IN IMMEMORIAM.

[Ascribed to the author of 'In Memoriam,' but not believed to be his.]

We seek to know, and, knowing, seek;

We seek, we know, and every sense

Is trembling with the great intense,

And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft;

We know enough, and should no more;

And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,

And look to earth, and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom—

I know it not, nor seek to know—

I only see it swell and grow,

And more than this would not presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill,

And I unchanged where all is change;

It seems unreal—I own it strange—

Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide

Raise, quiring on, its carol-tune;

I watch the golden-sickled moon,

And clearer voices call beside.

O sea! whose ancient ripples lie

On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;

O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,

O voices all! like you, I die!(Dies.)