THE IDEAL.
Stars are around thy head—under thy feet surges the sea—a rainbow forever floats upon the waves before thee—painting the mists, or melting them into light—whatsoever thou lookest upon is thine—the shores, the cities, the men belong to thee—the heavens are thine—it seems as if nothing ever equalled thy glory!
To alien ears thou chantest airs of inconceivable rapture—thou weavest hearts into one with a single touch of thy fairy fingers, and with a breath again dividest them—thou forcest tears—thou driest them with a smile—alas! the next moment thou frightenest the wan smile from the quivering lip for a time—too often, forever!
Tell me, what dost thou thyself feel? Of what dost thou think? What dost thou create?
The living stream of Beauty flows on through thee, but thou thyself art not Beauty!
Woe to thee! woe! the child crying on the lap of its nurse, the field flower unconscious of its gift of perfume, have more merit before the eyes of the Lord than thou!
What has been thy origin, thou empty shadow, bearing witness to the Light, yet knowing not the Light, which thou seest not, and wilt not see!
In anger, or in mockery, wert thou made? Who was thy creator? Who gave thee thy short and mobile life, and taught thee such seductive magic, that thou seemst to glitter for a moment like an angel before thou sinkest into clay, to creep like a worm, and be stifled in thine own corruption?