University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

SEEMING-POOR.

Why poor? tho' coarsely clothed his body be,
His food the commonest that earth supplies,
Yet, scanty as it is, his luxuries
Are neither few nor small—content is he,
Therefore he has an ample sovereignty:
A King, (without a King's infirmities)
A child, strange contraries! in him agree;
He too, a true philosopher, is wise
In that profoundest of all mysteries,
Calm self-enjoyment: in his thoughts he's free,
As a bird i' the air, from life's vain woes.
Looking on earthly gains as passing shows,
He hath a quiet smile for such as mourn
For pleasures which, at latest, at life's close
Must be resigned—for which we oft expose
Life, and life's Life—which, in our funeral urn,
Leave but a few, dead ashes, and soon burn
To their first dust! a higher bourne he seeks,
And a warm welcome long before bespeaks:
Nor unprovided on his journey goes:
For in small space lies all Man needs and knows!
He has sought nothing but himself, thus he
Cannot lose what he is, for that he still must be!

OVER SHARP-SIGHTEDNESS.

Oh! woe unto the man, whose keener eye
Hath looked too deep beneath the surface: who
Will not take forms for things, nor false for true,
Nor ape and farce it, like the rest, nor buy,
By idol-worship, like security
From persecution; he will live to rue
That he had eyes among the blind, and knew
Too much to be a dupe; what misery
Can equal that man's, who finds nothing here
To fill his heart: who yearns for something more
Than this life offers? he has bought too dear
His knowledge, and has looked at things too near:
And thenceforth seeks in vain the golden lore,
The Alchymy, life's lost charm to restore!

SECOND-THOUGHTS ON THE ABOVE.

Pardon, great God! most idly was it said:
'Twas in a fit of sadness, and mine eye
Was filmed: but now the dark cloud has pass'd by,
Without a trace, save shame at being led
To speak such foolish thoughts as those it bred!
Earth laughs before my feet (tho' I've reviled
It so, and Thee in it) as Thou hadst smiled
Forgiveness on me thus! and heaven is spread,
In all its boundlessness, above my head:
And, 'neath the bright, blue dome, I kneel for thy
Forgiveness, for the thought was blasphemy.
But now, like yon dim cloudlet, it has fled,
And left me, like the heavens, full of light,
Thy light, by which again I see aright.
And could I say that I had looked too close
At things, when, at my feet, the flower blows,
And the child plays, and on the bough the bird
Sings his heart out, despite that foolish word:
Not caring whether or how close I look,
For not by rote has he learnt from a book
His song, altho' by heart: nor doth he miss
A single note, so perfect in his bliss!
But I had not looked close enough, else had
I seen more of the Good, less of the Bad;
Aye, even there where social man is pent
In cities, and hath scant accomplishment.
Had I looked closer I had yet found Good
E'en in ill things, or some similitude
Thereof, some homage meant it even then,
When most mistaken, by well-meaning men!
Had I looked closer still, I should have seen
God's image on the coin, where it had been
Most chafed, yea! even where effaced, some sign
Whereby to recognize the hand divine!
Or could I say, “that there was nothing here
To fill the heart” when even now the tear,
From thoughts unutterable, dims my sight;
When it is so, so full, that but to hear
The bird's least note makes it gush over quite!
When but a daisy fills it with delight!
And canst thou not, vain mortal, find out aught
To fill thy heart? is it so great then, so
Capacious, that the godliest feeling, though
Love itself, is but as a drop, as naught
Therein? can that which fills God's own heart, yea!
To overflowing, not fill thine, I say?
Is not the rose-bud full of its own scent?
Is not the vine with its own clusters bent?
Is not the bird full of his song too—is
His song not full of love, his love of bliss,
His bliss of heaven, and heaven itself of this?
And canst thou then not fill thy human heart
With human feelings? then, I say, thou art
Not yet a Man! and can the Godlike, can
The thought of God, whose overflowing love
Stoops from emblazoning the clouds above,
To streak the daisy with the selfsame hue
That crimsons them, not fill the heart of man?
Oh fool! then for the flower one drop of dew,
One carol for the bird: one little view
Of his dear master to the faithful hound,
One word of love, nay, of his voice the sound,
Does more than all the Godlike does for thee,
Which for preeminence thou mak'st thy plea,
Which is thy Being, or, at least, should be,
If thou wert truly, or could'st well expound
Thy Being's purport! and if this life gives
Full scope unto the Godlike, Fair, and True,
What matters it then where or how one lives,
More than to live godlike can no one do!

ON HEARING AN OLD SONG PLAYED BY A YOUNG LADY.

ON FANCY-DREAMERS, WHO THINK REAL LIFE TOO COMMONPLACE FOR THEM.

What would'st thou breathe, if not this common air!
Art thou then so uncommon good and great,
That common things thou canst not tolerate!
Yet, wert thou so, 'twere but a reason fair,
Why thou should'st be still more considerate—
Is it not Ether, common as it is?
Or, at the least, may be made so for his
Wise service, who doth breathe it not in hate
And scorn, but love to all men, which makes bliss
Divine, and airs from heav'n with it doth bear,
To witness for it! are thy fellow-men
Not with thee here as Angels, or what are
To be such, therefore godlike? what more then
Canst thou require? thou dost thyself create
The “Commonplace”—but in thyself—not there
Where thou believ'st it—strive to elevate
Thy view of life: view Man as if he were
All that is godlike! and let all who bear
That name be holy to thee: if Man's state
Thou'dst raise, and thyself with it—yea! e'en when
'Tis but a Beggar, give him back again
His greeting in all love and awe, nor dare
To think the least ill thought of him when gone:
But, for Christ's sake, and for thine own, forbear.
Make no invidious comparison:
But welcome even him as a coheir
Of immortality, and speed him on!
And then, the more, more sober-mindedly,
More wide awake, uninterruptedly,
Thou breath'st this air, which makes us Men alone,
And gives to mind and body health and tone,
As simply what it is: the deeper thy
Belief that all are godlike, from thine own
Heart feeling it: which first must make it known,
And possible: the more reality
Thou giv'st this truth in act, unshaken by
Vain doubts and fancies, then wilt thou have grown
By so much more an Angel, an ally
And minister of heaven, that thine eye
In all, who meet thee 'neath the holy sun,
Will see nought but the Angel—yea! not one
Wilt thou then, as a common Being, try
Beneath thee to degrade—as tho' upon
His head an halo shone forth visibly,
To vindicate, in him, Humanity,
Wilt thou respect him then—wilt see, anon,
That fancy's dreams were but a gilded Lie,
That Truth is, at once, Fact and Poetry,
And that this common Air, which we live on,
Is the pure Ether of God's blessed sky!

THE UPRIGHT MAN.

ALL THINGS A HYMN TO GOD.

Hear'st thou the Hymn? from star to star it flows,
Like the deep sound of many waters: on,
For ever on, through boundless space—not one
Sole thing but duly pays the debt it owes,
With praise, according to its kind! the Rose—
Whose scent and beauty are its hymn! the sun—
Who with each dawn, and when his course is run,
Sets forth, with colours fairer far than those
Of Raphael, on the clouds that bar his way,
His Maker's glory: and, as from the sky
They melt, with silent music for the eye,
They hymn His praise! and, though there neither may
Be speech nor language, they have still whereby
To praise him, night by night, and day by day!
Then comes the Night, with all her stars, to pay
Her homage, with her thousand stars, that ply
Stilly their tasks, and utter best thereby
His praises, who, in all this rich array
Of earth and heavën, seeks not to display
Himself, e'en for a moment: éxcept when
He smiles down on the sleeping Earth, through ten
Times ten ten-thousand stars, when none is nigh
To see Him do it—then he smiles—yes then!
To think He watches o'er the sons of men
So lovingly, through those still stars, and yet
Is never seen by those who oft forget
His name, and most through that which should but more
Make them remember it, and more adore,
Were 't but for this! Then thou, my soul, too play
Thy part: and, under his Name, modestly
Work out the godlike, like the stars, nor pray
For vain reward or recompense: for by
Becoming godlike will thou best repay
At once thyself, and serve the Deity!
The rose is quite a rose, and what that can
Accomplish, canst not thou? be quite a man!
Then will thy being, like the rose's, be
A Hymn, and godlike wilt thou live and die:
Fit, like its scent, to mix with Ether, high
Above earth's mists, and clear, as is the sky,
And to all heaven's privileges free
As Angels, yea! an Angel verily!

ON ONE “LOVED NOT WISELY, BUT TOO WELL.”

TO ONE NOT FORGOTTEN.

AGAINST NARROW-MINDED SCEPTICISM.

There is a backwardness and cold distrust
Of Doubt, which wants the common medium
And faculty for comprehending truth;
For the worst blind are, those who will not see,
And these not even Christ himself could cure:
While some, by wish to find the truth, endowed
With faith in that same truth, from love thereof
Draw an heart-felt conviction, far beyond
The subtlest and most logical result
Of cold, distrustful reason: scarce convinced
In self-despite: his pride reluctantly
Yielding a forced assent, that never bears
The good fruit grafted on the heart's belief:
Which, from the Vital, is itself so too—
And Faith and Reason, though they seem to go
To divers points of the circumference,
Meet in one centre, which doth reconcile
Them both: and whence the circle, truly drawn,
Touches th' extremes of both, and joins in one.
And Reason's compass, to the utmost stretched,
With Faith runs even: for beyond that point
Where Reason works, God himself never steps!
Therefore God rather by the babe's mouth speaks,
By the simplicity of ignorance,
Than by the proud philosopher's vain lip,
The wisdom of the flesh, which needs must prove
That God exists; as if to feel him, and,
By feeling him, to be godlike, that is
To be himself in us, were not the best
Of proofs! which, not content to feel him so,
So grandly in the heart, nor capable
Of thinking great enough to feel him there,
Sublimely, palpably, must needs reduce
That godlike consciousness of him into
A Syllogism, into terms precise,
“Major and minor,” and that too instead
Of the grand primal argument of all,
The heart, the sublime Syllogism, which
He himself framed to hold the living proof;
Mightiest philosopher! how unlike those
Who in their reasonings forget Him, who
Is the First Cause: the one grand “Major term,”
Without which there is neither reasoning,
Nor sense, nor truth! men who would shut God up
In verbal definitions, as if He
Were but a problem for philosophers
To calculate or square; the while He is
A circle, which the straight lines of their wit
Scarce touch on one least point, and then run off,
And lose themselves in His infinity,
Poor shooting stars! but these would mystify
His simple Word: so simple, because it
Is so, so true: so grand, because it is
So simple, that a little child needs but
A heart to comprehend it, needs but do
His Word to prove it! yea! they mystify
His sublime Word, because they have not learnt
To think yet grand enough of Him, nor yet
To comprehend his works; that they may have
Wherewith to exercise their wit and skill
Of fence, their tricks and sleights of intellect,
Their quips and quibbles, and perplex the mind
With vain, unprofitable doubts, on points
To disputation indispensible,
As to salvation needless: for that lies
In being godlike, and in doing it;
And, if we feel ourselves godlike, need we
Thy Syllogisms then to tell us that
We are so, or to make our feelings real?
The tear within the eye, the swelling heart,
These are our proofs, and others need we none!
Then keep your Syllogisms, keep them for
Your Humes and Gibbons! men of the long head,
But narrow heart, who saw but half the truth,
And took the lesser half, which they alone
Beheld, to be the whole—short-sighted men!
Who saw but the half-moon, and thought it ne'er
Could be at full—meanwhile, the moon it grew,
In spite of them, and their dull arguments,
And gathered light, from its far hidden source,
And filled the heav'ns and earth, so godlike still;
And shone upon the nations, who, by doubt
Still unperplexed, upon their sublime way,
Untroubled, had moved on, towards God, and all
Things worthy of that God, and o'er the graves
Of these same wilful men, dispersing there
The darkness which themselves had sought to make!
These are the genuine Atheists, who, while
Acknowledging a God, do all they can
To neutralize their own acknowledgment;
Who make not godlike truths from that belief
To flow, as water from the living well,
But, having found the water, shut it up:
Who trammel up the consequence, and God
Admitting, by the admission God destroy
To all intents and purposes—who stand
Still doubting of all things, and nothing do,
Nothing affirm: but, weighing in their scales
God and the World, let neither of the two
Preponderate, and so reduce them both
To nothing, for to act man must affirm—
And to act godlike, must believe in God,
Believe that hè the Godlike is and does!
Then keep your syllogisms, keep them for
Such men as these are! who, when they have proved
With these all that they can, have proved alone
That they felt not the Godlike, God! that he
Existed not to them; else would their lips
Have glowed, and bosoms kindled at his name,
As mine do even now, though far beneath
Them in vain intellect! but that is no,
No reason under heaven why we should
Not feel him living-most, in our own hearts,
For, if we feel him, then is he quite near,
Yea! in us! should God for such reasons not
Exist to us? because he has not yet
Been into mood and figure brought, by rule
Exact of Logic, into major Term
And minor, as 'tis set down in the book,
And well approved! or should the thought of him,
For this, be less to us, whom he has made
To think and do the Godlike, than unto
The flower of the field: which, knowing nought
Of Gibbons and of Humes, fulfills, in its
Own silent wise, a godlike mission too,
Untroubled by the shadow of a doubt?
Then leave us but our feelings and the God
Within our breasts, we ask no more than this,
And, with this, there is nought, methinks, to ask!
This is the godlike way of proving God!
Then let all prove him so; yea! let all be
Godlike in thought and deed: for so long as
They are godlike, they must believe in him,
To be so, for without Him they are not!

EVENING THOUGHTS, WRITTEN NEAR GENEVA, BY THE RHONE.

JULY, 1833.

Not one least leaf is stirring: in the sky
Yon lazy-flakëd clouds hang stilly, where
The wind first wafted them, as if the air,
With its last breathings, faint and sleepily,
Had urged them thither—softly tinted by
The sinking sun, their edges glow, like gold
That, unconsuming, melts—those mountains old,
Which, but a moment past, seemed pale and cold,
Like giant spectres, fixed with stony stare,
Steeped in the crimson splendor, red-hot burn,
Like antediluvian ashes in the urn
Of some old, fire-wasted world! and, lo!
One after one, they pale—their tops of snow
Piercing the heavens, sharp and frostily,
As if their molten summits, suddenly,
Had from intensest Cold, at fiercest glow,
Congealed to giant icicles—such as
At each pole hang, and in whose icy glass
Eternal Frost stares fixedly! yet there
Still linger the rich colors of the sky,
Beneath, by which those old trees, that upbear,
Column-like, their leafy masses, and which were
Erewhile in shade, are steeped, so lovelily,
In crimson tints, which kindle now, now die,
And fade and change, and mingle in supreme
And endless loveliness, dazzling the eye
With beauty, while the waters through them gleam
And kindle, and with liquid gold flow by,
Gilding the cloddy bank, so fairily,
Beneath them: and soft mists begin to rise
Around their stems, like veils of many dyes,
Silver and gold: and, quiet as a dream,
This soft work of enchantment mirrored lies,
In the broad surface of yon' slumbering stream!
No longer know I where I am, mine eyes
Swim with delight: I myself feel and seem
Dissolved into the elements, a beam
Of purple sun-light, blent with this fair Whole.
Oh that I might be ever thus: my soul
Like yon' calm stream: the mirror in my breast
Giving the semblance of its inward rest
To all reflected in it, and seen through
Its mediúm, from its true point of view:
E'en to the troubled and the fleeting forms
Without, life's passing clouds and sudden storms!
Until this rude, hard world, there in its true
Intent reflected, should show fair as do
The clouds and landscape in this water here!
Which shows all as it is, and yet more clear,
Soft, and transparent, with a magic hue,
Which its own depth and crystal pureness gives!
So too, in thy soul's depth and purity,
May be reflected truly all that lives,
Like the reflection of yon' quiet sky!
And, even when more dark and troublous forms
Cast their deep shadows on it, though they be
Gloomy without, and there foretell of storms,
Yet their reflection, by the light in thee
Transparent made, enables thee to see,
Through them, the calm and cloudless sky behind,
Abiding: when the eye of Day seems blind
With sudden fury, and its light is drear:
And men awhile, thereat, lose heart and cheer!
And, though the storm should burst without, that is
No reason why it should disturb thy bliss;
Without, it is a storm, but in thy mind
A calm reflection only: and who e'er
Was by a picture really moved to fear?

ON AN UNDECYPHERED ETRUSCAN URN, WITH AN INSCRIPTION.

ON SEEING A GRAVE-STONE.

TRUE VICTORIES.

Truth has calm conquests, where the sword and spear
Can claim no part—not loud or noisy, tho'
Of mightiest results: and from these flow
The blessings which, with heart-deep ties, endear
The altar and the fireside, and rear,
On the sublime affections which thence grow,
(Eternal pillars, proof against each blow
Of outward chance and self-betraying fear)
The state's vast fabric, on its one sure base;
For brute force reaches not unto the thought
And heart of Man, nor can it thence displace
One prejudice—great changes must be wrought
By Men's best feelings, thro' their ownselves: they
Must work the good for themselves, their own way,
Else it is none to them, it is as naught:
Man is not a machine, that's made to play,
And spin his happiness, so much per day!
Let but the inward eye of Reason first
See clear: instruct him to allay his thirst
At the pure waters from Truth's springheads brought,
And thou may'st leave the rest to him—they ought
Surely to know best their own wants—the worst
Of all ways is by force to make Men do
That which alone can be reached, surely, thro'
Their own cooperation, their own will
And feelings, which once forced, the object still
Remains imperfect, unattained, nay grows
A bitter evil; for the wise man knows
That there is only one compulsion, one
Divine constraint, by means the gentlest won,
Whereby men can, sublimely, certainly,
Be urged to godlike things: and that is, of
Truth, truth divine, and still diviner love:
The cónstraint of the God within the breast,
Whose fiat gained, brings over all the rest;
For, still, by gentlest ways the highest ends
Are gained, and that, which will not break, soon bends!
Kind words are mightier than the hand of Force,
And Mens' affections, led into their course,
Flow gently, which, obstructed, fret and chafe,
And make, what else were easy, hard, unsafe;
And Love is mightiest, and maketh all
The motions of Man's spirit musical!
And what are hand and sword without the heart?
As reeds within a child's weak grasp at best:
Which break short, when home to their object pressed.
And with it? less—what boots the meaner part,
When that which is most godlike is possest?
Then use them not: use thoughts! these are the true
And viewless rundles of the ladder of
All spiritual greatness: far above
Earth's mists they lift us, full in God's own view;
By these His angels missions bring of Love,
(Our thoughts the imagin'd wings on which they move)
And God himself makes use of them, as do
His angels, only with a higher view,
The Jacob's ladder which He sometimes déscends too!

ODE TO PSYCHE.