And this, to me, is as a spell
That binds me to the night—
That bathes each wild untrodden dell
In waves of mystic light.
There are who say this wondrous world
Is but the work of chance;
That earth, like some huge scroll, unfurled,
And wrought its own advance;
That senseless atoms blindly grew
Into a world of light;
That creatures no Creator knew—
That death's eternal night!
O Man, with aspirations high,
Is this the end you crave?
Oh Man, with soul that cannot die,
And perish in the grave—
Are all the wonders prophets told
But wild delusive dreams?
And can it be that human mould
Is but the clay it seems?
Shall love and virtue live on earth,
And with the earth decay?
Shall faith, and hope, and stainless worth,
Pass like a dream away?
Come forth, thou false and subtle sage!
Creation read aright!
Cast off the gathering mists of age,
And clear thy clouded sight!
Throw down, throw down the guilty pen—
Break off the stubborn mask:
The creed thou dar'st assert to men,
Its truth of Nature ask!
At morn, at noon, or sacred eve,
On land or on the sea,
The lightest sound thy step may leave
Shall breathe "Eternity!"
Come tread with me this dizzy height,
And, through this waste of air,
Gaze out upon the forms of night—
What is thine answer there?