And the winds and sunbeams, with their coavex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and upbuild it again.
Ye whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race, Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace, God's own work to do on earth,
(If the word be not too bold,) Giving virtue a new birth,
And a life that ne'er grows old
Sovereign masters of our hearts! Know ye who hath set your parts? He who gave you breath to sing, By whose strength ye sweep the string, He hath chosen you, to lead
His Hosannas here below;
Mount, and claim your glorious meed; Linger not with sin and wo.
But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease—
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest,
High and low in choir shall meet, Ere His name shall be unblest.
Lord, by every minstrel tongue Be Thy praise so duly sung, That Thine angels' harps may ne'er Fail to find fit echoing here;
We the while, of meaner birth, Who in that divinest spell Dare not hope to join on earth, Give us grace to listen well.
But should thankless silence seal Lips, that might half Heaven reveal, Should bards in idol-hymns profane The sacred soul-enthralling strain, (As in this bad world below
Noblest things find vilest using,) Then, Thy power and mercy show, In vile things noble breath infusing;
Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of Thy shrine,
Till we, like Heaven's star-sprinkled floor, Faintly give back what we adore; Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy
If it flow from childlike hearts.
What are we set on earth for? say, to toil- Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines, For all the heat o' the day, till it declines, And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with his odorous oil, To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, For younger fellow-workers of the soil To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labor, to their heart and hands, From thy hands, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to all. The least flower, with a brimming cup, may stand, And share its dew-drop with another near.
Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn O'er joys that God hath for a season lent Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base, weakly to mourn. There lies no desert in the land of life, For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, Labored of thee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife. Haply no more, music and mirth and love, And glorious things of old and younger art, Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast: But when these bright companions all depart, Lay there thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.
EXTRACT FROM "DEJECTION: AN ODE."
O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth-
And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful, and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud, - Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud- We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms our ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colors a suffusion from that light.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, ▾
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning, chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."
Too long have I, methought, with tearful eye
Pored o'er this tangled work of mine, and mused Above each stitch awry and thread confused;
Now will I think on what in years gone by I heard of them that weave rare tapestry At royal looms, and how they constant use To work on the rough side, and still peruse The pictured pattern set above them high; So will I set MY COPY high above,
And gaze and gaze till on my spirit grows Its gracious impress; till some line of love, Transposed upon my canvass, faintly glows; Nor look too much on warp or woof, provide He whom I work for sees their fairer side.
What time the mighty moon was gathering light,
Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him rolled his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew,
And talking to himself, first met his sight:
"You must begone," said Death; "these walks are mine." Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight; Yet ere he parted said, "This hour is thine; Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity
Life eminent creates the shade of death; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign forever over all."
Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not More grief than ye can weep for.
That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,
The mother singing: at her marriage-bell,
The bride weeps: and before the oracle
Of high-faned hills, the poet hath forgot
That moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, Whoever weep; albeit, as some have done,
Ye grope tear-blinded, in a desert place,
And touch but tombs, look up!
Soon, in long rivers, down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
EXTRACT FROM "THE TWO VOICES." Here sits he shaping wings to fly; His heart forebodes a mystery: He names the name Eternity.
That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature he can nowhere find, He sows himself on every wind.
He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And through thick veils to apprehend A labor working to an end.
The end and the beginning vex
His reason: many things perplex,
With motions, checks, and counter-checks.
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