The point of view (some talks and disputations) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Yet this recal—the direst loss shows gain—
Wouldst hug and kiss a mouldering chain?
Wouldst smite the hand with feeble rage
Which frees the wild bird from its cage?
Wouldst pipe and moan around a change
That lends the spirit ampler range?
Up! Up! And if thy frame should be
Fettered in dull captivity,
Yet play the hero! All the more
Heart, brain, and spirit teach to soar,
Bid every ancient flag fly free,
Let not one fold, one wrinkle be,
Cry “Courage, soul, the fight's begun!”
And—ere thou know'st—that fight is won!

II

To doff the idle garments of a Part,
To seek th' enfolding vesture of the Whole,
To hear, through all the discords of the creeds,
The resounding echo of one sovereign soul;
So may men meet Old age as a good friend,
A kind blunt friend, who, if he bangs the door,
Opens at least unhoped for rifts o'erhead,
Sun-lighted clefts through which new rays may pour,
Under whose swift blows ancient halls wax frail,
But loftier mansions rise of statelier room.
Have we not here one star to gild the night?
One Sirius, outshining death and doom?

III

Yet will I own—poor purblind child of thought,
I that would fain with weak hands grasp the Whole—
Soon, soon, those boasted powers come to nought,
When pain or anger sweep the re-captured soul!
When grim Despair, backed by a furious crowd,
With Folly, Fear or Passion hard behind,
Sweeps headlong down, with clamours shrill and loud,
The grey ill-lighted chancels of the mind.
Away, dark brood, begat of Wrath or Fear,
Earth's wild old sons! My half-won soul release,
The void of voids is coming very near,
Fain would I go my way to it in peace.

IV

Oh starry revels of the enfranchised soul,
When Use and Wont have slipp'd their dull control,
When Sense no longer can her dupe entice,
And Pelf, poor beast, is seen at his real price.
What hand such silent raptures may describe,
Such golden hours in golden verse inscribe?
What words shall ever gauge at its true worth
A free soul set in an unfettered earth?
Not the wild mænad at her giddiest round,
Or priest of Bacchus with red vine-leaves crown'd,
Might hope to touch at midmost ecstasy
That silent, sober, glad serenity.
So glad, so rapt, it moves to the late years,
Gathers new courage, sheds all hampering fears;
With ever widening eyes surveys the Past,
Smiles towards the infant Future. And at last,
Still silent and still smiling, turns to part,
With tears perchance, yet undisturbed in heart;
Mounts the grey path so many feet have trod,
Leaps one last barrier—leaves the rest to God.