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Madeline

With other poems and parables: By Thomas Gordon Hake
Hake, Thomas Gordon (1809-1895)

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MADELINE.
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THE WORLD'S EPITAPH.
 I. 
I. ON ART.
 II. 
II. ON MUSIC.
 III. 
III. ON POETRY.
 IV. 
IV. ON THE STORM OF LIFE.
 V. 
V. ON THE RAINBOW.
 VI. 
VI. ON THE SANCTUARY.
 VII. 
VII. ON NATURE.
 VIII. 
VIII. ON TIME.
 IX. 
IX. ON THE FUTURE.
 X. 
X. ON THE SOUL.
 XI. 
XI. ON THE SOUL.
 XII. 
XII. ON GLORY.
 XIII. 
XIII. ON PEACE.
 XIV. 
XIV. ON THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
 XV. 
XV. ON GENIUS.
 XVI. 
XVI. ON DEPARTING PEACE.
 XVII. 
XVII. ON NATURE.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. ON LIFE.
 XIX. 
XIX. ON HOPE.
 XX. 
XX. ON THOUGHT.
 XXI. 
XXI. ON THE SEASONS OF LIFE.
 XXII. 
XXII. ON PASSION.
 XXIII. 
XXIII. ON THE NUPTIALS.
 XXIV. 
XXIV. ON THE SIREN.
 XXV. 
XXV. ON THE IMAGE.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. ON THE INFANT AT THE BREAST.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. ON THE WIDOW.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. ON PITY.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. ON THE BEREAVED.
 XXX. 
XXX. ON EARLY DEATH.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. ON THE DESERTED.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. ON DISSIPATED YOUTH.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. ON CONSCIENCE.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. ON SLUMBER.
 XXXV. 
XXXV. ON THE PILLOW OF THE WRETCHED.
 XXXVI. 
XXXVI. ON A MOTHER.
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. ON THE OUTCAST.
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. ON CHARITY.
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. ON THE SAINT.
 XL. 
XL. ON THE SISTER OF MERCY.
 XLI. 
XLI. ON THE STATESMAN.
 XLII. 
XLII. ON OLD AGE.
 XLIII. 
XLIII. ON PENITENCE.
 XLIV. 
XLIV. ON MADNESS.
 XLV. 
XLV. ON DESPAIR.
 XLVI. 
XLVI. ON THE STRUGGLE FOR IMMORTALITY.
 XLVII. 
XLVII. ON MAN.
 XLVIII. 
XLVIII. ON FATE.
 XLIX. 
XLIX. ON DESPOTISM.
 L. 
L. ON PRIDE.
 LI. 
LI. ON THE PRISONER.
 LII. 
LII. ON REMORSE.
 LIII. 
LIII. ON HYPOCRISY.
 LIV. 
LIV. ON THE MASK.
 LV. 
LV. ON SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS.
 LVI. 
LVI. ON CUNNING.
 LVII. 
LVII. ON BELIEF.
 LVIII. 
LVIII. ON THE DEATH-BED OF THE WISE.
 LIX. 
LIX. ON THE PHILOSOPHER.
 LX. 
LX. ON DELIRIUM.
 LXI. 
LXI. ON THE CLOSE OF LIFE.
 LXII. 
LXII. ON THE CHURCHYARD.
 LXIII. 
LXIII. ON THE TOMBS.
 LXIV. 
LXIV. ON DEATH.
 LXV. 
LXV. ON THE RESURGAM.

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186

X. ON THE SOUL.

Free as the soul, the spire ascends,
Heaven lets it in her presence sit;
Yet ever back to earth it tends:
The tranquil waters echo it.
So falls the future to the past;
So the high soul to earth is cast.
But though the soul thus nobly fails,
Not long it borders on despair;
It still the fallen glory hails,
Though lost its conquests in the air.
While truth is yet above, its good
Is measured in the spirit's flood.
Though not its first, its holy light
Is figured in that mirror's face,
It scarce returns a form less bright
Than fills above a higher place.
The one was loved though little known,
The other is the spirit's own.
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