They shine into the soul of man—
Good works of God, but not the best—
And he adores them as he can,
Cherishing a supremer guest.
He does not know the alphabet
Of angel-language, who aspires
Against the sky his tube to set,
And spell them into worlds, those fires.
...*...*...*...*
The Petrel, bird of storms, is found
Five hundred leagues from any ground:
He dwells upon the ocean-wave;
He screams above the sailor's grave.
How many tens of centuries
Ere mankind built their theories,
Skimming the foamy tracks of whales,
Did he outride the stoutest gales,
Upon three thousand miles of sea
From land to land perpetually
Rolling; and not a wave could stay,
From day to night, from night to day,
Without an anthem? Where are gone
The anthem, and the sea-bird's moan?
Where is the splendor of the morn
That rose on seas, ere man was born?
Where are the roses of the years,
Ere Mother Eve knew mother's cares?
Where is the clang of Tubal-Cain's
First brass, and where are Jubal's strains?
Where is the rainbow Noah saw
And heard a law, or thought a law?
The rainbow fades, the beauty lives;
The creature falls, the race survives.
...*...*...*...*