University of Virginia Library

Oft in my dreams, when prayer has soothed my mind,
Have I received, by spiritual means,
Celestial consolations, ill-deserved:
Sweet compensation for Time's passing griefs;
Visions etheréal rose on the calm
And solemn midnight, o'er my pillowed head,
As to sphere-music, o'er that head which seemed
To rest upon an angel's wing: the while
He, with the other, bending downwards, made
Celestial airs to fan me, whispering low
With voice elysian, that seemed to make
The mute Air rapturous, as if it held
Its breath, and listened! visions of the blest,
Which but to look on made me happy: forms
Bright as if from the rainbow they had stepped,
And with the beauty of eternity,
As with a garment, clothed, that wrapped them 'round
With a dim loveliness—like Morning half-
Concealed by the bright halo round her head,
In her own glory veiled! and on their brows
Wearing that calm and sweet serenity,
Which they who have no fear for coming ills,
No retrospects forlorn, alone can know—
There do we meet ('neath calm and sunny skies,
Whose beauty storm defaces not, fit type
Of that internal calm which virtue gives)
The beings we have loved in other days,
Arrayed in forms not subject to the worm,
Beyond the sway of Time; clear, sunny brows,
Fresh as the morning, in its youthfulness—
Where never care has ploughed a furrowed line:
And eyes more lovely than the evening-star,
At prime of even, when all heaven seems
To look through it, with concentrated love!
And lo! they welcome us, with lips that make
The balmy air more balmy, with sweet words,
In a soft, unknown tongue, and nought akin
To this frail language of vain hopes and fears:
A calm and blessed utterance, which yet,
As by an intuition understood,
Fills us with joy, and love, and blessedness:
Like welcomes, after absence, to the home
Where first we drew the breath of infancy.
Oh sin not, that these blessed visions be
Not snatched from your dim eyes: for gentle Sleep,
Who cradles on her breast the guiltless babe,
And makes its pillow soft as down, and sends
Her dreams, like sun-beams, mantling o'er its head:
And strews her darkness o'er its eyelids, like
The raven-down upon the wings of Night—
She to dread Conscience lends her ministries,
And plants the pleasant pillow, which should be
Our natural refuge from life's chilling cares,
Full of sharp thorns: and sets it full of tongues
And eyes, inside and outside (like the wings
Of the great angel in the Prophet's dream!)
That speak and look unutterable things,
E'en to the deaf and blind! the “still, small voice,”
Which, laid close to our ear, and whispering low,
Swells yet like thunder, on the solemn pause,
Making night terrible: like one who comes
In darkness, to do that he would not see
Himself, at which the light would be aghast!
And, with her darkness, she unto our eyes
Summons those baleful shapes, from which by day
We seek for shelter in the noise, and laugh,
And whirl of giddy life, thus drowning Thought
By desperate effort of the restless will.

Oh sin not then—shut not this door, which lets
In on us visitants from happier worlds:
Glimpes of glory, visitings of bright
Elysian beauty, through these mists of Time!
For, if we have but faith therein, a dream
May be the vehicle of truths divine—
Celestial messenger, like Mercury,
Though winged from higher worlds than those he knew—
For in our sleep we know not what we are,
Being more than what we know! sometimes in dreams
God is most with us, when we thus become
Most spiritual—then may we receive
High revelations: renovating breaths
Of inspiration—what in us is dark,
May then be 'lightened—what is low, refined
And purified—for then do we become
Passive, as clay within the potter's hands;
And, when we wake again, although our dream
Be gone, and, like a star in daylight, lost,
Still it shines on, and still its blessedness
Hangs, like sweet perfume 'round us, and is as
A pure renewal of our former selves,
Th' eternal Self; to which each passing deed,
Act, thought, volition, are but as the leaves,
Which the tree casts, to clothe itself with new,
And better—therefore will I still believe,
In spite of cold Philosophy, who loves
To rob the soul of its best heritage:
To steal the honey from the hive, and kill
Imagination's bees, and to benumb,
With his torpedo-touch, the heart that throbs
In its own fancied joy, that dreams are life.
Is not life happiness, and joy, and love?
If then an idle dream, well rounded by
An hour's length, can crowd in that small space,
Or in far less, long years of acted life,
(That would bring grey unto the head of Youth)
And visions of delight, unknown to Earth,
Such as the Angels selves would not disdain;
If a brief dream can give us this, oh who
So mere a fool, so mere a stickler for
Distinctions where there is no difference,
As to say “this is but an idle dream,”
Because it is not palpable to touch,
As is a chair or table; as tho' these
Had a more real existence than our thoughts,
Because we thus can touch them with our hands!
Who would dissolve the diamond of pure joy,
In a vile crucible, and, when he saw
The paltry dust to which it was reduced,
With mighty exultation would exclaim,
As at a wondrous and convincing proof,
“Behold your diamond, tell us now its worth?”
Its worth—to thee 'tis but as that vile dust,
Which thou, by decomposing it, hast found;
To me 'tis still the diamond sparkling bright,
Dust, as you view it, but, as I, a gem
More costly than Golconda's mines can yield?
As well the Chymist to the diamond might
Deny that worth and lustre, because it,
When analysed, to charcoal is reduced!
When rather, by delight and wonder touched
To love and adoration, he should say,
How marvellous the powër, which could thus
Create a gem so beautiful, from what
Appears the meanest product of the earth!
That it is charcoal, does not make it less,
But more, in worth and wonder: since e'en that
Thereby is shown to be, in capable hands,
Susceptible of all things beautiful:
But thou hast neither capable hands nor heart,
Else wouldst thou take to heart all noble things,
And prove their value by thy sense of it—
Thou turn'st to common dust, by Doubt's vile touch,
The golden hopes and joys of life, while I,
With but a little fancy, can transform
The common dust of circumstance to more
Than even gold, to treasures of the sky!
Yea! without metaphor, I can take up
The trodden dust within my hand, and, in
The sun-beam holding it, behold it turn
To sparkling grains of gold; and if I do
Really believe it such, or worth as much,
(And so it is, by surer estimate,
And for a higher commerce, than the “Mint”
Acknowledges—the commerce of the soul
With its great Maker and his goodly works,
Wherein that very dust doth current pass,
Good “coinage of the realm,” and true, by that
Great standard of the Universe, which He
Ordained: that Man might ascertain thereby
The portion of alloy in things far more
Divine than gold or silver; aye, in his
Own thoughts and feelings, the sole coin which bears
The eternal “Minter's” image—which alone
Can purchase heavenly things, and current pass
In heaven up-above, as earth below!)
If I believe it such, and think it worth
Its weight in gold—nay, would not e'en exchange
That dust for twenty times its weight in gold,
Although of finest carat, lest I should
Thereby destroy its value, and that grand
Belief, worth more than all the gold on earth,
Since it can thus transmute e'en dust to gold,
And something more, oh something far, far more,
Than gold: a godlike instrument of Good;
Which, if it did this only:—if it made
A daisy lovelier in my sight, would do
More than the wealth of worlds could buy, the power
Of Kings accomplish—for, in doing this,
So little as it seems, 'twould make me feel
The Beautiful and True, and bring me near
To God! 'till e'en that daisy in the grass
Should shed a halo 'round it, like a star,
To glorify the Earth and all therein!
If I believe it such then—if that dust
To me is so much worth, what more then does
The miser in his hoarded gold possess?
Or even he, who, worldly-wiser, spends
His wealth to gild his pleasures or his toys,
And bribe the smiles of Fortune? since, with less,
Far better things, and more of these, I buy—
An eye, that e'en a painted cloud can fill
With tears of holy rapture, and a heart,
Which the least flower can make more than rich,
Thro' the true feeling of this lovely World;
By making me believe, that he alone
Is rich, who loves a flower more than gold!
Since he, on every side, his treasure finds,
Already made—the World, and all therein,
In the best sense, is his:—his: to enjoy!
No lawyer questions him as to his “right”—
No one indicts him for a trespass, as,
Among the happy valleys and green hills,
He harmless walks, and feels it all his own,
By right divine, unquestioned, unreproved!
And yet, altho' he claims so much, nay, all
He sees, he uses all his rights in love,
And for love—yea, he doth not rob one flower
From the least garden, nor a foot of ground,
To swell his selfish acres, as some do,
Who swallow up all 'round them, and lay waste
A thousand homes, to shut their fellow-men
Out from all sight and hearing! nay, the more
Partake thereof with him, the more he has,
Their joy too, in addition to his own!
And if he be not rich, O thou, whom gold
So dazzles, tell me could'st thou buy, with all
Thy wealth, the title-deeds to this his fair
And rich estate, which God hath “sealed and signed!”
Go to thy bags of gold, and think, oh think,
How few of life's real blessings it can buy—
Thou canst not bribe, with this, the bird to sing,
A flower to blossom in thy path, the air,
Unpaid Musician! for thy deadened ear
To play one least, least melody of all
That, for the meanest creature he has still
In store, that loves to listen! still less, oh!
Still less, canst thou procure therewith, thou fool,
The feeling of the Beautiful and True,
In which thy very wealth still keeps thee poor!
Poorer than e'en the beggar, who, with naught
But this, is still, compared with thee, a King!
And, if thou must then something decompose,
Then decompose thou that: Oh decompose
That gold, and all that it doth gild and gloss:
The glittering baubles of this world; and thou
Wilt find them, like that miser's gold, return
To what they are indeed, when tested thus,
Vile dust, like that I hold within my hand:
Yea, and, this time, thou wilt not be deceived!
But thou would'st turn to dust the holiest things,
By disbelieving them: that is the one
Most sure way to annihilate: to bring
The soul itself to nothing—thou canst not,
'Tis true, destroy one least, least particle,
One atom, with thy crucibles, of all
That make up this fair world; but, for thyself,
Thou canst destroy the Godlike and the Good,
Yea! God himself! for he exists no more
To thee, if thou believ'st not in him! yea!
Thou canst reduce to something less than dust
The kiss of first, chaste Love: and, with a doubt,
Pierce to the heart Love itself, and, through that,
All else wound mortally; put out the eye
Of Faith sublime, distune the Poet's harp,
Rob the rose of its perfume, and make life
Fall, like a withered flower, in the dust!
This canst thou do, all this, O Man but thou
Canst do far more than this; for, after all,
This is to do but little, nay, e'en less
Than little—nothing—into nothing all
That's best and fairest to reduce! but thou
Canst work the Godlike: yea! like God himself:
For he it is that works it in thee; thou
Canst out of nothing—or, at least, from what
Is next to nothing—from a flower, or
That very dust I hold within my hand,
Create the feeling of the Beautiful
And Godlike, for thyself, for evermore—
This canst thou for thyself create—if not
For others: yet for others too—for thou,
When for thyself thou hast created it,
Becom'st its medium to them—and when
Thou hast done merely this, then hast thou, like
A great Magician, whom the elements
Owe fealty to, created this whole world
Godlike likewise; created it, without
Vain charms and incantations, save but one,
The master-charm, the charm of thy own Thought:
Which fashions for thee, after thy own heart,
The world in which thou dwellëst, and which is
The Sinai, on whose top thou art with God:
The Pisgah too, from whence thou may'st behold
The “promised land,” and long, delightedly,
Beforehand, in anticipation sweet,
Enjoy! I say “create” the world, and say
Most truly: for the world, wherein we live,
That is but the reflection of ourselves,
Our feelings, and, as these are, so is it.
And, if we feel things godlike, they are so,
At least to us! and, after all, what is
The “Real,” the “Practical,” words so much mouthed,
Which the World's tongue trolls forth so eloquent?
Calling in question e'en those great ideas
And principles, which, from the depths of Thought
Evoked, like guardian-angels of mankind,
Soon set a million hands at work, or plant
The flowers round a million cottage-doors,
The love of Nature in a million hearts!
And yet are not called “real:” mere “theories,”
“Abstract ideas:” until they have done this;
And wrought what and where nothing else can work,
Within, at heart, which setteth tongue and hand
In motion, else immoveable as rocks—
Yes, wrought, like spirits, out of sight, of Man,
But not of God: whose work they silently
Fulfill—like spirits, yet at the command
Of Man, who doth his Master's work likewise,
And mightier than the Genii of old,
That served Aladdin's lamp, for these are real:
And work him wonders, passing-wonderful,
And build him palaces, of more than stone
And marble, mansions where his soul may dwell:
(Abodes of light) and be as angels are!
And give this work-day world a beauty too
Far beyond fairy tale: more beautiful,
By so much as it is more true, more real!
Its loveliness a thing of every day,
As common as the rose, and yet as rare,
As passing-beautiful and wonderful!
Yet scarcely noticed, just because it is
So common: which should be a greater cause
Of wonder: that such loveliness should be
So common, so a thing of every day!
Fairer than dreams, yet not more fair than real!
But, that alone is real to us, which we
Think so and feel so: or, in other words,
'Tis our own thoughts and feelings which alone
Are real, and give reality—then think
And feel all godlike things to be so, most
Of all—most real: and such they will become—
And feeling this, thou wilt not feel in vain,
That feeling is the thing itself—the rest
Are but the rags and perishable part
Of Time, who, like a beggar, here and there,
Picks up his motley covering: sometimes
Wearing Truth's cast-off clothes, that he may pass
For something better than he is—unto
The worldly man, the bag of gold he grasps,
The dainty morsel melting in his mouth,
The pomps and vanities of place and power,
Are not so real as are the Poet's dreams,
His thoughts and feelings, for are they not these?
And what he feels and thinks, is that not real?
Is it not his own heart, himself? and, when
He feels the Godlike, is he not of God,
Nay, God himself, as the scent of the rose
Is the rose itself: so far as he feels
The Godlike truly? and what then is real
If God be not, who is all things in all?
Nay, is the tear within his eye, the heart
That throbs and glows, not real, pray, e'en in that
Low sense, which ye call real? as real as is
The chair on which ye sit, the bread ye eat?
And, if these then be real, how much more so
Must that which caused them be! the godlike thought,
That brought the tear into the eye—the true,
Deep feeling, which made that same heart to beat!
And what is practical? who clutches most
Vain shadows? or who dreams the idlest dreams?
Oh tell me, ye who waste on vilest things
Divinest: ye, who pluck the blushing rose
Of chastity from off the Maiden's brow,
Not for its divine perfume, but to make
Vile lucre by that which the angels in
Their wreaths might wear: who lay up what the moth
And rust shall wear away; or he who, with
His godlike feelings satisfied, goes back
Unto his God, with ten, instead of one
Poor talent: with a treasure, which no change
Of time and place can rob him of, so long
As he is himself, for that is his wealth,
Himself; and he who feels himself, that is
The Godlike, he possesses Life's chief good,
The one great end of Life, and crowning charm,
Unrobable, and all its other goods
To this add nought, without it are all nought!
And is this then a shadow, is there aught
So real to us as we ourselves? or what
Is so to us, save through ourselves? then seek
The Real, which lies within the reach of all,
For each may be himself, his whole self; yea!
The Emperor, on his throne, can not be more,
The Beggar, by the road, need not be less;
Nay! even God himself, is but himself,
And therefore is he God, allgood, allwise!
But little in the world are these truths heard,
And as a driveller my name may pass
From mouth to mouth, a dreamer of vain dreams!
But yet I do not dream—or, if I do,
It is with open eyes, and kindling brow
O'er which the halo of Humanity
The consciousness of Man's immortal lot
Gathers, transfiguring—for, as I write
These words, I feel my heart beat in my breast,
With exultation at them: like a God
Expanding into full divinity,
For the first time, all heaven on his brow!
That must be real and godlike, which can make
The heart beat thus—or, if it be a dream,
It is a goodly dream, with a great heart
Within it—aye, a heart more living far
Than beats in many a living breast—a dream
Divine, that realizes its own self!
And far, far better is a dream, which makes
The heart to beat godlike, and fills it with
God's living truth, than a reality
(If that be real which wants the truth of Life)
Which leaves it, like a stone, untouched and cold!
But I, I am awake, awake in Him
Who made me, unto Him: because I feel
Him who alone is Life—tho' but, as 'twere,
A mere grain in that hand which still upholds
The stars, though countless as the ocean-sands:
Yet not lost to his eye sublime, which knows
No littleness; how unlike Man, who, in
His pride, thinks many things so little, while
'Tis but himself that is so—for he makes
Them little—aye the greatest, godliest things,
By thinking them so! but to God nought can
Be small, for, being himself in all things,
He feels them thro' himself, and therefore feels
Them godlike! yea! I am awake: at heart—
In the most Vital therefore—so much so,
That e'en the smallest flower at my feet
Can stir my heart to overflowing: till
My spirit, like its perfume, melts away
In blessedness and love: how much more, oh!
How much more than a flower of the field,
Aught that concerns my fellow-creatures then!
So much so that the child's least voice awakes
The whole, deep music of Humanity,
And pours it on my ear and on my heart!
I am awake, if this be to be so;
And, if this be not, tell me then what is?
Awake ye then, who dream with open eyes,
Who seeing, see not, and with ears can't hear;
'Tis time that ye awake, ye fools, and learn
This truth—the value of all things alone
Lies in the temper with which we receive
What heaven sends us: making Good and Ill
From things indifferent, or their contraries,
So for itself—for in the soul itself,
(Sought elsewhere still in vain) the fabled stone,
That can transmute the common dross of life,
Its passing shows, its miseries and pains,
Into pure ore, resides: to more than gold:
To that which makes gold itself seem but vile,
And needless as 'tis vile! ethereal gift!
A boon of blessedness, and joy, and peace,
Which old Philosophers, with bootless toil,
Searched for in outward things, o'erlooking still
That small space bosomed in the human breast,
The heart, which all it touches turns to gold:
To Beauty and to Good, far more than gold!
The wise man's kingdom, where he reigns supreme
O'er passions tamed by reason, o'er high hopes
And calm desires, like yon clear, still stars,
Which, far removed from all mutations here,
Give light still to each other and the sky,
Thro' which they move, like music visible;
For, like these, with a steady light they shine,
And have their risings and their settings fixed,
By moral gravitation, which still draws
Them so, so gently, yet resistlessly,
Towards their great centre, God: with whom he moves
Concentric, his calm eye fixed ever there:
Looking beyond the earth, therefore unmoved
And undisturbed by earthly injuries!

What reek is yon, upcurling to the skies?
What victims, all with garlands newly bound?
What songs are these that from the shores arise,
Wherefore those augurs, duly robed and crowned?
What solemn rite have they met to perform,
For venture safe-returned from war or storm?

Lo! 'tis the bark of Jason, like a steed
That knows his pasture, bounding to the shore,
While rumours of the far-famed fleece precede
His coming, sending golden gleams before!
And hark! that shout hath welcomed him again,
To the remembered strand, not left in vain!

And there was feasting through th' Æmonian land,
And oft the goblet, flower-wreathed, was drained
To Bacchus, and Joy came not to a stand,
Till Pleasure's o'er-brimmed cup no more contained—
But Jason grieved, for Æson was not there,
In all this triumph and this joy to share.

Already Death and he had shaken hands:
He leaned on Time, as 't were upon a crutch,
That answered less as grew more his demands;
Aye, Death's cold hand already his did touch,
And shook Joy's cup from it—life had become
A twice-told tale, its music was nigh dumb!

The moon is up in heaven, at the full,
And maketh noon, in faint similitude
Of day, more shadowy, yet as beautiful.
With golden increase to that plenitude
Of light she's grown: that, like herself, the spell,
Now to be wrought, may work, and fully tell.

Lo! like a spectre in the wan moonshine,
Dim as some figure on old tapestry,
Yet lovely still, though now but an outline,
Like that of some old marble 'gainst the sky,
Medea flits, with hair that scattered flows,
And changeful shadows o'er her beauty throws!

She seems just like the moon, that at each cloud
Grows dim, yet in its shadow lovelier
Than when in all her light arrayed so proud,
Clothed in the beauty of the stars around her!
Her golden hair doth on the darkness break
In flashes, like a falling star's bright wake!

Lo! with mysterious right she doth constrain
The king of ghosts to listen to her prayer,
That Æson, whom the laws of fate enchain,
May cheat the grave, and still breathe upper air.
And, that the approaching charm may with it bring
A full accomplishment, thus doth she sing.

Thou Night, that, with thy thousand blinking eyes,
Seëst, yet seemest not to see, unlike
The staring sun, that into secrets pries,
And through dark corners doth his bold beams strike:
Bend down thine ear, propitious to the spell,
Thou that mak'st secrets, and canst keep as well!

Thou Earth, that into plant and herb dost send
Strange influence from thy mysterious core,
Whither all powers at thy surface tend,
And themselves so renew for evermore:
Auspicious be, and give to every plant
Each mystic property the charm may want!

And ye, whose operations shun the light,
Mysterious powers of darkness, who instil
Into the herb that creeps or climbs, in spite
Or love, the juices that preserve or kill,
And those which death, and death's own image, sleep,
Cause, and their opposites in Nature keep.

Ye, I adjure—and ye, assist me now,
Thou elemental fire, and thou air,
That warm the root, and work in bud and bough,
Join all your vital strengths, in union rare:
That like the springtide sap may be my spell,
And work like that, life's powers to compel.

And, lo! a tremulous light runs through the stars,
Presaging thus a favourable end,
As if of those eterne abodes the Lars
Mysterious recognition so would send:
And through the earth a shudder runs, as it
Trembled those magic powers to transmit!

And upward, from the realms below, there came
A hollow murmur, and then died away,
In the deep forest, through its leafy frame
Making each tree to shiver, leaf and spray:
As if the muttering wind strange things had said,
Causing each living thing an unknown dread!

Lo! like a corpse, lies Æson on the ground—
With drug Lethean hath Medea layed
His sense asleep, as Death at last had found,
Disguised as Sleep, his prey, in ambuscade.
The muttered spells work on his sense meanwhile,
And to the change his nature reconcile!

And, by yon rising star, she casts anew
His horoscope, that he with it may run
Another race, and feel its influence through
That life renewed, and with that star begun.
Pow'rs mysterious, yet out of Nature's course,
Assist, but thus lose all their better force!

Now seeths the cauldron, full of magic broth:
With wondrous juice and charms potential,
It works amain—for where the slabby froth
Boils over, of its use prophetical,
It clothes the withered herbage in fresh green,
And calls forth flow'rs, as there May's foot had been!

So, round it, in the grass it forms a ring
Of magic verdure, such as those we see:
And still, where-e'er its drops renewing cling,
They change that which they touch, whate'er it be:
Making the very stick that stirs it flower,
As though Spring's hand had touched it in its power!

But now on Æson must its force be tried,
His veins replenished with the juice she fills:
And first his heart 'gan beat within his side,
And through his bosom a strange feeling thrills;
And youth renewed, yet hovering on the extreme
Of consciousness, hangs round him like a dream!

He feels like one who dreams that he is young
Again, yet knows not whether it be true:
Like one who, when his funeral bell hath rung,
Is on a sudden snatched from the grave's view.
At length he opens up his eyes, and thinks,
And from his altered self, half-frightened, shrinks!

And consciousness comes slowly back again,
Filling the empty channels of his thought
With fancies strange, half wonder and half pain,
Floating the weeds and settlings thither brought
Through many a stagnant year, with currents strange,
From Life's great sea, whose tide doth turn and change!

Low, on the vital shore, that mental tide
Had ebbed—its voice, once mighty, scarcely made,
At distance, sound enough to it to guide!
And now, o'er wrecks of time, it seems to invade
The long-deserted strand—so, long he tries
To touch the bottom of these mysteries!

He feels the wrinkles from his brow depart,
His limbs plumped out to youthful gracefulness,
Fresh vigor breathed into each mortal part,
His feet, with airy tread, Mercurial press
The ground, and down his shoulders flow his locks,
Yet something still, within, the wonder mocks!

Yes, Disappointment, like a grinning ape,
Sits there, concealed, and mocks the outward change,
The feeling, from which he cannot escape,
That what he sees is not so true, as strange—
No throb runs through his heart, no pulse of bliss,
His body's changed, his heart unaltered is!

He stands as one who sees a wonder wrought
Upon another, in astonishment,
As if he had no share in it, nor thought
The wonder for himself could e'er be meant!
His heart within hath given him the lie,
The spell hath over it no mastery!

For magic, where Truth is, falls powerless—
Her divine image, like an amulet,
Within his heart, the magic doth suppress,
And by a counter-charm the charm is met!
A greater charm, charm made in heaven above,
To keep things in their places, by great Jove!

And if, to erring mortals, he permit
At times a wider latitude in things
Indifferent, 'tis for their benefit,
To make them wiser by their wanderings—
And, if o'er flesh and nerve he grants brief sway,
'Tis but to teach man not to disobey!

'Tis but to show how little can be wrought
By these things, e'en when placed at his command,
That Man's true magic lies but in the Thought
Which changes Spirit, not in spell or wand!
That there is fitness in all He hath made,
By these vain interruptions more displayed.

Man, yearning towards th' invisible world, hath long
Perplexed his brain its powers to compel,
And, groping towards the light, took still a wrong
Direction, and still missed the one, true spell!
He sought, without him, its pow'rs to controul,
While the invisible World was in his soul!

And, feeling vaguely this great truth, yet not
Enough enlightened to perceive it all,
As one who treasure knows, yet not the spot,
He spirits thought by force of spells to call—
While, from the depths of his own soul, he might
Have called forth shapes of beauty and of light!

Thus Æson stood, as one just from a dream
Aroused, not yet awake, nor yet asleep,
He seemed as changed, and yet did only seem,
'Twas on the surface, but not in the deep;
Like a reflection on still water, which,
If moved, is gone—made only to bewitch!

He shakes him, as to shake off some strange thought,
Ha, ha! he shouted, forcing show of joy,
But the vain effort no glad laughter brought,
With the new roses of his cheek to toy!
He raises up his arm, youth's strength is there,
He drops it at his side, with listless air!

In form a young man, but in heart an old,
He has the worst of both, without the good
Of either, and an evil manifold,
Which neither of their separate lists include—
He wants the calm of age, the bliss of youth,
And both he seems, yet neither is in truth!

Amongst the young he is not young, nor old
Amongst the old: he cannot love again:
Venus will not resume a heart grown cold,
And Bacchus those false lips no more will stain,
Except in mockery—the worser part
Has Youth, Old Age the larger still, the heart!

Amongst the young he finds not sympathy,
Nor feels—an interloper's name he bears—
Amongst the old he has not dignity
Nor reverence, the glory of gray hairs!
Mournful, he views the sports age cannot share,
Sadder the honors which that age should wear!

A living contradiction thus he goes,
A Man who dreams a life, and lives a dream,
Which others know not, and himself scarce knows,
Yet would know less, oh misery supreme!
So nothing to him is but what is not,
And what he was he is, yet has not got!

And Death, defeated of his prey awhile,
Hath ta'en in fee his heart within instead,
And even Hope hath nought to reconcile
This union of the living and the dead!
He has outlived the joys he should have had,
And, for more sorrow, seems, yet is not, glad!

So learn, vain mortals, to obey high Jove,
And deal not ever in forbidden things,
What he ordains, he has ordained in love,
Unlawful pleasures always leave their stings:
And he who would youth's race run o'er again,
Thus shows that he has run that race in vain—

More than content not magic can make Man—
This is the end of all his spells, and he
Might reach this ere with magic he began!
Or with a magic to which all are free:
The spells of his own thoughts, which supersede
All others, and are better far indeed!

These he is authorized to use, for these
God himself gave, and blessed them to his use;
A “natural magic,” which doth never cease
To operate: whose spirits ne'er refuse,
When called for, to appear—and it is his
Own fault if they appear in forms amiss!

The world is full of magic, full of charms,
Would Man but use them as they were designed,
To work him bliss, and shield him from all harms!
Yea! in the simplest things he spells may find—
And, in the true magician's hand, a flower
Can call up Beauty, like a wand of power!

Then work these wonders all of ye—yea! all—
For e'en the little child hath at command
Spirits of Love, whom e'en a word can call,
A look, and lo! before him they all stand!
God works his wonders thus, and would'st thou then,
Could'st thou, find higher charms, thou, Earth's poor denizen!

Oh! Father, let me buried be
In yon' sweet churchyard nook,
Beneath the shadowy, old yewtree,
Hardby that pleasant brook;

There lay me where, a child, I played,
For something seems to bless
The spot, there lay me, 'neath the shade
Of bygone happiness!

And let my grave be near the stream,
As by the side of one,
I love, so shall I, though I dream,
Have something dear, when gone!

Its voice, though I shall hear it not,
Makes music very meet
For that same calm and quiet spot,
The injured's last retreat.

It has enough of sadness so
To be my funeral knell,
But not so sad to seem as though
Death's voice, like yon' sad bell!

It is a song of early days:
Snatches of happy times
Still meet my ear, as on it plays,
But too like jangled chimes.

It hath not broken faith with me,
Its voice is as at first,
It has not wrung my heart, once free
As it, no ties has burst.

And let there be no stone above,
To tell its idle tale,
But freshest turf with flow'rets wove,
And pérfuming the gale.

For I should wish no curious eye
To know who I have been,
The few who love me, easily
Will find the place I ween!

Let nought but flowers mark the spot,
Its only ornament,
Emblems of mortal Man's frail lot,
Of one as innocent!

As innocent as themselves are,
And, like them, trodden 'neath
The foot of one who would not spare,
But took the part of Death!

Who, through the love I bore him, dealt
The stroke that lays me low,
Who, from the very love I felt,
Made my life's bitter flow.

But I forgive him, may he live
To think of me once more,
And to my injured memory give
What, living, I deplore!

And let there be no ruder sounds
Than greet the dawning day,
The voice of that sweet stream, which bounds
So merry on its way.

Let children sport above my grave,
And pluck the flowers there,
Enjoying, as I myself have,
Those hours so fresh and fair:

Let them not think on whom they tread,
The silence that's below,
But laugh, as though there were no dead,
And life were ever so!

These trembling-voicëd words had brought
A tear into her eye,
For still it is a bitter thought,
So very young to die.

Then from her father's breast she raised,
Feebly, her sinking head,
One moment in his face she gazed,
Yet not one word she said.

There was a something at her heart,
That could not uttered be,
She pressed his hand, as those who part
For an eternity.

She strove to speak again—again
His hand she harder prest,
Then on that bosom, she had lay'n
So oft on, sank to rest.

She gasped, one little word to say,
One word of all we waste,
But, ere 'twas shaped, her lips were clay,
A corpse those arms embraced!

He answered not, there came no tear,
He clasped her to his breast,
He listened for a while to hear
Her heart, but 'twas at rest!

That plaything in Time's hands, which he
Had, like a ball, tossed to
And fro, lay still—a mysterie
Now as when Death was new!

And, when I pass'd again that way,
The birds were singing there,
As though there had been no such day,
Nor Man e'er felt despair.

I wandered through the churchyard nook,
The stream was flowing on,
All things wore just the selfsame look,
Save one small spot alone.

A little mound of turf was there,
Which was not there before,
No other object told me where
Slept she who was no more!

I sat me down beside her grave,
And, though a stranger, I
Wept tears, for such her tale did crave,
For our Humanity.

I paid the debt of Nature there,
Which to our kind we owe,
In our humanity who share,
One heart in all below.

The old yew tree quaint shadows threw
Upon that humble sod,
And on its breast the flowers grew,
Emblems of trust in God.

The daisy had shot up, meanwhile,
As though 'twere common mould,
And, in its beauty, seemed to smile
At all that's dead and cold!

The grass was fresh and fair, as if
Such things could never be,
I plucked a flower, that drew its life
From mould that once was she!

And thus we pass away, and leave
No void in the vast chain
Of Being, and scarce one will grieve
Or think of us again.

Our name is cast upon the winds,
Our memory is gone,
And all the curious searcher finds
At best is a gravestone.

Ask of this many-centuried tree,
Who sleeps beneath his shade?
Will Nature, think'st thou, answer thee?
She cares not for the dead!

She twines her flowers round her brow,
And sings her songs again,
A thousand years from hence, as now,
Though men die and complain!

She cometh with the flowers of spring,
And hides Earth's old, sad graves,
And generations new doth bring,
Waves following still on waves!

And so she dances onward still,
Forgetful of the Past,
To music of the bird and rill,
The same from first to last!

While she, who sleeps beneath that sod,
Is as the flower fair,
A thousand years ago downtrod,
Gone, no one can say where!

She stood beside me in the shade,
The starry shade of heaven's blue,
Whose lamps, like nuptial torches, made
By love eterne, their soft light threw.

She stood beside me, while the air,
Like the pure breath of Heaven, came,
Whispering a blessing, as it were,
Where neither sin had part, nor shame.

She stood beside me, and my youth,
With all its dreams and visions high,
Seemed in her form to grow to truth,
And pass in living beauty by.

As erst through my own heart they passed,
Stirring it like first Love's long kiss,
So on my sense they shone at last,
And turned those dreams to waking bliss.

She stood beside me, like a flower
Bowed by the dewy evening air,
In modest fear, yet conscious power,
I thought she never looked so fair.

Like the sweet lily of the vale,
She drooped her lovely brow beneath
The shade of its own beauty, pale
As moonlight, daring scarce to breathe.

I took her hand, it trembled so,
And yet no thought of wrong was there,
It trembled in its own deep bliss,
As trembles love alone, and prayer!

Ah! bliss that has no fellow here,
Whose memory alone is worth
All after-joys, how sweet soe'er,
For these all savour of the earth.

But this, oh this is heaven's own,
And bringeth heaven with it still,
And bliss and beauty, like the zone
Of Venus, scatters where it will!

I gazed upon her pure, bright face,
Through which the peace of Heaven shone,
And earth seemed as a holy place,
That angels themselves might dwell on.

That face she half had turned away,
Yet pressed me closer to her heart,
Because, the less she dared to say,
The more her feelings took my part.

As if she feared too much to do,
And then, disowning such a fear,
Did more than she first meant, or knew
She did, then shrank at the idea!

A cloud across the moon had passed,
And, in the shadow which it made,
I caught the full look of deep love she cast
Upon me, from its ambuscade!

But, when that cloud had passed away,
Her face once more was bent aside,
As if she feared it might betray,
What but just now she could not hide!

I could not speak—mine eyes were dim,
And, like a child, scarce knowing why,
I wept: for when the heart is brim,
It needs must waste some drops, or die.

As, in the breathless heavens, some
Full cloud hangs on the heated air,
From which a few big tear-drops come,
To ease what else it could not bear.

Waste, do I say! it is not so,
Love is no miser of the heart:
To him there is no Future, no,
He has no Self, no meaner part.

He cannot thus economise,
Nor, from the sole, deep springhead, save,
For the waste which before him lies,
Aught for what future wants may crave.

Yet were it well that Passion's breath
Ne'er flared to waste his holy flame,
That burning calmly on till death,
It lit him to an higher aim.

An higher aim! and can there be
An higher aim than thus to love,
Nought in the world to feel or see,
Save our own bliss, and Him above?

Of all thanksgivings that are known,
What for the God of Love so fit,
As thus to be but love alone,
With His own self made one by it!

Aye, wisdom comes with after years,
The wisdom of the niggard brain,
But the heart too a wisdom bears,
An alchymy ne'er found again.

An alchymy which changes all
Within its reach to more than gold,
To things divine, poetical,
To beauty and to bliss untold!

But love grows calculation, grows
A miser—not poured from the heart,
Like the full perfume of the rose,
No more our being, but a part.

When I look back on that sweet hour
Of Love, and Love's first, pure caress,
I feel that all Man's idle lore
Less than the heart's least beat can bless.

I see again the well-known spot,
I hear her light step on the ground,
I hear her, though I see her not,
My eyes have in my ears eyes found!

I feel her quick heart throb 'gainst mine,
And in my arms I seem to hold
The world and all that is divine
Therein, while her I thus enfold!

Long years have flown since then, yet what
Are they? the echo of a sound!
But this endures, and shall, when not
A vestige of aught else is found.

That picture, in this frame of Time,
Still keeps its colours, fresh, divine,
As are, when Morning first doth climb
The sky, the hues her form enshrine.

And, when this outward sight grows faint,
That picture on these inner eyes,
Of her, my Love, my more than Saint,
My Life's Aurora, still shall rise!

Rise, like the Morn, to make me day,
And songs and gladness, and all good,
When I should else be dark, and stray,
Still in the night, with night's dark brood!

Methinks I see her as she stood,
Wrapped in a veil of beauty by
The calm moonlight, which with a flood
Of glory clothed her to my eye.

Wrapped in a haze of silvery light,
Her outline seemed to blend with it,
And like an angel, to my sight
She seemed, just on the earth alit!

She looked an emanation of
That holy light, and her white vest,
Like a dove's plumage, seemed to move
Above her gently-heaving breast:

An halo round her brow was shed,
Such as the Saints in pictures wear,
But hers was real, and she not dead,
But standing living, blushing there!

Soft as a star her blue eye shone,
Yet turned in bashfulness away,
As if she feared to trust upon
My prying glance its telltale ray.

Yet to her hand a gentle thrill
Th' involuntary heart conveyed,
For, 'mid his artifice, love will
Forget his part, the first time played.

He cons his task in secret o'er,
And perfect seems in all his part,
Yet, when he plays that part before
Another, Nature conquers Art.

Timid her hand she half drew back,
And blushed as it had been broad day,
Then gave it half again—alack!
When Love's in earnest 'tis his way.

But true Love never long will vex,
Or fling away the heart it seeks,
Though, for a moment 't may perplex,
Its frowardness itself most piques!

She turned in virgin majesty,
In simple dignity and grace,
Nature alone shone in her eye,
And Love sat blushing in her face!

Meaning no wrong, and fearing none,
She rayed me with a smile, more bright
Than round a child's frank brow doth run,
When Nature prompts unfeigned delight.

Some underwords she murmured low,
Like a still summerbrook at eve,
When Nature's whispers, as they go,
The winds in one sweet murmur weave.

I heard, yet heard them not, for all
Dear sounds and meanings in them were,
No words were half so musical,
Or could so sweet a message bear.

Words, if they could have made its sense
Distinct, had marred its highest spell,
The vague, delicious evidence
That me she loved, and loved how well!

Modest, but frank and free, she came,
Like Eve, and sought my throbbing breast,
And there her image, aye the same,
Lives, by that first embrace imprest.

Engraven there as not on wood,
Or brass, or marble, by the side
Of His divine similitude,
To whom she was so near allied!

And, if my heart had nought but this,
This image of all Good to show,
It might for mercy plead at His
High bar, when nought else could do so.

Thus was she wooed, and won, and wed,
And blessings to such love are sent,
A heavenly fire, it burns, self-fed,
And brightens, like the firmament.

Not the volcano's fitful flames,
That waste within and scorch around,
Then smouldering sink: these Love disclaims,
Whose fires are central and profound.

But holy warmth, as of the sun,
Moulding a little world of joys,
Flowers and plants, whereof not one
Bears hidden thorns, or fruit that cloys.

Blessings be on thee, holy Love!
With thee it is indeed to live:
For love is life! by thee we prove
How most we have when most we give.

Aye, though we give our hearts away,
Like bread upon the waters cast,
With tenfold bliss will Heav'n repay,
And give us many hearts at last!

'Tis Love who earns the gifts of faith,
'Tis he who still works miracles,
And in his might the spirit hath
A tongue that utters oracles.

Not false and fabling ones, but grand
And true, which from the deep heart come
Of the wide World, which is Love, and
Which through Love speaks, or else is dumb!

Love sees the sunny side alone,
And in the autumn leaf not views
The emblem of decay, but one
Of beauty in its brightening hues!

He shrinks not back from grief or pain,
He has no eyes or ears for doubt,
Thus in each loss he finds a gain,
From each fall rises up more stout.

He finds no loss who still finds Love,
But wisely would lose all, to find
That Love which, with gifts from above,
Doth, like a temple, make his mind!

Fills it with godlike things, with God
Himself, who is Himself but Love,
And formed Man, else but a vile clod,
In His own image, this to prove!

His wiser Mind can mould its state
Unto the shows of better things,
And from the chrysalis create,
The perfect form, the angel's wings!

Blessëd, then blessëd be his name,
And thine, my Love, my spirit's guide,
Who taught his worth, and, still the same,
Though long a wife, art yet a bride!

Why sitt'st thou on that old gravestone,
Thou gray-haired Man of many years?
Speaks it, like thee, of things by-gone,
Why melt thy dim, old eyes to tears?

Thereat the old man tremblingly
Raised up his time-bowed face of pain,
First cast a wistful glance at me,
Then bent it on the stone again.

Oh 'twas a sad, sad sight, to see
That poor, old man, forlorn and lone,
Like a storm-scathed and leafless tree,
With all its autumn fruitage strown.

Of the church-yard he seemed a part,
So silent, old, so still and grey,
Sitting like Time, without his dart,
And mourning over life's decay.

Then traced he, with Grief's finger slow,
A name he clear'd still as he sate,
From rank, oblivious weeds, that grow
Till all we love be out of date.

Each letter seemed to stab his heart,
And, as he cleared the moss away,
Ever to pierce him, like the dart
Of Death, in ambuscade who lay.

When the old man had traced the name,
He gazed into my face, and said,
—She was the last of all—they came
Like spring-flowers, and are now all dead!

And yet I live, though old and gray,
Mourning for those should cherish me.
Thereat he bent him down, and lay
Lost in his own deep agony.

His bosom heaved with piteous moan,
His white hair waved upon the wind,
He lay like Grief, not carved in stone,
But figured in more moving kind.

Such tears are holy, shed by one
Who suffers thus, chastised by Heaven,
Swifter than prayers their way is won,
And pardon for their sake is given.

And, when those natural drops were shed,
The old man rose from off the stone,
And then his tottering steps I led
Down the path which his walk had grown.

And, when we reached the churchyard gate,
He turned, with lingering step, once more,
For the old clock had chimed the date
Of time, recalling things of yore.

Thereon he heaved a deep-drawn sigh,
And passed his hand athwart his face,
“Heaven's will be done, he said, for I
Am a poor sinner, needing grace!”

That clock is now as is the voice
Of an old friend, who, every while,
Bidding me soberly rejoice,
Doth still another hour beguile.

Tells me another hour is flown,
Another weary hour of all
The many I've been left alone,
In solitude, as 'twere a pall.

Then, as we left the church behind,
And objects varied as we moved,
The scene induced a calmer mind,
The old man talked of those he loved.

And, as he talked, his grief grew less,
Words gave it wings, and made it light,
And sorrow half grew happiness,
In utterance taking such delight!

I was a happy Man, he said,
The father of five goodly boys,
And one sweet girl, who in my need
A ministering angel was;

My wife died first, and, one by one,
My goodly boys were torn away,
Once scathed the stem, the fruit thereon
Sank with it, ere my head was grey.

Yet still my dear, dear girl was left;
In us the spirits of the rest
Seem'd blent in one, and, though bereft,
I felt I was not all unblest.

But Heaven was pleased still more to try
My fortitude, and, lest I should
Forget that nobler bourne, the sky,
Chastised me unto mine own good.

There is a fitter place of meeting
For spirits lost on earth to view,
To teach me what I was forgetting,
My girl was soon snatched from me too.

Oh stranger, hast thou ever known
What 'tis to be alone on earth?
Having been loved? to be alone
Where many voices cheered the hearth?

My girl, she had such winning ways,
I half forgot in her the rest,
She seemed them almost to replace,
And their united love possessed.

Oh had you heard her soft-toned voice,
Or seen her, at my bedroom door,
With tiptoe caution, lest the noise
Should rouse me, watch an hour or more.

And, if she saw me hide my tears,
She'd kiss me, then point to the skies,
She had a sense beyond her years,
For love perfects the faculties!

Yes, he doth give a novel sense
Unto the eye and to the ear,
And a divine intelligence
Unto the heart, none else comes near.

Then would she read the sacred page,
On some calm, quiet Sabbath-eve,
Likest an angel sent to 'suage,
With words of promise, those who grieve.

But she is in her grave, and I
Am here, a lone old man, of years
And sorrows full; but misery
Shall turn to smiles, though born in tears!

The old man's simple tale was done:
And we had reached his cottage door,
Where a wild eglantine had spun
Its thriftless tendrils, pruned no more.

The rose had rambled from its stay,
And trailed its beauty on the ground,
As though dumb Nature would, that way,
Show sympàthy mute, but profound!

And she doth suffer too with Man,
And falleth to neglect with him,
And all her charms Elysian,
Under a cloud, as 't were, grow dim!

For of herself and works Man is
The crown and finish still,
And when he happiness doth miss,
She doth but half her end fulfil!

The old Man looked, and shook his head,
His grey hairs stirrëd in the wind,
“It used not to be so,” he said,
“Time has left naught to mourn behind.”

They are but emblems of what's gone,
Of what has faded from the earth:
Of all that's noble, no! not one
But has in Heaven a second birth.

That untwined eglantine is like
Affection fixed on worldly things,
Which but in earth its root doth strike,
The stay soon gone to which it clings.

Yon' rose, there trailing on the ground,
Is but the Beauty which decays,
Not the eternal and profound,
The Beauty which the Spirit has!

And with these words the old man turned,
And, prophet-like, his features glowed,
A holier spirit through them burned,
And through the Man th' Immortal showed.

If of an old man's blessing thou
Disdainest not the humble gift,
'Tis thine, and, when this frame lies low,
Some thoughts of me thy soul may lift.

Though baffled oft on this cold earth,
The love we bear our household hearts,
Hath its fulfilment, and imparts
E'en by its anguish higher worth.

Better it is to suffer thus,
And love, though Love the cause may be,
Than to live unsolicitous,
None loving, and none loving thee.

Else God had given not a heart,
But, in its stead, a stone, did He
Not mean His creatures to take part
In all the joys and griefs that be.

The old man's blessing and his words
Sank through my heart, like fresh-fall'n dew,
And, as I turned away, the birds
Their strains seem'd blither to renew.

Oft have I passed the old man's cot
In after years and other mood,
And soothed my own with his sad lot,
And learnt in evil to know good.

There is a wisdom which doth bow,
Meek wisdom, taught by sufferings,
That wound the heart, therein to sow
The seeds of future blessings.

And there are tears, which those who weep
Make holy in God's sight, above
The vain lipworshippers, who keep
The letter, but from fear, not love.

Where love is not, there is no law,
A law unto himself He is:
Instead of law, fulfilling law,
And in fulfilling finds his bliss.

There's wisdom in simplicity,
And dignity in lowliness,
And to be last is, still, to be
Great in our very littleness.

And joys there are, in misery,
That happiness has never known,
A service which is liberty,
And visions but to virtue shown.

Then let our eyes be dimmed with tears,
Our hearts be purified by pain,
Faith still can bear the weight of years,
And by these mortal losses gain!

For, though her crown be one of thorns,
'Tis greater than the crowns of kings,
Triumphs, her griefs: glories, her scorns:
And martyrdoms her sufferings!

Thanks, thanks, great God, part of my task is done:
The labourer in thy vineyard now may rest
Awhile, and if the thought, that I my best
Have essayed, can reward, then want I none!
The harp is now laid by, to gather tone
And strength, yet ready at the least behest
Of Love divine, to plead still for opprest
And suffering Humanity—this one
Great thought still prompts me, still doth it impart
High revelations: 'tis God's voice, and oft
It seems to come direct from up-aloft,
Now pealing with the thunder, till I start
Like prophet from his visions, and now soft
As a babe's lisp, pressed to his mother's heart!
Yet mightier far in his least cry, than in
The rolling thunder's heaven-cleaving din!

And, as my lyre first awoke for thee,
Sublimest spirit of Humanity!
With that best inspiration which must come
Fresh from the heart, and finds in all a home,
So let thy Spirit prompt the closing strain,
Be thou but here, all other Muse is vain.
The fabled hoof of Pegasus could make
The poet's fountain from the hard rock break,
But deeper, from Man's universal heart,
The living poesy of life must start!
The springhead, which hath never yet been slack,
And never will, while Man looks forward and looks back!

And now, like lark, soft-dropping from the sky,
My song must fold its wings, and silent lie,
As flower closing with the evening star;
But, though it soar, the Godlike is not far
From its low nest, in earth's familiar lap:
No, not one tittle further than the sap
Is from the blossom, or than God is from
The good man's heart! there is no need to roam,
For God is with us here, as up above,
Yea! in us, if we do but live by love!

Then feel it so, and the least flower, that lies
Before thee, will, in its own silent way,
So touch thee, that the tears shall fill thine eyes,
And thou wilt kneel down by its side to pray!
Yea! till the bird's least note, or babe's least cry,
Will wake up Nature's boundless harmony,
Now gliding o'er the earth, now pealing far
Through heaven's blue depths, from hymning star to star!
It is the heart first opens all the ear!
Then do but feel, and thou'lt not fail to hear!

Now lay my verse aside, and turn again
To week-day life, and, if not all in vain
I've struck the chords, then often wilt thou catch,
Amid its harshest sounds, some divine snatch
Of melody: some chance-note of my strain
Will, ever and anon, break on thine ear,
Recalling this poor verse, made haply dear
For Nature's sake, else little worth indeed:
Lasting through her, for that grows never sere
Which with her forms is linked! yes, thou shalt hear

Heart-reaching music, if thou wilt give heed,
Oft, like the cricket's chirrup, where thou ne'er
Would'st have expected it: first faint and dim,
But straight upswelling to a mighty hymn!
Strike but one note, and then, from earth and sky,
The whole deep music of Humanity
Shall follow: and, if I have done but this,
Enough is done, the rest thou canst not miss!
Then shalt thou hear far other lyre than mine,
A mightier lyre, and touched by hand divine,
Of which the hearts of all Men are the strings,
Filling the wide world with its murmurings!
This shalt thou hear, nay, with thy mortal hand
Shalt play thereon, and have at thy command
The stops of all its wondrous harmonies,
Thy heart the keynote, if thou touch it true!
But first thy own heart must be tuned anew—
And, to that end, to bright realities
Go turn these idle words: in actions true
Embody these poor thoughts, then wilt thou be
The poet, and not I: the wreath to thee
Is due, and from my most unworthy head
I pluck it, to adorn thy brows instead!
Yes, he, he is the poet, who can make
That life which was but poetry, who views
The World, like God, through love, clothed in such hues
As landscape ne'er from Fancy's touch could take!
The sense of human life, in its most low,
Unelevated state, to him brings no
Rude disenchantment of some cherished dream;
The more awake he is, the more 'twill seem
Sublime! he would not dream, not if he could:
For, to be quite awake, that is the good
Man's privilege alone!—awake unto
And with God, labouring His will to do;
This is to be awake in godlike wise,
And who would mix vain dreams, or close his eyes
But for a moment? since, awake, he has
Far more than dreams, realities which pass
Imagination—or where can he be
So well as in God's presence, or what see
More lovely than the waking eye looks on?
For God is in all things, 'tis Him alone
They glorify, and Him recall to mind!
The Heavens above declare Him, in their kind:
And, with their million conscious eyes, soft-bent
On Earth, with looks unutterable, vent
Their adoration; nor is Earth behind,
But proofs enough in her own self doth find,
In the least flower that decks her garment's hem,
As Heaven in its starry diadem!
And who would lose the consciousness of Him,
Though but for one least moment? then grows dim
The eye, and dull the heart, and we are blind,
Not seeing Him, whom all in all things find!
Awake thou then with thy whole heart and eye,
Feel and see nought but God eternally,
This is the godlike way of seeing, this
Likens thee unto God, and makes thine eye as His!