Ballads and Other Poems By Mary Howitt |
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THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. |
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 | Ballads and Other Poems |  |
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THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
Men build to thee no shrine,
Yet every holy place is filled with thee;
Dim groves and mountain-tops alike are thine,
Spirit of Poetry!
Island and ocean-peak;
Seas where the keel of ships shall never go;
Cots, palaces, and graves; whate'er can speak
Of human love or woe;
Yet every holy place is filled with thee;
Dim groves and mountain-tops alike are thine,
Spirit of Poetry!
Island and ocean-peak;
Seas where the keel of ships shall never go;
Cots, palaces, and graves; whate'er can speak
Of human love or woe;
All are the shrines where thou
Broodest with power, not visible, yet strong;
Like odour from the rose, we know not how
Borne to the sense along.
Oh! spirit, which art pure,
Mighty and holy, and of God art sprung;
Which teachest to aspire and to endure,
As ne'er taught human tongue;
Broodest with power, not visible, yet strong;
Like odour from the rose, we know not how
Borne to the sense along.
Oh! spirit, which art pure,
Mighty and holy, and of God art sprung;
Which teachest to aspire and to endure,
As ne'er taught human tongue;
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What art thou? A glad spirit,
Sent down, like Hope, when Eden was no more,
From the high heavenly place thou didst inherit,
An Eden to restore;
Sent down to teach as never
Taught worldly wisdom; to make known the right;
And the strong armour of sublime endeavour
To gird on for the fight.
Sent down, like Hope, when Eden was no more,
From the high heavenly place thou didst inherit,
An Eden to restore;
Sent down to teach as never
Taught worldly wisdom; to make known the right;
And the strong armour of sublime endeavour
To gird on for the fight.
I see whom thou hast called;
The mighty men, the chosen of the earth,
Strong minds invincible, and disenthralled,
Made freemen at their birth.
I see, on spirit-wings,
How thou hast set them high, each like a star,
More royal than the loftiest names of kings,
Mightier than conquerors are;
The mighty men, the chosen of the earth,
Strong minds invincible, and disenthralled,
Made freemen at their birth.
I see, on spirit-wings,
How thou hast set them high, each like a star,
More royal than the loftiest names of kings,
Mightier than conquerors are;
How hast thou cast a glory
Over the dust of him, sublimely wise,
The blind old man, with his immortal story
Of a lost Paradise;
How thou, by mountain-streams,
Met'st the poor peasant, and from passion's leaven
Refined his soul, wooing with holy themes
In Mary's voice from heaven.
Over the dust of him, sublimely wise,
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Of a lost Paradise;
How thou, by mountain-streams,
Met'st the poor peasant, and from passion's leaven
Refined his soul, wooing with holy themes
In Mary's voice from heaven.
'Twas thou didst give the key
Of human hearts to Goethe, to unlock
Their sealed-up depths, like that old mystery
Of the wand-stricken rock.
All these I see, and more;
All crowned with glory, loftier than their race;
And, trembling, I shrink back, abashed and poor,
Unworthy of thy grace.
Of human hearts to Goethe, to unlock
Their sealed-up depths, like that old mystery
Of the wand-stricken rock.
All these I see, and more;
All crowned with glory, loftier than their race;
And, trembling, I shrink back, abashed and poor,
Unworthy of thy grace.
For that am I, that thou
Shouldst visit me in love, and give me might
To touch, like these, man's heart, his pride to bow;
Or, erring, lead him right?
Oh! dost thou visit me?
Is it thy spirit that I feel in all;
Thy light, yet brighter than the sun's, I see?
Is thine this spiritual call?
Shouldst visit me in love, and give me might
To touch, like these, man's heart, his pride to bow;
Or, erring, lead him right?
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Is it thy spirit that I feel in all;
Thy light, yet brighter than the sun's, I see?
Is thine this spiritual call?
It is! it is! Though weak
And poor my spirit, thou dost condescend
Thy beauty to unveil, and with me speak
As gentle friend with friend.
With thee I walk the ways
Of daily life; and, human tears and sighs
Interpreting, so learn to love my race,
And with them sympathise.
And poor my spirit, thou dost condescend
Thy beauty to unveil, and with me speak
As gentle friend with friend.
With thee I walk the ways
Of daily life; and, human tears and sighs
Interpreting, so learn to love my race,
And with them sympathise.
Hence is it that all tears
Which human sorrow sheds are dear to me;
That the soul struggling with its mortal fears
Moveth me mightily.
Hence is it that the hearts
Of little children and unpractised youth
So gladden me with their unworldly arts,
Their kindness and their truth.
Which human sorrow sheds are dear to me;
That the soul struggling with its mortal fears
Moveth me mightily.
Hence is it that the hearts
Of little children and unpractised youth
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Their kindness and their truth.
Hence is it that the eye
And sunken cheek of poverty so move,
Seen only by a glimpse in passing by,
My soul, to human love.
Spirit, I will not say
Thou dost not visit me; nor yet repine,
Less mighty though I be, less great than they
Whom thou hast made divine.
And sunken cheek of poverty so move,
Seen only by a glimpse in passing by,
My soul, to human love.
Spirit, I will not say
Thou dost not visit me; nor yet repine,
Less mighty though I be, less great than they
Whom thou hast made divine.
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