SHEW US THE FATHER.

"Shew us the Father." Chiming stars of space, And lives that fit the worlds, and means and powers, A Thought that holds them up reveal to ours— A Wisdom we have been made wise to trace. And, looking out from sweetest Nature's face, From sunsets, moonlights, rivers, hills, and flowers, Infinite love and beauty, all the hours, Woo men that love them with divinest grace; And to the depths of all the answering soul High Justice speaks, and calls the world her own; And yet we long, and yet we have not known The very Father's face who means the whole! Shew us the Father! Nature, conscience, love Revealed in beauty, is there One above?



THE PINAFORE.

When peevish flaws his soul have stirred To fretful tears for crossed desires, Obedient to his mother's word My child to banishment retires.

As disappears the moon, when wind Heaps miles of mist her visage o'er, So vanisheth his face behind The cloud of his white pinafore.

I cannot then come near my child— A gulf between of gainful loss; He to the infinite exiled— I waiting, for I cannot cross.

Ah then, what wonder, passing show, The Isis-veil behind it brings— Like that self-coffined creatures know, Remembering legs, foreseeing wings!

Mysterious moment! When or how Is the bewildering change begun? Hid in far deeps the awful now When turns his being to the sun!

A light goes up behind his eyes, A still small voice behind his ears; A listing wind about him sighs, And lo the inner landscape clears!

Hid by that screen, a wondrous shine Is gathering for a sweet surprise; As Moses grew, in dark divine, Too radiant for his people's eyes.

For when the garment sinks again, Outbeams a brow of heavenly wile, Clear as a morning after rain, And sunny with a perfect smile.

Oh, would that I the secret knew Of hiding from my evil part, And turning to the lovely true The open windows of my heart!

Lord, in thy skirt, love's tender gaol, Hide thou my selfish heart's disgrace; Fill me with light, and then unveil To friend and foe a friendly face.



THE PRISM.

I.

A pool of broken sunbeams lay Upon the passage-floor, Radiant and rich, profound and gay As ever diamond bore.

Small, flitting hands a handkerchief Spread like a cunning trap: Prone lay the gorgeous jewel-sheaf In the glory-gleaner's lap!

Deftly she folded up the prize, With lovely avarice; Like one whom having had made wise, She bore it off in bliss.

But ah, when for her prisoned gems She peeped, to prove them there, No glories broken from their stems Lay in the kerchief bare!

For still, outside the nursery door, The bright persistency, A molten diadem on the floor, Lay burning wondrously.

II.

How oft have I laid fold from fold And peered into my mind— To see of all the purple and gold Not one gleam left behind!

The best of gifts will not be stored: The manna of yesterday Has filled no sacred miser-hoard To keep new need away.

Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself; Thy presence is thy light; I cannot lay it on my shelf, Or take it from thy sight.

For daily bread we daily pray— The want still breeds the cry; And so we meet, day after day, Thou, Father in heaven, and I.

Is my house dreary, wall and floor, Will not the darkness flit, I go outside my shadowy door And in thy rainbow sit.



SLEEP.

Oh! is it Death that comes To have a foretaste of the whole? To-night the planets and the stars Will glimmer through my window-bars But will not shine upon my soul!

For I shall lie as dead Though yet I am above the ground; All passionless, with scarce a breath, With hands of rest and eyes of death, I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break The idle night with doubtful gleams, Through mossy arches will I go, Through arches ruinous and low, And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep? When I am still upon my bed The moon will shine, the winds will rise And all around and through the skies The light clouds travel o'er my head!

O busy, busy things, Ye mock me with your ceaseless life! For all the hidden springs will flow And all the blades of grass will grow When I have neither peace nor strife.

And all the long night through The restless streams will hurry by; And round the lands, with endless roar, The white waves fall upon the shore, And bit by bit devour the dry.

Even thus, but silently, Eternity, thy tide shall flow, And side by side with every star Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far, An idle boat with none to row.

My senses fail with sleep; My heart beats thick; the night is noon; And faintly through its misty folds I hear a drowsy clock that holds Its converse with the waning moon.

Oh, solemn mystery That I should be so closely bound With neither terror nor constraint, Without a murmur of complaint, And lose myself upon such ground!



SHARING.

On the far horizon there Heaps of cloudy darkness rest; Though the wind is in the air There is stupor east and west.

For the sky no change is making, Scarce we know it from the plain; Droop its eyelids never waking, Blinded by the misty rain;

Save on high one little spot, Round the baffled moon a space Where the tumult ceaseth not: Wildly goes the midnight race!

And a joy doth rise in me Upward gazing on the sight, When I think that others see In yon clouds a like delight;

How perchance an aged man Struggling with the wind and rain, In the moonlight cold and wan Feels his heart grow young again;

As the cloudy rack goes by, How the life-blood mantles up Till the fountain deep and dry Yields once more a sparkling cup.

Or upon the gazing child Cometh down a thought of glory Which will keep him undefiled Till his head is old and hoary.

For it may be he hath woke And hath raised his fair young form; Strangely on his eyes have broke All the splendours of the storm;

And his young soul forth doth leap With the storm-clouds in the moon; And his heart the light will keep Though the vision passeth soon.

Thus a joy hath often laughed On my soul from other skies, Bearing on its wings a draught From the wells of Paradise,

For that not to me alone Comes a splendour out of fear; Where the light of heaven hath shone There is glory far and near.



IN BONDS.

Of the poor bird that cannot fly Kindly you think and mournfully; For prisoners and for exiles all You let the tears of pity fall; And very true the grief should be That mourns the bondage of the free.

The soul—she has a fatherland; Binds her not many a tyrant's hand? And the winged spirit has a home, But can she always homeward come? Poor souls, with all their wounds and foes, Will you not also pity those?



HUNGER.

Father, I cry to thee for bread With hungred longing, eager prayer; Thou hear'st, and givest me instead More hunger and a half-despair.

0 Lord, how long? My days decline, My youth is lapped in memories old; I need not bread alone, but wine— See, cup and hand to thee I hold!

And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord, That still my heart with hunger faints! The day will come when at thy board I sit, forgetting all my plaints.

If rain must come and winds must blow, And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart, Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go, And keep the faintness at my heart.



NEW YEAR'S EVE: A WAKING DREAM.

I have not any fearful tale to tell Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw, Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw; But what in yonder hamlet there befell, Or rather what in it my fancy saw, I will declare, albeit it may seem Too simple and too common for a dream.

Two brothers were they, and they sat alone Without a word, beside the winter's glow; For it was many years since they had known The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow Of age had frozen it, and it had grown An icy-withered stream that would not flow; And so they sat with warmth about their feet And ice about their hearts that would not beat.

And yet it was a night for quiet hope:— A night the very last of all the year To many a youthful heart did seem to ope An eye within the future, round and clear; And age itself, that travels down the slope, Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near, The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime, Jerking our souls into the coming time.

But they!—alas for age when it is old! The silly calendar they did not heed; Alas for age when in its bosom cold There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed! They thought not of the morrow, but did hold A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute As if they were a-cold from head to foot.

O solemn kindly night, she looketh still With all her moon upon us now and then! And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill, She hath an eye unto the hearts of men! So past a corner of the window-sill She thrust a long bright finger just as ten Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came, Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.

There is a something in the winds of heaven That stirreth purposely and maketh men; And unto every little wind is given A thing to do ere it is still again; So when the little clock had struck eleven, The edging moon had drawn her silver pen Across a mirror, making them aware Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.

Therefore they drew aside the window-blind And looked upon the sleeping town below, And on the little church which sat behind As keeping watch upon the scanty row Of steady tombstones—some of which inclined And others upright, in the moon did show Like to a village down below the waves— It was so still and cool among the graves.

But not a word from either mouth did fall, Except it were some very plain remark. Ah! why should such as they be glad at all? For years they had not listened to the lark! The child was dead in them!—yet did there crawl A wish about their hearts; and as the bark Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware Of a strange longing for the open air.

Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun A web of heavy cloud about their brain! And many a sun and moon had come and gone Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain! But now with timed pace their feet did stun The village echoes into quiet pain: The street appeared very short and white, And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.

"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say —I knew not which was elder of the two— "Right through the churchyard is our better way." "Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew. I have not seen her grave for many a day; And it is in me that with moonlight too It might be pleasant thinking of old faces, And yet I seldom go into such places."

Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan Sitting about a solitary stone! Stranger than many tales it is to scan The earthy fragment of a human bone; But stranger still to see a grey old man Apart from all his fellows, and alone With the pale night and all its giant quiet; Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.

It was their mother's grave, and here were hid The priceless pulses of a mother's soul. Full sixty years it was since she had slid Into the other world through that deep hole. But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid Grew deaf with sudden hammers!—'twas the mole Niddering about its roots.—Be still, old men, Be very still and ye will hear again.

Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away, But it will stay with you till ye are dead! It is but earthy mould and quiet clay, But it hath power to turn the oldest head. Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say More than a hundred tongues had ever said. So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket Into the centre of a firry thicket.

It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life, An inquest held upon the death of things; And in the naked north full thick and rife The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife; And the trees seemed to gather into rings, Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.

Many strange noises are there among trees, And most within the quiet moony light, Therefore those aged men are on their knees As if they listened somewhat:—Ye are right— Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees! Although ye never heard it till to-night, The mighty mother calleth ever so To all her pale-eyed children from below.

Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways, And heard her voices in the market-place, But ye have never listened what she says When the snow-moon is pressing on her face! One night like this is more than many days To him who hears the music and the bass Of deep immortal lullabies which calm His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.

I know not whether there is power in sleep To dim the eyelids of the shining moon, But so it seemed then, for still more deep She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep A pressure on her; so there came a swoon Among the shadows, which still lay together But in their slumber knew not one another.

But while the midnight groped for the chime As she were heavy with excess of dreams, She from the cloud's thick web a second time Made many shadows, though with minished beams; And as she looked eastward through the rime Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams, There fell a little snow upon the crown Of a near hillock very bald and brown.

And on its top they found a little spring, A very helpful little spring indeed, Which evermore unwound a tiny string Of earnest water with continual speed— And so the brothers stood and heard it sing; For all was snowy-still, and not a seed Had struck, and nothing came but noises light Of the continual whitening of the night.

There is a kindness in the falling snow— It is a grey head to the spring time mild; So as the creamy vapour bowed low Crowning the earth with honour undefiled, Within each withered man arose a glow As if he fain would turn into a child: There was a gladness somewhere in the ground Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!

Not through the purple summer or the blush Of red voluptuous roses did it come That silent speaking voice, but through the slush And snowy quiet of the winter numb! It was a barren mound that heard the gush Of living water from two fountains dumb— Two rocky human hearts which long had striven To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!

Now from the village came the onward shout Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer; It was a youthful group that wandered out To do obeisance to the glad new year; And as they passed they sang with voices stout A song which I was very fain to hear, But as they darkened on, away it died, And the two men walked homewards side by side.



FROM NORTH WALES: TO THE MOTHER.

When the summer gave us a longer day, And the leaves were thickest, I went away: Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue, Was that summer-ramble from London and you.

It was but one burst into life and air, One backward glance on the skirts of care, A height on the hills with the smoke below— And the joy that came quickly was quick to go.

But I know and I cannot forget so soon How the Earth is shone on by Sun and Moon; How the clouds hide the mountains, and how they move When the morning sunshine lies warm above.

I know how the waters fall and run In the rocks and the heather, away from the sun; How they hang like garlands on all hill-sides, And are the land's music, those crystal tides.

I know how they gather in valleys fair, Meet valleys those beautiful waves to bear; How they dance through the rocks, how they rest in the pool, How they darken, how sparkle, and how they are cool.

I know how the rocks from their kisses climb To keep the storms off with a front sublime; And how on their platforms and sloping walls The shadow of oak-tree and fir-tree falls.

I know how the valleys are bright from far, Rocks, meadows, and waters, the wood and the scaur; And how the roadside and the nearest hill The foxglove and heather and harebell fill.

I know—but the joy that was quick to go Gave more knowledge to me than words can shew; And you know the story, and how they fare Who love the green earth and the heavenly air.



COME TO ME.

Come to me, come to me, O my God; Come to me everywhere! Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod, And the water and the air!

For thou art so far that I often doubt, As on every side I stare, Searching within, and looking without, If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old? How did they grow so sure? They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold, They suffered, and kept themselves pure!

But now they say—neither above the sphere Nor down in the heart of man, But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true Which ages have not made old, Which of endless many makes one anew, And simplicity manifold!

But he taught that they who did his word The truth of it sure would know: I will try to do it: if he be lord Again the old faith will glow;

Again the old spirit-wind will blow That he promised to their prayer; And obeying the Son, I too shall know His father everywhere!



A FEAR.

O Mother Earth, I have a fear Which I would tell to thee— Softly and gently in thine ear When the moon and we are three.

Thy grass and flowers are beautiful; Among thy trees I hide; And underneath the moonlight cool Thy sea looks broad and wide;

But this I fear—lest thou shouldst grow To me so small and strange, So distant I should never know On thee a shade of change,

Although great earthquakes should uplift Deep mountains from their base, And thy continual motion shift The lands upon thy face;—

The grass, the flowers, the dews that lie Upon them as before— Driven upwards evermore, lest I Should love these things no more.

Even now thou dimly hast a place In deep star galaxies! And I, driven ever on through space, Have lost thee in the skies!



THE LOST HOUSE.

Out of thy door I run to do the thing That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing About their work, "My God, my father-king!"

I turn in haste to see thy blessed door, But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds, And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!

Ah me! the house of peace is there no more. Was it a dream then?—Walls, fireside, and floor, And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free, Are vanished—gone as they had never been!

I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!— And I am kneeling at my father's knee, Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.



THE TALK OF THE ECHOES.

A FRAGMENT.

When the cock crows loud from the glen, And the moor-cock chirrs from the heather, What hear ye and see ye then, Ye children of air and ether?

1st Echo. A thunder as of waves at the rising of the moon, And a darkness on the graves though the day is at its noon.

2nd Echo. A springing as of grass though the air is damp and chill, And a glimmer from the river that winds about the hill.

1st Echo. A lapse of crags that leant from the mountain's earthen sheath, And a shock of ruin sent on the river underneath.

2nd Echo. A sound as of a building that groweth fair and good, And a piping of the thrushes from the hollow of the wood.

1st Echo. A wailing as of lambs that have wandered from the flock, And a bleating of their dams that was answered from the rock.

2nd Echo. A breathing as of cattle in the shadow where they dream, And a sound of children playing with the pebbles in the stream.

1st Echo. A driving as of clouds in the kingdom of the air, And a tumult as of crowds that mingle everywhere.

2nd Echo. A waving of the grass, and a passing o'er the lakes, And a shred of tempest-cloud in the glory when it breaks.



THE GOAL

In God alone, the perfect end, Wilt thou find thyself or friend.



THE HEALER.

They come to thee, the halt, the maimed, the blind, The devil-torn, the sick, the sore; Thy heart their well of life they find, Thine ear their open door.

Ah, who can tell the joy in Palestine— What smiles and tears of rescued throngs! Their lees of life were turned to wine, Their prayers to shouts and songs!

The story dear our wise men fable call, Give paltry facts the mighty range; To me it seems just what should fall, And nothing very strange.

But were I deaf and lame and blind and sore, I scarce would care for cure to ask; Another prayer should haunt thy door— Set thee a harder task.

If thou art Christ, see here this heart of mine, Torn, empty, moaning, and unblest! Had ever heart more need of thine, If thine indeed hath rest?

Thy word, thy hand right soon did scare the bane That in their bodies death did breed; If thou canst cure my deeper pain Then art thou lord indeed.



OH THAT A WIND.

Oh that a wind would call From the depths of the leafless wood! Oh that a voice would fall On the ear of my solitude!

Far away is the sea, With its sound and its spirit tone; Over it white clouds flee; But I am alone, alone.

Straight and steady and tall The trees stand on their feet; Fast by the old stone wall The moss grows green and sweet; But my heart is full of fears, For the sun shines far away; And they look in my face through tears, And the light of a dying day.

My heart was glad last night As I pressed it with my palm; Its throb was airy and light As it sang some spirit psalm; But it died away in my breast As I wandered forth to-day,— As a bird sat dead on its nest, While others sang on the spray.

O weary heart of mine, Is there ever a Truth for thee? Will ever a sun outshine But the sun that shines on me? Away, away through the air The clouds and the leaves are blown; And my heart hath need of prayer, For it sitteth alone, alone.



A VISION OF ST. ELIGIUS.

I.

I see thy house, but I am blown about, A wind-mocked kite, between the earth and sky, All out of doors—alas! of thy doors out, And drenched in dews no summer suns can dry.

For every blast is passion of my own; The dews cold sweats of selfish agony; Dank vapour steams from memories lying prone; And all my soul is but a stifled cry.

II.

Lord, thou dost hold my string, else were I driven Down to some gulf where I were tossed no more, No turmoil telling I was not in heaven, No billows raving on a blessed shore.

Thou standest on thy door-sill, calm as day, And all my throbs and pangs are pulls from thee; Hold fast the string, lest I should break away And outer dark and silence swallow me.

III.

No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home. Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak; Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come; Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak.

In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite; A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast. Thou flingest me abroad:—lo, in thy might A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!



OF THE SON OF MAN.

I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust To look with jealousy on her designs; With every passing year more fast she twines About my heart; with her mysterious dust Claim I a fellowship not less august Although she works before me and combines Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines Spreading a leafy volume on the crust Of the old world; and man himself likewise Is of her making: wherefore then divorce What God hath joined thus, and rend by force Spirit away from substance, bursting ties By which in one great bond of unity God hath together bound all things that be?

II. And in these lines my purpose is to show That He who left the Father, though he came Not with art-splendour or the earthly flame Of genius, yet in that he did bestow His own true loving heart, did cause to grow, Unseen and buried deep, whate'er we name The best in human art, without the shame Of idle sitting in most real woe; And that whate'er of Beautiful and Grand The Earth contains, by him was not despised, But rather was so deeply realized In word and deed, though not with artist hand, That it was either hid or all disguised From those who were not wise to understand.

III. Art is the bond of weakness, and we find Therein acknowledgment of failing power: A man would worship, gazing on a flower— Onward he passeth, lo his eyes are blind! The unenlivened form he left behind Grew up within him only for an hour! And he will grapple with Nature till the dower Of strength shall be retreasured in his mind. And each form-record is a high protest Of treason done unto the soul of man, Which, striving upwards, ever is oppress'd By the old bondage, underneath whose ban He, failing in his struggle for the best, Must live in pain upon what food he can.

IV. Moreover, were there perfect harmony 'Twixt soul and Nature, we should never waste The precious hours in gazing, but should haste To assimilate her offerings, and we From high life-elements, as doth the tree, Should grow to higher; so what we call Taste Is a slow living as of roots encased In the grim chinks of some sterility Both cramping and withholding. Art is Truth, But Truth dammed up and frozen, gagged and bound As is a streamlet icy and uncouth Which pebbles hath and channel but no sound: Give it again its summer heart of youth And it will be a life upon the ground.

V. And Love had not been prisoned in cold stone, Nor Beauty smeared on the dead canvas so, Had not their worshipper been forced to go Questful and restless through the world alone, Searching but finding not, till on him shone Back from his own deep heart a chilly glow As of a frost-nipped sunbeam, or of snow Under a storm-dodged crescent which hath grown Wasted to mockery; and beneath such gleam His wan conceits have found an utterance, Which, had they found a true and sunny beam, Had ripened into real touch and glance— Nay more, to real deed, the Truth of all, To some perfection high and personal.

VI. "But yet the great of soul have ever been The first to glory in all works of art; For from the genius-form would ever dart A light of inspiration, and a sheen As of new comings; and ourselves have seen Men of stern purpose to whose eyes would start Sorrow at sight of sorrow though no heart Did riot underneath that chilly, screen; And hence we judge such utterance native to The human soul—expression highest—best." —Nay, it is by such sign they will pursue, Albeit unknowing, Beauty, without rest; And failing in the search, themselves will fling Speechless before its shadow, worshipping.

VII. And how shall he whose mission is to bring The soul to worship at its rightful shrine, Seeing in Beauty what is most divine, Give out the mightiest impulse, and thus fling His soul into the future, scattering The living seed of wisdom? Shall there shine From underneath his hand a matchless line Of high earth-beauties, till the wide world ring With the far clang that tells a missioned soul, Kneeling to homage all about his feet? Alas for such a gift were this the whole, The only bread of life men had to eat! Lo, I behold them dead about him now, And him the heart of death, for all that brow!

VIII. If Thou didst pass by Art, thou didst not scorn The souls that by such symbol yearned in vain From Truth and Love true nourishment to gain: On thy warm breast, so chilly and forlorn Fell these thy nurslings little more than born That thou wast anguished, and there fell a rain From thy blest eyelids, and in grief and pain Thou partedst from them yet one night and morn To find them wholesome food and nourishment Instead of what their blindness took for such, Laying thyself a seed in earthen rent From which, outspringing to the willing touch, Riseth for all thy children harvest great, For which they will all learn to bless thee yet.

IV. Thou sawest Beauty in the streaking cloud When grief lift up those eyelids; nor in scorn Broke ever on thine eyes the purple morn Along the cedar tops; to thee aloud Spake the night-solitude, when hushed and bowed The earth lay at thy feet stony and worn; Loving thou markedst when the lamb unshorn Was glad before thee, and amongst the crowd Famished and pent in cities did thine eye Read strangest glory—though in human art No record lives to tell us that thy heart Bowed to its own deep beauty: deeper did lie The burden of thy mission, even whereby We know that Beauty liveth where Thou art.

X. Doubtless thine eyes have watched the sun aspire From that same Olivet, when back on thee Flushed upwards after some night-agony Thy proper Godhead, with a purer fire Purpling thy Infinite, and in strong desire Thou sattest in the dawn that was to be Uplifted on our dark perplexity. Yea in thee lay thy soul, a living lyre, And each wild beauty smote it, though the sound Rung to the night-winds oft and desert air; Beneath thine eyes the lily paled more fair, And each still shadow slanting on the ground Lay sweetly on thee as commissioned there, So full wast thou of eyes all round and round.

XI. And so thou neededst not our human skill To fix what thus were transient—there it grew Wedded to thy perfection; and anew With every coming vision rose there still Some living principle which did fulfil Thy most legitimate manhood; and unto Thy soul all Nature rendered up its due With not a contradiction; and each hill And mountain torrent and each wandering light Grew out divinely on thy countenance, Whereon, as we are told, by word and glance Thy hearers read an ever strange delight—So strange to them thy Truth, they could not tell What made thy message so unspeakable.

XII. And by such living witness didst thou preach: Not with blind hands of groping forward thrust Into the darkness, gathering only dust, But by this real sign—that thou didst reach, In natural order, rising each from each, Thy own ideals of the True and Just; And that as thou didst live, even so he must Who would aspire his fellow-men to teach, Looking perpetual from new heights of Thought On his old self. Of art no scorner thou! Instead of leafy chaplet, on thy brow Wearing the light of manhood, thou hast brought Death unto Life! Above all statues now, Immortal Artist, hail! thy work is wrought!

XIII. Solemn and icy stand ye in my eyes, Far up into the niches of the Past, Ye marble statues, dim and holden fast Within your stony homes! nor human cries Had shook you from your frozen phantasies Or sent the life-blood through you, till there passed Through all your chilly bulks a new life-blast From the Eternal Living, and ye rise From out your stiffened postures rosy-warm, Walking abroad a goodly company Of living virtues at that wondrous charm, As he with human heart and hand and eye Walked sorrowing upon our highways then, The Eternal Father's living gift to men!

XIV. As the pent torrent in uneasy rest Under the griping rocks, doth ever keep A monstrous working as it lies asleep In the round hollow of some mountain's breast, Till where it hideth in its sweltering nest Some earthquake finds it, and its waters leap Forth to the sunshine down the mighty steep, So in thee once was anguished forth the quest Whereby man sought for life-power as he lay Under his own proud heart and black despair Wedged fast and stifled up with loads of care, Yet at dumb struggle with the tyrant clay; Thou wentest down below the roots of prayer, And he hath cried aloud since that same day!

XV. As he that parts in hatred from a friend Mixing with other men forgets the woe Which anguished him when he beheld and lo Two souls had fled asunder which did bend Under the same blue heaven! yet ere the end, When the loud world hath tossed him to and fro, Will often strangely reappear that glow At simplest memory which some chance may send, Although much stronger bonds have lost their power: So thou God-sent didst come in lowly guise, Striking on simple chords,—not with surprise Or mightiest recollectings in that hour, But like remembered fragrance of a flower A man with human heart and loving eyes.

March, 1852.



A SONG-SERMON:

Job xiv. 13-15.

RONDEL.

Would that thou hid me in the grave And kept me with death's gaoler-care; Until thy wrath away should wear A sentence fixed thy prisoner gave! I would endure with patience brave So thou remembered I was there! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!

To see thy creature thou wouldst crave— Desire thy handiwork so fair; Then wouldst thou call through death's dank air And I would answer from the cave! Would that thou hid me in the grave, And kept me with death's gaoler-care!



WORDS IN THE NIGHT.

I woke at midnight, and my heart, My beating heart, said this to me: Thou seest the moon, how calm and bright! The world is fair by day and night, But what is that to thee? One touch to me, down dips the light Over the land and sea. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark— The winter with its sparkling moons, The spring with all her violets, The crimson dawns and rich sunsets, The autumn's yellowing noons! I only toss my purple jets, And thou art one that swoons Upon a night of gust and roar, Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems Across the purple hills to roam: Sweet odours touch him from the foam, And downward sinking still he dreams He walks the clover fields at home And hears the rattling teams. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I!

Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout Full in the air, and in the downward spray A hovering Iris span the marble tank, Which, as the wind came, ever rose and sank, Violet and red; so my continual play Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank Of human excellence, while they, Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet, Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat. Let the world's fountain play! Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove; Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies He marks the dancing column with his eyes Celestial, and amid his inmost grove Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.

One heart beats in all nature, differing But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours Are but the waste and brunt of instruments Wherewith a work is done, or as the hammers On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape The hard and scattered ore; Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash Thy life go from thee in a night of pain; So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.

Hark, the cock crows loud! And without, all ghastly and ill, Like a man uplift in his shroud, The white, white morn is propped on the hill; And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill The icicles 'gin to glitter And the birds with a warble short and shrill Pass by the chamber-window still— With a quick, uneasy twitter! Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter; And wearily, wearily, one by one, Men awake with the weary sun! Life is a phantom shut in thee: I am the master and keep the key; So let me toss thee the days of old Crimson and orange and green and gold; So let me fill thee yet again With a rush of dreams from my spout amain; For all is mine, all is my own: Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone, And I am alive, I only, I!



CONSIDER THE RAVENS

Lord, according to thy words, I have considered thy birds; And I find their life good, And better the better understood: Sowing neither corn nor wheat They have all that they can eat; Reaping no more than they sow They have more than they could stow; Having neither barn nor store, Hungry again, they eat more.

Considering, I see too that they Have a busy life, and plenty of play; In the earth they dig their bills deep And work well though they do not heap; Then to play in the air they are not loath, And their nests between are better than both. But this is when there blow no storms, When berries are plenty in winter, and worms, When feathers are rife, with oil enough— To keep the cold out and send the rain off; If there come, indeed, a long hard frost Then it looks as thy birds were lost.

But I consider further, and find A hungry bird has a free mind; He is hungry to-day, not to-morrow, Steals no comfort, no grief doth borrow; This moment is his, thy will hath said it, The next is nothing till thou hast made it.

Thy bird has pain, but has no fear Which is the worst of any gear; When cold and hunger and harm betide him, He does not take them and stuff inside him; Content with the day's ill he has got, He waits just, nor haggles with his lot: Neither jumbles God's will With driblets from his own still.

But next I see, in my endeavour, Thy birds here do not live for ever; That cold or hunger, sickness or age Finishes their earthly stage; The rooks drop in cold nights, Leaving all their wrongs and rights; Birds lie here and birds lie there With their feathers all astare; And in thy own sermon, thou That the sparrow falls dost allow.

It shall not cause me any alarm, For neither so comes the bird to harm Seeing our father, thou hast said, Is by the sparrow's dying bed; Therefore it is a blessed place, And the sparrow in high grace.

It cometh therefore to this, Lord: I have considered thy word, And henceforth will be thy bird.



THE WIND OF THE WORLD.

Chained is the Spring. The Night-wind bold Blows over the hard earth; Time is not more confused and cold, Nor keeps more wintry mirth.

Yet blow, and roll the world about— Blow, Time, blow, winter's Wind! Through chinks of time heaven peepeth out, And Spring the frost behind.



SABBATH BELLS.

Oh holy Sabbath bells, Ye have a pleasant voice! Through all the land your music swells, And man with one commandment tells To rest and to rejoice.

As birds rejoice to flee From dark and stormy skies To brighter lands beyond the sea Where skies are calm, and wings are free To wander and to rise;

As thirsty travellers sing, Through desert paths that pass, To hear the welcome waters spring, And see, beyond the spray they fling Tall trees and waving grass;

So we rejoice to know Your melody begun; For when our paths are parched below Ye tell us where green pastures glow And living waters run.

LONDON, December 15, 1840.



FIGHTING.

Here is a temple strangely wrought: Within it I can see Two spirits of a diverse thought Contend for mastery.

One is an angel fair and bright, Adown the aisle comes he, Adown the aisle in raiment white, A creature fair to see.

The other wears an evil mien, And he hath doubtless slipt, A fearful being dark and lean, Up from the mouldy crypt.

* * * * *

Is that the roof that grows so black? Did some one call my name? Was it the bursting thunder crack That filled this place with flame?

I move—I wake from out my sleep: Some one hath victor been! I see two radiant pinions sweep, And I am borne between.

Beneath the clouds that under roll An upturned face I see— A dead man's face, but, ah, the soul Was right well known to me!

A man's dead face! Away I haste Through regions calm and fair: Go vanquish sin, and thou shall taste The same celestial air.



AFTER THE FASHION OF AN OLD EMBLEM.

I have long enough been working down in my cellar, Working spade and pick, boring-chisel and drill; I long for wider spaces, airy, clear-dark, and stellar: Successless labour never the love of it did fill.

More profit surely lies in a holy, pure quiescence, In a setting forth of cups to catch the heavenly rain, In a yielding of the being to the ever waiting presence, In a lifting of the eyes upward, homeward again!

Up to my garret, its storm-windows and skylights! There I'll lay me on the floor, and patient let the sun, The moon and the stars, the blueness and the twilights Do what their pleasure is, and wait till they have done.

But, lo, I hear a waving on the roof of great pinions! 'Tis the labour of a windmill, broad-spreading to the wind! Lo, down there goes a. shaft through all the house-dominions! I trace it to a cellar, whose door I cannot find.

But there I hear ever a keen diamond-drill in motion, Now fast and now slow as the wind sits in the sails, Drilling and boring to the far eternal ocean, The living well of all wells whose water never fails.

So now I go no more to the cellar to my labour, But up to my garret where those arms are ever going; There the sky is ever o'er me, and the wind my blessed neighbour, And the prayer-handle ready turns the sails to its blowing.

Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing! Keep the great windmill going full and free; So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going Till in burst the waters of God's eternal sea.



A PRAYER IN SICKNESS.

Thou foldest me in sickness; Thou callest through the cloud; I batter with the thickness Of the swathing, blinding shroud: Oh, let me see thy face, The only perfect grace That thou canst show thy child.

0 father, being-giver, Take off the sickness-cloud; Saviour, my life deliver From this dull body-shroud: Till I can see thy face I am not full of grace, I am not reconciled.



QUIET DEAD!

Quiet, quiet dead, Have ye aught to say From your hidden bed In the earthy clay?

Fathers, children, mothers, Ye are very quiet; Can ye shout, my brothers? I would know you by it!

Have ye any words That are like to ours? Have ye any birds? Have ye any flowers?

Could ye rise a minute When the sun is warm? I would know you in it, I would take no harm.

I am half afraid In the ghostly night; If ye all obeyed I should fear you quite.

But when day is breaking In the purple east I would meet you waking— One of you at least—

When the sun is tipping Every stony block, And the sun is slipping Down the weathercock.

Quiet, quiet dead, I will not perplex you; What my tongue hath said Haply it may vex you!

Yet I hear you speaking With a quiet speech, As if ye were seeking Better things to teach:

"Wait a little longer, Suffer and endure Till your heart is stronger And your eyes are pure—

A little longer, brother, With your fellow-men: We will meet each other Otherwhere again."



LET YOUR LIGHT SO SHINE.

Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest in my head A lamp that well might pharos all the lands; Anon the light will neither rise nor spread: Shrouded in danger gray the beacon stands!

A pharos? Oh dull brain! poor dying lamp Under a bushel with an earthy smell! Mouldering it stands, in rust and eating damp, While the slow oil keeps oozing from its cell!

For me it were enough to be a flower Knowing its root in thee, the Living, hid, Ordained to blossom at the appointed hour, And wake or sleep as thou, my Nature, bid;

But hear my brethren in their darkling fright! Hearten my lamp that it may shine abroad Then will they cry—Lo, there is something bright! Who kindled it if not the shining God?



TRIOLET.

When the heart is a cup In the body low lying, And wine, drop by drop Falls into that cup

From somewhere high up, It is good to be dying With the heart for a cup In the body low lying.



THE SOULS' RISING.

See how the storm of life ascends Up through the shadow of the world! Beyond our gaze the line extends, Like wreaths of vapour tempest-hurled! Grasp tighter, brother, lest the storm Should sweep us down from where we stand, And we may catch some human form We know, amongst the straining band.

See! see in yonder misty cloud One whirlwind sweep, and we shall hear The voice that waxes yet more loud And louder still approaching near!

Tremble not, brother, fear not thou, For yonder wild and mystic strain Will bring before us strangely now The visions of our youth again!

Listen! oh listen! See how its eyeballs roll and glisten With a wild and fearful stare Upwards through the shining air, Or backwards with averted look, As a child were gazing at a book Full of tales of fear and dread, When the thick night-wind came hollow and dead.

Round about it, wavering and light. As the moths flock round a candle at night, A crowd of phantoms sheeted and dumb Strain to its words as they shrilly come: Brother, my brother, dost thou hear? They pierce through the tumult sharp and clear!

"The rush of speed is on my soul, My eyes are blind with things I see; I cannot grasp the awful whole, I cannot gird the mystery! The mountains sweep like mist away; The great sea shakes like flakes of fire; The rush of things I cannot see Is mounting upward higher and higher! Oh! life was still and full of calm In yonder spot of earthly ground, But now it rolls a thunder-psalm, Its voices drown my ear in sound! Would God I were a child again To nurse the seeds of faith and power; I might have clasped in wisdom then A wing to beat this awful hour! The dullest things would take my marks— They took my marks like drifted snow— God! how the footsteps rise in sparks, Rise like myself and onward go! Have pity, O ye driving things That once like me had human form! For I am driven for lack of wings A shreddy cloud before the storm!"

How its words went through me then, Like a long forgotten pang, Till the storm's embrace again Swept it far with sudden clang!— Ah, methinks I see it still! Let us follow it, my brother, Keeping close to one another, Blessing God for might of will! Closer, closer, side by side! Ours are wings that deftly glide Upwards, downwards, and crosswise Flashing past our ears and eyes, Splitting up the comet-tracks With a whirlwind at our backs!

How the sky is blackening! Yet the race is never slackening; Swift, continual, and strong, Streams the torrent slope along, Like a tidal surge of faces Molten into one despair; Each the other now displaces, A continual whirl of spaces; Ah, my fainting eyesight reels As I strive in vain to stare On a thousand turning wheels Dimly in the gloom descending, Faces with each other blending!— Let us beat the vapours back, We are yet upon his track.

Didst thou see a spirit halt Upright on a cloudy peak, As the lightning's horrid fault Smote a gash into the cheek Of the grinning thunder-cloud Which doth still besiege and crowd Upward from the nether pits Where the monster Chaos sits, Building o'er the fleeing rack Roofs of thunder long and black? Yes, I see it! I will shout Till I stop the horrid rout. Ho, ho! spirit-phantom, tell Is thy path to heaven or hell? We would hear thee yet again, What thy standing amongst men, What thy former history, And thy hope of things to be! Wisdom still we gain from hearing: We would know, we would know Whither thou art steering— Unto weal or woe!

Ah, I cannot hear it speaking! Yet it seems as it were seeking Through our eyes our souls to reach With a quaint mysterious speech, As with stretched and crossing palms One were tracing diagrams On the ebbing of the beach, Till with wild unmeasured dance All the tiptoe waves advance, Seize him by the shoulder, cover, Turn him up and toss him over: He is vanished from our sight, Nothing mars the quiet night Save a speck of gloom afar Like the ruin of a star!

Brother, streams it ever so, Such a torrent tide of woe? Ah, I know not; let us haste Upwards from this dreary waste, Up to where like music flowing Gentler feet are ever going, Streams of life encircling run Round about the spirit-sun! Up beyond the storm and rush With our lesson let us rise! Lo, the morning's golden flush Meets us midway in the skies! Perished all the dream and strife! Death is swallowed up of Life!



AWAKE!

The stars are all watching; God's angel is catching At thy skirts in the darkness deep! Gold hinges grating, The mighty dead waiting, Why dost thou sleep?

Years without number, Ages of slumber, Stiff in the track of the infinite One! Dead, can I think it? Dropt like a trinket, A thing whose uses are done!

White wings are crossing, Glad waves are tossing, The earth flames out in crimson and green Spring is appearing, Summer is nearing— Where hast thou been?

Down in some cavern, Death's sleepy tavern, Housing, carousing with spectres of night? There is my right hand! Grasp it full tight and Spring to the light.

Wonder, oh, wonder! How the life-thunder Bursts on his ear in horror and dread! Happy shapes meet him; Heaven and earth greet him: Life from the dead!



TO AN AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER.

Seek not my name—it doth no virtue bear; Seek, seek thine own primeval name to find— The name God called when thy ideal fair Arose in deeps of the eternal mind.

When that thou findest, thou art straight a lord Of time and space—art heir of all things grown; And not my name, poor, earthly label-word, But I myself thenceforward am thine own.

Thou hearest not? Or hearest as a man Who hears the muttering of a foolish spell? My very shadow would feel strange and wan In thy abode:—I say No, and Farewell.

Thou understandest? Then it is enough; No shadow-deputy shall mock my friend; We walk the same path, over smooth and rough, To meet ere long at the unending end.



WITH A COPY OF "IN MEMORIAM."

TO E.M. II.

Dear friend, you love the poet's song, And here is one for your regard. You know the "melancholy bard," Whose grief is wise as well as strong;

Already something understand For whom he mourns and what he sings, And how he wakes with golden strings The echoes of "the silent land;"

How, restless, faint, and worn with grief, Yet loving all and hoping all, He gazes where the shadows fall, And finds in darkness some relief;

And how he sends his cries across, His cries for him that comes no more, Till one might think that silent shore Full of the burden of his loss;

And how there comes sublimer cheer— Not darkness solacing sad eyes, Not the wild joy of mournful cries, But light that makes his spirit clear;

How, while he gazes, something high, Something of Heaven has fallen on him, His distance and his future dim Broken into a dawning sky!

Something of this, dear friend, you know; And will you take the book from me That holds this mournful melody, And softens grief to sadness so?

Perhaps it scarcely suits the day Of joyful hopes and memories clear, When love should have no thought of fear, And only smiles be round your way;

Yet from the mystery and the gloom, From tempted faith and conquering trust, From spirit stronger than the dust, And love that looks beyond the tomb,

What can there be but good to win, But hope for life, but love for all, But strength whatever may befall?— So for the year that you begin,

For all the years that follow this While a long happy life endures, This hope, this love, this strength be yours, And afterwards a larger bliss!

May nothing in this mournful song Too much take off your thoughts from time, For joy should fill your vernal prime, And peace your summer mild and long.

And may his love who can restore All losses, give all new good things, Like loving eyes and sheltering wings Be round us all for evermore!



THEY ARE BLIND.

They are blind, and they are dead: We will wake them as we go; There are words have not been said, There are sounds they do not know: We will pipe and we will sing— With the Music and the Spring Set their hearts a wondering!

They are tired of what is old, We will give it voices new; For the half hath not been told Of the Beautiful and True. Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping! Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping! Flashes through the lashes leaping!

Ye that have a pleasant voice, Hither come without delay; Ye will never have a choice Like to that ye have to-day: Round the wide world we will go, Singing through the frost and snow Till the daisies are in blow.

Ye that cannot pipe or sing, Ye must also come with speed; Ye must come, and with you bring Weighty word and weightier deed— Helping hands and loving eyes! These will make them truly wise— Then will be our Paradise.

March 27, 1852.



WHEN THE STORM WAS PROUDEST.

When the storm was proudest, And the wind was loudest, I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below; When the stars were bright, And the ground was white, I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.

Many voices spake— The river to the lake, And the iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea; And every starry spark Made music with the dark, And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.

When the sun was setting, All the clouds were getting Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon; Beneath the leafless trees Wrangling in the breeze, I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.

When the day had ended, And the night descended, I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day, And every peak afar Was ready for a star, And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.

Then slumber soft and holy Came down upon me slowly, And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how; My glory had been banished, For when I woke it vanished; But I waited on its coming, and I am waiting now.



THE DIVER.

FROM SCHILLER.

"Which of you, knight or squire, will dare Plunge into yonder gulf? A golden beaker I fling in it—there! The black mouth swallows it like a wolf! Who brings me the cup again, whoever, It is his own—he may keep it for ever!"

'Tis the king who speaks. He flings from the brow Of the cliff, that, rugged and steep, Hangs out o'er the endless sea below, The cup in the whirlpool's howling heap:— "Again I ask, what hero will follow, What hero plunge into yon dark hollow?"

The knights and the squires the king about Hear, and dumbly stare Into the wild sea's tumbling rout; To win the beaker they hardly care! The king, for the third time, round him glaring— "Not one soul of you has the daring?"

Speechless all, as before, they stand. Then a squire, young, gentle, gay, Steps from his comrades' shrinking band, Flinging his girdle and cloak away; And all the women and men that surrounded Gazed on the noble youth, astounded.

And when he stepped to the rock's rough brow And looked down on the gulf so black, The waters which it had swallowed, now Charybdis bellowing rendered back; And, with a roar as of distant thunder, Foaming they burst from the dark lap under.

It wallows, seethes, hisses in raging rout, As when water wrestles with fire, Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout; And flood upon flood keeps mounting higher: It will never its endless coil unravel, As the sea with another sea were in travail!

But, at last, slow sinks the writhing spasm, And, black through the foaming white, Downward gapes a yawning chasm— Bottomless, cloven to hell's wide night; And, sucked up, see the billows roaring Down through the whirling funnel pouring!

Then in haste, ere the out-rage return again, The youth to his God doth pray, And—ascends a cry of horror and pain!— Already the vortex hath swept him away, And o'er the bold swimmer, in darkness eternal, Close the great jaws of the gulf infernal!

Then the water above grows smooth as glass, While, below, dull roarings ply; And trembling they hear the murmur pass— "High-hearted youth, farewell, good-bye!" And hollower still comes the howl affraying, Till their hearts are sick with the frightful delaying.

If the crown itself thou in should fling, And say, "Who back with it hies Himself shall wear it, and shall be king," I would not covet the precious prize! What Ocean hides in that howling hell of it Live soul will never come back to tell of it!

Ships many, caught in that whirling surge, Shot sheer to their dismal doom: Keel and mast only did ever emerge, Shattered, from out the all-gulping tomb!— Like the bluster of tempest, clearer and clearer, Comes its roaring nearer and ever nearer!

It wallows, seethes, hisses, in raging rout, As when water wrestles with fire, Till to heaven the yeasty tongues they spout, Wave upon wave's back mounting higher; And as with the grumble of distant thunder, Bellowing it bursts from the dark lap under.

And, see, from its bosom, flowing dark, Something heave up, swan-white! An arm and a shining neck they mark, And it rows with never relaxing might! It is he! and high his golden capture His left hand waves in success's rapture!

With long deep breaths his path he ploughed, And he hailed the heavenly day; Jubilant shouted the gazing crowd, "He lives! he is there! he broke away! Out of the grave, the whirlpool uproarious, The hero hath rescued his life victorious!"

He comes; they surround him with shouts of glee; At the king's feet he sinks on the sod, And hands him the beaker upon his knee; To his lovely daughter the king gives a nod: She fills it brim-full of wine sparkling and playing, And then to the king the youth turned him saying:

"Long live the king!—Well doth he fare Who breathes in this rosy light, But, ah, it is horrible down there! And man must not tempt the heavenly Might, Or ever seek, with prying unwholesome, What he graciously covers with darkness dolesome!

"It tore me down with a headlong swing; Then a shaft in a rock outpours, Wild-rushing against me, a torrent spring; It seized me, the double stream's raging force, And like a top, with giddy twisting, It spun me round—there was no resisting!

"Then God did show me, sore beseeching In deepest, frightfullest need, Up from the bottom a rock-ledge reaching— At it I caught, and from death was freed! And, behold, on spiked corals the beaker suspended, Which had else to the very abyss descended!

"For below me it lay yet mountain-deep The purply darksome maw; And though to the ear it was dead asleep, The ghasted eye, down staring, saw How with dragons, lizards, salamanders crawling, The hell-jaws horrible were sprawling.

"Black swarming in medley miscreate, In masses lumped hideously, Wallowed the conger, the thorny skate, The lobster's grisly deformity; And bared its teeth with cruel sheen a Terrible shark, the sea's hyena.

"And there I hung, and shuddering knew That human help was none; One thinking soul mid the horrid crew, In the ghastly solitude I was alone— Deeper than man's speech ever sounded, By the waste sea's dismal monsters surrounded.

"I thought and shivered. Then something crept near, Moved at once a hundred joints! Now it will have me!—Frantic with fear I lost my grasp of the coral points! Away the whirl in its raging tore me, But it was my salvation, and upward bore me!"

The king at the tale is filled with amaze:— "The beaker, well won, is thine; And this ring I will give thee too," he says, "Precious with gems that are more than fine, If thou dive yet once, and bring me the story— What thou sawst in the sea's lowest repertory."

His daughter she hears with a tender dismay, And her words sweet-suasive plead: "Father, enough of this cruel play! For you he has done an unheard-of deed! And can you not master your soul's desire, 'Tis the knights' turn now to disgrace the squire!"

The king he snatches and hurls the cup Into the swirling pool:— "If thou bring me once more that beaker up, My best knight I hold thee, most worshipful; And this very day to thy home thou shall lead her Who there for thee stands such a pitying pleader."

A heavenly passion his being invades, His eyes dart a lightning ray; He sees on her beauty the flushing shades, He sees her grow pallid and sink away! Determination thorough him flashes, And downward for life or for death he dashes!

They hear the dull roar!—it is turning again, Its herald the thunderous brawl! Downward they bend with loving strain: They come! they are coming, the waters all!— They rush up!—they rush down!—up, down, for ever! The youth again bring they never.



TO THE CLOUDS.

Through the unchanging heaven, as ye have sped, Speed onward still, a strange wild company, Fleet children of the waters! Glorious ye, Whether the sun lift up his shining head, High throned at noontide and established Among the shifting pillars, or we see The sable ghosts of air sleep mournfully Against the sunlight, passionless and dead! Take thus a glory, oh thou higher Sun, From all the cloudy labour of man's hand— Whether the quickening nations rise and run, Or in the market-place we idly stand Casting huge shadows over these thy plains— Even thence, O God, draw thy rich gifts of rains.



SECOND SIGHT.

Rich is the fancy which can double back All seeming forms, and from cold icicles Build up high glittering palaces where dwells Summer perfection, moulding all this wrack To spirit symmetry, and doth not lack The power to hear amidst the funeral bells The eternal heart's wind-melody which swells In whirlwind flashes all along its track! So hath the sun made all the winter mine With gardens springing round me fresh and fair; On hidden leaves uncounted jewels shine; I live with forms of beauty everywhere, Peopling the crumbling waste and icy pool With sights and sounds of life most beautiful.



NOT UNDERSTOOD.

Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains; A wildered maze of comets and of suns; The blood of changeless God that ever runs With quick diastole up the immortal veins; A phantom host that moves and works in chains; A monstrous fiction, which, collapsing, stuns The mind to stupor and amaze at once; A tragedy which that man best explains Who rushes blindly on his wild career With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, But is extinguished like a falling star;— Such will at times this life appear to me Until I learn to read more perfectly.



HOM. IL. v. 403.

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem Thou art a coward if thy safety seem To spring too little from a righteous will; For there is nightmare on thee, nor until Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream By painful introversion; rather fill Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth; But see thou cherish higher hope than this,— hope hereafter that thou shall be fit Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit Transparent among other forms of youth Who own no impulse save to God and bliss.



THE DAWN.

And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost? I am perplexed with thee that thou shouldst cost This earth another turning! All aglow Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show Along far mountain-tops! and I would post Over the breadth of seas, though I were lost In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so Thou earnest ever with this numbing sense Of chilly distance and unlovely light, Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence! I have another mountain-range from whence Bursteth a sun unutterably bright!



GALILEO.

"And yet it moves!" Ah, Truth, where wert thou then When all for thee they racked each piteous limb? Wert thou in heaven, and busy with thy hymn When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen? Art thou a phantom that deceives! men To their undoing? or dost thou watch him Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim? And wilt thou ever speak to him again? "It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak! That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloud How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day! Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud That I alone should know that word to speak! And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray."



SUBSIDY.

If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed, Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. Others will live in peace, and thou be fain To bargain with despair, and in thy need To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed. These palaces, for thee they stand in vain; Thine is a ruinous hut, and oft the rain Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea, the speed Of earth outstrip thee, pilgrim, while thy feet Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come Through the time-rents about thy moving cell, Shot from the Truth's own bow, and flaming sweet, An arrow for despair, and oft the hum Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.



THE PROPHET.

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start To find thee with us in thine ancient dress, Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, Empty of all save God and thy loud heart, Nor with like rugged message quick to dart Into the hideous fiction mean and base; But yet, O prophet man, we need not less But more of earnest, though it is thy part To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite The living Mammon, seated, not as then In bestial quiescence grimly dight, But robed as priest, and honoured of good men Yet thrice as much an idol-god as when He stared at his own feet from morn to night.



THE WATCHER.

From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze Of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro Upon the people's tumult, for below The nations smite each other: no amaze Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays Their deep-set contemplation; steadily glow Those ever holier eyeballs, for they grow Liker unto the eyes of one that prays. And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power As of the might of worlds, and they are holden Blessing above us in the sunrise golden; And they will be uplifted till that hour Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake This conscious nightmare from us, and we wake.



THE BELOVED DISCIPLE.

I.

One do I see and twelve; but second there Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one; Not from thy nobler port, for there are none More quiet-featured: some there are who bear Their message on their brows, while others wear A look of large commission, nor will shun The fiery trial, so their work is done; But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer— Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips Seem like the porches of the spirit land; For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye Burns with a vision and apocalypse Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand.

II.

A Boanerges too! Upon my heart It lay a heavy hour: features like thine Should glow with other message than the shine Of the earth-burrowing levin, and the start That cleaveth horrid gulfs! Awful and swart A moment stoodest thou, but less divine— Brawny and clad in ruin—till with mine Thy heart made answering signals, and apart Beamed forth thy two rapt eyeballs doubly clear And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty, And, though affianced to immortal Beauty, Hiddest not weakly underneath her veil The pest of Sin and Death which maketh pale: Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear!



THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

There is not any weed but hath its shower, There is not any pool but hath its star; And black and muddy though the waters are We may not miss the glory of a flower, And winter moons will give them magic power To spin in cylinders of diamond spar; And everything hath beauty near and far, And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour! And I, when I encounter on my road A human soul that looketh black and grim, Shall I more ceremonious be than God? Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him Who once beside our deepest woe did bud A patient watching flower about the brim?



EVIL INFLUENCE.

'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom, Although to these full oft the yawning tomb Owes deadly surfeit; but a keener sting, A more immortal agony will cling To the half fashioned sin which would assume Fair Virtue's garb; the eye that sows the gloom With quiet seeds of Death henceforth to spring What time the sun of passion burning fierce Breaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance; The bitter word, and the unkindly glance, The crust and canker coming with the years, Are liker Death than arrows and the lance Which through the living heart at once doth pierce.



SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS.

I pray you, all ye men who put your trust In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear, Holding that Nature lives from year to year In one continual round because she must— Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer— A pewter-pot disconsolately clear, Which holds a potful, as is right and just! I will grow clamorous—by the rood, I will, If thus ye use me like a pewter pot! Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot— will not be the lead to hold thy swill, Nor any lead: I will arise and spill Thy silly beverage—spill it piping hot!



NATURE A MORAL POWER.

Nature, to him no message dost thou bear Who in thy beauty findeth not the power To gird himself more strongly for the hour Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear To him who knows thy secret, and, in shower, And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower Where he may rest until the heavens are fair! Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance Of onward movement steady and serene, Where oft, in struggle and in contest keen, His eyes will opened be, and all the dance Of life break on him, and a wide expanse Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.



TO JUNE.

Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see! For in a season of such wretched weather I thought that thou hadst left us altogether, Although I could not choose but fancy thee Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether Thou shouldst be seen in such a company Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps Of ruffian vapour, broken from restraint Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps. But yet I may not chide: fall to thy books— Fall to immediately without complaint— There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks.



SUMMER.

Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer! We hold thee very dear, as well we may: It is the kernel of the year to-day— All hail to thee! thou art a welcome comer! If every insect were a fairy drummer, And I a fifer that could deftly play, We'd give the old Earth such a roundelay That she would cast all thought of labour from her.— Ah! what is this upon my window-pane? Some sulky, drooping cloud comes pouting up, Stamping its glittering feet along the plain!— Well, I will let that idle fancy drop! Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain! And all the earth shines like a silver cup!



ON A MIDGE.

Whence do ye come, ye creatures? Each of you Is perfect as an angel! wings and eyes Stupendous in their beauty—gorgeous dyes In feathery fields of purple and of blue! Would God I saw a moment as ye do! I would become a molecule in size, Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view The pearly secret which each tiny fly— Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs Hides in its little breast eternally From you, ye prickly, grim philosophers With all your theories that sound so high: Hark to the buz a moment, my good sirs!



STEADFAST.

Here stands a giant stone from whose far top Comes down the sounding water: let me gaze Till every sense of man and human ways Is wrecked and quenched for ever, and I drop Into the whirl of time, and without stop Pass downward thus! Again my eyes I raise To thee, dark rock; and through the mist and haze My strength returns when I behold thy prop Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrack. Surely thy strength is human, and like me Thou bearest loads of thunder on thy back! And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black— A breezy tuft of grass which I can see Waving serenely from a sunlit crack!



PROVISION.

Above my head the great pine-branches tower; Backwards and forwards each to the other bends, Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power: Hark to the patter of the coming shower! Let me be silent while the Almighty sends His thunder-word along—but when it ends I will arise and fashion from the hour Words of stupendous import, fit to guard High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave, When the temptation cometh close and hard, Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave Of meaner things—to which I am a slave, If evermore I keep not watch and ward.



FIRST SIGHT OF THE SEA.

I do remember how, when very young, I saw the great sea first, and heard its swell As I drew nearer, caught within the spell Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue. How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swung With a man in it, and a great wave fell Within a stone's cast! Words may never tell The passion of the moment, when I flung All childish records by, and felt arise A thing that died no more! An awful power I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes, Mine, mine for ever, an immortal dower.— The noise of waters soundeth to this hour When I look seaward through the quiet skies.



ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE.

Hears't thou the dash of water, loud and hoarse, With its perpetual tidings upward climb, Struggling against the wind? Oh, how sublime! For not in vain from its portentous source Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full force, But from thine ice-toothed caverns, dark as time, At last thou issuest, dancing to the rime Of thy outvolleying freedom! Lo, thy course Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies! Right to the ocean-plains away, away! Thy parent waits thee, and her sunset dyes Are ruffled for thy coming, and the gray Of all her glittering borders flashes high Against the glittering rocks!—oh, haste, and fly!



CONFIDENCE.

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one! Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak. Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun, Which is her God; seven times she doth not shun Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek Of voices utterless, which rave and run Through all the star-penumbra, craving light And tidings of the dawn from East and West. Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night Treading aloft with moons; nor hath she fright Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.



FATE.

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven Black passages which have not any sky: The scourge is on me now, with all the cry Of ancient life that hath with murder striven. How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven, How many a hand in prayer been lifted high When the black fate came onward with the rush Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume! Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb Beneath the waves; or else, with solemn hush The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush As if we were all huddled in one doom!



UNREST.

Comes there, O Earth, no breathing time for thee, No pause upon thy many-chequered lands? Now resting on my bed with listless hands I mourn thee resting not. Continually Hear I the plashing borders of the sea Answer each other from the rocks and sands! Troop all the rivers seawards; nothing stands, But with strange noises hasteth terribly! Loam-eared hyenas go a moaning by; Howls to each other all the bloody crew Of Afric's tigers! but, O men, from you Comes this perpetual sound more loud and high Than aught that vexes air! I hear the cry Of infant generations rising too!



ONE WITH NATURE.

I have a fellowship with every shade Of changing nature: with the tempest hour My soul goes forth to claim her early dower Of living princedom; and her wings have staid Amidst the wildest uproar undismayed! Yet she hath often owned a better power, And blessed the gentle coming of the shower, The speechless majesty of love arrayed In lowly virtue, under which disguise Full many a princely thing hath passed her by; And she from homely intercourse of eyes Hath gathered visions wider than the sky, And seen the withered heart of man arise Peaceful as God, and full of majesty.



MY TWO GENIUSES.

I.

One is a slow and melancholy maid; I know riot if she cometh from the skies Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise Often before me in the twilight shade, Holding a bunch of poppies and a blade Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies Before her on the turf, the while she ties A fillet of the weed about my head; And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear A gentle rustle like the stir of corn, And words like odours thronging to my ear: "Lie still, beloved—still until the morn; Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere— Still till the judgment; thou art faint and worn."

II.

The other meets me in the public throng; Her hair streams backward from her loose attire; She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire; She points me downward, steadily and long:— "There is thy grave—arise, my son, be strong! Hands are upon thy crown—awake, aspire To immortality; heed not the lyre Of the Enchantress, nor her poppy-song, But in the stillness of the summer calm Tremble for what is Godlike in thy being. Listen a while, and thou shall hear the psalm Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing; And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm."

III.

Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go? Alas, I may not; thou art likewise dear! I am but human, and thou hast a tear When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow Of a wild energy that mocks the flow Of the poor sympathies which keep us here: Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near, And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow; And thou shalt walk with me in open day Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace; And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way, Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace As her great orbs turn ever on thy face, Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.



SUDDEN CALM.

There is a bellowing in me, as of might Unfleshed and visionless, mangling the air With horrible convulse, as if it bare The cruel weight of worlds, but could not fight With the thick-dropping clods, and could but bite A vapour-cloud! Oh, I will climb the stair Of the great universe, and lay me there Even at the threshold of his gate, despite The tempest, and the weakness, and the rush Of this quick crowding on me!—Oh, I dream! Now I am sailing swiftly, as we seem To do in sleep! and I can hear the gush Of a melodious wave that carries me On, on for ever to eternity!



THOU ALSO.

Cry out upon the crime, and then let slip The dogs of hate, whose hanging muzzles track The bloody secret; let the welkin crack Reverberating, while ye dance and skip About the horrid blaze! or else ye strip, More secretly, for the avenging rack, Him who hath done the deed, till, oozing black Ye watch the anguish from his nostrils drip, And all the knotted limbs lie quivering! Or, if your hearts disdain such banqueting, With wide and tearless eyes go staring through The murder cells! but think—that, if your knees Bow not to holiness, then even in you Lie deeper gulfs and blacker crimes than these.



THE AURORA BOREALIS.

Now have I grown a sharpness and an edge Unto my future nights, and I will cut Sheer through the ebon gates that yet will shut On every set of day; or as a sledge Drawn over snowy plains; where not a hedge Breaks this Aurora's dancing, nothing but The one cold Esquimaux' unlikely hut That swims in the broad moonlight! Lo, a wedge Of the clean meteor hath been brightly driven Right home into the fastness of the north! Anon it quickeneth up into the heaven! And I with it have clomb and spreaded forth Upon the crisp and cooling atmosphere! My soul is all abroad: I cannot find it here!



THE HUMAN.

Within each living man there doth reside, In some unrifled chamber of the heart, A hidden treasure: wayward as thou art I love thee, man, and bind thee to my side! By that sweet act I purify my pride And hasten onward—willing even to part With pleasant graces: though thy hue is swart, I bear thee company, thou art my guide! Even in thy sinning wise beyond thy ken To thee a subtle debt my soul is owing! I take an impulse from the worst of men That lends a wing unto my onward going; Then let me pay them gladly back again With prayer and love from Faith and Duty flowing!



WRITTEN ON A STORMY NIGHT.

O wild and dark! a night hath found me now Wherein I mingle with that element Sent madly loose through the wide staring rent In yon tormented branches! I will bow A while unto the storm, and thenceforth grow Into a mighty patience strongly bent Before the unconquering Power which hither sent These winds to fight their battles on my brow!— Again the loud boughs thunder! and the din Licks up my footfall from the hissing earth! But I have found a mighty peace within, And I have risen into a home of mirth! Wildly I climb above the shaking spires, Above the sobbing clouds, up through the steady fires!



REVERENCE WAKING HOPE.

A power is on me, and my soul must speak To thee, thou grey, grey man, whom I behold With those white-headed children. I am bold To commune with thy setting, and to wreak My doubts on thy grey hair; for I would seek Thee in that other world, but I am told Thou goest elsewhere and wilt never hold Thy head so high as now. Oh I were weak, Weak even to despair, could I forego The tender vision which will give somehow Thee standing brightly one day even as now! Thou art a very grey old man, and so I may not pass thee darkly, but bestow A look of reverence on thy wrinkled brow.



BORN OF WATER.

Methought I stood among the stars alone, Watching a grey parched orb which onward flew Half blinded by the dusty winds that blew, Empty as Death and barren as a stone, The pleasant sound of water all unknown! When, as I looked in wonderment, there grew, High in the air above, a drop of dew, Which, gathering slowly through long cycles, shone Like a great tear; and then at last it fell Clasping the orb, which drank it greedily, With a delicious noise and upward swell Of sweet cool joy that tossed me like a sea; And then the thick life sprang as from a grave, With trees, flowers, boats upon the bounding wave!



TO A THUNDER-CLOUD.

Oh, melancholy fragment of the night Drawing thy lazy web against the sun, Thou shouldst have waited till the day was done With kindred glooms to build thy fane aright, Sublime amid the ruins of the light! But thus to shape our glories one by one With fearful hands, ere we had well begun To look for shadows—even in the bright! Yet may we charm a lesson from thy breast, A secret wisdom from thy folds of thunder: There is a wind that cometh from the west Will rend thy tottering piles of gloom asunder, And fling thee ruinous along the grass, To sparkle on us as our footsteps pass!



SUN AND MOON.

First came the red-eyed sun as I did wake; He smote me on the temples and I rose, Casting the night aside and all its woes; And I would spurn my idleness, and take My own wild journey even like him, and shake The pillars of all doubt with lusty blows, Even like himself when his rich glory goes Right through the stalwart fogs that part and break. But ere my soul was ready for the fight, His solemn setting mocked me in the west; And as I trembled in the lifting night, The white moon met me, and my heart confess'd A mellow wisdom in her silent youth, Which fed my hope with fear, and made my strength a truth.



DOUBT HERALDING VISION.

An angel saw me sitting by a brook, Pleased with the silence, and the melodies Of wind and water which did fall and rise: He gently stirred his plumes and from them shook An outworn doubt, which fell on me and took The shape of darkness, hiding all the skies, Blinding the sun, but giving to my eyes An inextinguishable wish to look; When, lo! thick as the buds of spring there came, Crowd upon crowd, informing all the sky, A host of splendours watching silently, With lustrous eyes that wept as if in blame, And waving hands that crossed in lines of flame, And signalled things I hope to hold although I die!



LIFE OR DEATH?

Is there a secret Joy, that may not weep, For every flower that ends its little span, For every child that groweth up to man, For every captive bird a cage doth keep, For every aching eye that went to sleep Long ages back, when other eyes began To see and know and love as now they can, Unravelling God's wonders heap by heap? Or doth the Past lie 'mid Eternity In charnel dens that rot and reek alway, A dismal light for those that go astray, A pit of foul deformity—to be, Beauty, a dreadful source of growth for thee When thou wouldst lift thine eyes to greet the day?



LOST AND FOUND.

I missed him when the sun began to bend; I found him not when I had lost his rim; With many tears I went in search of him, Climbing high mountains which did still ascend, And gave me echoes when I called my friend; Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim, And high cathedrals where the light was dim, Through books and arts and works without an end, But found him not—the friend whom I had lost. And yet I found him—as I found the lark, A sound in fields I heard but could not mark; I found him nearest when I missed him most; I found him in my heart, a life in frost, A light I knew not till my soul was dark.



THE MOON.

She comes! again she comes, the bright-eyed moon! Under a ragged cloud I found her out, Clasping her own dark orb like hope in doubt! That ragged cloud hath waited her since noon, And he hath found and he will hide her soon! Come, all ye little winds that sit without, And blow the shining leaves her edge about, And hold her fast—ye have a pleasant tune! She will forget us in her walks at night Among the other worlds that are so fair! She will forget to look on our despair! She will forget to be so young and bright! Nay, gentle moon, thou hast the keys of light— I saw them hanging by thy girdle there!



TRUTH, NOT FORM!

I came upon a fountain on my way When it was hot, and sat me down to drink Its sparkling stream, when all around the brink I spied full many vessels made of clay, Whereon were written, not without display, In deep engraving or with merely ink, The blessings which each owner seemed to think Would light on him who drank with each alway. I looked so hard my eyes were looking double Into them all, but when I came to see That they were filthy, each in his degree, I bent my head, though not without some trouble, To where the little waves did leap and bubble, And so I journeyed on most pleasantly.



GOD IN GROWTH.

I said, I will arise and work some thing, Nor be content with growth, but cause to grow A life around me, clear as yes from no, That to my restless hand some rest may bring, And give a vital power to Action's spring: Thus, I must cease to be! I cried; when, lo! An angel stood beside me on the snow, With folded wings that came of pondering. "God's glory flashes on the silence here Beneath the moon," he cried, and upward threw His glorious eyes that swept the utmost blue, "Ere yet his bounding brooks run forth with cheer To bear his message to the hidden year Who cometh up in haste to make his glory new."



IN A CHURCHYARD.

There may be seeming calm above, but no!— There is a pulse below which ceases not, A subterranean working, fiery hot, Deep in the million-hearted bosom, though Earthquakes unlock not the prodigious show Of elemental conflict; and this spot Nurses most quiet bones which lie and rot, And here the humblest weeds take root and grow. There is a calm upon the mighty sea, Yet are its depths alive and full of being, Enormous bulks that move unwieldily; Yet, pore we on it, they are past our seeing!— From the deep sea-weed fields, though wide and ample, Comes there no rushing sound: these do not trample!



POWER.

Power that is not of God, however great, Is but the downward rushing and the glare Of a swift meteor that hath lost its share In the one impulse which doth animate The parent mass: emblem to me of fate! Which through vast nightly wastes doth onward fare, Wild-eyed and headlong, rent away from prayer— A moment brilliant, then most desolate! And, O my brothers, shall we ever learn From all the things we see continually That pride is but the empty mockery Of what is strong in man! Not so the stern And sweet repose of soul which we can earn Only through reverence and humility!



DEATH.

Yes, there is one who makes us all lay down Our mushroom vanities, our speculations, Our well-set theories and calculations, Our workman's jacket or our monarch's crown! To him alike the country and the town, Barbaric hordes or civilized nations, Men of all names and ranks and occupations, Squire, parson, lawyer, Jones, or Smith, or Brown! He stops the carter: the uplifted whip Falls dreamily among the horses' straw; He stops the helmsman, and the gallant ship Holdeth to westward by another law; No one will see him, no one ever saw, But he sees all and lets not any slip.



THAT HOLY THING.

They all were looking for a king To slay their foes, and lift them high: Thou cam'st a little baby thing That made a woman cry.