclaim
As all we know of Him whom ‘God’ we name?—
That active principle, which clearly seen
Is working out, whatever intervene,
The triumph in the Universe and Man,
Of all that's useful, beautiful, and good;
That Force which forwards its consummate plan
Of progress endless towards the perfect Day
Of moral Order's universal sway;
And to the Soul above all tumult cries
Of one high Duty still to be pursued,—
With that ‘Divine Idea’ to harmonise
The Will, and all its faculties subdued
Into devout co-operative mood,
Press forward freely to the ennobling prize.
As all we know of Him whom ‘God’ we name?—
That active principle, which clearly seen
Is working out, whatever intervene,
The triumph in the Universe and Man,
Of all that's useful, beautiful, and good;
That Force which forwards its consummate plan
Of progress endless towards the perfect Day
Of moral Order's universal sway;
And to the Soul above all tumult cries
Of one high Duty still to be pursued,—
With that ‘Divine Idea’ to harmonise
The Will, and all its faculties subdued
Into devout co-operative mood,
Press forward freely to the ennobling prize.
Ranolf and Amohia | ||