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IV.

But say the Imperfect might be made
Complete within its bounds—its grade—
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From every possible degree
Of Evil done or suffered free—
(Which none can prove)—with no desire
As no conception of the higher:
Would that a loftier lot have been?
To rest, a faultless mere machine
Bound down to automatic bliss
Of stagnant Being—that, or this
Which works through Darkness to the Light,
Still struggling towards the highest height
Perhaps in progress infinite?—
Pooh—pooh!” within himself he said
Breaking the speculative thread
Short off;—for that tumultuous fight,
His own exertions—and the sight
Of Amo by her father's bed
Working in strong affection's might
To soothe and cheer his evil plight—
Most keenly made him feel how vain,
How sickly all the sceptic train
Of thoughts on God, Man's doom or chance,
And Nature's mystic governance:
How true is Goethe's word—‘the cure
For Doubt is Action;’ not indeed
As making speculation sure—
As solving any special doubt,
Or settling any special creed,
But making Doubt itself appear
A thing impertinent and out
Of place in this bright work-day sphere;
And all that Speculation seem
The maundering of a feverish dream;
An idle growth, deficient both
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In fragrant flower and wholesome fruit;
Like some white straggling ivy-sprout,
Or sickly honeysuckle-shoot,
That thrusts a pale and feeble trail
Inside a darksome building's wall;
But kept without, in light and heat,
Had spread a green and graceful pall
With feathery blossoms luscious-sweet
O'er many a dreary blank or stain
And blotch that else the eye would pain—
Nor should have been allowed to crawl
Into the inner dark at all.
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