Is question not of argument, but fact. In all men some such interest inheres; In most 'tis posthumous; the more expand Our thoughts and feelings past the very present, The more that interest overtakes of change And comprehends, till what it comprehends Is comprehended in eternity, Here we are Engendered out of nothing cognizable. If this be not a wonder, nothing is; If this be wonderful, then all is so. Man's grosser attributes can generate What is not, and has never been at all; What should forbid his fancy to restore A being passed away? The wonder lies In the mind merely of the wondering man. Treading the steps of common life with eyes Of curious inquisition, some will stare At each discovery of Nature's ways, As it were new to find that God contrives. [From Philip Van Artevelde.] Matter dies off it, and it lives else- LOVE RELUCTANT TO ENDANGER where, ITS OBJECT. THERE is but one thing that still harks me back. To bring a cloud upon the summer day Of one so happy and so beautiful, I know not that the circumstance of life In all its changes can so far afflict me As makes anticipation much worth while. But she is younger, of a sex beside Whose spirits are to ours as flame to fire, More sudden, and more perishable too; So that the gust wherewith the one is kindled Extinguishes the other. O she is fair! As fair as heaven to look upon! as fair As ever vision of the Virgin blest That weary pilgrim, resting by the fount Beneath the palm, and dreaming to the tune Of flowing waters, duped his soul withal. It was permitted in my pilgrimage To rest beside the fount beneath the tree, Beholding there no vision, but a maid Whose form was light and graceful as the palm, Whose heart was pure and jocund as the fount, And spread a freshness and a ver dure round. This was permitted in my pilgrimage, And loath am I to take my staff again, Say that I fall not in this enterprise; Yet must my life be full of hazardous turns, And they that house with me must ever live In imminent peril of some evil fate. [From Philip Van Artevelde.] THE human heart cannot sustain And not till reason cease to reign Her spirits ran, she knew not why, Than was their wont, in times than these Less troubled, with a heart at ease. So meet extremes; so joy's rebound Is highest from the hollowest ground; So vessels with the storm that strive Pitch higher as they deeplier dive. new, How many a cloudless day, To rob the velvet of its hue, Has come and passed away; How many a setting sun hath made That curious lattice-work of shade! Crumbled beneath the hillock green The cunning hand must be, That carved this fretted door, I ween, Acorn, and fleur-de-lis ; And now the worm hath done her part In mimicking the chisel's art. In days of yore (as now we call) When the first James was king, The courtly knight from yonder hall Hither his train did bring; All seated round in order due. With broidered suit and buckled shoe. On damask cushions, set in fringe, In ancient English spelt, Responsive at the priest's command. Each holding in a lily hand, Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle, The sunbeam, long and lone, Illumes the characters awhile Of their inscription-stone; And there, in marble hard and cold, The knight and all his train behold. Outstretched together, are expressed He and my lady fair; With hands uplifted on the breast, In attitude of prayer; Long-visaged, clad in armor, he,With ruffled arm and bodice, she. Set forth in order ere they died, The numerous offspring bend; Devoutly kneeling side by side, As though they did intend For past omissions to atone, By saying endless prayers in stone. These mellow days are past and dim, In turn, receive, to silent rest, But generations new, In regular descent from him, Have filled the stately pew; And now, the polished, modern squire A season, every year, Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread Another, and another guest,— The feathered hearse and sable train, In all its wonted state, Shall wind along the village lane, And stand before the gate; Brought many a distant country through, To join the final rendezvous. And when the race is swept away, ALFRED TENNYSON. COUPLETS FROM "LOCKSLEY HALL.” LOVE took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands: Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might: Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, Comfort? comfort scorned of devils! this is truth the poet sings, Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof. Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: [From In Memoriam.] STRONG SON OF GOD. STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest life in man and brute, Thou madest Death; and lo, thy Forgive these wild and wandering foot cries, Confusions of a wasted youth: Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. [From In Memoriam.] HOPE FOR ALL. On, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood: That nothing walks, with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete: That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain. Behold we know not anything: I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far-off- at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? |