Stones from The Quarry or, Moods of Mind. By Henry Browne [i.e. Henry Ellison] |
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SCIENTIFIC “QUINTAINS.” |
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 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
SCIENTIFIC “QUINTAINS.”
Poor, finite Being, grasping Infinite!
Reducing God to cónfine of Man's Sense;
Grasping, like too much sand, these “Atoms,” thence
Life i' the act, conscious Intelligence,
So to surprise, and drag forth to the light
Of purblind Reason. These escape grasp quite
Like that same sand. Take your “Gorilla” hence,
Museum-stuff, make no more vain pretence
Of search for the “lost link,” the “Twain” t' unite
In scientific wedlock! As who air
Beat, and fight shadows, yet the substance shun;
Like yelping curs with “I would an I dare;”
Science's Don Quixotes, “Candles to the Sun,”
Tilting at windmills; the real “Ogres” none
Dare meet: “Free-Will,” “Identity,”—these scare!
Reducing God to cónfine of Man's Sense;
Grasping, like too much sand, these “Atoms,” thence
Life i' the act, conscious Intelligence,
So to surprise, and drag forth to the light
Of purblind Reason. These escape grasp quite
Like that same sand. Take your “Gorilla” hence,
Museum-stuff, make no more vain pretence
Of search for the “lost link,” the “Twain” t' unite
In scientific wedlock! As who air
Beat, and fight shadows, yet the substance shun;
Like yelping curs with “I would an I dare;”
Science's Don Quixotes, “Candles to the Sun,”
Tilting at windmills; the real “Ogres” none
Dare meet: “Free-Will,” “Identity,”—these scare!
No shadows these, but dread realities,
That stand sheer-up, like cliff 'gainst which the sea
Of Time beats ever, and no passage free,
The sands still shrinking as the tides fast rise.
Here Time's horizon, there Eternity's
Boundless, horizonless expanse, degree
None there of More or Less, Infinitie,
Dread Blank! alone; baffling Thought, as Space eyes!
Is Man's “Free-Will” i' the “Scientific” chain
A “missing link,” or, as Hope's anchor should,
Holds it its own, although it crack and strain?
Or can “Identity” withstand this rude
And terrible shock, which shatters heart and brain,
And rise, like Phœnix, self-same, yet renewed?
That stand sheer-up, like cliff 'gainst which the sea
Of Time beats ever, and no passage free,
The sands still shrinking as the tides fast rise.
Here Time's horizon, there Eternity's
Boundless, horizonless expanse, degree
None there of More or Less, Infinitie,
Dread Blank! alone; baffling Thought, as Space eyes!
Is Man's “Free-Will” i' the “Scientific” chain
A “missing link,” or, as Hope's anchor should,
Holds it its own, although it crack and strain?
Or can “Identity” withstand this rude
And terrible shock, which shatters heart and brain,
And rise, like Phœnix, self-same, yet renewed?
| Stones from The Quarry | |