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!