Or again, lines like these, which have become the watch-word of a Gordon:—
"I go to prove my soul!
I see my way as birds their trackless way.
I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,
I ask not: but unless God send his hail
Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
In some time, his good time, I shall arrive:
He guides me and the bird. In his good time!"
At times the brooding splendour bursts forth in a kind of vast ecstasy, and we have such magnificence as this:—
"The centre fire heaves underneath the earth,