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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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273

LIX. ON THE PHILOSOPHER.

Thou genius of the stars whose glass
Points to the fields on high,
To gauge the glories as they pass,
Remote, yet looking nigh;
Know'st thou that living thus in light,
Thy way is dark, thy soul is night?
The gleams of thy arched palace throw
A shadow in thy way;
Gleams that from a Creator flow,
Yet blind thee to his day.
Philosophy, though born above,
Curdles the milky-way of love.
O genius, sin no more, but pray;
A whirlwind marks thy place,
The stars to scatter in dismay,
And hurl thee into space.
Not thus thy thirst for lore assuage:
Is it not sin the heavens to gauge?
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