Lies breathing in its sleep,
Heard by the land—
these are a Zoroastrian’s prayers.
And even if, ‘in populous cities pent,’ he is cut off from close communion with nature, opportunities are not wanting to him of letting his soul soar aloft with purifying aspirations. A glimpse of the starry sky, even if seen from a London street, may bear in on him the awful yet lovely mystery of the Infinite. Good books, good music, true works of art, may all strengthen his love of the good and beautiful. A dense fog, or drizzling rain may obscure the outward view, but with the inner eye he may stand listening to the lark or under the vernal sky, and while his
Heart looks down and up,
Serene, secure;
Warm as the crocus-cup,
As snowdrops pure,
thank the Good Spirit that it has been given to man to write, and to him to read, verses of such exquisite perfection as Shelley’s ‘Ode to a Skylark’ and Tennyson’s ‘Early Spring.’ Above all, where men congregate in masses, in the great centres of politics, of commerce, of literature, science, and art, he can hear best
The still sad music of humanity,