O! is not life then sweetest to the soul
In utter solitude, or that deep calm
When all of Earth, its cares and interests,
Are shaken from the spirit, as the moth
Doffs from its wings the natal crysalis
And wanders through the blue serene of heaven?
In this pure scene the din of man would sound
Harsher than discord amid melody.
Here no rude tongue should whisper of the things
Poor Earth bows down to worship—fashion, wealth,
And hollow mockings gilded by a name,
That makes the calf which browses on the plain
Turn to a god when moulded in the gold.
No thought should rise, that passing into speech
Might soil the purity of new-born flowers,
Fresh with the dews of morn and paradise,
But like an angel singing through the skies,
Wing the blue empyrean of the mind,
And break in music on the thrilling sense.
Spirit.
Is there no music in the gentle word
That falls in consolation on the sad,
Starting the crystal tear into the eye,
Filtrate through gratitude till there remain
Naught earthy in its brightness? Though the scene
Be as a plague spot on the face of earth
Sweet Charity can cleanse it, till it shine
Bright as the jewels in a monarch's crown,
That not the midnight of Earth's blackest sin
Can dim. All beauty emanates from soul,
And all deformity. The piteous straw
Where sickness writhes in suffering and want—
The cold, bleak dwelling where the winds have will
To brag o'er man's debasement, if possess'd
In fortitude and patience, with the heart
Clear in its honour, stedfast in its faith,
Is to the eye of angels, beautiful as day;
And this fair spot with all its waken'd charms
Is purgatorial torture to the wretch
Whose life shrieks in him under conscience-stings.
Let sunshine be within thee, and without
Summer will dwell in everlasting bloom,
Whether in light or darkness, in close cell,
Or 'neath the blessed canopy of heaven.
Scene. A Mountain Summit—Sunrise.
Poet.
'Tis glorious to stand thus nigh to heaven,
And like a Prophet with the mark of god
Set on him for an everlasting work,
With outstretched hands, and earnest-hearted words,
To speak unto the Nations. This calm spot,
Emblem of Truth's serenity and peace,
With no hoarse dissonance to stir the deep
Of thought to passion, till the whirling waves
Swallow the love-steered purposes of soul,
And leave its being desolate—looks down
On Earth, and all its jarring multitudes,
Its miseries of soul and sense, as Earth
Looks on the distant glory of the stars,
All unparticipant of weal or woe,
Save as the glass is of its mirrored form;
Thus Action rises over Thought, and sets
Man over man prëeminent for and great,
As mountains in the sphere of human life.
This were a throne meet for the Sent of God
To rest on, and give laws unto the world,
Rooted in the unshaken strength of Earth,
With man for footstool, and the disc of heaven
For canopy and witness to swell down
The quenchless words into the heart of Time;
Here to raise up the wand, and smite Earth's soul
Till streams of penitence and love gushed out
To wipe away her barrenness, and fill
The latent seeds of holiness with life,
To blossom for the harvest of the Angels.
O Thou that from Thy throne set on the flood
Of measureless Eternity, dost bind
The mighty thunder in its misty cave,
And still'st its throbbings with a single word;
That break'st the chain which holdeth it, and send'st
It booming o'er the boundless Universe,
Thy minister to testify of Thee,
And shake the pillars of the firm-set Earth
With knowledge of Thy majesty and strength;
That with the trenchant lightning dost search out
The limits of immensity, and bare
Its inmost soul to Thy dread scrutiny,
Before whose holiness the sun grows dim,
And vanishes to nothingness like mist;
That bidd'st the winds sweep o'er the bounds of space,
Strong in the terror of Thy mightiness,
Till stars are shaken from their seats, like fruit
From the autumnal fulness of the bough;
Breathe Thou upon me till my soul be full
Of deathless inspiration, that may flow
In burning currents through all space and Time,
And stir up generations with warm life,
To battle for the cause of Truth and Heaven.
Let my words ring upon the sleeper's ear
Clear as the trump that wakes the dead for doom,
Fright him from false security and sloth,
And rouse the man within him, though it be
Feeble and powerless as a creeping babe.
Let them break on the conscience of the base,
As billows break upon the shifting sands,
Crumbling the false foundations of his hope,
And sweeping all his theories to naught:
Let them rush swifter on him as he flees,
Circle him with their terrors everywhere,
Snatch from his clutching fingers every prop
That guilt or error flings him, till he fall
Into the waves of truth a drowning man
With not a straw to grasp at. Let them smite
Wrong and oppression like a gnawing blight,
Eating into the heart, till like dead leaves,
Shrivell'd and pow'rless, beggars tread them down.
Let them fall on the pure in heart like dews,
To strengthen and to nourish all sweet thoughts,
Raising the drooping and the weary up,
And adding sweetness to the path of life.
To all may they be wafted on the wings
Of love, not the false love that shines alike
On flower and weed, until the evil rise
To choke the good seed with its overgrowth;
But let deep kindness fill them utterly,
In comfort, or in sorrow, or in doom.
Hard is their journey, and unsmooth their way
Who walk like pilgrims to eternal fame,
Raising for ever hymns of love and beauty,
Amid the jar and weariness of life,
Working through joy and sorrow equally
To stamp their names upon the world's great heart,
And piercing their own bosoms, like the bird,
For glowing streams to nourish it for aye.
Yet it is glorious to make this life
Great in the strength of Action, till it stand
A landmark and a guide immoveable,
To witness of the struggle and the end;
A life of thought is blossom without fruit.
O Life! would I could map thy minutes out,
And give to each its purpose, like a king
To claim just tribute from futurity;
Would I could freight ye with such spirit power,
That, like a huge rock cast into the sea,
Ye sent Time waving back for evermore;
Would ye could track your footsteps out in deeds,
Like prints in the soft sands that heaven's decree
Changeth into the adamantine rock,
Till time nor tide can wipe the trace away.
Let my steps march right onward, pausing none
For pleasure or for folly, for the path
Is long, and difficult, and hard to walk,
And at its limit lies Eternity.
Let no false weakness clog me in the work,
And cramp the motions of my willing soul,
But let me gird my spirit up to run
Before the chariot of the speeding age,
A Prophet, and a Poet, and a guide!
O! my heart thrills to that great watchword "Act,"
To leave no record written on the sand
For the first wave to crumble into naught,
But to materialize on thought—to raise
A standard glorious with the sign of heaven,
And set it waving o'er oblivion;
To seize on spirit like a willow rod,
And bend and fashion it to perfect use,
Curbing its wayward fancies and desires,
Until it sway true to the Poet's creed;
To move Earth's multitudes with nervous power,
And burning eloquence, as leaves are swept
Before the breathing of a mighty wind,
Urging them on for Truth and Nobleness,
And leading on the van to show the way—
No prating coward framing theories
For other men to build on, with "Do this"
For empty precept—but there, standing forth,
Set deeds in the world's face, and cry "Do thus!"