In the great deeps of reason, heart, and soul,
Through shine or storm still roll the tides unfailing;
Each separate globule in the restless whole
In daily airs exhaling.
Thus evermore, albeit to erring eyes,
The same wild surface dash to shore the spray,
That seeming oneness every moment dies,
Drop after drop, away.
And stern indeed the prison of our doom
If self from self had no divine escape;
If each dead passion slept not in the tomb;
If childhood, age could shape.
Happy the man in whom with every year
New life is born, re-baptized in the past,—
In whom each change doth but as growth appear,
The loveliest change the last!
Full many a sun shall vanish from the skies
And still the aloe show but leaves of thorn;
Leaf upon leaf, and thorn on thorn, arise,
And lo—the flower is born!
THE DESIRE OF FAME.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTY.
I do confess that I have wish'd to give
My land the gift of no ignoble name.
And in that holier air have sought to live,
Sunn'd with the hope of Fame.
Do I lament that I have seen the bays
Denied my own, not worthier brows above,—
Foes quick to scoff, and friends afraid to praise,—
More active hate than love?