Imatges de pÓgina
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HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY.

THE awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats tho' unseen amongst us,—visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower,—
Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain shower,
It visits with inconstant glance

Each human heart and countenance;

Like hues and harmonies of evening,

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,

Like memory of music fled,—

Like aught that for its grace may be Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.

Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form,-where art thou gone? Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? Ask why the sunlight not for ever

Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river, Why aught should fail and fade that once is shown, Why fear and dream and death and birth Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom,-why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope?

B

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever

To sage or poet these responses given— Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour,

Frail spells-whose uttered charm might not avail to

sever,

From all we hear and all we see,
Doubt, chance, and mutability.

Thy light alone—like mist o'er mountains driven,
Or music by the night wind sent,

Thro' strings of some still instrument,
Or moonlight on a midnight stream,

Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart
And come, for some uncertain moments lent.
Man were immortal, and omnipotent,

Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art,
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his heart.
Thou messenger of sympathies,

That wax and wane in lovers' eyes—
Thou that to human thought art nourishment,
Like darkness to a dying flame !

Depart not as thy shadow came,

Depart not-lest the grave should be,

Like life and fear, a dark reality.

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Thro' many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.

I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed, I was not heard-I saw them not

When musing deeply on the lot

Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming,—
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me;

I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy!

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers

To thee and thine-have I not kept the vow? With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours

Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned bowers

Of studious zeal or love's delight

Outwatched with me the envious nightThey know that never joy illumed my brow Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free This world from its dark slavery,

That thou-O awful Loveliness,

Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express.

The day becomes more solemn and serene
When noon is past-there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which thro' the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been !
Thus let thy power, which like the truth
Of nature on my passive youth
Descended, to my onward life supply
Its calm to one who worships thee,
And every form containing thee,
Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

THE POET'S PHILOSOPHY.

[WE] look on that which cannot change the One,
The unborn and the undying. Earth and Ocean,
Space, and the isles of life or light that gem
The sapphire floods of interstellar air ;
This firmament, pavilioned upon chaos,
With all its cressets of immortal fire,
Whose outwall, bastionèd impregnably

Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them
As Calpe the Atlantic clouds-this Whole

Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings

By which they have been, are, or cease to be,

Is but a vision; all that it inherits

Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams;
Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less,
The future and the past are idle shadows
Of thought's eternal flight—they have no being;
Nought is but that which feels itself to be.

Hellas.

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