Man varies, ages change, and time unfolds
A different name writ on the selfsame scroll;
And one shall hate what his descendant holds
Immoveable, as the antithesis of the pole:
Then, wherefore snarl, wrangling o’er half-starved names,
That do but mock the thing which most believe?
Such jarring furthers not, but rather lames
The substance man would from the eternal weave:
Love, Beauty, Joy, echoes from inmost Nature,
Howe’er miscalled, must still remain the same;
Let man develope each distinctive feature,
And all shall worship then, what none dare blame:
Most born without the pale, yet linger there,
Nor mourn as lost, what ne’er employed their care.
XIX.
There is a spirit that sanctifies the dulness
Of those, unconscious of the charm they boast;
There is a soul, sparkling in nature’s fulness,
Which laughs at custom’s quibbles, trembling ghost;
A love there is, whose breath trembles with godhead,
Which robs the desert of the wanderer’s fears;
The inexpressible pathways it hath trod, led
By intense silence, boding o’er the years:
It will not lend its harmony to words,
Nor lower reality by visions, torn
From knowledge fitful, that but speaks to herds,
Quivering with mutual wonder, mutual scorn.
Yet love is there, and will, in time, inform
All who have passed to sunshine out of storm.
XX.
Wandering to other strains, my fancy dwells
Yet about the musings that enwrap thy name;
Aught that awakes some peal from far joy-bells,
Youth’s hopes, and holydays, recalls thy fame:
This hast thou sanctified by eloquent words,
And that enshrinèd in thy beauty lies;
As spring awakes and calls the joyous birds,
Truth comes with thee, at thy departure flies:
Yet gladlier o’er thy image would I pause,
Swelling the verse with music of thy name,
If once my efforts might support the cause,
Nor blot thy merits with my failure’s shame:
Enough, if indirect and faltering praise
Attest my love, failing thy fame to raise.
XXI.
O the glad days, the promise of our spring,
When wandering by thy side I lived in thee!
Yet, can I hear the light winds carolling,
About the woods that echoed to our glee,
The heather on the hills, the long green downs,
The slopes, the glades, the sunshine and the shade,
The spring-time earth, the heaven that seldom frowns,
The love, whose substance dazzled all parade;
All is yet there, nor change hath marred the spot;
Remembrance fashions all as once it stood:
’Tis not the same, the heather knows me not,
The dancing water, nor the talking wood;
And all is changed, and I am not the same,
Nought speaks of self, save some unreal name.