The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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WHAT MAKES US RICH? |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
WHAT MAKES US RICH?
That which we consciously possess, alone,
Is ours, that only is real wealth: of all
That lavish Fortune wastes on us, how small
A portion can be truly called our own!
Beyond Life's simpler wants, supplied, that on
High cares the soul may dwell, how much we call
Our own is not possessed! the splendid hall
And banquet we can scarce enjoy for one
Feast-night: and, quicker than the flowers, which
Festooned the walls, they fade from memory!
Such things may make us seem a moment rich,
But only seem; they serve but to bewitch
The sense: real blessings are not for the eye:
They ask a sober soul, far 'neath the surface lie.
Is ours, that only is real wealth: of all
That lavish Fortune wastes on us, how small
A portion can be truly called our own!
Beyond Life's simpler wants, supplied, that on
High cares the soul may dwell, how much we call
Our own is not possessed! the splendid hall
And banquet we can scarce enjoy for one
Feast-night: and, quicker than the flowers, which
Festooned the walls, they fade from memory!
Such things may make us seem a moment rich,
But only seem; they serve but to bewitch
The sense: real blessings are not for the eye:
They ask a sober soul, far 'neath the surface lie.
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Their roots both sound and deep must be too: they
Must firmly grasp this common Earth, whereon
We live, and from which we can raise alone
The daily Bread, for which each heart should pray,
Its most familiar affections; yea!
For from these only, 'neath the blessed sun,
Man's happiness is drawn; else God has done
Wrongly to frame us thus, and bid us say,
“Our Father” even to himself, before
All meaner names! What is a Bible bound
With gold, to him who feels its blessed lore,
Its meaning? It exists not—he has found
The one true vein of Life's enriching ore,
And with that, neither wants, nor wishes, more!
Must firmly grasp this common Earth, whereon
We live, and from which we can raise alone
The daily Bread, for which each heart should pray,
Its most familiar affections; yea!
For from these only, 'neath the blessed sun,
Man's happiness is drawn; else God has done
Wrongly to frame us thus, and bid us say,
“Our Father” even to himself, before
All meaner names! What is a Bible bound
With gold, to him who feels its blessed lore,
Its meaning? It exists not—he has found
The one true vein of Life's enriching ore,
And with that, neither wants, nor wishes, more!
And tell me, once again, oh! what is all
The pomp and glitter of the world, to one
Who feels its meaning, lives in that alone,
Full of this sublime consciousness? how small,
How worthless, in his sight, could he recall
Their nothingness to mind, while gazing on
The golden stars, hung, like bright lamps, upon
The coigns and vaults of this vast, sky-domed hall:
Which is his dwelling-place, how poor soe'er
He be, a palace beyond that of kings!
Yea! more: a temple, where, throughout the year,
Each day's a sabbath, and where he can hear
The preacher preaching ever, and where Spring's
Own hand unto the mighty Altar brings
The wreath, which Earth doth in his honour wear!
The pomp and glitter of the world, to one
Who feels its meaning, lives in that alone,
Full of this sublime consciousness? how small,
How worthless, in his sight, could he recall
Their nothingness to mind, while gazing on
The golden stars, hung, like bright lamps, upon
The coigns and vaults of this vast, sky-domed hall:
Which is his dwelling-place, how poor soe'er
He be, a palace beyond that of kings!
Yea! more: a temple, where, throughout the year,
Each day's a sabbath, and where he can hear
The preacher preaching ever, and where Spring's
Own hand unto the mighty Altar brings
The wreath, which Earth doth in his honour wear!
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Yea! it is worthless, as unto him is
The golden binding, who kneels down and prays,
And, thinking only of his mission, says
“Our Father, which art in Heaven!” does he miss
The “golden binding,” the outside, which this
Weak age adores, to whom the world displays
Its beauty, who, therein, has all Earth has
To give him, with foretaste of Heaven's bliss!
And what (would we partake with him) should we
Then seek? the inner wealth, which makes us free
And godlike! till all else seems drossy, base,
Unfit of during worth to take the trace:
Treasures, which those around us cannot see,
Yet strewed before our feet throughout all space!
The golden binding, who kneels down and prays,
And, thinking only of his mission, says
“Our Father, which art in Heaven!” does he miss
The “golden binding,” the outside, which this
Weak age adores, to whom the world displays
Its beauty, who, therein, has all Earth has
To give him, with foretaste of Heaven's bliss!
And what (would we partake with him) should we
Then seek? the inner wealth, which makes us free
And godlike! till all else seems drossy, base,
Unfit of during worth to take the trace:
Treasures, which those around us cannot see,
Yet strewed before our feet throughout all space!
What too do we most consciously possess,
At all times, in all places, ever on
The same? our Minds, our Hearts, our ownselves! yes!
These make us rich: and he is so alone,
Who o'er himself rules free from all excess:
O'er his own Thoughts! he who feels not his own
Self, consciously, if I may so express
My thought, exists not, and true life has none!
Possess thyself then consciously: thus thou
Wilt have, and be, the Godlike, which thou art;
For God's own Spirit dwells in thee e'en now;
And, feeling this, what more can human heart
Desire? for, where God is, is Heaven too:
And what have earthly things, where heavenly are, to do?
At all times, in all places, ever on
The same? our Minds, our Hearts, our ownselves! yes!
These make us rich: and he is so alone,
Who o'er himself rules free from all excess:
O'er his own Thoughts! he who feels not his own
Self, consciously, if I may so express
My thought, exists not, and true life has none!
Possess thyself then consciously: thus thou
Wilt have, and be, the Godlike, which thou art;
For God's own Spirit dwells in thee e'en now;
And, feeling this, what more can human heart
Desire? for, where God is, is Heaven too:
And what have earthly things, where heavenly are, to do?
| The Poetry of Real Life | |