Grey nations felt thee o'er them tower;
Some clothed thee in fantastic dress;
Some thought thee as the unknown Power,
I, e'er the unknown Loveliness.
To all, thou wert as harps of joy;
To bard and sage their fulgent sun:
To priests their mystic life's employ;
But unto me the Lovely One.
Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm;
The might they tracked, but I the grace;
They learnt all forces were thine Arm,
I that all beauty was thy Face.
Night spares us little. Wanderers we.
Our rapt delights, our wisdoms rare
But shape our darknesses of thee,—
We know thee not, thou Spirit fair!
Would that thine awful Peerlessness
An hour could shine o'er heaven and earth
And I the maddening power possess
To drink the cup,—O Godlike birth!
All life impels me to thy search:
Without thee, yea, to live were null;
Still shall I make the dawn thy Church,
And pray thee "God the Beautiful."
THE WIND-CHANT.
The Soul, the inner, immortal Ruler.—Hindu Upanishad.
"Witch-like, see it planets roll,
Hear it from the cradle call—
Nature?—Nature is the soul;
That alone is aught and all.
Grieved or broken though the song,
The fount of music is elate,
For the Soul is ever strong,
For the Soul is ever great."
"For the Soul is ever great!"—
Songless sat I by a grove,
Pines, like funeral priests of state,
Chanted solemn rites above.
Dark and glassy far below,
The River in his proud vale slept,
Eve with olive-shafted bow
Like a stealthy archer crept.