 | The battle of Niagara |  |
'Twas feeling all, and generous love—
The reaching of the soul above:—
The intellectual homage pure,
That is sincere, and will endure:
It was the offering of the heart,
The soul—and pulse—and every part,
That's noble in our frames, or given
To throb for suns, or stars, or heaven:
The spirit that is made of flame,
For ever mounting whence it came:
The pulse that counts the march of time,
Impatient for the call sublime,
When it may spring abroad—away—
And beat the march of endless day—
The heart, that by itself is nurst,
And heaves, and swells, 'till it hath burst:
That never yields—and ne'er complains—
And dies—but to conceal its pains,
And the bright, flashing, glorious eye
For ever open on the sky,
As if in that stupendous swell
It sought a spot, where he might dwell,
And pant for immortality.
The reaching of the soul above:—
The intellectual homage pure,
That is sincere, and will endure:
194
The soul—and pulse—and every part,
That's noble in our frames, or given
To throb for suns, or stars, or heaven:
The spirit that is made of flame,
For ever mounting whence it came:
The pulse that counts the march of time,
Impatient for the call sublime,
When it may spring abroad—away—
And beat the march of endless day—
The heart, that by itself is nurst,
And heaves, and swells, 'till it hath burst:
That never yields—and ne'er complains—
And dies—but to conceal its pains,
And the bright, flashing, glorious eye
For ever open on the sky,
As if in that stupendous swell
It sought a spot, where he might dwell,
And pant for immortality.
| The battle of Niagara | |