mmmmm 
 
Snqlidh Collection 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 lames Morgan Hart 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR4149.B93M8 1878 
 
 My old letters. 
 
 3 1924 013 438 134 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 34381 34 
 
MY OLD LETTERS. 
 
ois 8' 6 yiputv /lereqcnv, a/*a Trpoacrta xai 6iri<r<rw 
 Xeucrcrei, oxtus o^ apurra. /act' ap.<j>OTepoi(Ti ykvtyrax. 
 
 Iliad, Book III. 109. 
 
MY OLD LETTERS 
 
 HORATIUS BONAR, D.D. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON 
 JAMES NISBET & CO., BERNERS STREET 
 
 1878 
 
Nos tecta fovebimus ossa 
 
 Violis et fronde frequenti : 
 
 Titulumque et frigida saxa 
 Liquido spargemus odore. 
 
 Prudektius. 
 
 Murray & Gibb, Edinburgh, 
 Printers to Her Majesty 's Stationery Office. 
 
Not written down in haste, but in the quiet 
 
 Of thoughtful seasons, still to memory dear, 
 When the whole soul was calm, and the world's riot. 
 
 Even in its echo, came not to my ear ; 
 
 What I have thought, and felt, and seen, and heard is here. 
 
 Sometimes the cloud, but oft the happier noonlight 
 Floated above me, as I mused and sung: 
 
 At times the stars, at times the mellow moonlight 
 Gave ripeness to the fruit of fen and tongue, 
 While o'er my ravelled dreams the years and ages hung. 
 
 In days of public strife, when, sharp and stinging. 
 The angry words went daily to and fro. 
 
 Friend against friend the polished missiles flinging, 
 Each seeking who could launch the keenest blow, 
 I went to thee, my harp, and bade thy numbers flow. 
 
 In hours of heaviness thy solace seeking, 
 I took thee up and woke the trembling tone 
 
 Of the deep melody within thee, speaking 
 Like the heart-broken thrush, that sits alone. 
 Mourning its spoiled nest and all its nestlings gone. 
 
 Into these pages peace-thoughts weave their brightness ; 
 The peace that has been, is, and is to be, 
 
 Is here ; peace-blossoms in their tranquil whiteness 
 I've shaken, as I passed from tree to tree. 
 Relics of many a strange and broken history. 
 
Lie there, my pen ! Only a little longer. 
 
 And then thy work shall be for ever done : 
 Death in these pulses daily groweth stronger; 
 
 Life's ruby drops are oozing one by one ; 
 
 The dreams that flowed thro' thee shall soon be dreamed alone ! 
 
 Rest kindly now, beside what thou hast written : 
 Let that a little longer linger here ; 
 
 By age tinwithered, and by time unsmitten, 
 True leaves of health, that never can grow sere, 
 From the great tree of life, plant of a purer sphere! 
 
 Thou art the lute with which I sang my sadness, 
 When sadness like a cloud begirt my way ; 
 
 Thou art the harp whose strings gave out my gladness, 
 When burst tke sunshine of a happier day, 
 Resting upon my soul with sweet and silent ray. 
 
 The sickle thou with which I have been reaping 
 My great life-harvest here on earth ; and now 
 
 'Mid these my sheaves J lay me down -unweeping, — 
 Nay, full of joy, in life's still evening-glow, 
 And wipe the reaper's sweat from this toil-furrowed brow. 
 
 From this right hand its cunning is departing, 
 This wrinkled palm proclaims its work is done: 
 
 Look back, fond reaper, to thy place of starting, — 
 
 Days, months, andyears, a lifetime past and gone ; — 
 Say, which is best, thy rising or thy setting sun ? 
 
 1 may not stay. - These hills that smile around me 
 Are full of music, and its happy glow 
 
 Beckons me upward; all that here has bound me 
 Seems now dissolving; daily I outgrow 
 The chains and drags of earth. I rise, I go, I go ! 
 
 The Grange, Augttst 1876, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK I., 
 BOOK II., 
 BOOK III., 
 BOOK IV., 
 BOOK V., 
 BOOK VI., 
 BOOK VII., 
 BOOK VIII., 
 BOOK IX., 
 BOOK X., 
 BOOK XI., 
 BOOK XII., 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 33 
 59 
 
 82 
 
 ioS 
 134 
 '59 
 191 
 222 
 251 
 285 
 320 
 
MY OLD LETTERS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Like the November leaves they lie around me, 
 In broken heaps, or spread out one by one ; 
 Older or newer, in their varied forms, 
 Memorials of a spring too quickly past : 
 Each leaf the relic of a well-known tree, 
 Now bare, or vanished from the forest crowd, 
 Of which it was in other Mays the king. 
 
 The sun of yesterday has set for ever, 
 The beacon-gleam across the wave is quenched, 
 The sparkle of last midnight's torch is gone, 
 The footprints on the sand are all erased, 
 The snow has melted from the rock, the dew 
 Has at the dawn dissolved : all these are things 
 That go, and come not back again to us. 
 
 Far more abiding are these time-stained pages, 
 Dumb, and yet eloquent in every line ; 
 Old love and faith making the faded fresh, 
 And lights of other years still beaming there, 
 Unblanched and tender as when first they shone. 
 
 Half-folded, disarranged, they lie ; yet each 
 
MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 21. 
 
 Distinct with a deep history of its own. 
 
 Like the ancestral portraits on the wall, 
 
 Or names engraven on the granite plinth, 
 
 Or golden locket which enshrines the love 
 
 Of loving years and hearts, they alter not 
 
 With the caprice of time or fickle seasons ; 
 
 Dead, yet alive, retaining in their folds 
 
 Perpetual vigour and perennial youth. 
 
 Not like the pressure of now clay-cold fingers, 
 
 Nor like the dream of faces seen no more ; 
 
 Nor echoes of dear footsteps' passing by, 
 
 Nor songs once heard from voices long since mute ; — 
 
 Theirs is a yesterday that changes not, 
 
 Except to ripen and grow mellower still ; 
 
 Theirs is a register of soul, which shall 
 
 Remain unblotted, perfect as at first, 
 
 Till he who reads them now shall close his eyes, 
 
 And lay down thankfully his wearied head 
 
 Upon the pillow of the restful earth. 
 
 They tell that oft, when the old walls are down, 
 And their foundations flung upon the moor, 
 Evanishing amid the ebb of ages ; 
 When every stone of the paternal hall 
 Has crumbled, and commingled with the soil ; 
 When the rough elm, first planted ages since 
 On the heir's wedding-day, or shining beech 
 That lined the avenue or graced the lawn, 
 Has fallen, the old garden-flowers are found 
 Springing unbidden from the faithful earth, 
 True to the soil, the season, and the sun ; 
 While here and there a moss-wrapt relic grey 
 
line 52.] BOOK I. i 
 
 Of ancient orchard, not without its fruit, 
 
 Spreads wide its boughs to the bland August breeze. 
 
 They say that in some spots (I know them well, 
 The quiet slope, the glen, the purple moor), 
 Where martyrs died, or holy men once met 
 Under the watchful sky to worship God, 
 Sounds sweet as heaven are heard in sunny hours 
 (When the year's round recalls the faded past), 
 Rising like fragrance from the sod, as if 
 The soil had drunk the notes of holier days, 
 And loved at times to give them out again, 
 Sweetened with age, rich with unearthly peace. 
 Such are to me these fragments of green years, 
 These pages that give out, each time I touch them, 
 The unchanged melodies locked up within ; 
 Still full of noon, and noon-day life, though they 
 Who wrote them long have left us for the tomb. 
 
 Each letter, with its wonted signature, 
 The seal and date, and place of dear abode, 
 The street, the city, or the rural home, 
 Takes the soul back to unforgotten scenes, 
 To hopes and fears of the calm long ago, 
 Features and friendships of more radiant days, 
 The dreams and passions of the swelling soul, 
 Voices once warm and eloquent, now dumb. 
 The rocks o'er which the breakers went and came, 
 The valley with its stream, the beckoning hill 
 Which oft we climbed together, or the room 
 In which we sat with some lost friend or child 
 A shrub, a flower, a tree beneath whose shade 
 We lay in summer as we talked and read ; 
 
MY OLD LETTERS. [line 83. 
 
 A book, a thought, a sorrow, or a joy, 
 
 A jest, an argument, a dreamy tale ; 
 
 A death, a birth, a wedding, or a tomb, 
 
 A parting or a meeting ; or a stroll 
 
 Of love or friendship, when one soul pours out 
 
 Into another all its busy dreams, 
 
 Gazing upon the sea, or wondering stars, 
 
 Or gold-begotten clouds of royal morn, 
 
 Or earth-enamoured moon, that smiles in love 
 
 Upon a scene that answers smile for smile: — 
 
 These are the things which, graven deep on each 
 
 Pale line, bring back whole worlds of history. 
 
 They who made up our life are dying daily, 
 Yet the life-current of the world flows on, 
 And we have but to wander by its edge, 
 And gather up the relics flung ashore. 
 We are all orphans ; every leaf that falls 
 But addeth to the orphanage of earth ; 
 And as each yesterday breaks off, and joins 
 The past, we feel our being less complete. 
 
 In every line, — some clear as at the first, 
 Like the new-carved inscription, others like 
 Grey tombstones with their half-worn epitaphs, — 
 I feel the throbbing of a kindred heart 
 That beats no more ; I recognise the flash 
 Of eyes now closed ; I clasp the hand that once 
 Clasped mine and pledged immortal constancy, 
 As if it never could relax its grasp, 
 Or lose the warmth with which it folded mine. 
 
 Looking at these mute relics of the spring, — 
 My spring and theirs whom love had knit to me, 
 
LINE 114.J BOOK I. 5 
 
 Preserved like pearls from robber or decay, — 
 Turning their withered pages o'er and o'er, 
 I seem to sit upon a cliff of echoes, 
 Round which float up from the still vales below 
 Or woods beyond, all voices and all sounds 
 Of melody and speech, of harp and tongue ; 
 The music of a lifetime garnered there : 
 Some the first breathings of a clinging heart, 
 Some the last syllables of love, as if, 
 Stretched to its full, the last string broke in twain 
 With the low note that ended the last song. 
 
 More in the garden grows than what is sown ; 
 Not weeds alone, but flowers come up unbidden, 
 Sown by the careful winds. So here I mark 
 Not the parched petal, but the vital seed ; 
 For each word dropping from the lip or pen 
 Of man or woman is a seed that dies not, 
 Wafted afar, to spring we know not where. 
 
 O loving winds, that bear such seeds as these 
 Into my garden, and there lay them down 
 To be a lifetime's sweetness, in which all 
 The hoarded essence of the past I find ; 
 To be to me, in this the gentle twilight 
 And silence of these now retreating years, 
 Like the night-blooming flower, that only spreads 
 Its beauty and its odour to the stars. 
 
 And all the months are here ; true waymarks, not 
 Linked only with old seasons and old suns, 
 But with the changes of a human heart : 
 Here are life's hues, its marvellous mosaic, 
 The rough and smooth of mortal history. 
 
) MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 145. 
 
 Capricious April with its clouds is here, 
 Scattering its daffodils, or showering down 
 Daisies like silver rain to stud the fields : 
 May with its forest-buds and orchard-bloom : 
 June with its length of fervent day, all light, 
 All incense : July taking on the tinge 
 Of chastened calm, as if the hastening year 
 Had passed its noon ; maturer sunshine now 
 Kindly dispensing, when the ripe rich air 
 Breathes o'er the burnished corn, by day and night, 
 Pouring its magic wealth into each blade 
 Of swelling grain, and bidding harvest haste 
 To the embrace of the impatient sickle : 
 Dear August, month of sunny memories, 
 Of idle wanderings by the welcome sea, 
 Of reveries by rock and waterfall ; 
 Its fields of white, with the lark's chant above, 
 The reaper's song below at joyous dawn ; 
 Its school-boy holidays of liberty, 
 Its shadowy mountains blazing to the top 
 With the full-blossomed heath : October brown, 
 Type of the worn-out year, disrobing earth 
 For her dark wintry sleep : November dull, 
 Fickle as April, with its falling stars, 
 Seeming as if the torches of the heavens, 
 In preparation for the coming dark, 
 Were shaken, that they might shine freshly out 
 With keener brilliance thro' the crystal air : 
 Austere December, sternly laying down 
 Its bed of ice and coverlet of snow, 
 For the o'er-weary earth, till spring return. 
 
line 176.] BOOK I. 7 
 
 We bear with winter, for it has its sweets ; 
 But never long for it, and always sigh 
 For the green spring-life, and the summer-breath, 
 The months of resurrection and of song. 
 Go, Winter, go, we say, and let the snowdrops, 
 Like buried stars, burst up ; the primroses, 
 Fair daughters of the forest and the shade, 
 Wave their pale golden coronets around ; 
 The leafless almond-bloom invite the bee 
 To taste its new-born nectar, virgin-pure ; 
 The willow-buds by the glad watercourse 
 Swell into rounded freshness ; in the wood 
 The wind-flower woo the breeze it loves so well. 
 
 They go and come again, these months of change, 
 But they who made them what they were come not : 
 The casket is the same, the gem is fled ; 
 The chalice sparkles, but the wine is drained ; 
 The sky endureth, but the stars have left. 
 Graves far and near are all that now remain, 
 And Memory, taking up each cherished name, 
 Hides it securely in her holiest urn. 
 
 Strange is the life of others seen by us 
 Onlooking quietly, as from the shore 
 Appears the silent ship in the dim offing, 
 Passing us by we know not whither bound. 
 More strange the life now gone, of which we once 
 Formed part, but which long since has quitted us ; 
 Outstripping us and moving out of sight 
 On the broad deep, or at our very side, 
 In some tempestuous midnight, going down 
 With its large freightage 'neath the surge of time. 
 
8 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 207. 
 
 Strange, too, our own lives, giving forth each hour 
 
 Their mysteries of motion or of rest. 
 
 But yesterday my heart could not be still 
 
 For joy ; the throbbing sunshine shook it all ; 
 
 The very air was trembling with the light. 
 
 To-day that heart refuses to be calm 
 
 For grief, which as a tempest seizes me, 
 
 And sweeps me on like cloud of night that has 
 
 No anchor, and no pilot, and no helm. 
 
 And in these letters all this life of mine, 
 Mirrored in lives of others, rises up. 
 My perplexed being is unriddled here, 
 And I begin to understand myself, 
 Tho' shrinking from the mirror held up thus ; 
 I see what once I was, what now I am, 
 And many a mystery becometh clear. 
 I see the path, the thicket, and the goal, 
 The folly that I chose, the truth I shunned ; 
 The error, and the evil, and the light, 
 The prison-house and the deliverance ; 
 The half-fought battle and the vile defeat, 
 Yet sometimes, too, the noble victory ; 
 The spoken or unspoken thought of sin ; 
 The hasty word, uttered and then recalled, 
 The angry tone when yet the speech was gentle ; 
 The weariness and the reviving strength, 
 The low despair and the rekindling hope ; 
 The fearless faith or dark uncertainty ; 
 The tangled hours of this mis-shadowed life 
 Becoming clear and eloquent as day ; 
 The brave confronting with the jealous gale, 
 
LINE 238.] BOOK I. 
 
 And then the gliding into the still haven. 
 These read I here in all these many lives, 
 Woven into one, like rich embroidery 
 Upon some antique hanging. In these scrolls 
 I recognize the interpreters of days 
 And doings in which lie the feeble germs 
 Of unenfolded being, just preparing 
 To start upon the everlasting race, 
 Begun down here, to be completed yonder 
 In the fair realm from whose blue battlements 
 The stars look down upon us in their love. 
 
 A mother's love is ever in its spring, 
 It knows no frost ; with true Peneian verdure 
 All over green, unseared by age or clime. 
 A mother's letters, broken tho' they be, 
 And brief perhaps, yet, like the mellow fruit 
 Of a perpetual autumn, daily yield 
 Their unexhausted sweetness, and impart 
 Strength in the hours of feebleness and doubt. 
 A sister's arm, like a white silken cord, 
 Stronger than iron chain, and like asbestos 
 Proof against fire, folds round our boyhood's life, 
 Infusing tenderness, yet giving strength ; 
 Smoothing the rough, and into harmony, 
 By its soft touch, as by a spell from heaven, 
 Bringing the youthful discords of the heart. 
 A sister's letters, best of chronicles, 
 Like faithful sun-prints, give us back ourselves, 
 Recording the fond household's history 
 Of undivided fellowship and love, 
 
io MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 268. 
 
 Till death or distance snapped the holy chain ; — 
 
 The bitters and the sweets, the heights and hollows, 
 
 The meetings and the partings, the mishap 
 
 Ending in mirth, the deeper ill in tears ; 
 
 Loquacious joy that cannot hold its peace, 
 
 Mute sorrow, yet more eloquent than joy. 
 
 And from these shreds of other days floats up 
 
 The fragrance of the venerable life, 
 
 In midst of which we grew to manhood's prime, 
 
 Becoming thus what now we are, the sons 
 
 Of the past age and fathers of the future. 
 
 Their touch has calmness in it, and the fire 
 That breathed in some has died out with the years ; 
 The warmth remains, but the fierce blaze has sunk ; 
 And when the ruffled spirit seeks repose 
 Or soothing in the midst of weary frets, 
 It turns to these ; and as it turns, the storm 
 Smooths into stillness, and each chafing wave 
 Obeys the charm. However far I go, 
 These scrolls recall me to old love and rest. 
 I hear dead voices saying, Wander not ! 
 Return ! I cannot but comply ; I come, — 
 Won by the spell of unforgotten tones, 
 That still retain their heart-controlling power, 
 And, like Ulysses, wander back to home. 
 
 Oh my own Ithaca, my home, my home ! 
 (Spake he not thus, the wanderer of the isles ?) 
 Where the child rose into the boy, the boy 
 Into the man, with sunshine all about him ! 
 Oh my own Ithaca, my home, my home ! 
 Barren it may be, but oh, beautiful 
 
line 299.] BOOK I. 1 1 
 
 Beyond all other islands of the wave ! 
 
 In thoughts and dreams I turn to thee ; but thou 
 
 Canst never be to me what once thou wert. 
 
 All changed art thou, and they, the loved and loving 
 
 Who made thee what thou wert, have left thy shore. 
 
 Neither in life nor death are we alone ; 
 We cannot isolate our being from 
 That of our fellows, more than can the stars 
 Unlace their mingled radiance. The great race 
 Is one, each age and clime together clasped, 
 And each man, like each ocean-drop, or more 
 Or less affecting all his fellows round. 
 In ways we know not, and at points of which 
 We dream not, daily we on all are telling. 
 We cast a shadow as we pass along, 
 Unthinkingly, or give out silent light, 
 Dispensing joy or sorrow, ill or good, 
 From that occult and passive influence 
 Which man breathes out on man unconsciously. 
 The turret-clock in the great city's depths, 
 That strikes the dreaded or the welcome hour, 
 Knows not what bitterness or joy it brings 
 With the resounding stroke, that, like a knell, 
 Enters some trembling ear, and breaks the heart, 
 Or, like a flash from heaven, lights up the soul ; 
 Yet none the less it does its certain work. 
 The balance knows not whether lead or gold 
 Is laid upon it, just alike to all. 
 The book, each page inanimate and mute, 
 Cares not who reads it, nor can understand 
 The tears or smiles that thickly fall upon it, 
 
12 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 330. 
 
 The peace or trouble which its words provoke. 
 
 The silent clouds above us feed the springs 
 
 Which swell into the mighty streams on which 
 
 Earth's cities rise, and by which they are fed. 
 
 We may be but the cloud ; it matters not, 
 
 So be it that we fill our place, and do 
 
 Our work on earth until earth's work is done. 
 
 That doing is no sport ; done well or ill, 
 
 It is no dream, but tells on all around ; 
 
 And no man from his fellow ever can 
 
 Shake himself wholly free on any side, 
 
 Present or future, or for good or ill : 
 
 Our fathers mould us, and we mould our sons. 
 
 So work these pages their unconscious work ; 
 
 They know not what they say to him who cons them, 
 
 Like tree unwitting of the fruit it bears. 
 
 What are they doing who have passed the bourne ? 
 They whom we loved so well, and lost long since, — 
 What are they feeling ? Do they love as once 
 They loved when here ? We still are passing thro' 
 A life of tempest ; are they in the calm ? 
 Are the unsettled interests of time, 
 That swayed them to and fro with fear and hope, 
 Absorbed in the eternal settlement ? 
 And the disharmonies of misyoked life 
 All sweetened into happy unison ? 
 Is the remorseless roughness of the road 
 Once trod, when side by side we walked below, 
 Now sweetly levelled ? Is all pain unknown, 
 And heaviness and heartache and unrest ? 
 Is darkness now submerged in tranquil light 
 
line 361.] BOOK I. 13 
 
 Poured from no earthly sun ? Are wounds all healed, 
 Hot passions soothed to rest, deep blanks re-filled ? 
 And disappointments that o'ershadowed life 
 As with one dense eclipse, are they forgotten 
 In the redeeming sweetness of that love 
 Which is itself the very heaven of heavens ? 
 
 They have passed on before, at height of day 
 Outstripping us, yet beckoning us to come. 
 Above us now the once sense-fettered soul 
 Roams in the liberty of ripened being, 
 Without a burden and without a chain. 
 These pages tell me what they did and felt ; 
 But what they now are, I must learn elsewhere : 
 Earth's records are for earth, and of the things 
 Of earth alone can tell. For that which is 
 Within the screen, I must consult with those 
 Whose eyes have seen afar, whose ears have heard 
 The songs that celebrate eternal peace. 
 Dear as these pages are, they but record 
 A few faint beatings of some human hearts 
 Amid the fevers and the frosts of life. 
 
 The history of suns long set is here ; 
 Pictures of skies o'er which the sudden cloud 
 Of tempest in a moment rolled ; the dreams 
 Of treasure-laden barques that never came ; 
 Of stars that never rose ; of radiant flowers 
 That never blossomed ; of pellucid founts 
 That never saw the sunshine, nor poured forth 
 Their hidden sparkles to the kindly morn ; 
 Of angel forms, which in these later days 
 (Oh, sad for man to be denied such guests !) 
 
i 4 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 392. 
 
 Have ceased to visit our forsaken earth. 
 Here are the waymarks of a mistaught mind, 
 The fitful footprints of a faltering life ; 
 The driftwood flung amid the rocks, and left 
 Beyond the tide-line and the surge, on this 
 The foreshore of th' immeasurable main 
 That men and angels call eternity. 
 
 Here, too, I find mild gleams of cheerful light, 
 The episodes of grave and graceful being, 
 Of life in sunshine, — voyages across 
 A land-locked sea, on which the scourging wind 
 Can lay no hold, o'er which the luminous sail 
 Glides with invisible motion, like the planets 
 Over the upper azure, unalarmed ; 
 The episodes of wise and earnest life, 
 Filled up with words that live and deeds that tell ; 
 The life of noble growth, in which to-day 
 Is yesterday's apt scholar, and to-morrow, 
 The docile, pensive pupil of to-day ; 
 The meek life, into which the scalding words 
 Of human passion have not found their way, 
 But which the cooling notes of heavenly love 
 Pervade in all its parts, and saturate 
 The air with genial music, till the peace 
 Spreads out on all sides, like the widening ripple 
 Of the still lake, touched by the swallow's wing. 
 
 Strange scraps of life are here, like pages torn 
 At random from some volume of the past ; 
 Fragments of being, not without a meaning. 
 As the split rock shows where the lightning struck, 
 As the torn flag shows what the banner was, . 
 
line 423.] BOOK I. 15 
 
 As the old song recalls some noble name, 
 
 Or the worn coin an empire's history ; 
 
 So each of these frail symbols links itself 
 
 With man's whole circle, asking us to solve 
 
 The riddle of an immortality 
 
 Whose twisted coil was to itself a chaos ; 
 
 For our own lives are little understood, • 
 
 Even by ourselves. That mazy labyrinth 
 
 We call existence ; that pure mystery 
 
 By us named soul ; that silent rudder-power 
 
 Which we term will ; that sacred lamp, the mind ; 
 
 That marvellous aurora of the dark 
 
 Which we style fancy ; that sweet morning dew 
 
 Which we call love ; — these in their several parts 
 
 And acts are all enigmas, to be read 
 
 By light not of this sky, by subtlety 
 
 Transcending that of man's keen intellect ; 
 
 And what we know not now we then shall know, 
 
 When from the heights of the eternal hills 
 
 We shall look back on time, interpreting 
 
 Old dreams, unravelling the tangled network 
 
 Of life, and knowing even as we are known. 
 
 All after-thoughts belong to man, with all 
 The doubts that hang around us here ; to God 
 Pertains the eternal forethought, and pure light 
 That knows no shadow of a shade : to Him 
 All space, all time, are ever, ever clear ; 
 Himself the present, and Himself the future, 
 Himself the first and last, the ALL IN ALL. 
 High souls are here, that rose on mighty wing 
 Above the multitude and found a name, 
 
16 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 454. 
 
 Not soon to drop from earth's large history ; 
 
 Some brave in perilous action, other some 
 
 Braver in perilous endurance ; some 
 
 Are here whose steps were peace, whose eyes were light ; 
 
 Some with a chequered sky of cloud and blue, 
 
 Like northern summers, sad with many a storm ; 
 
 Some pressing on with silent earnestness, 
 
 Calm, yet without the brilliant glow of sunshine ; 
 
 Others, life-weary men, who, sick at heart, 
 
 And crossed in hope, found not which way to look, 
 
 Or into what safe port of peace to turn 
 
 From the cross-currents of a blustering age ; 
 
 Some light of heart and free, but other some 
 
 Steeped in earth's bitter absinthe, and made drunk 
 
 With wine of sorrow ; some that swept thro' earth 
 
 Like torches thro' the desert night ; and some 
 
 Hidden from sight, yet from their secret nooks 
 
 Telling like violets on the general air ; 
 
 Some much with men, a few much with themselves ; 
 
 And others much with God, from Him receiving 
 
 The power supernal by which men are moved, 
 
 The force divine, which, like electric fire, 
 
 Goes out resistless, tho' unseen, to do 
 
 Its work of goodness against all things evil, 
 
 Its work of life against the strength of death. 
 
 Some names are here, on whose dark tombs I gaze 
 As on extinct volcanoes, burning once 
 With wasting fire that scorched where'er it came ; 
 Who might have loved, and healed, and comforted, 
 But never loved, nor healed, nor comforted. 
 Theirs were but names of wonder, and no more : 
 
LINE 485.] BOOK I. 17 
 
 The gentle chanties of happy being, 
 The wayside flowers of mild and suasive life, 
 That shed their genial softness thro' the soul, 
 Grew not within a circle such as theirs. 
 Their paths of sullen, self-willed wandering 
 Skirted the blighted heath or splintered cliff; 
 They sought the echo of the cataract, 
 Or flowerless ruggedness of ocean's strand. 
 In them the human heart seemed ever beating 
 In lawless pulses ; swift and stormy now, 
 As if its channels would give way ; again, 
 Too slow for life, as if congealed within. 
 
 Some here I find whose placid course was all 
 A voyage of pleasure o'er an inland lake, 
 Studded with islands and girt round with green, 
 Over whose sunny crystal tempests breathe not ; 
 Others whose life, vexed with time's wasting strife, 
 Seemed like a strong sail, riddled with the shot 
 Of life-long battle, into pieces falling. — 
 And yet I find that, even in some of these, 
 Defeat, altho' disaster, was not shame. 
 
 Ah me ! the affections of this life grow old, 
 And die like spring-buds in the pinching wind ! 
 Love, even the deepest, cannot last : at morn, 
 'Tis fair as light ; ere even, exhaled like dew, 
 Or like a rainbow buried in the cloud 
 From which it rose, and upon which it hung. 
 The dearest tie that ever knit two hearts 
 (Each like the other as two budding roses) 
 Snaps, and the loved one passes out of sight ; 
 The brightest eyes are fading, and their sparkle 
 
18 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 516. 
 
 Is vanishing amid the mortal mist 
 
 That wraps this globe and darkens earthly homes. 
 
 Yet, 'mid the ruins of the human heart, 
 
 I sit me down and sing the song of hope, 
 
 The song of the rebuilding and the joy. 
 
 Most of earth's history has passed away, 
 Like the spring torrents of Arabian sands, 
 Which leave behind no record of their flow ; 
 Yet doubt I not that it is written somewhere, 
 To be brought forth, and speak the buried truth 
 Contained within all things which God has made, 
 Or man has done, however small and poor. 
 Nothing is lost, tho' what becomes of all 
 The light, the force, the motion that for ages 
 Have flowed, reflowed, crossed, and recrossed the vastness 
 Of boundless space, we know not, save but this, 
 That thus the fabric of the universe 
 Is woven into its endless perfectness, 
 And wrought into the stedfast harmony 
 For which all things above, below, are ripening, 
 Unfolding purposes we understand not. 
 And such old letters are the seeds of what 
 Shall one day, in new resurrection-power, 
 Arise to tell of all that once has been 
 Spoken or done or felt beneath the sun. 
 
 The story of this earth is one of shipwreck, — 
 Of parted anchors and of sunken hulls, 
 Torn sails, lost helms, and buried argosies, 
 O'er which the unfurrowed sky still bends unmoved, 
 And for which man has long since ceased to mourn. 
 The good goes down, the evil floats above : 
 
line S47-] BOOK L 19 
 
 Tis not the face of ocean, but its floor 
 
 That holds the gems of time ; its precious things 
 
 Are far beyond the search of human eye. 
 
 Rude Scythia 'neath her black unhammered rocks 
 
 Buries the emerald ; the chalcedony 
 
 Hard by the dark Symplegades hides deep 
 
 Its yellow splendour ; man is wandering o'er 
 
 A city of the dead, some lost Pompeii, 
 
 Whose ruins and whose riches and whose life 
 
 Lie heaped together in one hopeless tomb. 
 
 That Book of heaven, the gift of Him whose thoughts 
 Are only truth, is but the epitome 
 Of one whose range is both eternities. 
 We turn its leaves, and note in each with awe 
 The unlikeness to all words of man, — the abrupt 
 Yet steady flow throughout the ages past ; 
 Its breaks and links, its chaste variety, 
 Yet its mysterious and unstudied oneness. 
 The symbols that have marked the ages past, 
 And done true pilot-service to the world, — 
 The buds of truth which throughout every land 
 Have burst and ripened, are all here ; and here 
 The under-showings of the coming life, 
 Of full-developed beauty, are contained. 
 The pens of many lands and times are here ; 
 Yet are they one in thought and theme and word, 
 One in authority of speech to man, 
 And one in superhuman tone ; most like, 
 In unity and wide immensity, 
 The tesselated firmament aloft, 
 
20 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 577. 
 
 Made up of rainbows, clouds, and stars and blue. 
 
 Instinct in each bright line with subtle force, 
 
 Charged with creative fire from heaven itself, 
 
 It quickens the cold eye and palsied hand, 
 
 Making the mute lips eloquent that read, 
 
 And purging earthly grossness from the soul. 
 
 The deeds with which the world has sowed its fields 
 
 When earth was younger, and from which have come 
 
 Harvests in later years of noble goodness ; 
 
 By whose meek influence the laws and hearts 
 
 Of nations have been moulded, here are written, 
 
 Selected and arranged by Him who gave 
 
 To earth its seasons, to the sea its tides, 
 
 To the lone river its melodious rhythm, 
 
 To the uplifted hills their lofty awe, 
 
 And to the universe its majesty ; 
 
 No random page and no unmeaning line. 
 
 Not upon fiction, but on truth alone 
 The immortality within is fed. 
 Not fable, but a history divine, 
 Human yet superhuman, everywhere 
 Unearthly but of earth, and steeped in love 
 Higher than man's or woman's, can provide 
 The anodyne of pain, the quickening food 
 For the world's famine, or replenishment 
 For the deep void of the unsolaced heart, 
 That yearns in silence for the great and true, 
 To fill its vastness and to cheer its gloom. 
 
 That mighty Book of heaven ! what has it not 
 Done for a careworn world, whose very smiles 
 Bear witness to the void within ? Its truths 
 
line6o8.] BOOK I. 21 
 
 Have sounded thro' the ever-echoing earth, 
 
 And filled the air with joy. It has taught men 
 
 How to pluck life from the abyss of death ; 
 
 How to look down into the tomb, and see 
 
 Not bones and dust, but incorruption there ; 
 
 How to drink deep the cup of bitterness, 
 
 Yet find in every drop immortal health ; 
 
 How to endure the long sharp throb of pain, 
 
 And yet give thanks to Him who kindly sent it ; 
 
 How to gaze up into the cheerless heavens, 
 
 When the red bolt is splintering the rock, 
 
 And read the love unquenchable of Him 
 
 Who out of midnight brings the dazzling day ; 
 
 How to peer down into the desolate depths 
 
 Of ocean, and discover in that gloom 
 
 The arm that reaches far below these depths, 
 
 And lifts the sunken victim from the wave ; 
 
 How, when alone amid a hostile world, 
 
 To look up and to see the placid sky 
 
 Filled with the weaponed hosts of light, sent down 
 
 To win for us the eternal victory. 
 
 The thoughts that have been torches to the 
 world, 
 Self-luminous, like Israel's pillar-cloud, — 
 Which have gone up and down the passive globe 
 Like angels, and have found a resting-place 
 In every clime, have issued from this source ; 
 The verities of word and deed, which wait 
 The expansion of the ages, all are here. 
 Tho' undeveloped, and unrecognised 
 By human unbelief, they yet shall fill 
 
22 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 638. 
 
 All being, reaching the remotest parts 
 Of time and space, God's two infinities. 
 
 The song that has redeemed the commonplace 
 Of ages or of schools is written here, — 
 The word that from the gates of Paradise 
 Went forth and took possession of earth's altars, 
 In visible symbol laid upon the turf, 
 Type of the life for life, the death for death, 
 Is graven here with an eternal pen ; 
 The seed-words of the ages all are here, 
 Gems dropped from heaven, and sparkling in the gloom 
 Or twilight of this error-shaded earth. 
 
 The truths that from the tree of Golgotha 
 Went forth and took the world by storm, like hosts 
 Mighty in war, yet without shield or sword, 
 Lodge here, as in some royal citadel, 
 Ready for deeds of might in day of battle, 
 Or happy service in the hour of peace. 
 In slow procession, with no battle-cry 
 Or sound of trumpet, calmly march they forth 
 From gates of Old Jerusalem, to overflow 
 The ages, cover realms, seize Gentile thrones, 
 Defying the dread gods of Greece and Rome, 
 Cumsean or Dodonian oracles, 
 And subtle strength of stern philosophy, 
 The wisdom of the Porch or the Lycasum. 
 They have gone forth to conquer ; and they have 
 O'errun this populous globe, crossed seas and straits, 
 Desert and swamp and mountain, in their march ; 
 Peopled all isles and continents and realms, 
 Pervaded cities with their new-born spell, 
 
line 669.J BOOK I. 23 
 
 Paphos and Corinth, Athens, Ephesus. 
 
 The idol-fanes they seized, expelled their gods 
 
 (As with the scourge of cords the lowly One 
 
 Drove from the temple of all temples once 
 
 The merchants and the merchandise of old), 
 
 Leaving to perish, with a sure decay, 
 
 Tripods and altars, images and garlands. 
 
 They scourged the priesthood out, in whose dark rites 
 
 The untrue and the impure of ancient ages 
 
 Had taken refuge and become incarnate, 
 
 By whom gross things were beautified, to win 
 
 Man's love and worship, to build up for him 
 
 A fond religion of the fair ideal, 
 
 The Syrian goddess or the Delian god, — 
 
 Each statue a symbolic lust, encradled 
 
 In virgin marble or in bronze enthroned : 
 
 The flowers of the pure earth, the forest leaves, 
 
 The dells, the mossy caves, and waterfalls, 
 
 Rocks, rivers, and the unpolluted sea, 
 
 The dewy mountains, sky, sun, moon, and stars, 
 
 All linked with human passion, and debased 
 
 From their sweet pureness, to become the haunts 
 
 Of fabled deities, whose worshippers 
 
 Knelt at the shrine of gods more vile than men. 
 
 Humanity's uplifted eyes say, Who 
 And what is God ? Where, how can He be found ? 
 Is He on earth in temples made with hands, 
 Amid these solemn mountains, or within 
 That ocean swaying to and fro, as if instinct 
 With life beyond itself? Or is He far 
 Beyond the vision of mortality ? 
 
24 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 700. 
 
 Humanity's outstretched hands cry out, 
 ' Show us the Father, and it will suffice ! ' 
 ' Who, who will show us any good ? ' has been 
 And still is everywhere the bitter moan 
 Of empty, aching hearts, that feel far down 
 The loneliness of being left without 
 One greater than themselves to fill the largeness 
 Of such a soul as has been made to love, 
 And take in love such as its greatness craves. 
 ' Show us the Father, and it will suffice ! ' 
 Is the sore cry of human hearts that came 
 To this bright world for joy, but found it not. 
 That cry God answers, pointing to yon babe, — 
 The babe of poverty, despised of man, 
 That lay in weakness on a woman's knee, 
 And sucked a woman's breast, — to yonder man 
 That walked in sadness this unloving earth, 
 Doing the mighty deeds of heavenly grace, 
 And speaking words such as man never spake ; 
 That hung in shame upon yon cross, and lay 
 Within yon stony tomb, then rose again, 
 And went on high to unbar the gate of day 
 To us, the wanderers of the night below. 
 
 O manger-cradle ! what to thee we owe, 
 Where the first footsteps of descending God 
 Printed themselves on. this unconscious earth ! 
 O tree of death, to us the tree of life, 
 Whose fruit is immortality and joy, 
 Let us sit down beneath thy laden boughs 
 And pluck thy mellowness, to famished souls 
 Sweeter by far than Israel's angel-bread. 
 
line 73 i.J BOOK I. 25 
 
 O rocky' tomb, the three days' prison-house 
 Of Him, the Mighty, whom no bars could bind, 
 Prince of both life and death, we joy to find 
 Thee empty now, the only tomb of earth 
 Without a guest, thee empty evermore ! 
 
 He who doubts nothing, nothing knows : so runs 
 The proverb. Yet to doubt is not to know ; 
 To know is not to doubt : true knowledge is 
 Deliverance from doubt, and from the bondage 
 Which chains the doubter ; he who winneth this 
 Is nobly blest ; for all uncertainty 
 Is heaviness of spirit, and a load 
 By far too grievous to be borne. — A creed 
 Sent down from Him who is the only Wise 
 Is the true ending of all human doubt, 
 The one foundation of all certainty, 
 The end of mental bondage, the beginning 
 Of freedom to the conscience and the soul. 
 That which is certain can alone set free ; 
 It is uncertainty that makes us bondsmen, 
 Or else possession of a cherished lie, 
 Clenching the fetters of the mind ; truth only, 
 Not guessed at, nor half-proved, but coming down 
 Like light from the supernal Light of light, 
 Sets free and makes the spirit walk erect ; 
 Not like Enceladus, by Etna crushed, 
 Nor like Prometheus, prisoned on his rock ; 
 But like the buoyant eagle, soaring high, 
 Free and disburdened, to the upper heaven. 
 
 The birth of error is without a throe ; 
 The travail-pangs of truth are terrible, 
 
26 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 762. 
 
 Convulsing nations in their agony. 
 Evil comes in, all smiles and holiday, 
 With harlot-purple decked, and mimic gems, 
 The sound of trumpet heralding her march ; 
 But good, amid the tempest and the strife, 
 Hard struggling into life and hope, its path 
 Oft lighted by the fires of martyrdom. 
 'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power ; 
 It dies to live, and roots itself in ashes. 
 
 So be it : out of sickness cometh health ; 
 Out of morn's tempest comes eve's golden calm ; 
 The dawn is the dear offspring of the night ; 
 And like a mother dying as she gives 
 Birth to a noble son, so dies the darkness 
 As she brings forth her fair-haired man-child Day. 
 
 Let us be sowers, yet be reapers too. 
 In speaking we are sowers of the seed, 
 In listening we are reapers of the harvest. 
 Sow well and reap well ; spring and harvest are 
 Twin brothers, though all summer comes between. 
 He who knows most and best speaks least, and with 
 The fewest words in speaking, but the fool 
 Talks golden hours away ; and yet a fool 
 Is sometimes right, a wise man sometimes wrong. 
 
 Let not the currents of the age prevail 
 To sweep you from your stable anchorage ; 
 Seek to be still, amid the noise and heat 
 Of streets and crowds, and strife of angry men, 
 Whose voices are but passion and revenge. 
 'Tis the calm Voice that conquers ; violence 
 Of pen or lip but weakens argument, 
 
LINE 793.] BOOK I. 27 
 
 Wounding the truth by its own advocate. 
 
 Go, master thine own will, be king within 
 
 Thyself ; so shalt thou rule o'er other wills. 
 
 'Tis not hard force that best can baffle force, 
 
 And mock the blow. See that fierce thunderbolt ! 
 
 It strikes the tower, and the big stones are splintered ; 
 
 It strikes the cliff, the rock is cloven in twain ; 
 
 It strikes the sea, and sinks in baffled might : 
 
 The soft wave calmly quenches its quick fire. 
 
 Fret not for news ; they will come soon enough 
 If ill ; if good, they can afford to wait : 
 Or good or ill, they will ere long grow old, 
 And like ripe fruit will drop into thy hand. 
 Be patient, keep your spirit still, for storms 
 Are all about you, and you cannot say, 
 Even to the lightest of them, Peace, be still. 
 The skilful pilot can control the barque, 
 But not the breeze ; the rock defies the gale, 
 Unmoved, but cannot soothe it into calm. 
 
 ' Better to be the hammer than the anvil,' 
 They said of old. So said not He who came 
 In heavenly charity to bear our griefs, 
 And to endure the life-long taunts of men, 
 Who hated goodness for its own sweet sake. 
 Better to bear than to inflict the wound ! 
 He who requites must be divinely just, 
 And He who taketh vengeance must be love. 
 Better to be the anvil than the hammer. 
 Fear not the blow ; the patient anvil shrinks not, 
 Nor dreads the hammer : let it strike without 
 A pause, it wears or shivers but itself. 
 
28 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 824. 
 
 Be not ashamed of truth, however old, 
 
 Nor think the newest is perforce the best. 
 
 The orchard's aged trees do often shame 
 
 The new and young. I know it has been said, 
 
 Past waters turn no mills ; but yet, again, 
 
 I do bethink me of a truer proverb : 
 
 Respect the fountain of whose waters thou 
 
 And all thy sires have drunk. Truth never sheds 
 
 Its leaves, nor fears the winter ; on its head 
 
 No grey hairs ever come. The ancestry 
 
 Of wisdom is eternal and divine. 
 
 Judge truth not by its garb, but by itself : 
 
 Not by the scabbard, but the blade, we prove 
 
 The authentic sword ; so by its inward worth 
 
 We rate the truth ; so by the life within, 
 
 Shining thro' many a veil, we know the man, 
 
 Not by his dwelling or his costly robe. 
 
 Look not upon the cup, but upon that 
 
 Which it contains ; the cup itself is nought. 
 
 All precious things are rare, not to be bought 
 As merchandise, bestowed by God alone. 
 One in ten thousand has the dower of beauty, 
 And who can bargain for that perilous dower ? 
 One in ten thousand has the gift of song, 
 And who can buy that lip or lyre divine ? 
 Not one of twice ten thousand has possessed 
 The double heritage of song and beauty. 
 God knoweth how to give and to withhold : 
 His common stars He scatters o'er the night, 
 His brightest gem He keepeth for the morn. 
 Rise, orb of silver ! 'tis to thee we turn, 
 
line 855.] BOOK I. 29 
 
 Stealing in sweetness up the jewelled blue, — 
 
 Not for thyself, but for the news thou bringest 
 
 Of something fairer than thyself. Oh, shine, 
 
 And lead us to the land beyond thyself, 
 
 The region of an everlasting sun ! 
 
 Gem of the Orient, whose splendour rests 
 
 Upon a thousand hills, a thousand seas, 
 
 We hail thee as the earnest of the noon ; 
 
 And having found thee, we set forth to seek 
 
 The diamond mine from which thy brilliance came. 
 
 Thou, but a spark struck from the chariot-wheel 
 
 Of dawn, as issuing from the heavenly gate, 
 
 Biddest us look and wait for what is coming. 
 
 This is the age of stars ; the age of suns 
 
 Is on its way ; we know that it will come. 
 
 One voice from all these varied pages sounds, 
 More true than ancient oracle ere spoke : 
 Seize the one moment for the moment's work, 
 Or failure must be thine ! To-morrow's sun 
 Lights up no yesterdays ; the broken bridge 
 Yieldeth no passage to the traveller ; 
 The swerving arrow winneth not the prize ; 
 The ship that has so often come and gone 
 Makes its last voyage, and goes down. In vain 
 We mourn the past, or strive to gather up 
 Lost sunshine, or replace the vanished rainbow. 
 Lost gold may be recovered ; severed love 
 Be re-cemented, friendships knit again 
 In double strength, that one cold word had sundered ; 
 The straying arrow may return unblunted 
 To the unfaithful bow that played it false ; 
 
30 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 886. 
 
 But the lost moment perishes for ever, 
 Like pearl flung out into the deep, beyond 
 The fathom-line or reach of diver's hand. 
 
 This is the day of motion ; history 
 Fast and yet faster moveth : but all motion 
 Is not advancement. Thought is now adrift, 
 And who shall anchor it or hold the helm ? 
 The anchored barques are tugging at their chains, 
 And the unanchored are all out upon 
 A sea of tumult, striking each the other. — 
 Slow, — and yet slower ! for I hear afar 
 The sound of the fog-signals. — Slower yet ! 
 The air is thick, and peril on all sides 
 Warns us to watch and keep the helm in hand 
 The years are wiser than the days ; let us 
 Be still and wait ; the mist will rise ere long. 
 
 Meanwhile in silence the recumbent earth 
 Moves on, unconscious of the hurricane, 
 Round its old self, and round the constant sun, 
 Impelled by laws it knows not, yet obeys. 
 So let us glide upon our tranquil path, 
 Unswerving, with our eye upon the goal, 
 And in obedience to a law which sweetly 
 Draweth us onward, yet in doing so 
 Keeps us unshaken, — says to us, Be still ! 
 
 I look with awe upon the stedfast past, 
 So unrecallable and motionless, 
 And yet so full of all that once was life, 
 And warmth, and motion : like an iceberg vast, 
 Its million drops all frozen into one ; 
 Or like a mighty continent, filled up 
 
line 91 7-] BOOK I. 31 
 
 With the debris of ages, there it lies 
 
 Behind me in its greatness ; and as I 
 
 Move on and on, it closes quick behind, 
 
 And shuts its gates against me ; yet I feel 
 
 Its awful shadow cast upon my present. 
 
 As I stretch out my hand to touch it, all 
 
 Is cold and unresponsive, yet I can 
 
 Pluck from its silent wastes the withered flowers 
 
 Of days that have stolen past in soundless haste ; 
 
 And I can gaze upon its dim low hills, 
 
 Beyond revisiting, left far behind. 
 
 The future cometh, rolling in its waves 
 With all their burdens, eager to land its freight 
 On the firm shore, and to become the past. 
 I see it coming, billow upon billow. 
 And what these far-off crests convey to us, 
 Of evil or of good, I know not ; soon 
 They will roll in upon the welcome strand, 
 And all that heaving future, with its warmth 
 And change and waywardness, lie still and cold. 
 
 The fire that purifies the gold must first 
 Dissolve the ore ; the soil that vivifies 
 The seed must first become its tomb ; each part 
 And atom of this globe is passing thro' 
 The potter's hands, and will ere long give up 
 The secrets of its being, the great thoughts 
 With which creation travails, bringing forth 
 The eternal perfect from the imperfect past. 
 Linked with the changes which make up the days 
 Of that which we call time, each fragment has 
 A marvellous story of itself to tell : 
 
32 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 948. 
 
 Child of the ages past, it says, am I, 
 
 For out of all of them have I come forth ; 
 
 Part of them all am I ; their history 
 
 Is mine, and mine is theirs ; their spirit rests 
 
 Upon me, and hath made me what I am. 
 
 Child of the ages yet to come am I, 
 
 They are my heritage ; to-morrow's sun 
 
 May or may not arise upon me here, 
 
 But somewhere and somehow I know to-morrow 
 
 Will yet be mine, as yesterday hath been. 
 
 We know no rapture here without its chill ; 
 No song but dies and leaves the asking ear 
 Unsatisfied ; no day without its fall ; 
 The lustre of the undiluted light, 
 Meek and unchangeable, is only known 
 In the far region of unwrinkled skies. 
 For life and death are woven into each other : 
 The day of the untwining comes apace ; 
 We know it, and lift up our head in joy. 
 
 Faith walks in night, yet is not of the night ; 
 And Hope, her fellow, looks into the east, 
 Where, marking the long cloud-bars all of gold, 
 It says, ere day is up, Behold the sun ! 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 ' At noon, when day was all awake, and light, 
 Mother of day, had breathed her ample life 
 O'er the dead face of earth, I sat amid 
 The monoliths of old Phoenicia's shrine, 
 On sunny Malta's sea-embosomed rock, 
 And thought of ancient altars, broken gods ' 
 (So read I here in this old page of friendship). 
 
 ' Once, too, at eve, ere twilight had come down, 
 When the ripe sunshine dropped o'er land and sea, 
 Like yellow fruit in autumn, I went out 
 Amid the pillared groups of marble ruin 
 Strewed o'er Italia's western shores, that seem 
 Like lonely graveyards of its buried gods. 
 My musings went to ages past ; of all 
 That these bleached fragments once had seen, I thought. 
 
 ' And then again, at the mute hour of midnight, 
 When ocean lay at rest in sleep and smiles, 
 And the moon woke, to watch the bright repose, 
 Scattering its silver o'er the wave like dreams, 
 I stood on Sidon's crumbling fort, and looked 
 All round and up the slopes of Lebanon, 
 Where to Astarte rose the tainted incense, 
 And Syria knelt before her goddess-moon. 
 
34 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 24. 
 
 ' The temples of earth's younger days have fallen ; 
 The idol-plain of Shinar is a waste ; 
 The colonnades of Baalbec, that for ages 
 Like a palm-forest stood, uprooted lie ; 
 The columns whitening the green hills of Greece 
 Have crumbled ; perished Rome's four hundred fanes : 
 The sea of ages has swept over them ; 
 Beneath its waves dead gods and goddesses 
 Lie deep entombed, — no one to quicken them, 
 Or to relight their long-quenched altar-fires. 
 
 ' And yet I hear of pilgrims in these days, 
 These wiser days of spirit and of truth, 
 Who do them reverence ; who go to kneel, 
 And weep, and love, and worship, waking up 
 With pagan litanies the aged silence, 
 Pining for deities long since extinct, 
 In which, impersonate, they seem to see 
 What man calls nature, and to which he kneels, 
 Clasping the idol in his wild embrace 
 As if it were the'real, or than the real 
 More lovable and worthy of his faith ; 
 As if in that ideal he had found 
 The very spirit of this marvellous seen, 
 And yet more marvellous unseen, to which, 
 Fondly enamoured, he would wed his soul ; 
 To which, enraptured, he would bow the knee, 
 As to a goddess-bride, in whose warm eyes 
 He would rejoice to find his dreamy heaven. 
 
 ' O youth-hood of the world, earth's May-day prime, 
 To which so many wistful eyes look back, 
 How little of the pure and lovable 
 
line 55.] BOOK II. 35 
 
 Perfumes your ancient air, or finds its way 
 
 Into the sunshine of your burning blue ! 
 
 What have your molten or your chiselled myths 
 
 Done for the realms who owned them as their creed ? 
 
 How little of the noble or the great 
 
 Has dwelt within the columns of your fanes, 
 
 Or blazed upon your altars ! War and wine 
 
 Were there, with lewdness and with cruelty ; 
 
 Each symbol pander to a lust, or based 
 
 Upon a lie, or some contorted fragment 
 
 Of truth primeval, all defaced and worn. 
 
 Fierce and lascivious were the fumes which filled 
 
 The chambers of your vast unwindowed shrines ; 
 
 Your marble, Parian or Pentelican, 
 
 Blushed at the rites it witnessed ; and your men, 
 
 Oft nobler than the creeds they clung to, looked 
 
 With scorn on wanton deities, who seemed 
 
 To visit earth but to defile its pureness 
 
 With lewdness of their own voluptuous heavens. 
 
 'O era of the gods ! ere Bel had bowed, 
 And Nebo gone into captivity ; 
 When Egypt worshipped still her nameless Power ; 
 Ere yet Ibsambul was laid desolate, 
 Her idols smothered in the Nubian sands, 
 And her rock-chiselled niches stripped and spoiled ; 
 Ere Elam's ever-burning fire went out, 
 Or Lebanon forgot her Ashtaroth, 
 Or Zeus and Here, from the Olympian peaks, 
 Had passed into their kindred nothingness : 
 Era of myth and mystery, how blank 
 For truth and goodness have your ages been ! 
 
36 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 86, 
 
 Ye fabled deities, what have you done 
 
 To sweeten or dry up the turbid flood 
 
 Of terrene ill ? Ah ! never have ye gone 
 
 Down to the solemn depths of human conscience, 
 
 To calm the tempest that was raging there ; 
 
 No burdens have ye borne, no wrinkles smoothed 
 
 Upon the furrowed front of earthly care ; 
 
 Dumb as your statues, and as cold, no words 
 
 To the lone mourner have ye ever spoken, 
 
 No counsels to the wandering have ye given, 
 
 No guidance to the error-tangled step, 
 
 No blanks ye filled, no terrors ye allayed ; 
 
 Upon the future ye could shed no hope ; 
 
 Upon no deathbed did ye ever shine, 
 
 Making the leaden lip to smile with peace, 
 
 And lighting up with love the heavy eye. 
 
 Rest for the weary ye had none ; no love, 
 
 Like that of Him who gave His Son for us, 
 
 Ere spake from you by priest or oracle ; 
 
 No cradle-lullaby ye ever sang, 
 
 No mother's tears ye dried ; ye could not say 
 
 To your own Niobe in day of grief, 
 
 " Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes 
 
 From tears, for soon thy children shall return ; " 
 
 Ye could but change her into stone ! No hope ye gave 
 
 Of happy meeting and immortal love 
 
 On a bright shore of life, to which no death 
 
 Shall come, and o'er whose field of peaceful light 
 
 No star malignant shall shoot down its ray. 
 
 No earnest gave ye of a glorious future 
 
 For man and for man's earth, long desolate, 
 
line 117.] BOOK II 37 
 
 Compensating for disappointment here. 
 
 Poor helpless gods, what have ye done for men, 
 
 Even in these days when all the world was yours, 
 
 Days of humanity's unwasted prime ? 
 
 What stamp of love or pureness have ye left 
 
 Upon that earth o'er which so long ye swayed ? 
 
 When did ye dare the battle-front for truth, 
 
 Or face the flame in fighting error down ? 
 
 Has the grave yielded to your icy touch, 
 
 Or death fled trembling from your sightless eyes ? 
 
 Which of you all has spoken words that live, 
 
 Or done the deeds that tell, or moulded minds 
 
 Into celestial beauty, lifting man 
 
 Above the sensual thought and selfish will ? ' 
 
 So writes the meditative pen of one 
 Whose pleasant fellowship has passed away. 
 His youth to many seemed made up of dreams ; 
 To those who knew him 'twas one burning thought, 
 One passionate purpose, so to live this life 
 That earth should be the better for his birth, 
 And own him as a son she loved to honour. 
 
 It was a noble dream ; and he who dreamed it 
 Woke up to noble life, and lived it well. 
 He said, — nor did he speak amiss to us, — 
 ' Think of what one day thou shalt be, and try 
 To be to-day what thou shalt one day be. 
 Fight on and conquer ; be a power on earth 
 Long after thou art gone ; live for all ages. 
 Live wisdom, and then speak it ; it will tell : 
 The wise words of the wisest sometimes seem 
 But folly to the foolish. Not the less 
 
3 8 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 148. 
 
 They work their destined work invincibly ; 
 
 Then most a power when man esteems them weakness. 
 
 The fragrant oil-drops from the wrestler's hair, 
 
 When gathered Greece had crowned him conqueror, 
 
 Fell not in vain, but left the odour long, 
 
 Breathing a power upon the multitude 
 
 That quickened them to deeds of worth and greatness. 
 
 He whose good name is lost, is dead and buried ; 
 
 But he whose life, however brief, hath spoken, 
 
 Tho' but the lowest, least articulate tones 
 
 Of blessing to his fellows, never dies. 
 
 ' How strong the ties of kindred and long love, 
 How dear the intercourse of heart with heart ; 
 Sunny or sorrowful, as each sweet day 
 Draws out still more of that which is within ! 
 Man wishes to be loved, — expects to be so ; 
 And yet how few live so as to be loved ! 
 Each to the other says, " Come, love me," yet 
 Who among thousands lives the lovable, 
 Heart-winning life ? 'Tis love that winneth love : 
 Words are too often mockers ; gentle deeds 
 Knit souls together, fusing into one 
 Divided thoughts and hopes, and fears and joys. 
 He that would win me must himself be won : 
 I know no loving save by being loved ; 
 For being loved, we love. Such is the law 
 Alike of earth and heaven ; for Him we love 
 Who loved us first ; His love engenders ours. 
 
 ' Be sure your shaft is fixed before you draw 
 The bow ; then draw, and stint not ; take thine aim. 
 Live thou no random life, as if to play 
 
line 179.] BOOK II. 39 
 
 Some time-beguiling game thou earnest here, 
 Or take thy part in the world's brilliant dance, 
 And then depart when the bright crowd breaks up, 
 The music quenched and the gay waltzers gone.' 
 
 I read and muse, I muse and read again, 
 Conversing with the dear or honoured dead. 
 These letters are the voices of the loved ; 
 And thus may life and death hold intercourse, 
 Tho' not by eye or ear or touch, or some 
 Ethereal medium, which man may not name 
 Except in darkness. For to us they come not ; 
 We go to them : we meet them where we oft 
 Have met before ; we go into the past, 
 To walk and sit beside them as of old. 
 What they are now is hidden from our eye ; 
 What they once were we know, and into that 
 We would each day return, and wander through 
 The fields where we so oft have been with them, 
 On double wing of memory and love, 
 Rejoining those whose lives and ours were once 
 But one, and whose departure took away 
 Part of ourselves, and left yet more of them 
 Behind, deep-treasured, for companionship, 
 Hour ofter hour, to us in silent days 
 Of blankness and of solitude, till this 
 Strong memory shall lose its strength to name 
 The names of love, or until we rejoin 
 Those who have thus outrun us in the race 
 Of time, and reached, long before us, the goal. 
 
 Out of the eater has come forth the meat, 
 
40 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 209. 
 
 And from the strong one sweetness ; so to me 
 Has the devourer of all mundane things, 
 The greatnesses and meannesses of man, 
 Left those few shreds behind him, as he swept 
 Still on and on in his destructive march, 
 Locked up in double safe, like hoarded gold, 
 These treasured pages of the loved and lost, 
 These self-sketched portraits of their inner being, 
 Fragments of once familiar history. 
 
 In the great picture-gallery of Time, 
 Each child of earth, tho 1 all unchronicled, 
 And unrelated to the wise or high, 
 Has some fond niche or shaded corner, where 
 He finds some image, which no time can blot, 
 Of those who have gone from him, and whose going 
 Left his poor dwelling poorer, and himself 
 A lonelier man, whose props and fellowships, 
 Once fallen to pieces, could not be replaced. 
 For few are the replacements of the heart ; 
 That which is gone is gone, and no one else 
 Can fit into the hollow death has made, 
 Or fill up the unmeasured blank within. 
 
 Quickly the lacerated air is healed, 
 The bolt that pierced it left no scar behind. 
 Heart-wounds are only cicatrized to many ; 
 The life-long scar shows where the arrow struck, 
 The life-long pain betrays the hidden hurt. 
 Quickly the sea fills up the hollow where 
 The barque went down, and all again is smooth ; 
 But in that greater sea, the human heart, 
 Shipwreck is shipwreck beyond hope or fear ; 
 
LINE 240.J BOOK II. 41 
 
 The old fulness comes not, and can never come. 
 
 Swiftly the sky of noon resumes its joy 
 
 When storms exhaust themselves, and clouds have passed; 
 
 But that far wider heaven, man's boundless soul, 
 
 Detains the shadow when the cloud has fled ; 
 
 And in the human hemisphere, the star 
 
 Once lost is lost for ever, till the hour 
 
 Of glad recovery for all true things lost, 
 
 When every stain shall vanish from the blue 
 
 Of our fair life hereafter, and the lights, 
 
 Which went out from our firmament, shall be 
 
 Rekindled there in freshness far beyond 
 
 What eye hath seen in this thick air of time. 
 
 The scar remains ; the pain, with most, is past ; 
 Few suffer long ; the many fling aside 
 Their sharpest grief ; within a few short months, 
 Or less, the past is past, the sea is still. — 
 Oh, well for them, and yet not well ! I'd rather 
 Endure the open wound a lifetime, than 
 Part with the memories of these earnest days, 
 When I sat face to face with death, and then 
 Kissed the last farewell, clasped the marble fingers, 
 And saw the soul forsake beloved eyes. 
 
 On such departed radiances I muse, 
 Still beautiful in their primeval youth ; 
 And musing, take up one by one these pages, — 
 Soiled with long years, and torn by heedless hands, — 
 In which old life comes back again, like corn 
 Spilled from the shaken sheaf upon the ground, 
 Or like the scatterings of storied glass, 
 From dim church window, falling to decay. 
 
42 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 271. 
 
 Brief episodes of home and love and peace, 
 
 With glimpses of the unforgotten scenes, 
 
 Faces, and names of boyhood, all are here : 
 
 The quiet, or the boisterous overflow 
 
 Of hearts as yet untamed to manhood's rules, 
 
 The first up-wellings of youth's sparkling spring, 
 
 The wild exuberance of the vagrant will 
 
 When first let loose upon a world of smiles, 
 
 Are written, tho' in broken characters, 
 
 By pens long since laid down. Strange pages these, 
 
 O'er which my eye runs swiftly, as I watch 
 
 These sinking stars and this uprising sun, 
 
 That thro' my lattice now begins to pour 
 
 Its brilliance in this solemn summer dawn. 
 
 Heaped on this table, in disorder mute, — 
 Type of the ravelled coil of memories 
 Within myself, — a lifetime's memories, — 
 They lie, and bid me listen to their song. 
 
 And I am listening ! Not a sound but has 
 Its charms, which distance has no power to dull; 
 For time but breathes its harmonizing spell 
 O'er what was once untunable and harsh, 
 Transforming into venerable softness 
 Words which, when uttered first, perchance were rude ; 
 Making even silence eloquent ; the sweet 
 Still sweetening ; the waves of stormy life 
 Smoothing into a stable calm, o'er which 
 No hurricane again shall ever break. 
 
 They say that when the Alpine peak is split 
 By frost or lightning, or by grinding time, 
 The gems roll out into the vales below, 
 
LINE 302.] BOOK II. 43 
 
 Making the peasant rich with unbought treasure : 
 Even so life's once deep-buried memories 
 Uncover all their lustre to the soul, 
 Making me richer than I thought or dreamed, 
 When time or storm or the sharp frosts of life 
 Have severed them from the encrusting mass 
 Of present scenes and soul-absorbing cares, 
 Which buried them in darkness far within. 
 Before me passes, disarranged yet clear, 
 The vision of man's threescore years and ten ; 
 Each day containing in itself a tale 
 Told for all age3, and each week a volume ; 
 All of them fragments, broken off by time 
 From this immortal being, and laid up 
 As in a treasure-house, or skilfully 
 Embalmed, like Egypt's dead, with spices sweet ; 
 Not lost, like vapour vanishing in air, 
 Or inurned ashes of a Roman pyre ; 
 Not flung aside as waste, but linked with noons 
 And nights of our imperishable past, — 
 Parts of one being, zones of one round earth, 
 Fields of one province, yet in light and shade 
 Each differing from the other, none the same ; 
 For true life ever varies and is fresh : 
 'Tis fancy only that repeats itself, 
 Still giving forth a stale monotony 
 Of human fictions, substituted for 
 Divine creations ever rich and new ; 
 Some like plucked flowers, whose fragrance lingers yet 
 When the full hues are gone ; some like the flowers 
 Whose beauty lingers when the fragrance dies. 
 
44 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 333. 
 
 As at the keyboard sits the organist, 
 
 And, touching key by key, draws out the store 
 
 Of melody within, or old or new, 
 
 Till from the organ-pipes the massive notes 
 
 Roll out like living gems, so sit I here ; 
 
 And as I touch these fragile finger-keys, 
 
 These scrolls in which a parent or a friend, 
 
 Brother or sister, spoke out all their heart, 
 
 The unexhausted music of the past 
 
 Comes out, and fills the ever-listening soul 
 
 With solemn sweetnesses that never pall. 
 
 Into these byways of the sombre past 
 We track our way with charts and guides like those 
 Which these old letters furnish, and sit down 
 Amid the crumbling towers, the grass-paved streets, 
 The shattered obelisks of life, once fresh 
 In its own radiant prime, as one who walks 
 Amid the rock-shrines of old Thebes, or gazes 
 On Syria's pillared wrecks, or corridors 
 Of proud Sebuste on her hill of vines ; 
 Or yet more truly, as one strolling out 
 Along the Appian Way, and wandering on, 
 Finds on each side, half-buried and half-razed, 
 The villa and the tomb of Roman days. 
 
 Amid the thickets of the past we seem 
 At times to lose ourselves, yet there we love, 
 As we grow older, oftener still to be 
 Than in the present ; for to haunts like these 
 The famished soul goes back for nourishment 
 And comfort in its day of weariness. 
 The then and now, how different ! And we, 
 
line 364.] BOOK II. 45 
 
 Unlike our former selves in taste and feeling ! 
 
 Then, it was with the living all the day 
 
 We lived ; thoughts, hopes, and dreams were all with 
 
 them. 
 Youth looked at everything with summer eyes, 
 And then it seemed that not a leaf could curl, 
 Or blossom drop upon the greedy soil. 
 Few memories had we, and they were sweet ; 
 Our past was brief, our future great and fair. 
 Now, with the dead it is we converse hold ; 
 Our fellowships are on the other side 
 Of the lone grave, in which so many loves 
 And joys lie buried deep. Life seems to us 
 Like an old city now, with shattered walls, 
 And broken gateways, 'neath whose arches once 
 Youth marched in glee, with its gay banners spread, 
 To each day's goal of triumph and of song. 
 O bright processions of the past ! No time 
 Can blot you from our memories ! O mirth 
 Of boyhood, when the slippery mountain-slope, 
 Hot with all July flaming on its rocks, 
 Or shaggy with September's brownest fern, 
 Welcomed our buoyant steps, as up we climbed 
 Cliff above cliff; or when the lavish sun 
 Shook down its autumn gold upon the sea, 
 Along whose glowing lip we roamed in joy. 
 
 The one-book student is not always wise, 
 The untravelled spirit is not often wide ; 
 The reader of the false becomes himself 
 False as the books he reads. Light cometh not 
 To him who loves the dark. Let us spread out 
 
46 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 394. 
 
 Our souls among the many and the true, 
 
 Or books or lives, that we may be as they, 
 
 In life and thought alike large-souled and wise ; 
 
 Not cast in one stiff mould, but wide and free ; 
 
 Wide as the widest truth, and free as day 
 
 In the pure stretch of its unmeasured sunshine, 
 
 Owning no bound save that which God has set. 
 
 Our vision's limit should be, not the clouds 
 
 Of earth, but the wide heaven, or wider still, 
 
 The circle of immeasurable space, 
 
 Into whose calmness of unfathomed distance 
 
 Some trembling star, all but invisible 
 
 In the far offing, beckons our slow eyes. 
 
 Whence the truth comes, or how, we need not care : 
 
 Be it but truth, 'tis welcome. What lips spoke, 
 
 What fingers penned it, heed not. Is it true ? 
 
 Let it come in, then, and abide with us. 
 
 Blessed the roof that kindly gives it shelter ! 
 
 Ask not the good man's pedigree ; he may 
 
 Be without name or title, poor in all 
 
 That the proud world calls noble in descent, 
 
 Yet may his ancestry and heritage 
 
 Be old and heavenly. Take him for what he is, 
 
 Think not of what he is not ; it may be 
 
 Thou shalt receive an angel unawares. 
 
 It is the tiller of the ground that keeps 
 The world in life, and makes it what it is. 
 Poor as he may be, from his daily sweat 
 The wealth of nations springs, and his rough hands 
 Wield sceptres, steer our navies, and command 
 Our armies, sign our treaties, make our laws, 
 
line 425.J BOOK II. 47 
 
 Sheathe or unsheathe the sword, to overthrow 
 Or reconstruct the empires of the earth. 
 And yet who thinks of him, or knows his name, 
 Or asks his pedigree ? The hard and sore 
 But useful work that tells upon the world 
 Is done by unknown men, who find no fame, 
 Yet without whom the men of name and honour 
 That fill the untrue annals of our race 
 Would all have lived in vain. The great ones die, 
 And the wide nations weep ; fair monuments 
 Arise in every city. Those obscure, 
 Hard-toiling men, whose eyes grew early dim, 
 Die and are buried where their fathers lie ; 
 The crowd moves on above them, and the world, 
 Noisy and ignorant, and mad with lust 
 Of gold, knows not how poor it has become. 
 No one has seen to-morrow, and from it 
 No lessons come. It may be full of wisdom, 
 Yet, till it comes, the wisdom cannot come. 
 All have seen yesterday, and out of it 
 And its long fellow-yesterdays which we 
 Have known, the lofty light and knowledge rise. 
 Say what men will, antiquity is power ; 
 The light of long-set suns is gleaming still 
 Upon the furrows of its awful peaks. 
 Call it the youth of time, as some have done, 
 Yet they who dwelt in it were men of thought 
 As well as we, and men of mellow minds, 
 Who had outgrown their nonage, and could speak 
 As only they can do whom time has taught. 
 The pyramids are Egypt's, but to all 
 
48 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 456. 
 
 The world belong the everlasting hills. 
 
 Children of time are we ; its stores are ours, 
 
 The centuries are ours which have flowed out, 
 
 Drop after drop, since man was on the earth. 
 
 Both good and ill, both true and false are there, 
 
 Yet are they not like drops which in an hour 
 
 Exhale and leave no vestige of their being, 
 
 But rather like the stars, which one by one 
 
 Come forth and shine for ever, or with good 
 
 Or evil influence on each following age ; 
 
 Or like the deep-stored mines, whose precious ore 
 
 Has been depositing itself for ages, 
 
 To be the unexhausted wealth of kingdoms. 
 
 Ours must it be to treasure up the gold 
 
 And fling the dross away ; to separate 
 
 The shadow from the substance, and to dig 
 
 In every mine of the long-buried past ; 
 
 To glean with eager and impartial hand 
 
 In every field where truth has found a home. 
 
 He who is bound to learn is bound to teach, 
 
 The Jewish fathers said ; and it is well. 
 
 Let us, then, daily learn, that we may teach ; 
 
 And let us daily teach, that we may learn. 
 
 Yet 'tis but little of earth's history 
 That bears recording ; greater part by far 
 Fit for oblivion : for one flowery nook, 
 Miles of rank weeds ; for one shining gem, 
 Long fields of dross. I look behind, and see 
 The dark deposits of the centuries, 
 The strata of the ages, as they flowed 
 And ebbed, precipitating, deep and foul, 
 
line 487.] BOOK II. 49 
 
 Layer upon layer of human sin, spread out 
 In loathsome crust upon this passive earth. 
 
 Fountain of light ! this confused world of ours 
 Is full of mist and peril everywhere ; 
 Wilt Thou not send the light for which it sighs ? 
 Radiance we ask beyond what man can give, 
 To turn our winter into spring and flowers. 
 Sunshine with all its splendour cannot loose 
 The bonds of frost : even so philosophy, 
 Highest and purest, shines, but shines in vain ; 
 It melts not, heals not, filleth up no void, 
 Nor breaks the iron chain, nor purges evil, 
 Nor makes the human spirit free and holy, 
 Possessor of a winged hope that goes 
 Above the peaks of these ambitious hills, 
 Beyond the sparkle of these lofty stars. 
 
 The sun is silent : it gives deeds not words 
 For blessing ; and no voice of eloquence 
 Or song comes from it ; day by day it pours 
 Its mute vitality o'er earth ; and yet 
 That soundless sunbeam, in its gentleness, 
 Is the great power for motion and for life, 
 The strength' of strength, resistless in its stillness ; 
 Type of omnipotence, which silently 
 Rules heaven and earth. From that calm orb 
 
 above 
 Comes down the fruitfulness of vale and hill ; 
 It clothes the mountains with their tranquil green ; 
 The rivers have in it their lustrous source ; 
 The sky drinks in its sapphire, and the sea 
 Smiles in its smile ; the forests own its touch ; 
 
 D 
 
5o MY OLD LETTERS. [line 517. 
 
 It weaves the rainbow with its cunning hand, 
 A garland for the clouds, out of the dark 
 Evoking light and beauty. Ere man was, 
 It had prepared for him this fertile globe, 
 And stored its deepest regions with provision 
 For the great race that was to dwell on it, 
 The wealth, the fuel, and the fruitfulness ; 
 Its very rocks replete with hoarded light. 
 And He who, in His all-foreseeing love, 
 Set in the firmament that mighty sun, 
 Filled its benignant beams with life for man 
 And man's new world, the last and loveliest 
 Of the Creator's handiworks, whose soil 
 Wag, in the fulness of the times, to be 
 The clay in which the eternal Son of God, 
 The Word made flesh, was yet to wrap Himself, 
 When He came down to live a human life 
 And die a human death, that life, not death, 
 Might be the heritage of sinning man. 
 
 O constant rain of God, which, day by day, 
 So mutely fallest on the eager earth, — 
 Not in cold showers, like that which men call rain, 
 But in unceasing tho' invisible drops, 
 Like a warm dew, both day and night distilling, — 
 Water this soul of mine ! O heavenly breeze, 
 Blow where thou listest, blow, invisible, 
 But not inaudible ! We hear the sound, 
 Yet know not whence it comes, or to what part 
 It goes, — all uncontrollable by man, 
 Mysterious in its motions, and obeying 
 In its strange rise and fall, its ebb and flow, 
 
LINE 548.] BOOK II. 51 
 
 A law and will beyond man's will and law, 
 
 Yet not the less beneficent and real. 
 
 Blow, blessed breeze ! Descend, persuasive rain, 
 
 In fruitful fulness ! Hasten the long spring 
 
 And longer summer of this waiting world ! 
 
 Full sorely does this day of varied ill, 
 
 That knoweth not its own infirmities, 
 
 Need all your fulness, double fount of life 
 
 Celestial ; for earth is out of course ; 
 
 Some universal solvent is at work, 
 
 And the old social fabric falls to pieces 
 
 Beneath its penetrating influence. 
 
 Destroy, disintegrate, and overthrow, — 
 
 This is the watchword of a restless time, 
 
 Which to rebuild and reconsolidate 
 
 Has not the will nor wisdom ; 'tis the age 
 
 Of the destroyer, not the architect. 
 
 Wake, sleeping seeds of all the ages past, 
 And send up thro' the soil that long has hid you, 
 Your blade and blossom ! Wake, and sleep no more ! 
 We need you now; awake, arise, and bloom, 
 Let loose your odours thro' the sighing air, 
 And turn its sighs to sweetness and to love. 
 
 There be four races of what men call flowers, — 
 Four families of beauty, that have been, 
 Or are, or yet shall be ; and all divine : 
 Flowers of a Paradise above, that ne'er 
 Has been or shall be lost, for ever fair, 
 For ever fragrant, in yon heaven of heavens ; 
 Flowers of a garden planted once on earth, 
 But blighted by the serpent's hateful slime ; 
 
2 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 579. 
 
 Flowers of a fallen soil, that might have been 
 One lovesome Eden, had no taint of sin, 
 Like shadow of an evil angel's wing, 
 Fallen on its budding beauty, shrivelling 
 Its noble youth into a quick decay ; 
 Flowers of a Paradise that has not yet 
 Been seen on earth, but one day shall be here, 
 And for whose coming we with hopeful heart 
 Wait amid all this death, expecting then 
 God's re-donation of His primal gift 
 To man, of His fair earth and gracious sky. 
 The sun is rising, and the nimble night 
 Hastes to be gone, as fleeing from his blaze, 
 With her affrighted host ; now beaming day 
 Is dawning thro' the night-long mists of time ; 
 The poisonous vapours of a tainted soil, 
 Where evil has so deeply struck its roots, 
 Are vanishing in incense ; discord dies, 
 And harmony, like heaven's, comes in its room ; 
 The long dark tunnel of the ages, filled 
 With sounds too sorrowful for angels' ears, 
 Thro' which we have been passing, endeth now, 
 And we emerge into a sun-bright noon. 
 God taketh His own time, and hasteth not : 
 His rest is motion, and His motion rest ; 
 He waiteth on His laws, they wait on Him. 
 
 But I am wandering from my briefs, and yet 
 Thoughts such as these come up as I recall 
 Events and scenes and names recorded there. 
 Things live again that seemed for ever dead ; 
 
line 609.] BOOK II. 53 
 
 The graves of great men have immortal voices, 
 And even meaner tombs have much to say, 
 Would we but listen to their humbler words, — 
 Humbler, yet not less true and pure and noble. 
 The whole wide earth, and not one realm alone, 
 As the great Greek once said, is sepulchre 
 For noble men ; and yet the quiet tomb, 
 In the lone glen, of the more lowly good, 
 Without a monument or epitaph, 
 Invites the pilgrim's step and wins his soul. 
 
 Here fold I up my pages for an hour, 
 And walk abroad into the free blue air. 
 This is the shade of shades, no shadow like it, 
 Beneath the beech's over-bending boughs. 
 The ever-welling spring bursts blithely forth, 
 Drenching the long and pendent grass beneath ; 
 O'er us the noon-birds carol lovingly, 
 And the bee swings itself from bloom to bloom ; 
 Far through the shaken foliage gleams the lake, 
 Light on its clear broad brow. One page I take 
 Of these old scrolls, and read it as I sit 
 Or wander 'neath the shade ; and thus it speaks 
 Of the great works which solitary men 
 Have done for God, for country, and for earth. 
 
 ' Right in the face of storm the lightning goes, 
 With its one fork of terror and of power, 
 Fronting, not fleeing from nor following, 
 The blast that levels woods and lifts the waves ; 
 Like a skilled warrior brandishing his sword, 
 And bringing down its edge upon some giant, 
 
54 MY OLD LETTERS. {line 639. 
 
 Hewing his way thro' power and bulk and fierceness ; 
 
 So let us with the sword of God-given truth, 
 
 Face foe on foe, as if to us alone 
 
 Were given the sword that is to save the world, 
 
 To sweep the spoiler from the earth, and win 
 
 The everlasting victory of time. 
 
 ' See how the past gleams everywhere afar, 
 With single swords unsheathed and waved aloft, 
 When all around are scabbarded and rusting ! 
 See how the deeds that make up history, 
 The works that tell on nations, have been done 
 By single arms and solitary souls ! 
 See how the words that have rung thro' the eras, 
 Made kingdoms stand in awe, and carried health 
 To palsied peoples, making dead men live, 
 Have issued not from crowds, but lonely voices ! 
 Not pomp, nor gold, nor numbers have been honoured 
 To do the works or speak the words of God. 
 'Tis the one master-wheel that moves the mill, 
 The rest do only what the master bids them. 
 The multitude may do the little things 
 Of hourly history ; the great are done 
 By lonely men, the Prophet or the Judge, 
 Who take their mission straight from Him whose word 
 They come to do ;— the prophet-child of Ramah, 
 Or he of Gilead in rough raiment clad, 
 Gideon or Jephthah, or the Maccabee 
 Of Modin, when, like giant from the hills 
 Of Dan descending, in his warrior-strength 
 He shivered the proud Syrian sword and shield. 
 And lifted fallen Israel from the dust. 
 
line 670.] BOOK II. 55 
 
 ' Thus, when God loves a people, and would save 
 A shipwrecked kingdom from the waves and rocks, 
 He for Himself creates some son of might, 
 And sends him forth with the delivering sword ; — 
 Some man, till then unknown, till then uncrowned, 
 From out the common crowd of citizens ; — 
 Some man of strength, like England's yeoman, who 
 In evil days, when storm went thro' the realm 
 And threatened universal shipwreck, took, 
 In the calm consciousness of power to rule, 
 The stroke-oar of the giddy reeling empire, 
 Steadied the barque, cheered the desponding crew, 
 And brought its creaking timbers to the strand, 
 To be refitted by the skill that saved it ; — 
 Some man of thought, like Bacon, rising up 
 In strength of chastened intellect and love, 
 Moulded and mellowed by the God-given truth, 
 To which he has submitted his large soul, 
 And in which he has steeped his varied being ; 
 He shines in darkness, and sends on his light 
 To after ages, setting free the mind 
 Of a great realm from bondage of the past, 
 Heading the storm, not yielding to the gale, 
 Speaking with thunder-voice, and yet with head 
 All reverently bowed before a voice 
 Mightier and more majestic than his own. 
 His words go thro' the land, like arrows keen, 
 Feathered with lightning ; and they carry life, 
 Not death and wounds ; they fill the nation's veins 
 With renovated health, the gift of Heaven. 
 
 ' The lower millstone, tho' it moveth not, 
 
56 MY OLD LETTERS. [line ;oi. 
 
 Grindeth as truly as the upper grinds. 
 Let us but know our place, our work, our time, 
 And all is well. It is the mis-timed life 
 That fails, and wastes itself in efforts vain, 
 Like ship without a pilot or a helm. 
 
 ' One in an age they rise and pass away ; 
 One in a nation they come forth and stand 
 Above their fellows, mighty men, but meek, 
 Noble, yet patient ; conscious of an errand 
 Which must be done, whoever may oppose ; 
 Big with an inspiration not of earth ; 
 Charged with a message to the sons of men, 
 Which must be spoken out before they die. 
 
 ' What will it be when all these sons of fame, 
 The peerage of the ages, shall sit down 
 Together, in a day that yet shall come, 
 And, welcoming each other, shall recount 
 The annals of their age, as they have known 
 And acted them, themselves its history ? 
 What will that feast-board be, and what that hall, 
 Where they who have obtained the good report 
 Shall meet together in one holy band, 
 And tell the tale of earth from the beginning, 
 Revealing all the hidden springs of thought 
 And speech and action to each other there ? 
 
 ' The stars have looked each other in the face 
 For ages, yet have never met ; the peaks 
 Of the far-severed and all-stedfast hills 
 Have, with their mitres of eternal snow, 
 Gazed on each other, yet remained apart. 
 The winds and waves and clouds embrace each other; 
 
line 732.J BOOK II 57 
 
 Earth's universal network of clear streams 
 
 Is one sweet fellowship of many climes, 
 
 But stars and peaks remain unlinked and lone. 
 
 ' So is it now ; what it may be hereafter, 
 We know not : what the endless fellowships 
 And close-linked companies of bright and great 
 One day may be, we cannot tell ; nor yet 
 How soon, from the tall turret-clock of time, 
 Shall sound the signal which must gather all 
 The light-begotten children of the one 
 Great family of light, to the bright joy 
 Of the one festival which cannot end.' 
 
 Thus ends the page. I fold it up, and quit 
 The leafy shade, returning home ; and as 
 I go, I gather up the thought, and say, 
 Yes, it is even so ; but yet the veil 
 Before the patient future still remains. 
 
 All earthly things end in their opposites, 
 And to their opposites give silent birth : 
 Night ends in day, and day in night again ; 
 Life begets death, and death begetteth life. 
 All things revolve, and back into themselves 
 Return; as the clouds fill the streams, the streams 
 The sea, the sea the clouds, all circling round. 
 
 As yet the age of constancy and progress 
 Lingers upon its way to us, — the day 
 When life shall rise into a nobler life, 
 And brightness shall give only place to that 
 Which is yet brighter ; when the daily flowers, 
 Instead of blanching, shall take on fresh hues, 
 And earth grow ever greener ; when the circle 
 
58 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 763. 
 
 Of joy and grief, which maketh up to man 
 His annual orbit here, shall be unknown ; 
 When sleep shall be a glorious trance, and dreams 
 All Bethel-visions ; when no wakeful night 
 With its alarms shall make the watcher say, 
 When shall this tossing weariness begone? 
 When all life's neutral tints shall flush into 
 The rich and brilliant hues of endless health, 
 When no dim future, no dark dread of change, 
 No fear of broken links and ended love, 
 And shadowy sick-bed and the greedy tomb, 
 Shall burden the bright hours of songful noon ; 
 When all shall be ascent, and still ascent, 
 One happy cycle of unchanging day ; 
 No settings more, save those by which the stars 
 Die in the sunlight and are lost in dawn. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 ' YES, of myself shall be my song to-day.' 
 
 Thus long since wrote the friend of other years, 
 
 Who, in the prime of promise and of joy, 
 
 Left us to win dear health in kindlier climes, 
 
 And to seek wider range of spirit where 
 
 New scenes and men call out new thought and feeling ; 
 
 Pitching his tent beneath less wayward skies, 
 
 'Mid breezes more benignant than his own : 
 
 Now in the classic East afar, to pluck 
 
 Ionian violets, sweetest of the sweet ; 
 
 Or by the rock of Hissarlik, to watch 
 
 How the flocks graze upon old Priam's tomb ; 
 
 Now upon Nizza's mountain-girdled plain, 
 
 Now by the crescent of calm Spezia's bay ; 
 
 Or by the banks of Arno, underneath 
 
 The laurels of the laurelled city, where 
 
 Wisdom and art and song in ages past 
 
 Held more than regal sway ; again amid 
 
 Rome's labyrinth of temples and of tombs ; 
 
 Now by the cliffs from which Amalfi smiles, 
 
 Thro' her vine-clustered columns of fair marble, 
 
 O'er the Salernian gulf and Tyrrhene sea ; 
 
 Now on the steeps of the Euganean hills, 
 
60 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 24. 
 
 To breathe old Arqua's everlasting spring, 
 
 And bid the nightingale, whose songs are dreams, 
 
 Sing to the stars its love-begotten lay ; 
 
 Or on some Umbrian slope, upon the marge 
 
 Of Nera or Clitumnus, as they wind 
 
 Thro' Sabine pastures, ere they link themselves 
 
 With Tuscan Tiber on its way to Rome ; 
 
 Now by the plain where, desolate and lone, 
 
 Reft of its roses, Psstum sleeps its sleep, 
 
 Still shadowed by its snowy Apennine 
 
 (Its double harvest now of thorns alone) 
 
 'Mid its three solemn ruins ; or beside 
 
 The dead wolf-city of the Libyan hills ; 
 
 Or in the southern vales of ruined Spain, 
 
 Twin-sister of the African Sahara, 
 
 Where, by the winged Darro, the Alhambra, 
 
 Half palace and half fortress, rears its pride, 
 
 Hard by the hill famed in Iberian song, — 
 
 Granada's hill, place of the Moor's last sigh, 
 
 Where in the silence of suppressed despair 
 
 He bade farewell to his beloved Spain ; 
 
 Or underneath fair Jaffa's orange-blooms, 
 
 Or the long slope of fragrant Lebanon, 
 
 Where old Phoenicia with her daughters dwelt, — 
 
 Sidon and Arvad and Berytus fair, 
 
 And Tyre, the city of the island-rock, 
 
 Queen of the seas ere Rome had found a name, 
 
 Or Argos sent its thousand-galleyed fleet 
 
 Against the towers of wind-swept Ilion. 
 
 ' Yes, of myself shall be my song to-day, 
 As I sit here in pleasant loneliness, 
 
line 55.] BOOK III. 61 
 
 Village and city left alike behind, 
 
 And nought of man within the reach of ear 
 
 Or eye, save yon far sail or rising smoke, 
 
 While dawn is making ready to come up 
 
 Behind that sea, upon whose mirror meet 
 
 Noon's first and night's last gleams, — a sea as calm 
 
 As that on which the lion of St. Mark's 
 
 Has for six centuries looked mutely down. 
 
 How real at this fresh hour all nature seems ! 
 
 This stillness is reality itself, — 
 
 Reality without a voice or sound ! 
 
 How real this night has been, and these clear orbs, 
 
 That just have passed in beauty out of sight ! 
 
 This dawn, how real, tho' shadows sweep its sky ; 
 
 This star-girt earth, and this mysterious air 
 
 In which it swims, and these perpetual ripples, 
 
 That roll themselves in childlike sport upon 
 
 The sand and shingle of this rock-fenced bay ! 
 
 The very silence of the sea takes voice, 
 
 And speaks old music that has slumbered there 
 
 Since Orpheus flung his lyre upon the waves. 
 
 All things around me and above, — the peak 
 
 That wears upon its shoulders like a robe 
 
 That dreamy mist, and these substantial clouds ; 
 
 That boulder by the stream, these pines that bend 
 
 To the slow breath of dawn, tho' not unused 
 
 To the rude turbulence of angry winds, 
 
 Are true. No night-begotten fantasies 
 
 Are these, no visions of the sick or idle ; 
 
 No mythic phantom is this noble cliff, 
 
 That drops its shadow on yon sloping strand ; 
 
62 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 86. 
 
 No fable is yon ever-singing brook, 
 
 Whose murmur is the music of the morn, 
 
 Whose sparkling silver, like a luminous cord, 
 
 Binds while it braids the many-coloured robe 
 
 Of that green vale below, which seems to clasp 
 
 All summer in its arms ; no dreamer's dream 
 
 The tremulous verdure of yon winding wood, 
 
 Dripping with dew and sunshine ; nor these flowers, 
 
 Which like low melodies fill all the air 
 
 With happy fragrance, each new-bursting bud 
 
 A beauty and a gladness and a song. 
 
 This circling atmosphere, in calm or storm, 
 
 With its great navies of slow-sailing clouds, 
 
 Some pure as snowy Alp, some rich with hues 
 
 Which never came from earth, some red, as if 
 
 Flushed with the fiery thunder from afar ; 
 
 The silent footfalls of the quiet stars, 
 
 Moving in measured grace across the blue 
 
 All the night long, how true they seem to me ! 
 
 And yet this throbbing dawn with its new life, 
 
 That vibrates wide and far, seems truer still ; 
 
 For night is feeble and the day is strong, 
 
 Midnight relaxes and the morn restores. 
 
 I walk abroad beneath the quickening light, 
 
 And make its strength my own. O mighty sunrise, 
 
 How have I loved you, and with a deep 
 
 Intensity of spirit drunk your joy ! 
 
 I see the day approaching when that sun 
 
 Shall cease to scorch, but never cease to shine ! 
 
 ' Amid the thoughts of hollow unbelief, 
 That would turn all to fable, I would grasp 
 
LINE 1 1 7.] BOOK III. 63 
 
 These genuine things of nature, and would feel 
 
 How real is this universe, unseen 
 
 Or seen, impalpable or palpable ; 
 
 How much more real He from whom it came, 
 
 And who inhabits its prolific space ! 
 
 What though a shadow falleth everywhere ? 
 
 The shadow tells me that the sun is up, 
 
 The unclouded sun, and that the night is gone ; 
 
 For it is light that casts the shadow, and 
 
 I know that where it is the truth must be. 
 
 ' Faith's vision is the vision of the real ; 
 The true and the enduring are the things 
 We see not, for the supernatural 
 Hangs over and around us in these skies. 
 That which we see and hear and touch is not 
 The all of being, and outside this sphere 
 Of our poor vision there are other realms 
 And other beings truer still than these. 
 Yet 'tis not mystery, but that which lies, 
 Clear or less clear, within its golden mist 
 Enshrined, that the soul longs for, and with which 
 Alone its longings can be satisfied. 
 'Tis not the veil, but the invisible shrine, 
 The home of the Unsearchable beyond, 
 That the soul yearneth for, — a strange true world, 
 Far off yet also near, and intermixed 
 With ours, where the good angels go and come, 
 And which with the invisible majesty 
 Of an all-present Power is filled throughout. 
 
 ' The untrue liveth only in the heart 
 Of vain humanity, which fain would be 
 
6+ MY OLD LETTERS. [line 148. 
 
 Its own poor centre and circumference, 
 Smiling or scowling at the name of aught 
 Beyond the narrow circle of the sense, 
 As visions of the visionary soul, 
 As follies of the weak and credulous. 
 For men believe but what they wish, no more ; 
 And their profoundest creed is built on doubt : 
 With them all unbelief is honesty, 
 And all belief but weakness or pretence. 
 ' To creaturehood belongeth poverty, 
 Failure, and hollowness ; to God alone 
 Pertains the perfect and the ever-true. 
 'Tis He who without voice can speak to us, 
 And who without our voice can hear us speak. 
 Once did I hear a faint lip whisper thus, 
 Yet hardly speaking, for the words were low,— 
 " God of the light, illuminate this gloom ! 
 The light is Thine, and I Thy creature need it ; 
 Share it with me ! In Thee is light enough 
 For widest creaturehood ; Thou canst not grudge 
 One beam to this dim soul ; and that one beam, 
 What would it not accomplish ? Thou couldst give it ; 
 Thou wouldst not miss it, nor would Thy fair heaven 
 Be dimmer for the gift, nor would Thy angels 
 Feel as if thus they had been robbed of light ; 
 Nor would one eye above less brightly sparkle 
 Because another eye below was glad. 
 Enough for me, whatever ills might come, 
 Would that soft beam of Thine for ever prove ; 
 And this dark atom of creation, as 
 I feel myself to be, would give Thee praise. 
 
LINE 179.] BOOK III. 65 
 
 Giver of light, oh, give that light to me ! 
 I look above me, and I see each night 
 Squadrons of beaming orbs all marshalled yonder, 
 Millions of suns, with light enough for all 
 This infinite universe ; — oh, is there not 
 In Him who kindled them, and keeps them still 
 Blazing undimmed, enough of light for me ? " 
 ' Another voice I heard, less faint and low, 
 Of one who sought the true, and seeking found it ; 
 Who wooed fair knowledge as a heavenly bride, 
 Nor wooed in vain ; who, taking straight his way 
 To the one Fountain-head of truth, to Him 
 Who giveth largely and upbraideth not, 
 Was taught by Him who could not teach amiss. 
 Conscious of pain and ill, but above all 
 Of the deep void within an unfilled heart, 
 He sought for fulness, and the fulness flowed, — 
 Bread for a famished spirit, and it came ; 
 For He who, as each yellow August shows 
 Its empty barns, fills them all up anew 
 For winter's hunger, unsolicited, 
 Pours the immortal food into the soul, 
 That, in the winter of its famine, asks 
 Of Him the living and eternal bread. 
 The voice I heard in its strong pleading said : 
 " Oh, pity this my aching hollowness ; 
 Strip mq of the unreal and untrue, 
 And show me Him, the infinitely real, 
 Who said not, I am thought, but, I am truth; 
 Who said not, I am power, but, I am love. 
 'Tis an untruthful world in which I live ; 
 
66 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 210. 
 
 Duped, disappointed, cheated I must be, 
 If I with it am one, and take my part 
 Amid its mockeries of gold and wine. 
 
 ' " Out from a hollow world I would pass up 
 To Thee in whom I live and move and am. 
 Being of beings, I was made for Thee : 
 Life is not life, and love is but a dream, 
 Apart from Thee. O Spirit wise and good, 
 Make conquest of my will ; let thy soft chains 
 Bind me with double bond of love and power. 
 Enter and reign within ; fill up my being ; 
 Then am I true and real ; I am myself, 
 And not another, as I hitherto 
 Too oft have, been ! Then drink I in the health 
 And freedom of the liberating cross. 
 Pluck up each root of bitterness, and make 
 Each plant of sweetness to grow up within me. 
 Oh, drench me deeply in Thy heavenly dew, 
 That night and morning droppeth sweetly down 
 On weary spirits from Thy blessed heaven, 
 Like breath of angels in their ministry. 
 The current of the world is swift and strong ; 
 I cannot front it, save with Thee to help. 
 This world is not upon the side of good, 
 And fair truth feebly fights its onward way 
 Thro' hostile millions, sworn to fight it down ; 
 Error but slowly quits the field, and lurks 
 In every thicket in its sullen flight. 
 Thy ways are labyrinths, Thy purposes 
 Are dark, and in their evolution slow, 
 And hard to be interpreted ; this soil 
 
line 241.J BOOK III. 67 
 
 Strewn with a cold confusion everywhere, 
 The evil and the good mixed up together, 
 The truth and falsehood working side by side, 
 Until the day of final severance ! " 
 
 ' To error and to evil men bid welcome, 
 As to old friends, and unbelief sits down 
 At table of the rich and poor alike, 
 A pleasant guest, and maketh mirth for all 
 Above the grave of truth, with jest and song. 
 The honesties of earth fall sick and die ; 
 And men for place or fame, or viler gold, 
 Subscribe what they believe not, hiding deep 
 What they believe. The old nobilities 
 Of lofty life and simple courtesy 
 Forsake the earth ; Truth falleth in the streets, 
 And no man stoops to raise her from the ground. ' 
 Fall, mighty Truth ; thou shalt not lie for ever, 
 Nor moulder, where thou fallest, into dust ! 
 The clouds are higher than the hills, above 
 The clouds the planets wander, and beyond 
 These kinsmen of this globe, the holy stars 
 Walk in their purity : all these may die, 
 Hills, clouds, stars, planets, but thou diest not ; 
 No one has seen thy monument, nor shall. 
 
 ' O awful silence of the Eternal One, 
 Who sits above and sees all this below, 
 Yet sees as if He saw not, hears as if 
 He heard not ! — And the good tries hard to rise, 
 Yet sinks, like little waves far out at sea ; 
 Or specks that in the sky like rain-clouds look, 
 Yet pass without a shower for the parched earth. 
 
68 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 272. 
 
 O Thou who sidest with the weak against 
 
 The strong, reveal Thyself at length, and show 
 
 Thyself upon the side of good, and tell 
 
 The world what goodness is, and what is truth. 
 
 Tell me meanwhile that which I long to know, 
 
 More and yet more of the true things of which 
 
 Thou art the root and treasure-house, that I 
 
 May scatter round me the eternal seed, 
 
 And make earth better for my being here. 
 
 Teach me, each moment that I live, some deep 
 
 And sacred lesson, that I may not live 
 
 In vain, nor curse the day that I was born, 
 
 Bearing the burden of a useless life. 
 
 Oh, tune me, mould me, mellow me for use ; 
 
 Pervade my being with Thy vital force, 
 
 That this else inexpressive life of mine 
 
 May become eloquent and full of power, 
 
 Impregnated with life and strength divine. 
 
 Put the bright torch of heaven into my hand, 
 
 That I may carry it aloft, and win 
 
 The weary eyes of wanderers here below, 
 
 To guide their feet into the way of peace. 
 
 I cannot raise the dead, nor from this soil 
 
 Pluck precious dust, nor bid the sleepers wake ; 
 
 Nor still the storm, nor bend the lightning back, 
 
 Nor muffle up the thunder, lest its roar 
 
 Should break the rest of my sick sleeping boy ; 
 
 Nor bind the Evil One, nor bid the chain 
 
 Fall from creation's long-enfettered limbs, 
 
 To make all nature free as at the first, 
 
 And beautiful as free ; but I can live 
 
line 303.J BOOK III. 69 
 
 A life that tells on other lives, and makes 
 This world less full of evil and of pain, — 
 A life which, like a pebble dropped at sea, 
 Sends its wide circles to a hundred shores. 
 Let such be mine ! Creator of true life ! — 
 Thyself the life Thou givest, give Thyself, 
 That Thou mayst dwell in me, and I in Thee. 
 
 ' I've been a dreamer, and I've seen the fields 
 Where the peace-roses blossom, and I know 
 Where the love-violets breathe their matchless sweets 
 Into the luscious air. It is a place 
 To which our tainted sunshine finds no way. 
 Beneath the cross they grow, and, gently freshened 
 By a bright river whose deep-hidden fount 
 Earth knoweth not, they spring, and bud, and bloom, 
 But never die. Thither I'll go, and thence 
 Bring peace and We to a distempered age. 
 I in my very weakness will be power, 
 Drawing the living lightning from a sky 
 Beyond these clouds of time, and making thus 
 The world my debtor ere I pass away. 
 
 ' What tho' I fall upon the battle-plain, 
 My work unfinished ? Let me not despond, 
 As if the warfare had been waged for nought, 
 And I, with all my toil, had lived in vain. 
 The bravest take the front and are cut down, 
 Nor weeps the mother of a timid son ; 
 Yet in their fall they conquer for all ages, 
 And their unfinished fight has gained, not one, 
 But many a battle for the struggling earth. 
 At death our doing of the work is o'er, 
 
70 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 334. 
 
 But the work done remains, — endures for ever. 
 We go, but that which we have done lives on, 
 And bears its proper fruitage after us. 
 We are the leaf and blossom ; we must die, 
 And in our dying bring forth higher life. 
 
 ' Not what we see or hear alone is real ; 
 There is an inner being, which with all 
 Its joys and griefs, its tempests and its calms, 
 Is yet more real than this palpable, 
 In which man's science works, to which his eye 
 Turns for the beautiful, round which his mind 
 Revolves as round his true and proper pole. 
 
 ' What is the weariness that oft weighs down 
 This o'erwrought frame ? I see it not, nor hear ; 
 Yet it is here, pervading brain and limb. 
 What is this bitterness that breaks the heart 
 When the inexorable grave has claimed 
 The loved or honoured ? 'Tis as sternly true 
 As the sword-wound dismembering the flesh. 
 Shall I say mockingly to my torn heart, 
 Grieve thou no more ? Or to my heavy eyes, 
 Weep not ; as if my tears had been mere weakness 
 And my grief folly, idly lavished on 
 A phantom which a wise man may despise, 
 And which a brave man should not fear to face ? 
 
 ' Not what is present is the only real. 
 Next July's sun and next December's snows 
 Will not be more ideal than the past. 
 June will bring roses; let us patiently 
 Wait on, for June will come, and with it come 
 Roses as fair as those once sung of old 
 
line 365.] BOOK III. 7 1 
 
 By Teian or by Venusinian bard. 
 
 To-day will die, but with it will not die 
 
 That which is real. To-morrow will come up, 
 
 With all its inner and its outer circles, 
 
 With its still throbbing pulses, swift or slow, 
 
 Of seen and unseen life ; nay, far beyond 
 
 What we call death, the same reality 
 
 Unfolds itself hereafter ; there are realms 
 
 Stretching between us and the seat of God, 
 
 The depths and heights of which no mortal line 
 
 Has ever compassed. Science plumes her wing, 
 
 And moves from star to star, from sun to sun, 
 
 Measuring all visible distance, making known 
 
 The secrets of each orb, and spreading out 
 
 In sevenfold splendour every ray of light, 
 
 Like golden casket with its burning gems, 
 
 Discoursing of its riches and its power. 
 
 There is a land beyond these beaming orbs, 
 
 These pilgrims of the million-peopled sky, 
 
 Into which science has no entrance found, 
 
 In which she celebrates no victories, 
 
 And which she therefore would pronounce untrue, 
 
 A waste without a dweller or a tent, 
 
 A nebulous continent like that which rises 
 
 After the desert shower upon the sands 
 
 Of Arabah or Ramleh, named Sherab 
 
 By the dark rangers of the wilderness. 
 
 There is a land beyond this girdling air, 
 
 A land which only He who has passed thro', 
 
 Or who has dwelt in it, can tell us of. 
 
 This globe of ours is not the goodliest 
 
72 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 396. 
 
 That navigates the immeasurable sea 
 
 Which men call space, — that ever silent sea, 
 
 Across whose awful face no tempest breaks, 
 
 Without a bottom and without a shore. 
 
 He is no dreamer of vain dreams who says 
 
 There must be something higher and more perfect 
 
 Than what we see around us, purer far 
 
 Than this stained life of ours, more blessed still 
 
 Than what we here call blessedness. The God 
 
 Who made us and our world is not so poor 
 
 In wisdom or in power, as to exhaust 
 
 His treasure-house upon our little world. 
 
 If there be then an earth, why not a heaven ? 
 
 If man has here upon this kindred ground 
 
 A palace or a dwelling for himself, 
 
 Why may not then the great Creator build 
 
 A nobler mansion for Himself, to which 
 
 He may invite the creature He has made ? 
 
 To whom meanwhile He gives this poorer earth, 
 
 The birth-place and the cradle of a greatness 
 
 Which eye hath not yet seen nor ear hath heard. 
 
 ' He who in name of grave philosophy 
 Smiles at my Paradise, yet with fond ear 
 Listens while Virgil, in his flowing verse, 
 Sings of Elysium and its fields of green, 
 But shows himself perverse and credulous, 
 Child of an unbelief to which the fabled 
 Is welcome as a refuge from the true. 
 
 ' He who in name of reason or of science 
 Calls me a dreamer, and my heaven a dream, 
 Or tells me that I need not look beyond 
 
line 42;.] BOOK III. 73 
 
 These hills of time, that sweep of burnished sapphire, 
 
 With all its moving and unmoving orbs, 
 
 Or the unfathomed and far-sounding sea, 
 
 For knowledge or for joy, — he mocks my spirit, 
 
 Quenches my hope, and casts me to the ground : 
 
 He is as one who flings a withering frost 
 
 O'er a fresh-blossomed orchard, or as one 
 
 Who turns soft music into discord harsh, 
 
 Or into stone transforms some beating heart. 
 
 He would surround this wondrous life of ours 
 
 With fabulous nothings, making faith a lie, 
 
 And hope a cloud just passing into air. 
 
 He bids me call this world a prison-house, 
 
 Girt round with walls which I can never scale, 
 
 Without a gate at which I may gcr forth 
 
 To seek and find a wider, truer home, 
 
 Nearer the seat of Him whom I call God, 
 
 Maker of all, and higher in the rank 
 
 Of that creation wherewith He has filled 
 
 His pregnant universe, whose measure is 
 
 Spacious infinitude, which lovingly 
 
 Clasps in its crystal and invisible casket 
 
 The works of Him who filleth all in all. 
 
 ' No cloudland yonder mocks the trustful gaze, 
 And no illusion cheats the groping hand, 
 Or the bewildered spirit ; all is true ! 
 No night, with its dark billows from afar, 
 Like a vast sea, rolls in upon the day. 
 There lies the realm of verity, from which 
 All falsehood and uncertainty have fled, 
 Like tremulous mist before the absorbing sun. 
 
74 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 458. 
 
 Beyond the subtleties of misbelief, 
 Or the enigmas of entangled thought, 
 Or anxious throbs of the unresting heart, 
 That trembles at its own ambiguous echoes, 
 Stretches the calm expanse of light divine. 
 
 ' There dreams can never come, and fantasies 
 Of human intellect can find no place ; 
 But there the certain and authentic dwell. 
 Escaped the meshes of imprisoning doubt, 
 That dragged to earth the spirit's eagle wing, 
 We soar into pure liberty of vision, 
 And rest upon the high eternal peaks, 
 Round which no cloud can ever draw its veil 
 To hide the true from our impatient eye. 
 No oscillations of unsettled faith, 
 Eager to speculate, and counting doubt 
 The badge of mind's nobility, the test 
 Of mental breadth and honesty and greatness ; 
 No mazes of perturbed or ravelled reason ; 
 No visionary guesses, dark or sunny ; 
 No insincerities nor empty creeds ; 
 No frozen dogmas nor unreal words, 
 Whose hollow notes moan madly thro' the soul : 
 But where "we know," "we see," and " we are sure," 
 Is the unfaltering tone of happy hearts, 
 Who, after years of drifting to and fro 
 On the rough Euxine of this wayward life, 
 Have found their everlasting anchorage 
 In the calm bay, round which the eternal hills 
 Rise with their girdle of celestial green. 
 
 ' Like clouds that have no anchor and no helm, 
 
line 489.] BOOK III. 75 
 
 No chart nor pilot to direct their prow, 
 How many noble hearts, that might have blest 
 The world, and found rich blessing for themselves, 
 Sweep o'er life's surging sea without an aim ! 
 Some sleep their years away, as if becalmed ; 
 Some rush before the gale, and wreck themselves 
 Upon an unknown coast ; some round and round, 
 As in a maddening maelstrom, fancy-lured, 
 Whirl without end, until their barque goes down ; 
 Some set their sails for a far land of gold, 
 And die amid its gems ; some court the storm, 
 And steer into its bosom ; some lie down 
 And watch the lightning as it spends its fire 
 Upon the rock, or quenches its quick glow 
 In the dark trough of the absorbing wave. 
 To such the present and the seen are all ; 
 Beyond the circle of the eye and ear 
 All is a void, unpeopled and profound ; 
 Nothing exists save darkness, into which 
 They are to pass, as all have done before, 
 With shuddering step, when this illusive life 
 Goes down beneath them, and that wrecker Death 
 Flings them upon a shore of nothingness, 
 Themselves a vapour, a dim wreath of smoke, 
 The shadow of a shade, dissolved for ever. 
 
 ' O labyrinth of life, the bitter-sweet, 
 Which all have tasted save the happy ones 
 Who have gone early to their gentle sleep, 
 And never wept a tear nor sighed a sigh ! 
 Thrice-ravelled mazes ! The quick ebb and flow 
 Of the wild tide within us, which we fain 
 
76 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 520. 
 
 Would stay, but cannot ; the vehement rise 
 
 And fall of the fair fountain of the heart, 
 
 That swells or sinks, we know not how or when ; 
 
 The things that men call love and hate and fear, 
 
 The agony or ecstasy of soul ; 
 
 The hemlock or the palm, the thorn or rose ; 
 
 The breaking bubbles of the cataract, 
 
 In music or in thunder as they pour ; 
 
 The silver smoothness of the' summer stream, 
 
 That sings itself to sleep beneath the willow ; 
 
 The song, the sigh, the smile, the tear together ; 
 
 The cradle and the grave set side by side ! 
 
 ' O life ! O mystery ! what means all this ? 
 And how shall I interpret the caprice 
 That seems to rule the ages, as if ill 
 Had mastered good, and all things here below 
 Had snapped the bonds of law and love and truth ? 
 Life is not what it once was meant to be ; 
 Failure and change make up our days and years, 
 And man dreams daily on, still fond and weak, 
 Mistaking disappointment for the cloud 
 On which the rainbow smiles, and not the cloud 
 From which the tempest issues, looking for 
 The good time coming which has never come. 
 Alas ! the glory here, like yonder sun, 
 Is made for setting, lasting but a day : 
 The wise have written vanity on all. 
 
 ' Depths are on every side of us ; we walk 
 Upon the narrow ledge of perilous life. 
 That which we see is not the thing that is, 
 Or only part of it ; and no man knows 
 
line ssi.] BOOK III. J7 
 
 The meaning of his own most simple prayers, 
 Or comprehends their issues ; what he seeks 
 Touches a thousand circles, far and near, 
 Requiring force and agency and skill, 
 Which only God can either loose or bind. 
 The thing we ask for we can tell ; the end 
 Of that for which we ask is far beyond us. 
 Sometimes before, sometimes behind us here 
 Our shadows fall, as shines the sun on us. 
 The shadowless is nowhere here on earth, 
 Its sun is never high enough for that. 
 All motion tends to rest ; the universe 
 Must stagnate soon with infinite collapse, 
 Unless the hand that set its orbs a-rolling, 
 With impulse ever fresh shall keep them so. 
 
 ' The honours of the earth are fading fast ; 
 Its garlands blanch in the fierce sun of time, 
 And crowns grow dim with age ; the ancient thrones 
 That represent the royalty of ages, 
 And symbolize the coming monarchy, 
 Unpropped by aught save the unloving steel 
 Or more unloving gold, are giving way 
 And rocking, as the earthquake moves along 
 Beneath them ; sceptre after sceptre drops 
 From palsied hands, that fain would grasp it still. 
 This Europe, like a fleet of war-barques, swings 
 Hither and thither on her straining cables, 
 With all the shifting winds, and seems each day 
 Just at the point of parting with her anchors 
 And going down, like the great city, struck 
 With angel-millstone, to arise no more. 
 
'1 
 
 78 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 582. 
 
 ' The deep affections of the heart dry up, 
 Scorched by the lust of gold or power or pomp. 
 Still youth believes in beauty, feeds on flowers, 
 Drinks the dear sigh of one whose budding love 
 Is sweeter than all sweetnesses to him ; 
 Then rushes into Mammon's foul embrace, 
 Wooing a world that gives no love for love. 
 
 ' O wooed and won and lost, enchantress-world ! 
 Whose syren-song sends up the burning pulse 
 To fever-heat, and bids all good things die ! 
 wooed and won and lost ! And with thee lost 
 All the bright gods and goddesses, which seemed 
 To make this earth to me a heaven below. 
 
 wooed and won, fair world, but ever wooed 
 And won in vain ; for whose false comeliness 
 
 1 left the wooing of a fairer world, 
 
 That might by this time have been surely mine, 
 And in the gain of which I might have found 
 A heritage of beauty and of joy 
 Beyond the richest tenancy of time. 
 
 ' Ah ! the poor soarage of this mortal wing ! 
 We rise and fall ; we fall and rise again : 
 Yet life is not all error, nor our past 
 All weakness and all failure ; forasmuch 
 As we are Heaven's own offspring, there are thoughts 
 Within us which betray their birth divine. 
 
 ' Why seek I what is earthly ? It departs, 
 And leaves me emptier. Why trust I man 
 Rather than Thee, the undeceiving One ? 
 Thou ever-faithful, he so seldom true ; 
 Thou near and living, he far off and cold ! 
 
line 613.] BOOK III. 79 
 
 I cast aside the finite and the low ; 
 Nought will suffice but that which is divine. 
 Matter and sense are but the lowest round 
 Of the high ladder, whose invisible top 
 Rests on a throne, and lands me in a city 
 Whose light is love, eternal and divine. 
 
 ' "Tis said that out of death there cometh life, 
 That ashes are the soil whence freshly spring 
 The goodliest of the goodly trees of earth : 
 The seed we sow lives not except it die. 
 So did I see it when my idols perished, 
 When life died down, and when the cistern broke 
 Which for myself I had too fondly hewn. 
 So did I find it when the nightingale, 
 To which I had so fondly listened, died. 
 So did I know it when the earthquake smote 
 The brilliant shrine which hope and love had builded, 
 To be at once my temple and my home. 
 
 ' Then I discovered the now empty tomb 
 Of Him who, mightier than the grave, had gone 
 Up from its silence to the throne of light ; 
 And in that sepulchre I found the link 
 (Long broken, and dissevered from its chain) 
 Between me and the heaven from which this earth 
 Had broken loose, like a rebellious star. 
 The risen Victor there had fought my fight 
 And won my palm ; out of the tomb He had 
 Plucked immortality ; its emptiness 
 But pledged to me the fulness of the life 
 Which out of death His victory had brought. 
 Another's power had done the mighty work, 
 
80 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 644. 
 
 And given me all its trophies and its fruits ; 
 Another's life had won for me the life 
 Immortal, and my death had passed away. 
 The love that seemed to fill that vacant cell 
 Was more than morning to a soul like mine ; 
 And in that desolate rock of Golgotha 
 There lay the firm foundation-stone on which 
 The new and fairer world is to be built, 
 Awaiting but the time when He shall say 
 To the cold ruins of this broken earth, 
 " Arise from your pale ashes, and put on 
 A beauty which ye never knew before." 
 Then shall the chaos of six thousand years 
 Depart, and the long day of order dawn. 
 
 ' Old story tells, — it may be false, it may 
 Be true, I know not which, — that in Thy day 
 Of shame and agony upon the wood 
 Of Calvary, Thy shadow, Son of God, 
 Fell on the weeping robber at Thy side 
 Upon the cross, and under that strange wing 
 He refuge found from the oppressive heat ; 
 And under it, to Paradise with Thee 
 He went rejoicing. Even so on me 
 Let that same shadow fall ; it has not lost 
 Its sheltering power ; and so upon this earth 
 Let it abide, that in the sultriness 
 Of scorching noons it may refresh this waste, 
 And bring back the lost blessing in its joy. 
 
 ' Ours is a world of symbols, sky and earth 
 Are ciphered o'er with type and imagery, 
 Big with bright truth in every atom here ; 
 
line 675.] BOOK III. 81 
 
 And nature (as we call it) is not that 
 Which is, but that which shall be after this, — 
 The outline of a universe where all 
 The thoughts of God are ripened into fulness, 
 Each segment rounded to a glorious whole. 
 
 ' The flowers look truer and more lovable, 
 More like their own sweet selves, at eve's pale hour, 
 Drenched in the dreamy light which twilight brings ; 
 So earth is getting truer in the signs 
 Above us and beneath us, as it ripens 
 Into the grey of years ; to us remain 
 The listening and the learning and the faith. 
 
 ' I would not sow the wind nor reap the storm ; 
 I would not plough the waste and barren deep ; 
 I would not shoot my arrows at the clouds, 
 Nor chase the thistle-down, nor count the sands : 
 I would live truly, doing a true work 
 In this my day of toil. I would not be 
 The fool or butterfly, to live unloved 
 And die in vain, unheeded and unmourned. 
 I would distribute thoughts where'er I go, 
 And scatter words that shall new-mould the world. 
 I would not be of those whose cry is change, 
 To whom all fixity is feebleness ; 
 Whose mission is to uproot all rooted things, 
 Unfasten anchors, slacken keystones, or 
 Sponge out the lines of everlasting truth, 
 Let loose uncertainty, and set the crown 
 Of honour upon unbelief and doubt, 
 Giving us doubly chaos back again.' 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 ' You say I went to dig for gold, and found 
 
 But silver, or perhaps the viler clay. 
 
 No ; I set forth a poor man, and returned 
 
 A poorer, as men reckon poverty. 
 
 But in that land of strangers I have found 
 
 The wealth I had not thought of going for ; 
 
 And I am rich in the eternal gold.' 
 
 So runs the letter that lies open now. 
 
 ' The mist had fallen upon the August moor ; 
 Long miles of ruddy heath that spread around 
 Had disappeared. The diamond arch of heaven 
 Seemed all dissolved in vapour ; the bold hills 
 Melted away ; the forest and the stream 
 Became invisible ; only the sound 
 Of the not distant waterfall, or wind 
 Struggling among the trees, reminded me 
 There was a world without, altho' I could 
 No longer see it. Scarce an hour had passed, 
 When the dull mist began to raise its wreaths, 
 And the old world stood out again, all fair. 
 
 ' So was it with me once, when, girt with mist, 
 I knew no world but the few feet of earth 
 On which I trod, and which ere long would be 
 
LINE 24.] BOOK IV. 83 
 
 My grave. But now the vapour has arisen, 
 And the new world which has come out in beauty- 
 Has made me rich, for I am heir of all. 
 
 ' Men said to me, Your life is but an hour ; 
 Go and enjoy it while you may ; 'tis poor 
 And brief. They said to me, You are yourself 
 A mist, a shadow ; go and dig for gold, 
 And with that gold buy pleasure while you may. 
 I went, and found not that which I had gone 
 To seek. I went, and found what I had not 
 Been seeking : mines of gold and rocks of gems, 
 Tho' not of earth, beyond the hills of time. 
 That which had once appeared to me so full 
 Was empty now ; and that which once seemed void 
 Was full. The beautiful had come at last, 
 And it was mine for ever. Men may say, 
 We are but vapours, and our life a cloud ; 
 We are but dreamers, and our life a dream : 
 The deep dumb future, into whose abyss 
 We drop when our last sigh is sighed, is nought 
 But the dark dissolution of the mist 
 Which had made up our poor existence here. 
 Not such am I, however poor my life ; 
 Not such, by Him who made me, was I meant 
 To be. My being is no vapour-drift, 
 That rises, spreads, and then evanishes 
 In air. My future is not nothingness, 
 Nor dead oblivion ; all my past yet liveth, 
 And shall live evermore, refined from dross, 
 And purged from the sad evil that has stained it. 
 I cannot wholly part with the bright love, 
 
84 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 55. 
 
 The scenes of beauty, sights and sounds of joy, 
 
 That made it what it was, a heritage 
 
 Peculiarly my own, the mystic fount 
 
 And parent of my vast eternity. 
 
 When I have reached the resting-place beyond 
 
 (Cloudland and wonderland all wandered thro', 
 
 Filled with the untrue and the true, the hues 
 
 Of unsubstantial and substantial sunshine 
 
 Still brightening or mellowing the long 
 
 Dim vistas of my threescore years and ten), 
 
 And stand upon the stable hills above, 
 
 I shall look back upon my winding way, 
 
 Upon the heights and depths of all my being, 
 
 Seeking to gather from the wreck or drift 
 
 Gems for eternity ; for all things here 
 
 Have treasures hid in them which cannot perish, 
 
 And which shall one day be restored to us. 
 
 Be it our life is but a mist, a cloud, 
 
 Or fragment of a cloud, yet still 'tis such 
 
 As hides a never-setting star behind, 
 
 Which will shine forth when all the cloud is gone. 
 
 ' O wondrous air above me and around ! 
 Thou upper sea, at whose deep bottom lies 
 This buried earth with all thy shipwrecked stores ! 
 They speak of ocean paved with silent gems, 
 Ages of treasure, gold and silver, dropt 
 Into its depths by those who sail the seas, 
 And over which the cold and covetous wave 
 Rolls to and fro, hugging its guarded wealth. 
 But when I think upon the myriad gems 
 Of mild or mighty song that since the youth 
 
line 86.] BOOK IV. 85 
 
 Of Time have poured into thy deeper depths 
 From lip or lyre, O all-containing air, 
 With thy transparent girdle compassing 
 This globe, I ask amazed, What has become 
 Of the far more than pearls cast into thee, — 
 The treasures of ten thousand melodies, 
 Ruffling or soothing thy wide-wandering waves 
 Hour after hour ? Say, whither have they gone ? 
 Drift they like derelicts, or have they sunk 
 For ever, or perhaps sweetly dissolved, 
 Like Cleopatra's gem ? Say, is there not 
 Some dauntless diver that can cunningly 
 Descend into thy gloom and gather up 
 That wealth of melody, more precious far 
 Than pearls of Taprobane, or the gold 
 Dark hidden in the unsearched mines afar ? 
 
 ' Of all that real which is or is to be, 
 Which makes this life of mine no cloud nor dream, 
 I am not master ; it o'ermasters me. 
 I mould it, and it mouldeth me ; I live 
 In it, and in me does it also live ; 
 It is a part of me, and I of it, 
 And in the midst of that invisible force 
 Which it contains, how helpless I ; but still 
 It is not fate, 'tis living law and power 
 Which compass me around and make my life 
 Most free, and yet controlled by life as free 
 Without me and above me every hour. 
 What this strange being's depths contain I know not ; 
 Each day's events and words dissolve in it 
 Like music in the air, and pass away ; 
 
16 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 117. 
 
 And what of these may yet be gathered up 
 Like squandered gold, we cannot here foretell : 
 All true things of the past shall rise again. 
 
 ' Men hate the definite belief, because 
 It binds ; but binding is not bondage. See 
 How free yon planets sweep and shine and wheel 
 Hither and thither in their May-day dance ! 
 See how yon free winds sport, yon rivers flow, 
 Each in its sphere the freest of the free ! 
 Yet law is on them, and their freedom springs 
 From their acceptance of majestic law, 
 Which binds to liberate ; for law is but 
 The divine outcome of the true and perfect. 
 Men scorn submission to another, yet 
 Somewhere there must be mastership, a will 
 Bearing on other wills, a helmsman steering 
 The helpless sail thro' the enslaving breeze, 
 And giving freedom to the barque he steers ; 
 All order else and progress cannot be. 
 Obedience, said the ancient Greek, of blessing 
 Is the great mother ; I must hourly watch 
 My self-will, which like a rebellious demon 
 Lurks deep within me, ready to spring forth, 
 And break up order, ruining my peace ; 
 Nor mine alone, but that of all around. 
 Of pride-begotten strife, the history 
 Of this disordered earth is sadly full. 
 There is a virtue in obedience, 
 Obedience pure and simple, like to that 
 Which angels yield ; yet man repudiates 
 The joy of meekness and the calm of order, 
 
line 148.] BOOK TV. 87 
 
 Too proud to be dependent, and forgetting 
 That to obey is more than sacrifice. 
 
 ' The pilot is the servant of the gale, 
 And not the master. Nature's passive power, 
 Or active but unconscious energy, 
 Defies the human will ; man must ally 
 Himself with matter to subdue or mould it, 
 And, yoking to his chariot-pole the strength 
 Of fire, o'erpower the all-resisting force 
 Which hems him in on every side, and makes 
 Him feel the helplessness of will, as now, 
 Like a maimed eagle, it attempts to soar, 
 But cannot, for its hour is not yet come. 
 Will yon bright sea-bird with the crescent wing 
 Drop down upon the wave when I command it ? 
 Its will obeys not mine, nor owneth yet 
 A sway which one day will belong to man. 
 Will yon slow cloud dissolve itself in sunshine, 
 Or will that sunshine linger, when I bid it ? 
 Will July come in haste because I call, 
 Or will its dying roses bloom again 
 Because I say, O roses, wither not ? 
 Will midnight melt away and morn come up, 
 Because I throw my window wide and say, 
 O dayspring, dawn, and bring with thee the scent 
 Of happy flowers, the song of happier birds ? 
 Will these twin-stars, that faintly gleam above me 
 As sisters' faces, like and yet unlike, 
 Draw near to me, that I may see and touch 
 Their silver crests, because I bid them come ? 
 Will death ungrasp his hard-locked treasure, when 
 
3 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 179. 
 
 I shout in his deaf ear and say, Restore 
 My stolen gold, and give me back my gems ? 
 Will the turf pity me, when one by one 
 Recounting all my blanks, and pointing round 
 To the thinned circle of my once full hearth, 
 I plead to see the blue, blue eyes again, 
 And drink the softness of the tender breath, 
 Sweeter than sweetness, that breathed on me once, 
 When lip met lip, in pure and soft delight, 
 As morning rose or as the evening fell ? 
 
 ' In a calm dream, one mellow August morn, 
 Methought that suddenly I came upon 
 An old and long-neglected garden, once 
 Rich with the radiance of a thousand flowers, 
 Now desolate and hoary ; all its walks 
 And well-divided borders still the same ; 
 Tall cypresses its girdle, and within, 
 Each odorous shrub that flourishes apace 
 In green old age, when the blithe-beaming flowers, 
 Which with their delicate purple wooed the dew, 
 Have all long since died down, and left behind 
 This waste of withered leaves on which I walk, — 
 This wilderness of melancholy fragrance. 
 Here the blue lavender shoots up its stalk, 
 And there the thyme its tiny blossoms spreads ; 
 The aged box-tree and the sable yew, 
 With branches lopped into a shady bower, 
 In which there was the broken seat where once 
 The children gathered when the noon was hot, 
 And played or prattled or wove daisy-wreaths. 
 The ivy, too, was clustering on the wall, 
 
LINE 210.] BOOK IV. 89 
 
 And the old nests were in its tangles still, 
 Filled with sere leaflets, but the nestlings fled. 
 Some fragments, too, of boyhood's broken toys 
 Were strewed upon the unmown grass, or lay 
 Upon the moss-grown walks, their owners gone. 
 The scene was sadness, the remembrance sweet. 
 I stood and gazed, and wished that by a word 
 I could bring back the days and forms and faces 
 Linked with the dreamy scene ! I would have said, 
 " Come back, ye lost ones, and re-people this 
 Your place of mirth and love, and let all be 
 As it was then when I was one of you ! " 
 But what were words or wishes ? That fair past 
 Lies far behind me ; and the power that might 
 Take me to it or bring it back to me 
 Is not in angel or in man. In fancy 
 I can be there again, and light up all 
 With recollections which bring only tears. 
 But the bright joy, the laughter and the song, 
 The busy feet, the lips of love, the eyes 
 From which time's future was shut out, to which 
 Life was one long glad present and no more, — 
 I have no power to make them what they are not, 
 No spell to bring the dreams of fancy true. 
 
 ' Life goes and comes not ; so I thought and said. 
 Joy ebbs, but flows not ; how shall I secure 
 The joy that never ebbs, the life that ne'er 
 Departs, abiding like the constant sky 
 Or everlasting hills ? I must be filled 
 Out of a fountain which is always full ; 
 So shall my life be life indeed, my joy 
 
go MY OLD LETTERS. [line 241. 
 
 Be deep and tideless. Poor, I knit myself 
 To the eternal treasure ; weak, I bind myself 
 To the eternal strength ; imperfect, I 
 Put on divine perfection ; steeped in evil, 
 I clasp the eternal goodness ; sad and empty, 
 I claim the fulness and the joy which from 
 The heaven of heavens have visited this earth, 
 That men might be as God, and earth as heaven. 
 
 ' I seemed to see, on one hand and the other, 
 The double infinite, far spread and dim, 
 The two eternities of time and space, — 
 So like each other, yet so diverse too ; 
 So simple, and yet so inscrutable. 
 I but a speck between them, yet as great, 
 Nay, greater sure than both of them ; to me 
 Their vastness does belong ; and I must know 
 What all that vastness is to be to me,— 
 Riches or want, the famine or the feast ? 
 Is it to be a living on and on, 
 As I do now, in weakness and in change, — 
 Perpetual climbing of these splintered hills, 
 And yet no summit reached, no resting-place, 
 When time's rough work is done, and the tall shadows 
 Tell of the setting of life's latest sun ? 
 Perpetual drifting thro' these sullen seas, 
 Without an anchorage or haven in view ? 
 The always seeking and the never finding ; 
 The daily strife with evil and with pain ; 
 The hope, the failure, and the broken heart ? 
 
 ' So did I muse, still groping wearily, 
 Till through the mist the true sweet morning broke ; 
 
line 272.J BOOK IV. 91 
 
 Soft light from a new sun beyond these hills 
 Stole down upon me, and the darkness fled. 
 Beneath the wing of Him to whom alone 
 These infinites belong with all their treasures, 
 I found myself; — and all these riches mine. 
 
 ' For weakness is the heritage of man ; 
 He is, and is not. Tho' he fain would be 
 King of an empire that he cannot rule, 
 Lord of a heritage no part of which 
 Will do him homage or obey his will. 
 The outgrowth of his best-thought plans is not 
 What he had purposed ; 'tis the indirect, 
 The unpurposed issues of each change or motion 
 That are the mightiest and the most enduring. 
 The helm remonstrates with the pilot, thwarts 
 The wisest steerage ; thus man's master-strokes 
 Are oft his follies, — in the dark he moves, 
 Even when he seems the most to move in light. 
 
 ' There once upon the earth was One by whom 
 Great things were done : it seemed as if His hand 
 Were framed to wield the sceptre of the world, 
 And stay the anarchy which long had made 
 This earth a waste. He bade the breeze be still, 
 And it was calm ; he seized the robber Death 
 When on his way to hide his spoil, where Nain 
 Looks out on Esdraelon's plain, and up 
 Old Nazareth's brown hills, and with a word 
 Compelled him to gave back the widow's treasure ; 
 He plucked the demon from the tortured soul 
 Of him who wandered 'mid Gadara's tombs ; 
 He poured His light into the darkened eye, 
 
92 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 303 
 
 And sounds, before unheard, into the ear ; 
 
 He smoothed the writhing wave, and bade the storm 
 
 Lie down in peace ; He touched the burning hand 
 
 Of fever, and the blood once more ran cool ; 
 
 He went in weakness to the Roman cross, 
 
 And from the tree of blood where He was nailed 
 
 Returned to Paradise, and took with Him 
 
 The robber at His side ; into the home 
 
 Of death He calmly entered, and came forth 
 
 In triumph, — every foe beneath His feet. 
 
 ' His will was all-constraining law; His look, 
 Like light, was silent power ; His words contained 
 Divine omnipotence. But man's poor will, 
 Even at its strongest, what is it on earth ? 
 What can his words effect ? Come, let me try. 
 Silence, hoarse ocean ! Let me muse in peace, 
 Unruffled by the stormy dissonance, 
 The jar of battling billows round this rock ; 
 Silence, dark ocean ! once again I say. 
 It hears not, and my passionate words are vain ; 
 My will, my power, my reason profit nought 
 'Gainst that which has no reason, power, nor will. 
 I cannot calm one wave, nor speak to rest 
 One ripple yonder or one eddy here. 
 I have no power o'er sea or slenderer air, 
 Save when I set them one against the other ; 
 Then I divide and conquer ; without that, 
 I am as helpless as a new-born child. 
 Yet I have soul, and these are soulless all : 
 Dead nature mocks the living. " Peace, be still ! " 
 From man is but a breath. That breeze which goes 
 
LINE 334.] BOOK IV. 93 
 
 We know not whither, and which came to us 
 We know not whence, is stronger than the strong. 
 Man speaks in vain. He is, and yet he is not 
 Monarch of nature. There is still behind, 
 Innate, invisible, and uncontrolled, 
 A something mightier than a human will, 
 A something farther down or higher up 
 Than man or chance or nature's ancient forms. 
 The laws of restoration or of ruin, 
 Of living and of dying, are too simple, 
 Yet too imperious and inexorable, 
 Too self-executive and too resistless, 
 To have come forth from earthly parliament ; 
 Untainted with the feebleness of man, 
 They each go out to do the work of God, 
 And with authority to speak His will ; 
 For deep within the being of those things 
 Which we call laws there is contained a power, 
 A living power, that shows all Godhead near. 
 ' Who spiked the royal Andes, buckled on 
 Their brigandines of snow ? Who called the stream 
 From under the deep glacier, bade it flash 
 From the lone rock-clift to the thirsty plain ? 
 Who tinted sky and sea with the one blue 
 That maketh both so passing beautiful, — 
 The upper hyaline, — of the two fair 
 The fairer and the calmer, — far beyond 
 The reach of storm to ruffle or to stain ; 
 The lower hyaline so vast, yet oft 
 Troubled and broken by the unbridled gale ? 
 Who lavishes the gold of daily noon, 
 
94 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 365. 
 
 Or showers the silver rain of brilliant night ? 
 Who bids the tides with soft and measured tread 
 Keep step to the mild music of the moon ? 
 Who lays the earth down to her winter sleep, 
 And wakes her up again when April comes ? 
 Who leads the sea-bird o'er the autumn main, 
 And brings it back when summer warms the wave ■? 
 Instinct with life, beyond what man has dreamed, 
 Each statute does its office, sure and true, 
 As if an angel dwelt in it unseen. 
 There is no feebleness nor failure in it, 
 And ages cannot make it obsolete. 
 It was, it is, it shall be, until He 
 Who made it law and filled it with His life 
 Shall cancel it, or with a higher law 
 Supplant it in the wisdom of His will. 
 
 ' The laws of this old universe of ours 
 I cannot make or unmake ; each of them 
 Is far beyond me in its energy 
 For good or ill ; and if I cannot say 
 To death, Give up thy prey, nor to the grave, 
 Restore thy captive dust ; to winter, Go, 
 And let sweet spring return ; to the east wind, Leave, 
 And let the bland south breathe with healing balm ; 
 To the May-rose, Bloom round the golden year ; 
 To the warm leaf, Heed not October's frost ; 
 To this depressive heartache, Pain me not ; 
 To the old smile, Come back to faded lips ; 
 To love's lost lustre, Re-illume the eye 
 That death has dimmed : if I am impotent 
 Amid this network vast of living law, 
 
line 396.] BOOK IV. 95 
 
 I must strike friendship with it, that the love, 
 
 The wisdom, and the power which dwell in it 
 
 May side with me and bear me nobly through. 
 
 All law must be upon my side, or else 
 
 I must do battle with the universe, 
 
 With every atom of it for my foe. 
 
 Law is the utterance of potent will, 
 
 Holy and wise and loving. With this will, 
 
 This royal will, my will must be at one, 
 
 Or else I sink, without a hope of rising, 
 
 My being all undone, and I a waif 
 
 Or wandering leaf on some deserted shore, 
 
 Tossed from the sand to the cold wave, and from 
 
 The wave to the unsympathizing sand. 
 
 ' O sound and shape and colour ! what were earth 
 Without your harmonies ? All life and love 
 Are in you, and without you all is chaos. 
 In you I see what law is, and how law 
 Pervades all being, sweetly permeates 
 All creaturehood, the lifeless and the living. 
 Yon ocean, as it smooths itself to rest 
 When suns are sinking o'er its golden brow, 
 Or as it gathers round it its green waves, 
 Like a rich mantle studded o'er with pearls, 
 When storms are rising, bends in matchless curves, 
 And brightens in each colour of the bow. 
 The air, the solid earth, the delicate sunbeam 
 Contain your riches, and each day unfold them. 
 Hue, beauty, melody, thus deeply stored, 
 Come forth in wide profusion without end, 
 Some bidden, some unbid, by human skill. 
 
96 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 427. 
 
 ' The law that does or undoes is beyond 
 The present sovereignty of creaturehood. 
 Hereafter human will shall be a power, 
 Like His who made it what it is ; and then 
 Each mute volition of the will may be 
 Of all earth's finite potencies the most 
 Potent and swift. But now the will is nought ; 
 Powerless as childhood ; nature owns it not ; 
 Dead matter mocks its bidding ; death and life 
 Alike refuse it love or reverence. 
 
 ' I would go out beyond this narrow cage 
 Of individual being, and look round 
 Upon the many-peopled world of men, 
 For self is narrow and the world is broad ; 
 Small is the drop, the ocean infinite : 
 Part of that marvellous human sea am I, 
 A drop, a wave, a fragment of its foam. 
 To me all men belong, and I to all. 
 This earth is every man's ; this earth is mine : 
 Its many-storied nations, far and near ; 
 Its subtleties of mind and will and heart ; 
 Its thoughts and dreams and fantasies, the true 
 Or false ; its tides, its tempests, and its calms ; 
 The living multitudes that move across 
 Its plains, or crowd its ever-seething cities, — 
 Offspring and workmanship of one great Father, 
 Vessels of noble measure, clay or gold, 
 Made to contain all sorrow or all joy, 
 And filled alternately with either, as 
 The bitter or the sweet of time distils 
 P rom the events of each day's changing hours. 
 
line 458.] BOOK IV. 97 
 
 Each life a treasure-house of hopes and fears, 
 A garden crowded o'er with weeds and flowers, 
 A chamber with dissolving views all round, 
 A great existence, whose capacities 
 Are beyond measure and conception vast, 
 Each in itself an immortality. 
 
 ' I would shut out this little life of mine, 
 Or see it as a leaf on Time's one tree, 
 A portion of the awful universe. 
 I am but one of myriads, who have all 
 A life to live under the common sky, 
 As pregnant with a hidden destiny, 
 As great and full of meaning as my own. 
 
 ' Upon this turf I would sit down, and feel 
 The silent benedictions of the clouds 
 Descending softly on our summer tilth. 
 The breath of the bright wind goes by in balm, 
 Fondling the forest-leaves, and from the pines 
 Bringing mysterious odours never stale ; 
 The light mists flit thro' the fair sky like dreams, 
 And every bird is at its height of song. 
 I would go far apart from cities, where 
 Life with its thousand-tissued nerves and sinews 
 Works at high pressure, self its spring and aim. 
 Too steep the gradients of this headlong age, 
 Too sharp its curves for safety or for strength, 
 Too swift the motion, and too reckless of 
 Or law or life : so said I to myself, 
 As, looking down upon the smoke and fire 
 Of forges clouding the clear sky with gloom, 
 I heard the sigh and saw the sweat of toil. 
 
98 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 489. 
 
 ' Here, beyond sound of the tumultuous street, 
 That knows no rest, I muse upon the wrongs, 
 The sadnesses, and sins that shade the earth, 
 And make us weary of its history ; 
 In spirit pondering how love and law, 
 The double keystone of the world's strong arch, 
 Fast crumbling down, may be upreared again ; 
 Asking what means the age, its words and deeds, 
 And whither it is drifting, or what is 
 Its one prevailing spirit ? Is it not 
 To unitize, but not to unify ? 
 To force discordances together, leaving out 
 Their most essential parts or truths, and then 
 To call it universal harmony ? 
 To give self-will its widest, largest scope ? 
 To level earth's old inequalities 
 Of matter and of men, and roll them out 
 Into a plain, monotonous and vast, 
 According to its thoughts of rank and right ? 
 Destructive not constructive in its aims, 
 It breaks the great humanity in pieces 
 Which God created a cohesive whole, 
 But re-cementeth not its shattered parts ; 
 It makes each man yet more and more a unit, 
 A separate atom of mortality, 
 Knit to no fellow, and existing only 
 For self, and for some narrow circle round him, 
 A solitary sand-grain, wearing down 
 To less and less as the sharp sea-wind stirs it. 
 
 ' This is the day of overthrow : I see 
 The nations ground to pieces, and the crowns 
 
line 520.] BOOK IV. 99 
 
 All melted down, the purple torn to shreds. 
 
 The chrysm of ancient royalty is drained, 
 
 Each fragrant drop exhausted, not to be 
 
 Replenished till the great anointing comes 
 
 Of the new dynasty, which all the earth, 
 
 Weary with endless change, shall gladly own. 
 
 The tempest has gone out, and the fixed earth 
 
 Rocks to its centre. The uplifted axe 
 
 Is brandished everywhere, and does its work. 
 
 The sword has left its scabbard, and will not 
 
 Return to it until its blade is dim. 
 
 Strike, thou blind sword, — strike quick, and do thy 
 
 work ; 
 Level alike the evil and the good, — 
 The day of the upbuilding draweth nigh. 
 Earth has been long unjudged, He comes to judge ; 
 Earth has been long misruled, He comes to rule. 
 
 ' Error and truth are now at last alive, 
 Both putting on their armour and their strength. 
 Their day of dormancy is past ; they raise 
 Themselves to their full height, and face to face 
 Equip themselves for battle and for work. 
 But of that work and battle who can tell 
 The issues ? — who forecast the fears and hopes, 
 The weariness, the wounds, the broken hearts, 
 The passion, and the folly, and the sin, 
 That shall fill up our human history, 
 As field on field is fought, and lost, and won, 
 As ruin spreads itself abroad o'er earth ? 
 For living truth and living error oft 
 Work (as they go upon their earnest way 
 
ioo MY OLD LETTERS. [line 550. 
 
 All thro' the ages) similar effects 
 Of demolition and commotion dire. 
 
 ' Asleep, the warrior wins no victory, 
 But is led captive in ignoble chains ; 
 The drowsy sentinel betrays the fort : 
 So sleeping truth (and often has it slept) 
 Invites defeat and wins the coward's shame. 
 Asleep, the serpent is innocuous 
 As the young lamb ; awake, it wounds and slays : 
 So sleeping error seems to unskilled eyes 
 Harmless, nay, beautiful, no thing of fear ; 
 Like the coiled basilisk, it spreadeth out 
 Its glowing links, alluring all who gaze, — 
 Then wakes, and with its mortal poison stings. 
 
 ' The battle of two wills is useless strife, 
 Ambitious wrestling for the mastery, 
 Whose course is havoc, and whose end is hate. 
 The battle of two minds is noble war, 
 Whose end is truth, whose trophies peace and love. 
 
 'Day fights with night, and night contends with 
 day; 
 Each is alternate victor ; each has won, 
 And each has lost. No trophy crowns the brow 
 Of the victorious host. So would I not 
 That such, my friend, should be thy life-long war ; 
 Half shame, half glory. 'Tis to him that conquers 
 The crown belongs ; fight on and slack not ; 
 The strife is sore, but the reward is bright. 
 Wreathe not thy sword with roses ; let the edge 
 Be bare and penetrating ; double up 
 The well-strung bow, and let the shaft go free, 
 
line 580.J BOOK IV. 101 
 
 Like the white lightning from the ragged cloud, 
 Pregnant with fire. Strike home, and hew thy way 
 Thro' the thick hosts of evil ; or be what 
 The old Greek called the warrior, the spear-anvil, 
 Calm mid the raining dart-shower ; so shalt thou 
 Do thy one work, which thou alone canst do, — 
 Win the one battle thou alone canst win. 
 'Men quarrel, and then seek to justify 
 Their variance, and each taunts the other with 
 "" 'Twas you began it all ; " the weaker side, 
 However just and honest, must go down : 
 The pitcher strikes the stone, the stone the pitcher, 
 It boots not which, the pitcher goes to pieces. 
 Might knows not right, and seldom have the many 
 Been generous to the few. When did the wolf 
 Pity the lamb, or when the kestrel stretch 
 Its wings above the dove save to devour ? 
 " Woe to the vanquished " is the history 
 Of human warfare here ; revenge and power 
 Are not for man. With neither can he be 
 Entrusted for a day ; and least with power. 
 Stronger than love of fame or love of woman 
 Is love of power, — power o'er our fellow-men ; 
 And power intoxicates, but most of all 
 Power spiritual, rule over souls, by what 
 Soft name we please to call it. The ideal 
 Authority, like that of God, the power 
 To bless, still more the power to curse, 
 Whether thro' priestly touch, or magic rite, 
 Or awful voice, how coveted by man ! 
 This double spur, how it has pricked ambition 
 
1 02 MY OLD LE TTER S. [LINE 61 • i . 
 
 On and still on, remorselessly beneath 
 Its iron hoof all truth and charity 
 To trample down, crushing the noble will, 
 The tender conscience, and the loving heart. 
 Woe to the weak, has been the battle-cry. 
 
 ' The mystic cup of power inebriates ; 
 And he who lacks it rests not till he finds it, 
 He who has got it thirsts for more and more. 
 Woe to the man who throws himself between 
 Ambition and its object ; sword and fire 
 (If sword and fire be weapons of the age ; 
 If not, some sure and palpable revenge) 
 Shall strike him down and see him vilely laid, 
 Broken in reputation and in heart, 
 A victim to the hungry lust of power. 
 
 ' But shall I thus forecast the day of evil, 
 When every lip beside me whispers peace, 
 When every lyre is strung to notes of triumph, 
 And all the prophets of the earth foresing 
 The coming progress ? When the heavens are clear, 
 And the bright planet of humanity 
 Is in the ascendant, shall I dare to speak 
 Of lurking thunder ? Yet can I forget 
 That the long calm is parent of the storm ? 
 In the clear sky the thunderbolt is forged, 
 And thro' the silent air on silent wing 
 The eagle swoops to seize his far-seen prey : 
 So bursts the last dread hurricane upon 
 The sons of men, when all is mirth and song. 
 The wildest, widest storm these eyes have seen 
 Was once at dawn, after a tranquil night, 
 
line 642.] BOOK IV. 103 
 
 When not a whisper broke the breathless air, 
 
 To speak of peril or betray the foe. 
 
 Ocean was still in its serenest sleep, 
 
 The slow wave's sigh swept round the curving strand, 
 
 When, as from ambush, sprang the ragged cloud, 
 
 Startling the sea-bird with its sudden gloom. 
 
 The lightning, like a sword of sinuous fire, 
 
 Leaped from its scabbard, scourging earth and sea, 
 
 Seaming the cliff, sinking the helpless barque, 
 
 Filling the vacant sky with lurid light, 
 
 Till the broad billows glowed, one scroll of flame. 
 
 The red gale rode the ocean, rushed across 
 
 The writhing foam, breasting the fretful surf, 
 
 Flushed with the splendour of the tremulous bolt, 
 
 That went and came, like living minister 
 
 Of pent-up anger, from the solemn heavens. 
 
 The thunder, shouting from the stedfast rocks, 
 
 And sweeping round the concave of the hills 
 
 Whose sleep it had awakened, shook the shored 
 
 In one quick moment every object changed ; 
 
 Chaos and darkness seemed to come again, 
 
 Deep calling unto deep with sullen throat, 
 
 Like minute-guns at Nature's funeral. 
 
 ' So breaks the last tornado over man, 
 Disturbing his gay dream of human progress, 
 And levelling the tower he would have built 
 To scale the heavens and seat humanity 
 Upon the throne of God. So, when he thinks not, 
 The desolation cometh, and the hope 
 Sinks like the sand-built shieling in an hour. 
 
 'All that high science, soaring to the sun, 
 
104 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 673. 
 
 Or searching the profundities beneath, — 
 
 All that philosophy, with thoughtful lip, 
 
 Has spoken to the eager sons of men, — 
 
 All that bright poesy, adorning fact 
 
 Or summoning fiction to her aid, can do, 
 
 To heal earth's sickness or to soothe her fret, — 
 
 All that fond pleasure, in her gayest mood, 
 
 Has forged to fascinate or cheer the soul, — 
 
 All has been tried, but ever tried in vain. 
 
 These are but anodynes, whose opiate-draught 
 
 Lulls for a moment the deep-seated pain ; 
 
 They bring no restoration of the health, 
 
 No styptics for the world's still bleeding wounds. 
 
 ' O good Samaritan, draw near at length 
 (Levite and priest have passed in coldness by), 
 Come with thy oil and wine to heal and cheer ! 
 Humanity lies sick, all pierced with wounds, 
 Bleeding to death upon the rugged road 
 Of this strange life, and thou alone canst cure.' 
 
 The day leans down, and the light lessens fast, 
 The mountains into shadows melt away ; 
 Twilight is creeping softly o'er the shore 
 And winding round the rocks. We anchor here ; 
 For the great currents of the world sweep by, 
 Too strong for us without an anchorage 
 That will hold out against both tide and wind. 
 Ofttimes, I know, beneath a ruffled surface 
 Sleeps the deep under-calm ; but here, beneath 
 A tranquil face, I dread the under-storm. 
 
 Time's depths are now behind us, and our skiff 
 
line 703.] BOOK IV. 105 
 
 Has touched the shallows ; we let down the lead, 
 
 And find the fathoms few ; these breakers mark 
 
 The lessening depths ; a few more strokes, and then 
 
 We shall be resting on the safe, safe shore, — 
 
 The peaceful seaboard, where no beacon-light 
 
 Is needed to protect the midnight barque 
 
 From perilous cliffs ; and where (thrice happy they ! ) 
 
 So many of the loving and the loved 
 
 Have landed long ago, enskied and safe 
 
 Beyond mortality's corroding touch 
 
 Or death's unsparing sting ; rejoicing now 
 
 O'er sorrows past and glory yet to come, 
 
 And in the new and never-ending song 
 
 Praising the love that steered them thro' the storm, — 
 
 The love which, sweeping from their sky the clouds, 
 
 Showed them afar the signal-star of dawn. 
 
 Swiftly we steal along our orbit here, 
 Moving, and yet unconscious of the motion. 
 
 Earth rushes on in awful haste thro' space, 
 And yet no sound is heard, no quivering feet ; 
 No snowflake drops from off the mountain-pine, 
 
 No dewdrop trembles on the slender spray. 
 
 Swiftness is silence, planet-speed is dumb ; 
 
 Or if it utter sound to us, it is 
 
 The melody of motion ; not a jar 
 
 Or broken note in its perennial song. 
 
 So shall it be in the great age to come, 
 
 When the eternal orbit, not of earth, 
 
 But of all being, shall be entered on 
 
 With a fresh impulse from the hand that gave 
 
 Its motion to the universe at first, 
 
106 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 734, 
 
 As from the throne projected into space, 
 
 All weighed and measured in the unerring scale, 
 
 Each star and planet took its separate way, 
 
 Timed for the wondrous journey, which with all 
 
 Dumb nature's swift obedience they fulfil 
 
 In the calm willingness of happy service, 
 
 Which knoweth neither murmur nor mistake. 
 
 Content to do our work and battle on 
 In midst of disappointment, making head 
 Against the merciless hosts of evil, sure 
 Of victory nowhere now, yet ever sure 
 Of victory at last, tho' knowing not ■ 
 Or how or when that triumph is to come ; 
 Armed only with the weapons forged upon 
 No earthly anvil, by no mortal hands, 
 And clad in armour which no spear can- pierce ; 
 True to our Captain and our colours, here 
 We fight the battle till our day is done, 
 And the glad trumpet bids us quit the strife, 
 One against many, weary, yet full of hope. 
 
 The evening brings all home. For that we wait, 
 Which is at once our evening and our morn, 
 The end of evil and the dawn of good. 
 October sheds the leaf and April brings it ; 
 So one flower fadeth and another springs ; 
 Earth renovates itself. When we are gone, 
 Our homes will not be vacant ; and the crowds 
 Will swell our cities as when we were there. 
 Earth liveth on and on amid this change, 
 Or with us or without us to the end. 
 
 That end, ah, would that it were come ! All things 
 
line 765.] BOOK IV. 107 
 
 Press forward to it, and cry out, Delay not ; 
 For hope deferred has sickened the sad heart, 
 And men are asking, Shall it ever come ? 
 
 Shake down your leaves, O many-tinted trees 
 Of dying autumn ; let the forest gale 
 Of the unsparing north search through and through 
 Your desolate boughs, and heap the earth with sackcloth. 
 Another winter soon will lie behind us, — 
 One winter less to come ere the long spring 
 Shall o'er us shed its beauty and its balm ! 
 Fling down your stars, O skies ! O waiting earth ! 
 Heave with thy final earthquake ; and, O sea ! 
 Let loose thy last stern tempest for the day 
 Of nature's shock, above us and beneath ; 
 Speed on Creation's travail-throes, from which 
 There comes at last the perfect and the fair. 
 
BOOK V. 
 
 ' You crave me for some record of my thoughts ; 
 You give me yours, and ask for mine again, — 
 Some transcript of my musings, day by day, 
 While seated by my never-lonely hearth 
 In these sharp weeks, when keen December's cold 
 Chains the free stream and whitens field and hill, 
 Covering old earth's dead face as with a veil 
 Of frozen moonlight, hiding its shut eyes, 
 And shrouding features now no longer fair.' 
 
 So writes the hand of old companionship, 
 And so I read the page that now folds out, — 
 The thoughtful page of a most classic pen, 
 Which in a bolder hand would soon have led 
 Its owner into fields of world-wide fame. 
 
 ' Men and their words, as memory may serve, 
 Strewed over years long past, I would recall ; 
 They with myself, their thoughts with mine half- 
 mingled, — 
 Life interwoven with life and thought with thought, 
 Like boughs of the thick forest. One I knew, 
 A worshipper of shadows from his youth, 
 Who walked with me life's path for many a year. 
 He loved the clouds because they were unreal ; 
 
 108 
 
line 23.] BOOK V. 109 
 
 He followed most the paths which led to nothing, 
 
 And which, but for their own quaint windings, were 
 
 Devoid of beauty like a moorland track. 
 
 He looked into the mists for rainbow-hues 
 
 That seemed to be, but were not ; down the depths 
 
 For pearls that diver's hand could never grasp. 
 
 Between to-day's pursuit of all bright things, 
 
 And cold to-morrow's disappointed hopes, 
 
 His life went by ; yet other life than this 
 
 To wish he seemed not. Upon air he fed, 
 
 And things which grew of air ; he flung away 
 
 His twoscore years of prime, and left behind 
 
 Only a beacon, not a monument. 
 
 Gifts, fortune, friends, he had upon his side ; 
 
 But what were willing winds and waves to one 
 
 Who had no chart to steer by, and no haven ? 
 
 What was the soul, however large, to one 
 
 Who never looked beyond the suns of time 
 
 Save in sad mockery, to dream and speak 
 
 Of the unknown and the unknowable ; 
 
 Whose fancy was his only oracle ; 
 
 Who could buy land and pleasure at his will, 
 
 Yet slighted that which silver could not win, — 
 
 The true imperishable gladnesses 
 
 Strewn in our daily paths by heavenly hands, 
 
 Free as the general air or common sun ? 
 
 ' He dreamed and doubted ; flung belief away, 
 Then took it to his bosom ; mused and wondered, 
 Thinking that what had been might be again, 
 Might be for ever. " Who can tell ? " he said. 
 " Pluck the bright day while yet the sunshine lasts, 
 
no MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 54. 
 
 And call it thine. Belief or unbelief, 
 
 What are they ? Only the unreal words 
 
 Of spirits groping in the mist for what 
 
 They know not. Is not faith a sick man's dream ? 
 
 And is not truth a thing of age or clime ? 
 
 And is not joy the transitory gleam 
 
 Of some aberrant meteor on its way 
 
 To nothingness ? And is not all of that 
 
 Which man calls life a vision of the night ? 
 
 And what is death ? The exhalation merely 
 
 Of midnight mist, or fragment of a cloud, 
 
 On which some moonshine rested for an hour." 
 
 ' So reasoned he, so doubted, and so died. 
 His life was wasted, and he sowed no seed 
 Which might spring after him ; the world was not 
 His debtor while he lived, nor when he died. 
 His is a grave without a monument, 
 And no one has been glad that he was born. 
 The winds were ever on his side, and yet 
 He moved not on, but lay like one becalmed, 
 Or strayed in eddies, narrower or more wide, 
 As the capricious impulse urged him on. 
 There was a needy world around him, yet 
 Its famished spirit was not fed by him. 
 Sorrow and evil dwelt hard by, and yet 
 No ray from him e'er lighted up a soul, 
 Or made the world less dark than it had been. 
 " My early rising will not raise the sun 
 One hour the sooner," he was wont to say 
 As he lay down upon his bed of ease ; 
 And yet, in the sad consciousness of life 
 
LINE 85-] BOOK V. in 
 
 Thus gone to waste, he would speak out at times ; 
 
 " The fool resolves not till the battle's lost ; 
 
 It is too late to don the helmet when 
 
 The head is struck and death is in the blow. 
 
 Fools at the end, the wise at the beginning, 
 
 Know what is to be done ; the wise proceed 
 
 Straightway to do it, in the face of storm 
 
 Or enemies or weariness of spirit, 
 
 Heedless of failure upon failure, still 
 
 Bent on success and resolute to win. 
 
 Fight your own battle ; lean on none but God ; 
 
 Beware of allies in a warfare such 
 
 As that to which thou hast been born, and which, 
 
 Or well or ill, must be fought out alone. 
 
 No sin (so says the proverb of the East) 
 
 That is persisted in is small ; no sin 
 
 Laid at God's feet remaineth great or dark. 
 
 Tempt not the tempter ; he is near enough 
 
 Already ; bid him go upon his way, 
 
 And leave thee to pursue thy work in peace. 
 
 Be wise in time, lest on your tomb be carved, 
 
 As upon mine, the words that warn, — TOO LATE." ' 
 
 Thus writes another, chronicling the past : 
 ' Your old friend the Beginner, as you called him, 
 He promised fair ; none fairer ; he has gone, 
 And left no mark. Capricious and unstable, 
 He finished nothing, and his life was filled 
 With poor abortions, — torsos, — hardly that ; 
 As if upon each marble block that lay 
 Around, he had his chisel tried in vain. 
 
U2 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 115. 
 
 'Twas not mere fame he lost ; that was not much : 
 He left the world no richer than he found it, 
 And passed away unmissed, — none to record 
 His birth with joy, or, visiting his tomb, 
 In love to say, What owe I not to him ! 
 
 ' He left the harbour to go down at sea, 
 The dull wave closing over him unwept. 
 He started on the race, but dropt aside, 
 Losing both goal and prize. He drew the bow 
 Strongly and well ; the arrow missed the white ; 
 In fickle haste he flung away the bow, 
 And emptied the full quiver on the ground. 
 Brilliant and sparkling, but unstable, like 
 A fountain playing in the sunshine, swayed 
 Hither and thither by the chafing wind, 
 Then sinking suddenly to nothingness, 
 He promised brightness, but it died in gloom. 
 His life was lived in vain ; at every point 
 Unfinished and abortive, broken off 
 Just when it might have told ; begun in earnest, 
 It quickly cooled, as if the fire within 
 Had burned itself away before the time. 
 
 ' Yet find I, written in some wakeful hour, 
 When the full sense of what he might have been 
 And might have done burst in upon his soul, 
 Thoughts such as these, not worthy to be lost : 
 " All things, both good and evil, have their cycles — 
 The sickness and the health, the calm, the storm, 
 The labour and the rest ; they come and go 
 In tides, alternating their flow and ebb ; 
 Not like the river, always on and on. 
 
line 146.] BOOK V. 113 
 
 Let not to-morrow swallow up to-day. 
 
 Too late to-night the skilled physician comes, 
 
 To call back life that left at early morn. 
 
 To-morrow's calm restoreth not the wreck 
 
 Of yesterday ; nor roots itself again 
 
 The uprooted pine. Then on, however dark ; 
 
 The undoing is beyond us, and the loss 
 
 Is loss for ever ; therefore quarrel not 
 
 With the dead past, which no device of thine 
 
 Can bring to life again, but fling thyself 
 
 Upon the future, and make it thine own ; 
 
 Seize for thyself its unwrought mines of gold ; 
 
 Let not the past be father of the future, 
 
 But live as thou hast never lived before ; 
 
 So shall thy poverty be turned to wealth. 
 
 The night brings back the stars ; the wintry frost 
 
 Freshens the blood ; the keen gale of the north, 
 
 Tho' blowing over miles of desolate moor, 
 
 Makes the pale cheek to bloom, and bloom again, 
 
 When softer breezes left it only wan. 
 
 Stumble and fall not, you will mend your pace ; 
 
 Stumble and fall, you must at once arise, 
 
 Or else be trodden down by those behind. 
 
 Make sure of every footstep, yet remain not 
 
 Upon the ladder's lowest round, but rise, 
 
 Rise daily ; it will take a lifetime's years 
 
 To reach the top. Like huntsman of the rocks, 
 
 Pursue thy prey, and know what thou pursuest. 
 
 Oft, when we think that we have seized the quarry, 
 
 'Tis we ourselves are caught. Grasp not too much, 
 
 Lest thou lose all. Think not your safety lies 
 
ii 4 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 177. 
 
 In many roads ; one pathway will suffice 
 
 Better than thousands, if so be it lead 
 
 To the one city whither thou wouldst go. 
 
 Tis by a single, sometimes slender thread, 
 
 That we unwind the skein ; the many threads 
 
 Do but entangle, and make effort vain. 
 
 Who strikes the naked anvil but a fool ? 
 
 Bring out the glowing iron, lay it there, 
 
 Then strike and spare not ; so thy skilful arm 
 
 Shall not bring down the steady stroke in vain. 
 
 Think ere thou openest thy lips, and know 
 
 Whither thou goest ere thou tak'st thy staff. 
 
 Life is no venture, and that soul of thine 
 
 Was not created to be flung away, 
 
 Or spilled like water on the absorbing sand. 
 
 Make much of May ; husband thy summer hours, 
 
 And lay up sunshine for the day of frost. 
 
 Winter is coming, and it may be sharp ; 
 
 Its icy touch will freeze thy fervent veins." 
 
 * Thus wrote he down at times his thoughts, like one 
 In quest of goodness, groping for the day. 
 He saw the light, and yet he walked not in it ; 
 He saw the darkness, yet he shunned it not : 
 The currents of the world rushed by, and swept him 
 From every anchorage far out to sea. 
 
 ' Another college-friend you may remember, 
 In threadbare raiment (for with shirt of ice 
 Cold poverty had girt him), but with mien 
 Modest, yet dauntless as the winter oak 
 That breasts the gale upon the battered cliff. 
 
LINE207-] BOOK V. US 
 
 His lean face told us that his fare was scanty ; 
 
 His big cloak hid the poverty beneath ; 
 
 His dwelling he preferred to be unknown, 
 
 Save to the few who loved him for his worth, 
 
 And whom he trusted for their worth again. 
 
 His books were old and torn, save when a friend 
 
 Had lovingly but secretly supplied 
 
 His need. November's rain fell hardly on him, 
 
 And the keen March-breeze struck him to the bone. 
 
 His midnight lamp was ill supplied with oil, 
 
 And even that stinted store was dearly bought 
 
 With scantier meals. His winter hearth was cold, 
 
 The sharp wind searched his attic thro' and thro', 
 
 And the snow sifted thro' the broken panes 
 
 Of his ill-lighted chamber. When the days 
 
 Grew warm with summer's love and summer's smile, 
 
 He sought the sunshine of the southern glen, 
 
 That won him with its silence and its joy ; 
 
 Or the soft shade of the fresh-budding fir 
 
 Upon the ruddy moorland, where the lark 
 
 Sung its delicious song to the clear noon. 
 
 For he loved summer with a passionate heart, — 
 
 Wept when it ended, joyed when it began, 
 
 And sighed when sweet June's longest evening told 
 
 That the dear brightness had begun to wane. 
 
 He revelled in its brilliance ; it was his, 
 
 Poor tho' he was, and he could have it all, 
 
 Yet no one be the poorer for his wealth. 
 
 His mind was lofty, and his soul was large ; 
 
 In person comely, and in manners far 
 
 Above his birth. Refined in tone and thought 
 
n6 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 238. 
 
 By nature and by study, he won hearts 
 And found companionships. The honour came 
 He did not seek ; but more, the wisdom came 
 That he had sought so fondly and so well, — 
 Wisdom, the fruit of self-denying years 
 And studious toil, whose ripe abundance filled 
 His eager spirit ; and with it there came 
 Eternal wisdom, such as He alone 
 Can give who giveth unupbraidingly 
 And with a generous hand to all who ask, 
 Filling the soul's wide vessel to the full, 
 And mellowing while gladdening all the life. 
 
 ' Lifted from poverty, he sought not wealth, 
 But took the little he had won, and went 
 To live a useful, uneventful life, 
 Out from the world's great city-heat, and from 
 The sweep of her fierce tempests, which strike down 
 The sons of earth's ambition, who seek fame, 
 And power, and eminence, at cost of all 
 The calmnesses and charities of life. 
 
 ' And one went with him to his sweet retreat, 
 Whom he had loved and sought, but loved and sought 
 For years in vain. Her friends in pride had said 
 That she should wed herself to nobler blood, 
 And she had yielded to their pride ; yet still 
 Her soul was his, even when she stood aloof. 
 And she was worthy of his lofty spirit ; 
 Nor could she hide from him the secret joy 
 His presence gave, even when her words were cold. 
 He won her at the last, with all her worth, 
 And he forgave her these slow years of pain, 
 
line 269] BOOK V. 117 
 
 In which she loved as tho' she loved him not, — < 
 Forgave her for her beauty and her love. 
 
 ' The freckled sky bent mildly over them, 
 The sun went softly thro' the snowy clouds, 
 The scent of many a rose was in the air, 
 The west wind wooed the clover in its bloom, 
 And, like a lover's breath upon the cheek, 
 Made each rich blossom quiver with delight, 
 Wandering unbidden o'er the glowing heath, 
 On that fair noon when before man and God 
 They vowed the holy vow that made them one. 
 
 ' 'Twas a chill, livid eve when they returned 
 And crossed the threshold of their future home. 
 The sky looked wan and weary, and the gale, 
 In haste to strip the forest, swept along 
 O'er the desponding earth ; and as it went, 
 Smote the slow pulses of the shivering sea, 
 And roused them to the tempest's fever-heat. 
 For miles along the level sand, the surf 
 Rose like a silver ledge to fringe the gloom ; 
 While farther out the breakers foamed and fell, 
 Their long grey tresses loosened in the breeze, 
 Deep calling unto deep in tumult wild. 
 The near seemed cheerless, and the far had lost 
 The clear, calm outline which to distance gives 
 Its sweet and finished loveliness ; the clouds 
 Seemed mountains, and the mountains seemed like 
 
 clouds, 
 So mingled and confused was earth with heaven. 
 
 ' " Is this a shadow," said they to each other, 
 " Even now begun to fall upon our lot ? 
 
n8 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 299. 
 
 Or shall we set the noon against the night, 
 And take the presage from the former ? Or, 
 Yet better, shall we fling all omens off, 
 And look above the darkness and the light 
 To Him, the Guider of our course, with whom 
 Dwelleth no night, and into whose fair heaven 
 Clouds cannot come, nor tempest, nor the bolt 
 Of the capricious lightning, nor the chills 
 Of winter, nor the tainted breath of sickness, 
 Nor the hot tear, nor sigh of broken heart, 
 Nor sin, the bitter fountain-head of all 
 The ills that wander o'er this helpless earth ? 
 
 ' " Then on we move ; thro' darkness or thro' light, 
 Thro' the thorn-thicket or the garden-walk, 
 O'er the rough mountain or the easy plain, 
 All will be well. The tent is not the palace, 
 The desert is not Eden ; but the love 
 Which fills yon heaven is ours for evermore, 
 Shorter or longer let our journey be, 
 O'er every scene the blessed cross sheds day, 
 And love is leaning o'er us from the height 
 Of the invisible heavens, still bidding us 
 Look up and love, look up and taste the joy. 
 Day unto day is uttering happy speech, 
 Night unto night revealeth wisdom there. 
 The cross where He, the Light of light, once hung, 
 In conflict with the Prince of Darkness, shines 
 In heavenly gladness, piercing every shade ; 
 From it distilleth health, and up from it 
 There wells the water of immortal life. 
 Ours be the faith which turns all ill to good ! 
 
line 330.] BOOK V. 119 
 
 Ours the quick ear that can take in far music, 
 
 And learn both song and tune ! Ours the keen eyes 
 
 That can see angels where no others can ! 
 
 Then on we move, to face each coming storm ; 
 
 Brief is the day of tempests, brief the age 
 
 Of ill, the end of which is endless calm. 
 
 Shall He, beneath whose everlasting wing 
 
 We have sought shelter, e'er forget us ? Yes ; 
 
 When the neglectful sea forgets its tides, 
 
 Or skies grow weary of their glorious stars, 
 
 Or the sun trips in mid-air, — rushes off 
 
 Into the distance of oblivious space, — 
 
 Then we may be forgotten ; nay, not then, 
 
 Not even then ; — let all the universe 
 
 Break loose or crumble into ancient dust, 
 
 There still remains the constant love of God. 
 
 No flux of tide in that eternal love ; 
 
 Always the same, a calm, unchanging sea, 
 
 Which never knew a shipwreck nor a storm." 
 
 ' Two tranquil years they lived, and then she 
 passed 
 To be with Him whom, seeing not, she loved ; 
 Leaving behind her here a happy child, 
 Fair as her mother, and as full of love ; 
 Who, as her womanhood came on, found one 
 Whose heart was hers, to whom she gave herself ; 
 And for a season sunshine seemed to come 
 Back to her father's dwelling and her own. 
 That season was not long ; the cloud returned, 
 And brought with it a double grief and gloom : 
 Her heart's beloved perished in the deep ; 
 
120 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 360. 
 
 She pined, and followed him ; one child she left, 
 Sole prop and solace of the aged sire. 
 
 ' Him found I in his solitude, — the friend 
 Whose worth and learning we had ofttimes proved 
 In other days, when both were in our prime. 
 He told me all, speaking with that deep calm 
 Which lengthened sorrow brings, and with that 
 
 tone 
 Of solemn cheerfulness oft given to men 
 Whose days are closing, and who know that soon 
 They shall rejoin the lost, o'ertaking those 
 Who had outstripped them in the race of time. 
 " Here she was born," he said, " my child of hope, 
 And here I saw her die, on the same couch 
 Where she who bare her died, long years before. 
 This is her child, a mother's orphan love, 
 All boyhood's brightness nestling in his cheek. 
 He calls me father, for his own he knew not, 
 Save by his picture yonder, and his tomb 
 In that green hollow, where the name, — no more, — 
 Is cleanly carved on the enduring stone. 
 Mother and father, sister, brother, all 
 Am I to him, my thrice-beloved boy : 
 Dear for thyself art thou, thy joyous self, 
 Staff of my right hand, upon which my age 
 Leaneth so fondly in my wanderings here ; 
 Dear, too, for her that bare thee ; all her face 
 Mirrored in thine, and all her voice in thine 
 Echoed so truly ; — O my summer-rose, 
 Which the cold night-blast struck down from the stem, 
 Thou art not here to shed thy fragrance round ! 
 
line 390.] BOOK V. 121 
 
 Thou, the bright May-bud, — this, the glistening dew- 
 drop 
 Which thou didst clasp within thy opening folds. 
 
 ' "You see her tomb, — her own, her husband's grave, 
 In the low nook which for herself she chose, 
 Hard by the happy streamlet, and as far 
 As might be from the melancholy sound 
 Of the cold sea, beneath whose fatal surge 
 He whom she loved, and on whose arm she leaned 
 A few fair years, went down, when with brave arm 
 He fought the foaming breaker, as it swept 
 On to the sinking shell of the strong barque, 
 Which the fierce north wind flung upon the rocks. 
 To the wild cry of shipwreck quick responding, 
 He braved the billow in its strength, and led 
 The hope forlorn into the deadly breach, 
 And in that ocean found an early grave. 
 He swam for life ; the stalwart arm struck out, 
 And seemed to conquer for a time ; he rose 
 And faced the storm ; but the resistless wave 
 Proved stronger than his arm, and bore him down. 
 Flinging upon the wreck the shorebound line, 
 He sank, and rose not ; — with him all in me 
 That we call life went down and disappeared. 
 
 ' " Unsympathizing sea, absorbing man 
 And all man's sweetest loves and tenderest hopes 
 In thy cold gloom ; upon thy heartless wave 
 Hither and thither tossing in thy mirth 
 The corpse of age or smiling infancy, 
 Of noble youth or gentle womanhood, 
 To fling them on the slippery rock afar, 
 
122 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 420. 
 
 Unshrouded, 'mid the tangle and the foam, 
 
 And sending up into the brooding air 
 
 The mocking laughter of thy greedy surge ! 
 
 Ungracious and inexorable sea ! 
 
 Unlike this mother-earth, which giveth back 
 
 All lovingly the sacred seed we sow 
 
 In her fond bosom thousand-thousand-fold, 
 
 Thou graspest all, but thou restorest none j 
 
 Insatiable in thy hunger, in thy caves 
 
 Far underneath the tide of moving green, 
 
 Unfathomed and unvisited of man, 
 
 Burying them deep, without a monument 
 
 Or turf to mark the lone, lone place of love. 
 
 Soon shall I follow ; life to me no more 
 
 Is life upon this desolated earth. 
 
 'Tis not that dying sun alone that haunts me, 
 
 As o'er yon level forest he goes down, 
 
 And tells me that another day is gone ; 
 
 It is the memory of suns long set, 
 
 Linked with old loves and joys, with looks and voices 
 
 That have all passed, and come not back again, 
 
 Or only come in visions of the night, 
 
 Like the lark's song heard far above our heads, 
 
 As from an unseen lute amid the clouds. 
 
 ' " Care for this boy when I am gone, and may 
 A brighter course than mine to him be given ! 
 I would be gone ; for him alone I live. 
 Already has the deep home-sickness come, 
 Which men of mountain-lands are said to feel 
 In exile, when the visions of the past 
 Rise up to view, and beckon their return. 
 
line 45 1 .] BOOK V. 123 
 
 God makes the blind bird's nest, the proverb says, 
 
 And I am blind with sorrow ; so to Him 
 
 And to His Christ I do commit whate'er 
 
 Or long or short remains of life to me. 
 
 Care for the boy, my friend, when I am gone. 
 
 A few years longer than myself, perhaps, 
 
 Thou may'st be spared ; oh, watch his sunbright hours, 
 
 That no polluting shadow dim their gold ; 
 
 From the thick evils of a perilous world 
 
 Guard thou his youth, and help to shape his course 
 
 In ways of uprightness when life is fresh 
 
 And flexible, ere conscience has been seared 
 
 And the heart petrified with early vice. 
 
 Earth's air is dull and damp ; it suiteth not 
 
 The tender bud or the new-opened blossom. 
 
 Its summer's sun inebriates the soul, 
 
 Its winter's chill freezes the springs of faith, 
 
 And hard it is in such ungenial clime 
 
 To bring to ripeness spring's fair promises. 
 
 Oh, teach him to be true to man and God ; 
 
 Set his face stedfast to the eternal light, 
 
 The light of Him who dwelleth in the light, 
 
 And with whom darkness has no fellowship. 
 
 Take thou the helm, and teach him how to steer, 
 
 To trim the sail, to watch both tide and wind, 
 
 Shunning the sand and rock, with pilot-skill 
 
 Rounding the headlands of a stormy age, 
 
 Marking the beacon on the cliff or isle, 
 
 By no false light misled on either hand ; 
 
 Pressing with straining mast and swelling sail, 
 
 By chart and compass, thro' time's perilous deep, 
 
124 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 482. 
 
 To the safe shore on which no wreck is strewn, 
 
 Nor evil enters with its serpent-trail, 
 
 Nor sin deforms, but righteousness and peace 
 
 O'erflow in placid fulness, making all 
 
 Fair beyond thought, as in time's holy dawn 
 
 (Now long since overcast), when the first sun 
 
 Smiled o'er the beauty of this daedal earth, 
 
 And laid its light kiss on Armenian snows." 
 
 'Some years he lived, then followed those he 
 loved, 
 And sleeps with them beneath the well-known tomb. 
 The child lives on, and oft his boy-bright eye 
 Reads the dear names engraven on the stone, 
 And then looks upward to the peaceful blue. 
 What he may be when I am gone I know not, 
 But what I see gives hope of what I see not : 
 I mark the gleam of the true life within, 
 Like star that finds its way thro' broken skies, 
 Or like the first stroke of a master-pencil 
 Flung on a virgin canvas, yet to be 
 Spread out for many an eye to gaze upon, 
 To be at once a lesson and a power. 
 
 ' That which we sow is the corruptible ; 
 The incorruptible we soon shall reap. 
 'Tis weakness that we lay beneath the turf ; 
 The strength is coming in the day of strength, 
 The age of immortality and love. 
 Man measureth the known, but only God 
 Measures the unknown. Man amid the seen 
 Maketh his dwelling ; 'mid the unseen, God. 
 
line 511.] BOOK V. 125 
 
 Man in his balances the present weighs ; 
 The future, God, in more unerring scale. 
 Man needeth for his path the constant light, 
 Or else he stumbleth ; in the darkness, God 
 Moveth in majesty as in the light, 
 Darkness and light are both alike to Him. 
 What is within the veil to Him we leave ; 
 It will be fairer than what here we see, 
 It will be more enduring than the past. 
 
 ' Who falleth next on this sad battle-field 
 Of earth, where millions have already fallen ? 
 Some friend, or child, or brother, then myself ; 
 Until the level turf with myriad mounds 
 Is heaving, burdened with the endless slain ! 
 For dust we are, and shall to dust return. — 
 O winds that never weep, when will ye blow, 
 And flowers that never fade, when will ye spring ? 
 Suns that shall never scorch nor set, when shall 
 Your rising come ? O summer of the living, 
 When shall your life-day dawn ? Morn without clouds, 
 Rich with the freshness of celestial dew, 
 When will ye light up these cold hills of time ? 
 O healing Spirit, come ! There is no health 
 For the great sickness of humanity 
 But in thy warm breath, thy benignant touch. 
 Breathe on this mortal earth, and lay thy hand 
 Upon its sick-beds ; light up faded eyes ; 
 Pour immortality thro' every vein ; 
 Spoil the rank graveyard of its golden dust, 
 And cover the dead earth with holy life. 
 
 ' So mused I as I left my friend's abode, 
 
126 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 542. 
 
 Returning homewards, all the history 
 Of our past threescore years awaking fresh 
 To memory, and calling calmly up 
 Thought upon thought, as scene on scene arose. 
 ' They are not silences that dwell around us 
 Outside the curtain of this noisy earth, — 
 Sorrowful silences, as men have dreamed. 
 The universe is God's, and He is there, 
 The great inhabitant of all we see, 
 And all we see not ; yet Himself distinct 
 From all His handiworks, the living God, 
 In whom we live and move and have our being. 
 The spheres are there, with all our melodies ; 
 They whom we loved are there ; they are not dead, 
 But gone within the veil, to reappear 
 When evening comes, like the light-buried stars. 
 What we call space is not vacuity, 
 Silent and cold, like a forsaken hall, 
 Or wilderness untenanted by man. 
 The angels' tents are there, unseen by us, 
 And angels' songs are sung, by us unheard. 
 The past does not absorb us, nor destroy 
 The life which age by age is passing in 
 Within its gates of shadow and of awe. 
 We live upon the past, and that which we 
 Call death becomes our life ; the things of old 
 Are always new, yielding to us each day 
 Their never-ending lessons of deep truth. 
 Its strength the palm-tree drinks from the dry sand, 
 And the vine feeds on ashes ; we build up 
 Our daily being out of that which was, 
 
line 573.] BOOK V. 127 
 
 But is not, — things and men of other times, 
 
 The ruins of old shrines and palaces, 
 
 The habitations of the ages gone, 
 
 Love's relics, friendship's gifts, the faded flowers 
 
 That when they perished left our garden bare. 
 
 We live upon the dead, and we in turn 
 
 Shall yet be lived upon by those who loved us, 
 
 When, like our fathers, we have shed our tears, 
 
 And done our work, and fought the fight of time 
 
 ' O fruitful past ! exhaustless treasure-house 
 Of untold wealth ! prolific soil, in which 
 The present sows itself, and out of which 
 There comes not one brief harvest, but a long 
 And blessed reaping for the sons of man ! 
 Much has the present hour in store for us 
 Of happy wisdom, gleaned from each new day, 
 To make us truer, nobler, holier men. 
 We would go forth, and from the thriftless air 
 The hoarded sunshine pluck at will ; and yet 
 It is from summers long since out of sight, 
 . And suns long set, we gather truest life. 
 The present has a near and low horizon ; 
 That of the past is measureless. The world, 
 The busy world, that lives in its own day, 
 Lies fiat upon the ground and sees no stars ; 
 Its face is downward, and it clutches fast 
 The golden or the iron bars of earth. 
 We would look out upon the ages gone, 
 Dig their old mines for treasure, search their seas 
 For pearls that nowhere else on earth are found. 
 The true is there, and even the fabulous, 
 
128 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 604. 
 
 Tho' teeming with the false and dark, at times 
 Contains the true ; like Scandinavian woods, 
 Where iron tales were told from iron lips 
 By iron men, that teach nobility 
 And hardihood of spirit to our sons. 
 
 ' The wise man's heritage is everywhere ; 
 Nowhere the fool's, tho' half a realm be his. 
 The wise man gleans in every field, and finds 
 No mine exhausted, no truth stale or poor. 
 Honouring the tree, tho' lowly, under which 
 His father and his father's father once 
 Found shelter, he sits down beneath its shade. 
 For old men's words are true, he says ; old thoughts 
 Grow milder and more mellow with their years, 
 And their grey hairs are comely ; he would treat 
 The past with reverence, yet sifting still 
 The evil from the good, and wondering when 
 Truth, now half-hidden, shall spring up in strength 
 From the dull soil, and spread o'er every field. 
 The rude, loquacious present, and the past, — 
 The tranquil past, — how different in their mien 
 And their instruction ! Yet how well we know 
 That silent lessons root themselves the deepest, 
 And bear the brightest fruit. — The file of time, 
 Inaudible, eats thro' earth's iron bars, 
 Opening the dungeons of our fettered race ; 
 As once the angel, with mysterious touch, 
 Threw wide the gate, and bade the messenger 
 Of heavenly truth go forth in liberty 
 At midnight from his Syrian prison-house, 
 With, " Gird thyself and bind thy sandals on, 
 
line 635.] BOOK V. 129 
 
 Fling thy cloak round thee, up and follow me." 
 
 Yet the cells close again, and other chains, 
 
 Brighter perhaps, but stronger, bind the race. 
 
 The day of true celestial liberty, 
 
 The era of a liberated world, 
 
 Of chains for ever broken, has not come. 
 
 The sword of truth with its mute edge hews down 
 
 The falsehoods of the ages everywhere ; 
 
 Yet still they rise again. The old soil, still 
 
 Fruitful in ill, retains its poison-roots, 
 
 And yields a harvest of yet deadlier growth. 
 
 ' And yet I know that ill shall have an end, 
 And time's disorder into order rise. 
 The deluge that has covered this fair globe 
 With its disastrous waters shall ere long 
 Be dried, rolled back from off a suffering soil, 
 And pent up in the caverns whence it came. 
 These sifting winds of earth shall sink in balm ; 
 This strife of nature shall at length be still, 
 The storm-song sink into a dying fall, 
 And the chafed air breathe only summer-peace. 
 All life's entangled knots unravelled then ; 
 The inky stains, in millions dropped upon 
 The once fair page of this unblemished earth, 
 Sponged out by Him who made it fair at first ! 
 
 ' Evil ! I meet thee in my daily walk ; 
 And first I tremble sorely ; then I ask, 
 " But whither goest thou ? " Thou answerest, 
 " To where all evil ends, all sorrows die." 
 So let it be. But yet it seems as if 
 The day of gladness were too long deferred. 
 
130 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 666. 
 
 ' Suns of the past, whose settings now are done, 
 Shine out on us with all your treasured warmth 
 And ancient grandeur, as when ye arose 
 On Eden and its joys, or lighted up 
 The peaks of Ararat, or shone upon 
 Shinar and Ur and Haran, all along 
 The pilgrim-life of the believing man, 
 Who went where the great Voice commanded him, 
 Where the celestial glory guided him, — 
 He knew not whither ; or as when ye shone 
 On Zion with its marble palaces ; 
 Or on Moriah's temple blazing full, 
 In the rich glow of Oriental gold, 
 Hour after hour around its glowing walls 
 And smoking altar ; or as when ye saw 
 The Roman firebrand kindle its last flames, 
 The Roman battle-axe come thundering down 
 Upon its cedar-work, till all was ruin, — 
 Gate, wall, and rampart flung into the depths 
 Of the dark hollow that engirds her round, — 
 The smoking ruin bubbling up with blood. 
 
 ' Suns of the past, that lighted up old Troy, 
 And wreathed fair Ida with your joyous glow ; 
 And gleamed on Salamis, or bronzed the Nile ; 
 And struck the lyre of Memnon, or stole thro' 
 The pillars of Palmyra, and blazed o'er 
 The giant gates and avenues of Thebes, 
 Or watched the rising of the Pyramids, 
 Or chisellings of Assyrian palaces 
 And the great idols of the Nimrod fanes ; 
 And saw Phoenician Carthage rise and fall, 
 
LINE 697.] BOOK V. 131 
 
 And Rome ascend her ancient seven-hilled throne ; 
 
 That shone upon old Britain's sullen wastes, 
 
 And Caledonian forests, ere they knew 
 
 A history, and stored up within their mines 
 
 The dormant fire, that like a prisoned spirit 
 
 Was to awake in later days, and make 
 
 This isle the wonder of an envious world. 
 
 Suns of the city and the silent waste ! 
 
 Suns of the sea-swept cliff and dew-bright plain, 
 
 That gleam along the river, light the glen, 
 
 Or gild the ocean, o'er whose ancient face 
 
 For ages ye have shone in calm or storm ! 
 
 Suns of earth's sapphire roof, beneath whose bend 
 
 Time's deeds have all been done, time's words all spoken, 
 
 Time's mighty changes wrought ! — I turn to you, 
 
 And ask you to reveal the hoarded secrets, 
 
 Evil and good, that ye have witnessed here. 
 
 ' Ye cannot tell the future, nor can see 
 Into its boundless distances, tho' high 
 Your station be above the hills of earth 
 And clouds of time. Yet, as I look on you, 
 I muse on what you one day shall behold 
 Hereafter, when the ages shall unroll 
 The long, long hidden good in store for man, 
 And bid creation doff its withered leaves 
 To clothe itself with spring, — resplendent spring, 
 The spring of heavenly verdure, holy peace, 
 All purity, all beauty, and all love. 
 
 ' Then heaven has come to earth, and earth is heaven ; 
 The shadow of the tomb has passed away, 
 And all is life ; each mortal mist is gone, 
 
132 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 728. 
 
 And earth is fair once more ; death is dethroned, 
 Its sceptre shivered, and itself a name 
 Among the fallen potentates of old, 
 That moulder in dishonoured sepulchres, 
 That have been, and yet are not, nor again 
 Shall ever be. The breaker up of love, 
 The sunderer of families, the fierce, 
 Remorseless foe of man exists no more : 
 The spoiler now is spoiled, the prison-house 
 Is emptied, and the prisoners go forth 
 With song and joy ; the long captivity 
 Is now avenged ; the broken heart is healed, 
 The tears are wiped, the age of light begun. 
 
 ' Sun of the coming age, how long shall these 
 Deep clouds of evil that pollute our sky 
 Delay thy dawn and muffle all thy beams ? 
 Rise in thy strength, and bid the night be gone ; 
 Go forth in haste, O pure and perfect Light, 
 Do battle with the darkness of the world, 
 And overcome ; rear trophies everywhere ; 
 Dissolve the dazzling error ; glorify 
 The truth, and send it forth enrobed in power, 
 To do its work among the sons of men. 
 The frost of unbelief now covers earth, 
 Whitens its fields and binds its joyous streams, 
 Sparkling, yet, in that very sparkling, cold. 
 Shine out, and with thy universal warmth 
 Melt down this frozen darkness, dissipate 
 Each vapour that would dim the eye, O Sun ! 
 Bid the false vanish, and the true appear. 
 
 ' All that is true in worship must have root 
 
line 759-] BOOK V. 133 
 
 In truth, eternal truth, and not in dreams. 
 
 All that is real in service, or in that 
 
 Which men religion call, must be the offspring 
 
 Of truth, and not of error or of doubt. 
 
 For he who deals with God must know the God 
 
 To whom he cometh, and must know the way 
 
 By which the Holy is to be approached 
 
 By the unholy, or for prayer or praise. 
 
 ' True Light, whose place of dawn shall be the East, 
 The ancient East, old birthplace of the true, 
 Array thyself in majesty, and come ! 
 Out from fair Salem's rock-hewn sepulchre 
 Thou comest in the greatness of thy strength 
 And brightness of Thy beauty, scattering gloom 
 And pouring out Thy gifts of peace. Not like 
 That which so fatally once issued from 
 The fabled casket of the all-gifted one, 
 Filled with all human woes, to be let loose 
 Upon a hapless race ; but like the sweetness 
 Of the rare spikenard-box of old, once broken 
 To anoint the Holy One, which filled the room 
 With odour, such as told of heaven itself ; — 
 So from the opened sepulchre come forth, 
 Fair sun, and with the fragrance hidden there, 
 Immortal, irresistible, divine, 
 Breathe o'er this sickly soil, and sweeten all 
 Our atmosphere with everlasting health.' 
 
BOOK VI. 
 
 ' I WAS not born amid the beautiful ; 
 
 I am no dalesman, child of rock and stream ; 
 
 Nor have I lived among the scenes on which 
 
 The eye of culture rests.' — So writes another, 
 
 Whose noble memory is fragrant still. — 
 
 ' I have known little of the laughing earth ; 
 
 My way has been amid the toils of life, 
 
 Through the dun smoke of furnaces, and sound 
 
 Of hammers and of fire-blasts, day by day. 
 
 Scant measure of the golden sun these eyes 
 
 Have seen, and seldom has the song of birds 
 
 Cheered me ; the music of the merry morn 
 
 And sorrow-sweetening eve have not been mine ; 
 
 Not mine the balm of garden or of field, 
 
 The breath of waving woods, the chant of streams ; 
 
 Not mine the May-buds, with their summer-eyes 
 
 Bright as bright starlets, looking up to heaven. 
 
 A shaded world I've known; and the dim years 
 
 Have wandered on in cold monotony, 
 
 Almost from childhood ; and yet I have felt 
 
 A heart within me beating warm and free, 
 
 That longed to get outside of this volcano, 
 
 To pierce these murky wreaths that close me in, 
 
line 24.] BOOK VI. ' 135 
 
 And see the beauty of the world without, 
 
 Of whose fair skies so many lips were speaking. 
 
 Free blood is always warm, and the free warmth 
 
 Expands our being's every part, and is 
 
 A birthright of itself, a heritage 
 
 Of strength and greatness to the common soul, 
 
 Of which it was not otherwise the heir. 
 
 Now strong, now weak, I knew myself all o'er ; 
 
 Now flushed, now pale, as the veins filled and emptied, 
 
 And the soul ebbed and flowed, immured within, 
 
 And seeking to escape its prison-house. 
 
 ' I was not poor nor rich, tho' from my youth 
 A son of labour, yet of labour which 
 Had disciplined my soul, and taught me much. 
 Men may buy gold too dear, but wisdom never ; 
 At a great price had I my knowledge bought, 
 Thro' years of change, yet deemed it cheaply won. 
 I did not scorn the toil, nor think myself 
 Ignoble among men because of it. 
 All blood is ancient, poor and rich alike ; 
 I knew that all the keys of earth do not 
 Hang on the rich man's girdle ; and I saw 
 All seek their own, like rowers, every man 
 Pulling toward himself: I set my feet 
 Upon the stedfast ground, and needed not 
 To prop my fortunes with another's wealth. 
 All is not visible that helps ; there comes 
 Full many a blessed angel, unawares 
 And all unseen, to give us strength in hours 
 Of weakness or of sorrow, when our cry 
 To man is vain, and all things are against us ; 
 
136 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 55. 
 
 To stay us up when falling, or avert 
 
 The perilous stroke from the quick-cleaving sword, 
 
 Or to divert the lightning from its path, 
 
 That would have slain us with its angry edge. 
 
 ' I saw men lean upon their fellow-men, 
 And with them fall. I saw men wildly plunge 
 Into life's faithless marshes, there to sink. 
 In giddy crowds, I saw my fellow-men 
 Walk over broken arches, as if all 
 Were solid pavement, dropping one by one 
 Into the foam below. Content to pass 
 In unambitious calm to the one goal 
 On beaten paths, I neither rose nor fell. 
 The little bird, they say, builds little nest, 
 So I, with little gold, pass thro' this world 
 As one who has few wants, and ask not much 
 For a rough journey that so soon will end. 
 Better the free bird of the barren moor 
 Than the caged eagle of the castle hall. 
 He that wants gold must dig for it ; and he 
 Who seeks a harvest must both till and sow. 
 Sow not the sea, nor plough the shingle-slope ; 
 'Tis labour lost, 'tis time clean cast away. 
 Choose the good soil and seed, nor sow the wind, 
 Lest thou reap but the whirlwind ; sow not folly, 
 Lest thou reap madness ; seek not mighty things, 
 Nor aim at lofty place or purple pomp. 
 Crowns cure no heartaches, and the blazing hall 
 Of midnight, decked for pleasure's gayest mirth, 
 Pours in no light into the troubled soul. 
 More than a gate of iron does it need 
 
line 86.] BOOK VI. 137 
 
 To keep out want, and yet it no less needs 
 More than a gate of gold to keep out fear 
 And sorrow from the heart in evil days, 
 Or bar the entrance of the foe of foes. 
 Death comes altho' no trumpet should be blown, 
 As night will come even tho' no curfew sounds. 
 Call that alone your own which no one here 
 Has given you, and of which no man can rob you. 
 Good cannot come too often or too soon, 
 Nor can ill visit us too seldom, yet 
 How little know we what is good or ill ! 
 This only do we know of certainty, 
 That either we must die the early death, 
 Or toil and suffer much : such is the lot 
 Of man and woman ; such the discipline 
 By which the soul is purged, and meetened for 
 The kingdom of the sorrowless above. 
 The path between the cradle and the coffin, 
 Be it or long or short, is never smooth. 
 The ladder to the City is the cross. 
 Yet oftentimes we double all our grief 
 By moody visions of imagined ills, 
 And shrink from that which we shall never see. 
 ' If I would know the Highest, I must stoop 
 And take the lowest place, for only there 
 Will He reveal Himself, and tell me all 
 The greatness of His everlasting love. 
 If I would find the Highest, I must rise 
 And soar above this cloud-encompassed globe. 
 And yet our roots of being are beneath 
 And not above this perishable soil. 
 
138 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 117. 
 
 In secrecy and silence our true life 
 
 Gathers its strength and stores up all its beauty ; 
 
 Then shoots above the surface, spreads itself 
 
 To the fresh breeze and vital sunshine, thus 
 
 To blossom and to ripen its rich fruit. 
 
 The vine of life needs training ; and it asks 
 
 Both cold and heat, the midnight and the noon. 
 
 It roots itself in ashes, yet it climbs 
 
 All heights ; and from its lofty terraces 
 
 It shakes its fruit exulting, to refresh 
 
 The toiling dwellers in the vale below. 
 
 Let no one say, To this I'll never stoop ; 
 
 I was not born for this ; a higher lot 
 
 I claim than that of bondsman to the soil. 
 
 Thou know'st not what is coming on the earth, — 
 
 How low thou may'st be brought ere life be done. 
 
 Say not, This brackish well I will not taste ; 
 
 Ere long thou may'st give thanks that even this 
 
 Is left for thee in such a burning waste. 
 
 Nor say, Let me enjoy my lightsome youth, 
 
 And take my fill of folly ; then repent, 
 
 And so undo the evil. Is it so ? 
 
 Does tainted blood thus easily run pure ? 
 
 Are wasted years thus easily recalled ? — 
 
 Unstring the bow, but will that heal the wound 
 
 Made by its shaft ? Or sheathe the angry sword, — 
 
 Will that give back the blood which it has shed ? 
 
 ' But I am wandering. Yet thoughts like these 
 Would oft rise up within me as I went 
 And came with easy step and easier heart, 
 
LINE 147.] BOOK VI. 139 
 
 To fill up day by day my round of toil, — 
 
 Toil without care, whose nights were calm and sweet. 
 
 ' Not once, nor twice, I took my eager way 
 Beyond this smoky canopy ; I longed 
 To gaze upon the virgin-world without, 
 Unsoiled with earthly vapour, such as here 
 Hideth the fair face of the universe, 
 Its stars and sun, its hills and woods and flowers, 
 Its buoyant streams and unpolluted sea. 
 The city was my home ; as such I loved it ; 
 And yet there seemed a glorious belt of light 
 Girdling it round afar, which wooed me hence, 
 And ofttimes drew me out beyond its gloom. 
 These cities are the mysteries of earth, 
 The undredged ocean-depths of human ill. 
 I cannot fathom, nor can read aright 
 The meaning of this human chaos, which 
 Lies all around me, heap on heap, and I 
 An atom of the smallest of these heaps ! 
 The goodness and the crime, the joy and grief, 
 The song and silence, mirth and bitter tears, 
 The dying and the living all are here, 
 Crowded together like the ashes flung 
 From its great heart of fire by some volcano. 
 I love the night of cities, when deep sleep 
 Falls on the many thousands who all day 
 Toil 'mid their noise. Their noon, no doubt, is dim ; 
 The sweat of labour is on each wan face, 
 And pleads for rest and silence ; but their midnight 
 Is like the desert when the winds are low, 
 Or the great sea when tempests are at rest. 
 
r40 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 178. 
 
 The livelong day I seem to hear but man, 
 
 And man's monotonous, never-ending shout 
 
 Of anger, or of bustle, or of fret : 
 
 The night brings back the still small voice of God. 
 
 The day has eyes, but the blind night has ears ; 
 
 So said the ancients. Let us borrow, then, 
 
 The ears of night, and listen, as the notes 
 
 Come from afar upon the lonely spirit, 
 
 To teach the wisdom which the day denies. 
 
 I loved to gather flowers ; I bade them grow 
 
 Beneath my window in the narrow nook 
 
 I called a garden, tho' the dust and smoke 
 
 Tainted their fragrance, sullied their bright bloom. 
 
 But the pure flowers without I loved the best, 
 
 And sought them out o'er many a pleasant mile, 
 
 When welcome holidays brought liberty, 
 
 And drew my steps to moor or field or hill, 
 
 Leaving behind the city's sultry smoke. 
 
 The orchis of the marsh I plucked ; the bindwood, 
 
 That on the hedges hangs its white and purple ; 
 
 The primrose and the daffodil, that scent 
 
 First summer's maiden air ; the buttercup, 
 
 Spangling the meadow with its brilliant gold ; 
 
 The timid violet, that hides the bud 
 
 From which the sweetness breathes ; the pimpernel, 
 
 That prophesies of coming rain or sunshine ; 
 
 The star of Bethlehem, which I have heard 
 
 Grows goodliest in Judea's desolate vales ; 
 
 The lovelorn lily, leaning o'er her stem 
 
 And spilling her fresh odours on the ground ; 
 
 The sweet-pea, sweetest of the sweet in scent, 
 
line 209.J BOOK VI. 141 
 
 With all the rainbow on its blushing buds ; 
 
 The lily of the valley, sheathed in green ; 
 
 The snowdrop, smiling o'er departed winter, 
 
 And yellow crocus, singing, " Spring is come." 
 
 I found few flowers erect ; they droop, some more, 
 
 Some less, however loved and visited, 
 
 Hanging their heads upon the stem, afraid 
 
 To look straight at the sun, or take the stroke 
 
 Of the descending rain ; save only one, 
 
 The water-lily, as it floats upon 
 
 The tranquil lake, and gazes ever up 
 
 In rain or sunshine on the welcome heavens. 
 
 Which shall I be, I said, — the one erect, 
 
 Fearless of heat and storm, or bending o'er 
 
 Upon our mother earth, like all the rest ? 
 
 Drooping or upright, let me still inhale 
 
 The breath of God, and drink the light of heaven. 
 
 ' Some miles away, unsoiled by smoke and dust, 
 Spread out a spacious moor ; its solitude 
 To me was sweet society. Slow years 
 Have passed since last I lay amid its heath ; 
 Yet, fresh as yesterday, I call it back. 
 Round yon green hillock the faint-scented broom 
 Entwines a coronet of matchless gold ; 
 Here the sweet-briar, with its fragile rose, 
 Hard by some sapling birch exhales its joy ; 
 There the bog-myrtle, covering miles of moor, 
 Wastes its wild perfume ; and the meadow-queen 
 Sweeter than all, and beautiful as sweet, 
 Adorns the marsh. O untrained loveliness, 
 And odours as untutored, of these wilds, 
 
142 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 240. 
 
 That have no eye to see them, and no fond 
 Enthusiast like myself to drink their breath ; 
 Of what a glorious world ye form a part, 
 And that no mean one ! Wondrous wilderness ! 
 Uncivilised and barren, yet how fair ! 
 I would not blot you from the face of earth, 
 Nor turn you into gardens. Hold your own 
 Against the encroaching culture of the age, 
 And sparkle on, ye gems of ancient days, 
 Pure relics of old nature in its prime. 
 
 ' One flower I found, and loved above the rest, 
 The rose of roses did it seem to me ; 
 I plucked it from the garden where it grew, 
 And brought it gently home to grow in mine. 
 You knew its worth and loveliness. Bright eve 
 Was that when first she stood beneath my roof 
 And lighted up my dwelling, — fair and young, 
 Her lot seemed glad, for holy love was in it, 
 That maketh all things bright ; our cup ran o'er. 
 We praised the Giver of the gushing joy, 
 Walking together o'er the restless earth, 
 With faces set to the eternal hills. 
 Good to be loved and good to love it was ; 
 To be, each to the other, all in all ; 
 Sweet to be little known, and to retire 
 Into each other, like the flowers at even, 
 Closing their petals till the morning break. 
 Nearest to God, they say, is he who has 
 The fewest wants : our wants were small and few ; 
 There seemed no place to wound us on. The storm 
 
line 270.] BOOK VI. 143 
 
 That struck the tree-tops or the ambitious spire, 
 Passed over us ; we were not high enough 
 To feel its rage. Yet with the wedding-ring 
 Come cares as well as joys ; for sorrow lifts 
 The poor man's latch, and sits down at his hearth. 
 The valley that escapes the upper storm 
 Receives the flood that rushes from the hills. 
 
 ' Three children filled our home with infant-mirth, 
 Each voice a melody, each face a flower ; 
 They shone and left us, not to reappear 
 Until the grave gives up its holy dust. 
 
 ' Our little ones all died in summer-time : 
 No winter's frost thickened their parting breath ; 
 No cutting March-wind smote their tender cheeks, 
 Nor chilling snow upon their coffins fell, 
 But only sunshine. There was kindly grass 
 To lay above the mould, and roses fresh 
 To sprinkle on the turf, a fair blue sky 
 To cover all, and tell that God is love, 
 And that which sin has done will love undo. 
 I thought it strange that summer breath should kill ; 
 And yet 'twas better thus to lay them down, 
 Swathed in soft sunshine, likest to themselves, 
 And that amid such brightness they should pass 
 Up to the fields which no wan winter chills, 
 And where they rest until the wondrous dawn. 
 Day of the great undoing ! When wilt thou 
 Arrive to smite the spoiler, pluck the spoil 
 From his unpitying hands, refill the heart, 
 Aching and empty, with its treasured gems, 
 That for a season have thus passed away ? 
 
144 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 301. 
 
 When shall the Healer of the sick earth come ? 
 Creation sighs for Him ; man's weary frame 
 Asks for His coming ; maimed humanity- 
 Bids Him make haste ; each deathbed crieth, Come ; 
 Each broken heart appeals to His great pity, 
 And asks Him not to tarry ; earth's deep graveyards, 
 Filled with the relics of lost love, cry out 
 And say, How long ? Man's never-resting heart, 
 Drooping by reason of His absence, pleads 
 For His arrival, turning wistfully 
 To the still clouded east, expecting dawn. 
 O day of promised health, when wilt thou come? 
 The fore-glow is not yet upon the clouds, 
 And the tall peaks are still asleep in gloom ; 
 The snowy sheath upon the ancient hills 
 Is still without its streak of morning gold. 
 The day-star lingers, and the ocean sighs, 
 The forest waves its boughs, and eagerly 
 Beckons the lingering sunshine. Morn of morns, 
 When wilt thou dawn, and bring the eternal noon ? 
 
 Another child was born to us ; — alas ! 
 That life should bring death with it, and that joy 
 Should introduce the sorrow and the night. 
 Strange sickness smote the mother when her child 
 Was born ; the freshness faded from her face ; 
 Her cheek grew wan, and yet her eye was bright ; 
 Her step was feeble, but her spirit firm ; 
 Her voice was faint, and yet her words were strong. 
 Within the drooping heart there seemed to sit 
 A blessed angel, whispering peace divine, 
 And telling of a love that could not fail, — 
 
line 332.] BOOK VI. H5 
 
 A love whose cup of honeyed wine can make 
 The wormwood sweet, and bid the heart be still, 
 Lifting the sinking spirit into strength. 
 She knew the arm on which the helpless lean, 
 The resting-place where weary souls sit down, 
 Footsore and fainting, on Time's rugged road, 
 Beneath the heat of life's unsparing noon. 
 
 ' She loved and watched and nursed her infant joy, 
 Not long to love and watch and nurse below. 
 Each anniversary of her great grief, 
 As summer months brought round the well-known days, 
 Deepened the shadow of the past upon her, 
 And made the earth appear less truly home. 
 We spoke the words of comfort, and her eye 
 Kindled ; but kindled most whene'er we told 
 Of the reunion, where the broken links 
 Of mortal life become immortal chains, 
 Where all is endless fellowship, and where 
 The living splendour of the jasper wall 
 Shuts out the foe of life. Our words availed 
 For short relief ; the shadow came again. 
 The rivers ask not is it much or little 
 That they can pour into the craving sea, 
 But each one giveth as he hath to give : 
 So gave we to her, in her soul's sore thirst 
 And weariness, such as we had to give 
 Of gentle truth, and she was comforted ; 
 Yet needed to be comforted again 
 By a far wiser comforter than we,— 
 By Him who said, My peace I give to you, 
 Let not your heart be troubled nor afraid. 
 
146 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 363. 
 
 ' One night she hushed her babe to sleep ; lay down 
 To rest beside the crib that held her treasure, 
 And sleep the mother's ever wakeful sleep. 
 The baby slept, the mother closed her eyes ; 
 The baby woke, the mother slumbered on ; 
 The baby cried, the mother heard no cry. 
 The morning came, the mother opened not 
 Her eyes upon her darling ; her stiff ringers 
 Still grasped the cradle-string, the cradle rocked not 
 She had gone up from her last couch on earth 
 To one above, to wait the meeting-time 
 Between herself, her husband, and her babe. 
 Her last words, dropping from her lips that even, 
 Ere she lay down upon the quiet bed, 
 From which she never rose, were, " We shall be ' 
 Like Him, for we shall see Him as He is." 
 Her grave is in the churchyard, just between 
 Her little ones, and on the stone her name 
 Carved simply, with one beaming text above : 
 " Till the day break and shadows flee away." 
 
 ' Each cross has its inscription, and on mine 
 Was written legibly, " That which I do 
 Thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know here- 
 after." 
 And each cross has its well, deep, deep below, 
 And inexhaustible, — a well of life 
 For after-days of drought and barrenness. 
 Each cross, too, has its rainbow, light on cloud 
 Cast sweetly down, that all may not be dark. 
 My rainbow seemed to break, but yet upon 
 The fragment, as it hung upon the cloud, 
 
line 393.] BOOK VI 147 
 
 Right o'er a marble tomb, I read the words, 
 " The sun shall be no more thy light by day." 
 
 ' Small sorrows fret us, great ones overawe ; 
 The petty weaken, but the huge make strong, 
 And strip off the unreal and untrue. 
 The storm has grandeur in it as it splits 
 The stubborn rock, and sends its boulders down 
 Into the valley ; but the peevish gust, 
 Which in the self-will of its idleness 
 Tears the gay buds to pieces, is made light of. 
 The little cares of common life but vex ; 
 Misprized or overlooked, they pass away ; 
 The large ones lay the spirit in the dust, 
 Then lift it up again to higher greatness. 
 
 ' O sacred fire, which burneth not in vain, 
 Extracting all the sweetness of the incense, 
 Filling the temple with its gracious odour, 
 And sending up to heaven the purged praise ! 
 
 ' O inward bread, of which the sated world 
 Knows nought, in this its day of luxury, 
 When all is feasting, and the high-heaped board, 
 That scorneth fasting, feedeth every lust ! 
 
 ' O mighty spell of God, that disenchants 
 This world's bewildering beauty, strips the veil 
 Of unreal glory from the face of earth, 
 And shows us what the things around us are ! 
 Out from the clamour of the thousand sounds 
 That take all music out of life, we are 
 As m a moment snatched, and made to dwell 
 Alone, in silent converse with that world 
 Where song is sweetest, into which the loved 
 
148 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 424- 
 
 Have gone, and into which our hearts have followed, 
 As our far truer home ; from which therecomes 
 A richer melody than we have known ; 
 Whose silence seemeth but a softer sound, — 
 The lowest note on the wide-ranging scale 
 Of perfect harmony, a note that suits 
 So well the solitude of sorrow's cell. 
 
 'This home of mine, once filled with household wealth, 
 And rich in love that seemed imperishable, 
 Was now a shipwrecked vessel : four already 
 Washed overboard, the rest to follow soon. 
 But who that has not known the loss can tell 
 The desolations of the hearth, when those 
 Who gathered round it once in childhood's joy 
 Have all been taken, and each chair is empty ? 
 He who has crossed the river knows its depth, 
 Others upon the brink can only guess. 
 Sorrow lights up the cross, and takes us back 
 To the old rock of Golgotha, when night 
 Came down upon the soul of Him who, knew 
 Nor sin nor darkness, dwelling in the light 
 That fills eternity with life and day. 
 We see the Mourner, Him who bare our griefs 
 And carried all our sorrows, moving on 
 From the cold, stony cradle to the cross, 
 Under the sentence of a righteous death, 
 Because of those whose guilt was on His head ; 
 And the old hymn swells out in plaintive notes, 
 As in the ages gone, that tells of all 
 He bore : " Lugete pads angeli." 
 
 ' Beneath the shadow of the covering cross, 
 
line 455.] BOOK VI. 149 
 
 Where danger cannot reach us, and where all 
 Life's evil is transfigured into good, 
 Faith finds her refuge in the day of ill, 
 And hope re-plumes itself for higher flight. 
 True hope is always lofty, and presents 
 The skyward side of morning to the soul, 
 Bidding it look beyond these mist-wrapt hills. 
 The hope which millions live on is a shadow 
 Which never turns to substance, a thin vapour, 
 On which the sun is shining for an hour. 
 Some live on this, and with them the good time 
 Is always coming ; and some live on dreams, 
 Which never grow to waking history, 
 Nor make a doer of the dreamer ; some 
 Feed upon gloom, and can see nothing bright 
 Even in a star, or brighter than a star, 
 The happy face of laughing childhood ; some 
 Live upon mirth and roses, smiles and song, 
 As if their being were an insect's day, 
 A swallow's life upon a sunny lake. 
 Not all are glad who sing ; how many here 
 Utter a mirth which they have never felt ! 
 Not all are sorrowful who, looking round 
 With shaded forehead, and with fervid eye, 
 And grave pale face of pity, sometimes wet 
 With tears of love, on a self-cheated world, 
 Would fain relieve the anguish that they see, 
 And share their own deep ever-serious joy 
 With men whose laughter is but hollowness. 
 ' It is not everything that gold can buy ; 
 What man needs most is far beyond its reach. 
 
ISO MY OLD LETTERS. [line 486. 
 
 The joy that fills and ends not is of heaven, 
 
 And all heaven's gifts are, like the light of noon, 
 
 Free to the sons of men, or rich or poor. 
 
 There is no evil eye above, to grudge 
 
 Another's good ; 'tis only upon earth 
 
 That envy dwells. Love fills the heaven of heavens ; 
 
 For all that God has given or daily gives, 
 
 The least or largest of His liberal gifts, 
 
 Are unbought, like the dew upon the mead, 
 
 His own free love the fountain-head ; a love 
 
 In which all blessing is contained for man ; 
 
 The love that gloweth in the sun and moon, 
 
 In the rich concave of the bending arch 
 
 Or face of this all-hospitable earth, 
 
 Where love once walked in lowly majesty, — 
 
 Where heaven descended with its gifts of peace, — 
 
 Where the great life was lived, the great death died, 
 
 That death might die for ever, life might live, 
 
 And the deep grave be emptied of his prey. 
 
 ' When we are born into the world we weep, 
 We know not why, — some sudden pain, perhaps ; 
 Some chill that strikes us from the wintry world 
 On which we all unconsciously are entering ; 
 Or some foreboding of the perilous future, 
 As if the new-born soul did prophesy 
 In sad but inarticulate wail, of days 
 To come ; as if the curtain had been lifted 
 For a brief moment, and the vista given 
 To infant eyes of shaded scenes afar, 
 The changes of the threescore years and ten. 
 Thus life beginneth in unconscious tears, 
 
line 517.] BOOK VI. 151 
 
 And each day onwards does the cause reveal. 
 
 The prophet-infant looks before and weeps, 
 
 As did the Hebrew babe upon the Nile. 
 
 The old look back into the wrinkled past, 
 
 And learn the causes of their childhood's tears. 
 
 For, each day, sorrow greets us on our way, 
 
 His face becomes familiar like a friend's ; 
 
 We bid him stay one moment, while we ask 
 
 His errand : " Whence, and whither, friend, to-day ? " 
 
 He answers, " Even where I oft have been ; 
 
 The way I know, and thou shalt know it too." 
 
 ' Yet to how many are such lessons vain ! 
 Sorrow goes past them, like an empty cloud 
 That brings no rain, but merely for an hour 
 Darkens their sky. They weep, then wipe away 
 Their tears, and life assumes its smiles again. 
 More gaily than before their barque moves on, 
 The wrecks that lie beneath it all forgotten, 
 And the rude breakers of the wind-lashed sea 
 Smoothed into silver 'neath a golden sun. 
 
 ' Learn well, and learn from friend and enemy, 
 From sorrow and from joy ; learn and unlearn. 
 'Tis hardest to unlearn, for the warped will 
 Resists the teaching and repels the teacher ; 
 Erasure of long error from the mind 
 Demands a sharp and skilful discipline. 
 But yet more tedious is the process needed 
 For straightening of a long-perverted will, 
 The undoing and unlearning of the past. 
 Trust not the progress of a boastful age ; 
 Each age confutes old falsehoods, but begets 
 
152 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 548. 
 
 Others as sad as those which it explodes. 
 
 Could things be done twice over, grave men tell us, 
 
 They would be rightly done, and what one day 
 
 Was done amiss would be set straight the next. 
 
 As if men never erred but once ! So speak 
 
 The oracles of time ; and yet I know not 
 
 If such has ever been the pliancy 
 
 Even of one human will. I find, alas ! 
 
 The foolish and the wise alike refuse 
 
 To learn and to unlearn, tho' both are prompt 
 
 To teach, and wonder why their words are vain. 
 
 'Tis not for want of true words truly spoken 
 
 That man remains untaught in every age. 
 
 Adown the shaken leaf or sloping rock 
 
 The raindrop glides ; down the hard mountain-side 
 
 The streamlet pours itself; and yet both drop 
 
 And streamlet pass away without a trace 
 
 Into the valley, thence into the sea. 
 
 And yet no true word dies ; no seed is lost, 
 
 Tho' buried long. In places and at times 
 
 Least looked for, it reveals its hidden life. 
 
 ' Strange schools of earth, in which the heirs of heav'n 
 Are trained and taught. Sore lessons these we learn — 
 Hard for the heart, but harder for the will, 
 Beat into us by bitter discipline. 
 The emptying more difficult we find 
 Than all the filling ; the rubbish-heaps 
 Resist displacement from the well. Undoing 
 Taxes our will more heavily than doing ; 
 Passive endurance frets us more than toil. 
 We wonder at the length of chastisement ; 
 
UNE 579.] BOOK VI. 153 
 
 Our weaknesses we know not, nor believe 
 
 That pain can strengthen, and that heavenly fruit 
 
 Can ripen in the dark, or that the trees 
 
 Of God are braced by the cold winds of time. 
 
 He who to manhood grows without a grief 
 
 Is but half-rooted ; with a will untamed 
 
 And self undisciplined, he seeks his own. 
 
 To him no mellowness of being comes. 
 
 First taste the bitter and then drink the sweet, 
 
 So shalt thou sweetness know. First face the storm, 
 
 So shalt thou know the gladness of the calm. 
 
 ' Such is the heavenly order here below. 
 God means it so ; tho' often in the dark 
 He worketh, and men see not what He does, 
 Or what He aims at. But it comes at length ; 
 Age after age uncoils itself, and drops 
 From the long skein of past eternities. 
 Each little life of man, each longer life 
 Of nations, is the evolving of a purpose 
 Too deep for us to fathom. Yet we live 
 As if the universe were ours, and man 
 The mighty potentate, whose sovereign will 
 Might do or undo, build up or destroy. 
 The spirit of the age has never been 
 Upon the side of God. Who would be true 
 To the great Voice above, must learn to brave 
 And not to foster or to lead that spirit ; 
 Against, not with, the torrent he must steer ; 
 To fight, not to obey, the imperious breeze ; 
 Quick to discern the true significance 
 Of each new phase of action or of thought. 
 
iS4 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 6io. 
 
 Self-nurtured, self-instructed, and self-ruled, 
 
 The giddy peoples of this drunken earth 
 
 Are all astir and rampant ; each his flag 
 
 Of liberty unfurls, and marches on, 
 
 With progress as his banner-word aloft, 
 
 Waving amid the shouts of victory, 
 
 To some unknown and mist-encompassed goal. 
 
 The frantic falsehoods of delirious seers, 
 
 Who teach us that the Christ need not have died, 
 
 Or tell us that the Christ has not yet come, 
 
 Are listened to like heavenly oracles. 
 
 And how shall all this doing be undone, 
 
 These words unsaid, and the true speech of God 
 
 Go over earth, supplanting human lies ? 
 
 And how shall creaturehood be lifted up 
 
 Into a stedfast rest, that shall secure 
 
 Its various parts of matter and of mind 
 
 Against another fall, it may be, more 
 
 Dark and complete ? How shall we be assured 
 
 That no unlooked-for ruin shall o'ertake 
 
 Its glory and perfection as at first ? 
 
 ' Twice over has its well-made axle snapped : 
 Once when the angels sinned, and once again 
 When our first father fell, and with him drew 
 This perfect earth. And what man did of old, 
 Man shall undo, — the Man whom God hath sent, 
 And yet shall send again, when earth has reached 
 Maturity of evil. With Him comes 
 Stability for creaturehood ; the new 
 And perfect order of that universe, 
 Whose axle, forged upon no human anvil, 
 
line 641. J BOOK VI. i5S 
 
 And tempered with no earthly heat and cold, 
 Shall never break again nor loose its hold. 
 The Christ of God becomes the living centre 
 Of all things ; men and angels, heaven and earth, 
 Now gravitate to Him, and in Him find 
 Eternal being, stedfast as His own, 
 Divine security for bliss like His, 
 With whom they now are one for evermore. 
 
 ' Brief is the sternest discipline of time, 
 Its aim and end perfection ; step by step 
 We rise even when we seem to sink, grow strong 
 Even when we seem to faint, and win the fight 
 When all things are against us ; one by one 
 We do the life-work God assigns to us, 
 And wait the issue. 'Tis not by the strong 
 In numbers, or in weapons, or in skill, 
 That God has won the battles of the earth, 
 But by the single arm that took its power 
 From Him alone, in conscious helplessness, 
 Confronted with the hosts of evil here. 
 'Tis with the few and feeble that God sides ; 
 The bruised reed or shepherd's sling is all 
 The weapon which faith asks for, when the hosts 
 Of darkness muster. Armed with such as these, 
 Calmly she marches on without a fear 
 To the great battle-field which angels watch, 
 Spectators of the strife and victory. 
 
 ' Brief battle ! though to weary combatants 
 Full long it seems. Short day of toil, tho' sore 
 To those who bear the burden and the heat 
 Of the oppressive noon. This broken spirit 
 
156 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 672. 
 
 Looks for the great upbinding ; this worn frame 
 
 Sighs for the rest, in silent sympathy 
 
 With all creation, whose deep groans it hears 
 
 And answers, longing for the promised age, 
 
 When nature, long unhealed, shall feel the touch 
 
 Of priestly hands to renovate and bless. 
 
 The disinfectant of the world's foul air 
 
 Is on its way : the Healer comes at length. 
 
 He speaks, and the world's fever passes off ; 
 
 Earth's primal health and peace return ; the voice 
 
 That said to the dark tempest, " Peace, be still," 
 
 Speaketh again ; creation owns the voice, 
 
 Sea, sky, and earth subsiding into calm, 
 
 The lightning sheathed, the thunder heard no more. 
 
 ' Loud tho' the blast be, it will fall at last, 
 And out of it the genial zephyr comes. 
 Let fall the anchor till the gale be o'er ; 
 Ride out the hurricane, then speed thee on ; 
 Or better still, fill all thy sails with it, 
 That it may bring thee sooner to thy haven. 
 The wildest storm that ever rent the air, 
 The fiercest earthquake that has ever shaken 
 Earth's cities into chaos, never moved 
 This solid globe from its smooth, silent course. 
 So let the storms pass over us, and so 
 Let life's most perilous earthquakes spend their strength. 
 We move along to our appointed goal, 
 In the long afterhood of coming time, 
 Unswerving on our orbit, undisturbed 
 By shocks that vibrate over land and sea. 
 
 ' Live so as to be missed, it has been said ; 
 
line 703.] BOOK VI. 157 
 
 So shall this life of thine prove truly great. 
 
 Live so as thou shalt not be missed, I say, 
 
 So shall thy life approve itself still greater 
 
 And more complete. The pilot is not missed 
 
 When the tossed vessel in the harbour rests ; 
 
 September doth not miss the sower's hand, 
 
 If he hath nobly done his work in spring ; 
 
 We do not miss the sun of yesterday, 
 
 Nor shall we miss to-day's when comes to-morrow. 
 
 ' There is but one true Sower ; He hath done 
 His work for ever, not to be done again. 
 He sowed, we reap, — 'tis well ; and yet again 
 We sow and others reap ; so goes the round 
 Of the great work of God on earth, each man 
 Knit to the other, and all knit to Him 
 Who is the centre of all work and life. 
 
 ' Compassed about with miracles, we move 
 Across this earth, beneath that watchful sun. 
 The mighty things of sight and sound and touch 
 Gird us like mountains ; we in midst of them 
 So poor and little. Undiscovered beauty 
 Hideth in ambush everywhere, ere long 
 To come forth in its fulness ; on each side 
 Perfection unenfolded, waiting for 
 The day of the unfolding ; life-wells filled, 
 And ready to o'erflow, when the quick touch 
 Of potent influence from long pent-up love 
 Shall let their fulness loose to do its work 
 Upon a world where only death has reigned. 
 
 ' Dead nature is not God ; and living nature 
 Is no mere thing of law, without a will, 
 
158 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 734. 
 
 Insentient ajl, developing itself 
 
 In blind submission to some innate force. 
 
 Oh, is the living music of the earth, 
 
 Are the deep harmonies of night and day, 
 
 The thrush's carol on the evening elm, 
 
 The turtle's low note from the olive-bough, 
 
 Or, sweeter still than all of these, the voice 
 
 Of man and woman as it utters all 
 
 The hidden melodies of human hearts, — 
 
 Are these all soulless, force and matter all ? 
 
 Mere steam-power motions ? — hammer-strokes upon 
 
 Dull rock or iron ? — fate-begotten sounds, 
 
 Whose heavy clank reveals nor mind nor will ? ' 
 
BOOK VII. 
 
 ' BUT let me tell about the babe I spoke of, 
 My one remaining flower. 
 
 The sweets of earth 
 Had lost their sweetness now. To me its joys 
 Were only like the summer stars, that shine 
 Briefly and faintly, lost in other light 
 Just gone below the horizon's edge, or like 
 The wanness of the alabaster moon, 
 That tries to outshine the sun. But in him life 
 Seemed to come back again. No after-joys 
 Pluck from the head the grey hairs sown by sorrow ; 
 And yet he was a staff to lean upon, 
 A well of sparkling water in the waste. 
 'Twas something to have him to live for here ; 
 To have the young fair face to look upon, 
 Where rich fresh being sat on rosy lips, 
 The cheek of childhood bright as apple-bloom ; 
 To have him with me in my daily walks, 
 He upon me and I on him still leaning, 
 Inseparable. And still I seem to see 
 His slender frame and mark his airy tread, 
 Graceful as the light step of mountaineer, 
 All childhood in its motion. We set forth 
 
 159 
 
160 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 24. 
 
 When the grey wind of morning shook the heath 
 
 And gathered up its fragrance for the lark, 
 
 Whose notes came trickling down the sunlight, meet 
 
 Reward for song. That song was his and mine ; 
 
 We loved it as we loved the starry dew 
 
 Beneath our feet upon the mountain steep ; 
 
 We loved it for its purity and love ; 
 
 It seemed the melody of light itself, 
 
 Of light beyond the clouds, — far-travelled song, 
 
 The outer echo of some heavenly chord, 
 
 Inaudible in this our lower sphere. 
 
 ' Years have been drifting onward, and the child 
 Has overtaken boyhood ; and the boy, 
 His cheek aglow with the rich red of dawn, 
 Has softly budded into dreaming youth, — 
 The youth of fervour, quick with throbbing thought, 
 Thinking of what he yet may be or do : 
 For as age looks behind, so youth before 
 Gazes with greedy eye ; both flee the present, 
 And both prefer the distant to the near, 
 And both would drink of fountains far away. 
 Gay hopes, like sunbeams, fill the fervid air, 
 And the warm pulse rises to fever-heat. 
 He drains the cup which only once we taste 
 In its delicious overflow of sweetness, — 
 The cup which comes unbidden and unsought, 
 Filled with strange nectar for the thirsty lip, — 
 Love's summer-joy, the hydromel of time, 
 As in bright haste it passes swiftly by, 
 And touches, as it goes, youth's burning tongue. 
 
line 54] BOOK VII. 161 
 
 ' Life's pillared vestibule, thick-wreathed with bay, 
 And sweet with odours of the morn, has now 
 Been passed. He has gone in, with song and smile, 
 Into the temple, knowing not what there 
 Of good or ill may be revealed to him. 
 
 ' Then breaks the dream, and the absorbing spell 
 Loosens its hold upon the quivering brain. 
 False life, like vapour, vanishes ; the true 
 Is waking up ; the boy is putting on 
 The man. The falling blossoms now prepare 
 For being's large development, the fruit, 
 To which the slow and varying processes 
 Of unripe life were working silently ; 
 For not at once awoke the life divine, 
 So long within him struggling, but suppressed. 
 'Twas not the sudden burst of tropic sun ; 
 'Twas not the sleeper's instant start at dawn, 
 When from his couch he springs to meet the morn, 
 Emerging from night's many-coloured dreams 
 Or sullen mists into the tranquil sunshine : 
 Not thus it was that life awoke within him, 
 The life that dies not when all else has died ; 
 But slowly, as the spirit of the dawn 
 Thro' the wan twilight struggles into day. 
 
 ' Now light, now darkness, spread themselves above 
 The feverish ocean of his sleepless mind ; 
 Shadow and sunshine strove for mastery. 
 All yesterday was calm, to-day the gale 
 Has dragged his anchors ; all true things this hour 
 Fill him, thrust out the next by all things false. 
 The certain and uncertain fought within him, 
 
162 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 85. 
 
 Each for entire dominion, satisfied 
 
 With nothing save the whole surrendered soul. 
 
 Real and unreal, wide and narrow, mist 
 
 And brilliant noonshine, mixed, or side by side, 
 
 All came and went, and came and went again ; 
 
 Were welcomed, then dismissed, caressed, then loathed, 
 
 As, with new aspect and new argument, 
 
 Hour after hour they plied their varied art, 
 
 Soliciting his early faith and love. 
 
 ' " Lie down amid the gardens of the earth, 
 And spread the rose-leaves under you ; there rest 
 Amid the odour and enchantment which 
 The magic sunshine wakens up around ; 
 Feed on the lotus-leaf, and drink thy fill 
 Of pleasure's purple cup, o'erbrimming here ; 
 Live upon creature-loveliness and love ; 
 Enjoy the beauty of this siren world, 
 Locked in its arms and surfeited with song, 
 Apart from toil and tempest ; isolate 
 Thy life from other lives, fence off thyself 
 From the rough desert of humanity, 
 Or draw a curtain round thee to shut out 
 The ruggedness that mars thy silken rest ; 
 Chase the rude darkness from thee, and sit down 
 To festival 'neath midnight's glowing lamps ; 
 Woo nature to be gentle, and to give 
 The calm of night without the gloom, the flush 
 Of noon without its sultriness, the breath 
 Of the gay breeze without its angry fire, 
 And make once more a Paradise below." 
 So whispered from within a silver voice, 
 
line 116.] BOOK VII. 163 
 
 And straight he sought to follow, full of hope. 
 Others had tried all this, and only failed, 
 But he might better prosper. Every effort 
 Needs not to end in failure ; some may find 
 The undiscovered islands of the blest, 
 Brighter Hesperides than those of which 
 Old poets oft had sung, unvexed with storm, 
 Unvisited with pain or mortal weakness ; 
 Where disappointment comes not, and where fear 
 Of a dark future is unknown ; where death 
 Has no dominion, but where life, all fair, 
 Brightens without a change thro' dateless days, 
 And all is health untainted : why should man 
 Live but to suffer and to toil and die ? 
 Must the old human heartache still remain 
 Uncured ? Must the old fever of the brain 
 Send its hot poison thro' the helpless soul 
 Without the assuaging anodyne ? If this 
 Be human destiny, then he at least 
 Will be above it. For shall his fresh life, 
 Full of far-ranging thoughts and unsung songs, 
 Be scattered like the sea-spray, or absorbed 
 Like starlight in the greedy clouds of morn ? 
 Shall his great plan dissolve or die unspoken, 
 Like the unchiselled statue, held in bonds 
 Within its marble prison-house, from which 
 Only some master's touch can set it free ? 
 Shall he, like the great Titan on the cliff 
 Of Caucasus, look helpless down upon 
 A suffering race, himself a sufferer too, 
 Under the pressure of some will or law 
 
164 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 147. 
 
 Which ought to be resisted, not obeyed, 
 Which, as unrighteous, ought to be repealed ? 
 
 ' No ; he will search the hidden cause of evil, 
 And having searched, undo it, setting free 
 This fate-chained earth with its long-burdened race, 
 Infusing health into its languid veins, 
 And every ill expelling, even the last, — 
 The death that darkens all things ; every part 
 Moulding to beauty, making perfect all 
 That is imperfect, taking out the sting 
 Which has so long been left to rankle deep 
 And poison all creation. He will be 
 The prism, which with the occult energy 
 Of its dissevering force spreads softly out, 
 Like beaten gold, the riches of the light, 
 Braided in sevenfold lustre. Shall the dust 
 He treads upon be lord of him who treads it, 
 And in self-will defy the will of man, 
 Or yield obedience to some canon dark, 
 Some law of mystery, which baffles mind 
 To fathom or to foil ? What though he should 
 Perish in such a work ? It would be well, 
 If o'er his tomb a new world should be built, 
 Freer and more amenable to man, 
 Less subject to a superhuman will ; 
 With broader laws, and rescripts less severe 
 To human frailty ; th' evil and the good 
 Less sharply and less sternly separated ; 
 The penalties less harsh and rigorous, 
 Death's ancient and inexorable statute 
 Repealed for ever ; disease expelled, and pain ; 
 
line 178.] BOOK VII. 165 
 
 The processes of nature made to work 
 More wisely, and with less of waste ; no sands 
 Of idle barrenness ; no obstructive cliffs 
 Sundering the nations ; no unthrifty clouds 
 Raining upon the sterile wilderness, 
 Or yet more sterile sea ; no withered leaves, 
 And no abortive blossoms ; no chill plains 
 Of numbing ice, and no intemperate sun 
 Scorching the blood ; no sharp rebellious fork 
 Of fiery lightning, tearing into shreds 
 The great Creator's handiwork, undoing 
 What had been done, unmaking at a stroke 
 What had been made of beauty and of strength. 
 
 ' He would not live for self. The generous sun 
 Illumines not himself ; the city lamp 
 Flings all its light upon the passers-by, 
 And then gives place to the eclipsing dawn ; 
 The river flows not to refresh itself, 
 But dies in watering others. So will he 
 Go forth upon a mission of brave love, 
 Be a great power on earth against all ill, 
 Drain the rank moisture of this marshy globe, 
 And make it all one fair Elysium. 
 He will beat down all error, lift up truth ; 
 He will expose all hollowness, and be 
 The model of the real in this untrue 
 And shallow world ; he will bring down his axe 
 Upon all folly, or in men or states, 
 On all misrule and wrong : let the globe crack, 
 And the high archway of the vaulted heavens 
 Dissolve ; what matters it, so justice lives ? 
 
166 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 209. 
 
 His walk thro' earth, on to the infinite 
 Beyond, shall be the burning march of truth, 
 Part of a long torch-lighted way, or part 
 Of the great causeway of the universe, 
 Stretching far up and on, he knew not whither, 
 Amid celestial avenues of stars, 
 That blaze on either side like lamps by night 
 And suns by day ; a wondrous prophet-march, 
 A great self-sacrifice, to tell for ever 
 On a self-loving and luxurious world ! 
 
 ' Nobly he wrought, but wrought in vain ; it was 
 Not one thing, but a thousand, that refused 
 To be amended by his zealous love. 
 The one rebellious stone of Sisyphus, 
 Rebounding and rebounding to the vale, 
 Was nothing to the innate, inscrutable power 
 Which met and thwarted him. He was as one 
 Bent upon smoothing ocean's myriad wrinkles ; 
 All that he did seemed vain, — -the work of one 
 Trying to chain the tempest, tame the thunder, 
 Or quench the fierce volcano's furnace-fires. 
 He felt himself alone, in front of some 
 Huge but invisible power that mocked his strokes. 
 Some deeper law than he could understand, 
 With headlong but most calm resistlessness, 
 Impelled this dark confusion on and on, 
 Like thunder-rack before the unseen breeze ; 
 Some unknown code of everlasting rule, 
 Working with secret certainty and force, 
 And giving forth the inexorable canons 
 Of a deep-seated Nemesis, that crossed 
 
line 240.] BOOK VII 167 
 
 All other laws, and would not be defied 
 Or disenchanted ; a stupendous will, 
 Embodying persistent righteousness, 
 And by relentless pressure urging on 
 All human things to some still future hour 
 Of grander retribution, when the Judge, 
 At the assize which yet shall right all wrongs, 
 And place eternal good upon the throne, 
 Shall deal with the dark annals of the race, 
 And by His sentence in that day of truth 
 Shall bring to light the all-impelling law, 
 Which had in awful muteness been at work 
 Thro' ages past, deep in creation's core, 
 Ordering and yet disordering all things here, 
 Both good and evil, regulating, yet 
 Perturbing every orbit, as by some 
 Invisible magnet, which no power nor skill 
 Of man can reach to neutralize or bind. 
 
 ' Not in great things alone he fought and failed. 
 The little things that lay in the plain path 
 Of daily life perplexed him most : they seemed 
 So feeble, yet so stubborn in resistance, 
 So slight, and yet they mastered him. He might not 
 Have wondered that the storm refused his sway ; 
 That the red eye of war still glared, and still 
 Her armies mustered, steeping earth in blood ; 
 Or that the hollow and discoloured cheek 
 Of pestilence, or the clean teeth of famine 
 Still showed themselves, as in the ages past ; — 
 But why should this poor poisonous reptile breed 
 And crawl upon the soil which man calls his, 
 
i63 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 271. 
 
 Only to carry pain and death to man ? 
 
 Why should this worthless weed grow all unsown, 
 
 Or the keen thorn shoot from the branch unsheathed ? 
 
 Why should so many tears fall hotly down, 
 
 So many hopes lie buried in the sand, 
 
 So many joys like early spring-blooms die ? 
 
 ' The mighty and the mean things of the earth 
 Yield to some living universal statute : 
 Not fate, but conscious, ever-acting will, 
 Wise, just, and loving, everywhere at work 
 Where least observed ; some influence 
 Which worketh not by chance, but overpowers, 
 Armed with the Judge's mighty fiat, all 
 Opposing wills, in awful righteousness 
 Revealing God's eternal estimate 
 Of every evil thing ; with its most sure 
 And ever accurate tho' noiseless touchstone 
 Testing each word and deed, and making known 
 The inevitable pain that tracks even now 
 Each devious step, and all the endless ills 
 Which, in a thousand forms, one small departure 
 From the perfection of the perfect rule 
 Brings over man and earth. The falling leaf 
 Troubles the air, and the vibration spreads 
 Wide over space. The feeble drop of blood 
 Falls on the ocean, and the crimson stain 
 Discolours each blue wave that swells or sinks 
 With the advancing or receding tide. 
 
 ' Strong is the will of man ; but stronger still 
 This other will, veiled though it be, and voiceless, 
 That meets him like a spectre everywhere, 
 
line 302.J BOOK VII 169 
 
 And brands the sin he would extenuate 
 As the mishap of weakness, with the strong 
 And never obsolete sentence of the Judge : 
 " The soul that sinneth, it shall surely die." 
 
 ' And yet no Ate\ no Erinnys here ! 
 Nor fate, nor fury, binding heaven and earth, 
 Defying gods and men, as classic myth 
 Has sung, does this resistless will display. 
 It is the will of loving righteousness ; 
 Not jealousy of man and human joy, 
 As the far-travelled Greek would have us know ; 
 But the wise purpose, ever on the side 
 Of good, and wishing well to man in all 
 His sorrow or his joy, and hating only 
 The falsehood and the darkness and the sin. 
 The true God loveth truth ; His will, 
 Like a sharp ploughshare turning up the clods 
 Of earth, or like the strong invisible hefm 
 Guiding the ship thro' storm, brings us to good 
 Through the long ages of opposing ill, 
 In ways undreamt of by earth's wisest souls. 
 
 ' So found ere long the fond enthusiast, 
 Who sought out potent herbs to heal man's wounds, 
 And to regenerate the worn-out world 
 With simples culled from its own fields, which have 
 No power to reach the core of human ill. 
 He failed, for evil was too strong for him ; 
 But yet, in failing, and returning home 
 Saddened, but yet not sour nor unbenign, 
 From unsuccessful warfare, learned to hope. 
 Anger and haste, they say, good counsel mar ; 
 
170 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 333. 
 
 And he sat calmly down to meditate 
 
 On that which has been, is, and yet may be, 
 
 Wiser and less impetuous than before. 
 
 He might be wrong, and he will patiently 
 
 Seek out the right and true ; tho' pride may murmur, 
 
 Better to ask the road than go astray ; 
 
 Better another's pilotage than shipwreck. 
 
 ' One virus from the one sad tree of ill, 
 Eaten in Paradise, flows thro' our veins, 
 And taints our bodies with each dire disease, 
 Ending in death. One breath of withering frost, 
 Issuing from Eden, has gone thro' the ages, 
 And into winter changed our budding spring. 
 One foe let loose, the foe of man and God, 
 Has spread slow havoc wide and far among 
 Our mortal race. One seed dropped in our soil 
 Has covered this fair globe with bitter weeds. 
 Yet good as well as ill was in all this ; 
 And the great law came up, worthy of God, 
 Deeper than other laws, upon whose strength 
 The keystone of a comely universe 
 Fixes itself, and brings the arch together, 
 The law which seizes upon sin, and turns 
 Evil to good, — far wider, higher good 
 Than would have been ; and yet in doing so 
 Stamps every sin with the eternal curse. 
 
 ' That silent law, that met him everywhere 
 And thwarted every plan, was just, tho' stern, 
 Was good, tho' fraught with sorrow ; and its course 
 Was upward, amid all the desolation 
 Which it was daily working, as in power 
 
line 364.] BOOK VII. 171 
 
 It forced itself along, a thing of dread, 
 
 Visible only in its strange results. 
 
 It had laid earth in ruins, filled the grave, 
 
 Broken ten thousand hearts ; yet it alone 
 
 Could build up earth again and calm its storms, 
 
 Empty the grave and heal the broken heart. 
 
 On it the new foundations of a fair 
 
 And stable universe are to be laid, 
 
 When love and righteousness shall take the throne, 
 
 And with perfection crown all creaturehood, — 
 
 Perfection higher far than at the first, 
 
 And stedfast thro' the everlasting age, — 
 
 An age which never sheds its leaves, nor finds 
 
 Its hair grow grey, nor its bright eye turn dim. 
 
 ' Thus did he read the evil and the good, 
 And learned the meaning, understood the purpose, 
 Which like a living force lay wrapt in each ; 
 For each thing, framed by man or made by God, 
 Has different use. The anchor swimmeth not, 
 But holds the floating vessel ; the tall mast 
 Standeth immoveable, and yet becomes 
 The spring of stateliest speed ; the soil is dead, 
 And yet the seed that would yield up the life 
 Folded within its grain must there be sown ; 
 The breakers grind the rocks to sand, and are 
 Themselves controlled by the small sand they grind ; 
 The fire consumes the incense flung on it, 
 And yet in doing so draws out in sweetness 
 The breath that only fire can disimprison. 
 
 ' Each well of earth (they said of old) contains, 
 
172 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 394- 
 
 Beneath it hid, a palace all of pearl, 
 
 In which the spirit of the sweet spring dwells : 
 
 So at the base of all the true and good 
 
 That wells up here there is a living power, 
 
 Perfusing and impregnating the waters, 
 
 Sending them forth to a thrice needy world 
 
 To quench all thirst and purify all stains. 
 
 He had digged down into these palaces, 
 
 To bring up to the light of day the life 
 
 That lies deep hidden underneath the soil ; 
 
 He had digged down, and failed. The god had fled, 
 
 Or had become invisible. He could not 
 
 Lay hold of him, to learn his secret, or 
 
 Compel him to obey another's will. 
 
 ' On such things musing, sober wisdom came 
 To him in his perplexity and fear. 
 Daily the deeper meaning of all things 
 Around him dawned. The voice within all these 
 External forms became articulate, 
 And spoke in power. He felt that he was but 
 An atom of the universe, sent here 
 To do another's will, and to fulfil 
 Another's purpose, in whose vast designs 
 There were no weaknesses and no mistakes. 
 Bowing the head, he took a humble place, 
 Unlearning his long folly, and retiring 
 From the bold enterprise he undertook, 
 The grand deliverance of humanity, 
 The restitution of a broken world. 
 He learned the helplessness of creaturehood, 
 And yet its strength for evil and for ruin. 
 
line 425.] BOOK VII. 173 
 
 Man quenches life, but cannot life replace, 
 
 Even in the insect which he treads upon. 
 
 An infant's hand can in a moment fire 
 
 A city, which ten thousand men of skill 
 
 And might cannot rebuild. The power for evil 
 
 Lodged in one human will surpasses far 
 
 Its power for good. For now six thousand years 
 
 Evil has fought with good, and good with ill ; 
 
 But which has conquered in the varying strife, 
 
 Upon whose issues hangs the eternal weal 
 
 Of this vast universe, once made so good ? 
 
 ' 'Twas thus he learned his own true part and work 
 (Meaner than once he thought, yet glorious still) 
 In turning the slow axle of the world, 
 Or lessening its evil and its sin. 
 Though not a sun, he might be still a ray ; 
 In solitary service, hour by hour, 
 And in prevailing fellowship with Him 
 Who at the fountain-head of being sits, 
 And to the good, says Come, and lo, it cometh ; 
 Who to the evil speaketh, Hence, depart ; 
 Thus far shalt thou prevail, but not beyond ; 
 He might in his own sphere exert a force 
 And do a work which no one else could do, 
 And which could nowhere else be done than in 
 The spot where he was placed. God's work is done 
 By each one doing his own part, though small, 
 In his own place, by keeping patiently 
 The orbit within which his motion lies : 
 Who quits the orbit of his mission, fails. 
 
 ' God's sword belongeth to Himself alone ; 
 
174 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 456. 
 
 Man may not wield it, nor so much as try- 
 To draw it from the scabbard ; yet the day 
 Cometh most surely, when it shall leap forth, 
 And with its righteous edge do the strange work 
 Which has been_left undone for ages. Now 
 It sleeps, or almost sleeps, save when in secret 
 And in slow silence, like a stealthy foe, 
 Moving along, it springs up suddenly, 
 In one dread moment finishing its work. 
 Mute is just vengeance ; without sound she strikes 
 The righteous blow and does her sacred work ; 
 As when she smote the Cities of the Plain, 
 And bid the sun shine down on Sodom's grave ; 
 Or when she showed Jerusalem the hosts 
 Of proud Assyria strewed like sand upon 
 Her western slopes, without the gleam of spear 
 Or sound of trumpet summoning to war. 
 
 ' Faith waiteth and is patient, — this he learned ; 
 It looks to unseen wisdom ; leans upon 
 An unseen will ; transports itself each day 
 From the dark turbulence and chaos here 
 Into a peaceful future ; makes no haste, 
 Assured that progress and perfection are 
 Too holy to be snatched at by rash man, 
 Who, in his fond ambition to be God, 
 And sit at once upon the throne of earth, 
 Rejects the tardy processes of time. 
 Faith sees their weary slowness, sees no less 
 The retrogression which so often tries 
 Its constancy. It hears the voice, Be still, 
 And it is still ; for, sure as sunrise, comes, 
 
LINE 48;.] BOOK VII. 175 
 
 Though with slow march, the promise of the ages. 
 
 But reason is impetuous, and scorns 
 
 To wait for slow development and growth. 
 
 Earth's fires must be replenished, that they may 
 
 Burn faster and more fiercely ; ocean's tides, 
 
 Stately alike in tempest and in calm, 
 
 That from all ages have kept time, and marched 
 
 By royal law in every clime of earth 
 
 Backward and forward, must be hurried on ; 
 
 The creeping wheels of a belated world 
 
 Must in man's service be compelled to fly 
 
 At quicker pace, by science smoothed and oiled. 
 
 Ye planets, speed you, and ye lightning-bolts, 
 
 Strike quicker blows, man frets at your delay ; 
 
 Ye cataracts, precipitate your fall 
 
 With swifter rush ; ye rivers, run, and stay not 
 
 To dally with the willow drooping o'er you, 
 
 Or with your grassy fringe in wanton play ; 
 
 Ye winds, delay not ; ye fire-winged barques, 
 
 Urge on your race ; and ye swift-rolling wheels 
 
 That whirl along earth's iron pavements, fly 
 
 With sevenfold speed, like royal messengers: 
 
 Man is in haste, and ye his servants must 
 
 Loiter no more ; the goal is nearly reached. 
 
 He shall not surely die, but live, and be 
 
 As gods, that know the evil and the good, 
 
 Over both wielding high his sovereign sway. 
 
 ' Conscious of ill and pain, yet knowing not 
 The source or cure, man walks the ruined earth, 
 Each day revolving plans that shall build up 
 Creation's shattered gates and levelled walls. 
 
176 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 518. 
 
 Each ruin is to him a hopeless riddle. 
 
 Whence came it, and how shall it be repaired ? 
 
 Who shall arrest the crumbling, or bring back 
 
 The far-swept atoms to their native block ? 
 
 Each fragment seems to represent a failure, 
 
 The torso of a sculptor, whose right hand 
 
 Has lost its cunning in the hour of need. 
 
 W T hy does he find so many tangled threads, 
 
 So many dislocated purposes, 
 
 So many morns without an eve, and eves 
 
 Without a morn or hope of rising sun, 
 
 So many ladders, and yet none to climb them, — 
 
 So many climbers waiting for a ladder, 
 
 So many failures in the race of life, 
 
 So many wasted immortalities, 
 
 So many dire eclipses of the soul 
 
 Under the sceptre of the Blessed One ? 
 
 What is the root of wormwood that embitters 
 
 All things below ? Or what the unquenched 
 
 torch, 
 That nightly seems to set the world on fire ? 
 Is it some deep inevitable flaw 
 In that which we call nature, or is it 
 Blindness or feebleness in nature's Lord ? 
 Or is it that all-penetrating poison, 
 Which man calls evil, but which God calls sin ? 
 Something whose hellish virulence eats in 
 To the most central core of human joy, 
 And dims the brilliance of its brightest gems, 
 Something profoundly dark, which creaturehood 
 .Has summoned into being, but which only 
 
line 548.] BOOK VII. 177 
 
 He who is infinite can pluck away, 
 
 And banish beyond chance of dread return ? 
 
 ' Man asks, but cannot answer, or, in answering, 
 Doubles the maze, makes the perplexity 
 Yet more perplexed ; then fretfully reproaches 
 The Framer of the fabric for endorsing 
 Laws that seem equally to curse and bless. 
 There is no key on earth which can unlock 
 The council-house of heaven. The key of gold, 
 Which opens wide each strong-barred gate below, 
 Availeth not above. The golden axe, 
 Which, they say, shatters even the iron door, 
 Is powerless here. No bribe or threat of man 
 Can draw the secrets out that everywhere 
 Lie hid in that which he calls history 
 And nature. Like the lyre of Egypt, they 
 Speak or are silent as the sun of dawn 
 Touches their cords or hides his magic beam. 
 
 ' Oft has God spoken, but man closed his ear 
 Against all oracle or speech divine. 
 He has kept silence, and man heeded not, 
 Nor felt the awe which such a stillness claims. 
 Four centuries there were ere He, the WORD, 
 Came down to speak to man with man's own 
 
 lips, 
 Out of the fulness of a human heart, 
 The undiscoverable thoughts of God, 
 And show the love that love alone can tell, — 
 Four solemn ages in which God kept silence. 
 No word from prophet or from seer to man 
 Dropt from His lips. The oracle was mute ; 
 
 M 
 
178 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 578. 
 
 The jewelled breastplate flashed not ; dream and vision 
 Alike were gone ; and the great shrine was still. 
 
 ' God spoke not, that He might give fullest scope 
 For man to speak and utter all his wisdom. 
 Then Plato reasoned, Socrates, and all 
 The wise of Greece, poet and orator, 
 Philosopher and men of noble soul. 
 Man spoke, and spoke with eloquence and -power ; 
 No rival near, no messenger of heaven, 
 To abash his boldness or to seal his lips, 
 Or drown his human voice with sounds divine. 
 
 ' But yet the world by wisdom knew not God. 
 It wrestled but in vain, from age to age, 
 With the perversities of human life, — 
 The problems that defy all intellect 
 And all philosophy, or old or new. 
 It dreamed, and tho' the dream was beautiful, — 
 Like Scipio's, when the spheres sent forth their music, 
 And sung his spirit into harmony, — 
 It left the heart unfilled, the soul unblest, 
 Unpurged the conscience, unsubdued the will. 
 
 ' Ilyssus bore the dreamer's lays along 
 On its clear blue ; Hymettus, with its thyme, 
 Welcomed a honey sweeter than its own. 
 Brilessus beckoned to its woody bowers 
 The pensive strollers of the Academe ; 
 And Lycabettus echoed back the voice 
 Of eloquence that filled Athenian halls. 
 The olive-shades were listeners to the words 
 Of Attic thoughtfulness ; the sloping vines 
 Of Parnes hung their clusters o'er the heads 
 
line 609.] BOOK VII. 179 
 
 Of these deep-meditative men, when one, 
 And then another, and another still, 
 Conversed of things divine, groping their way- 
 Through conscious darkness, throbbing thro' the soul 
 And saddening the brow, to something fair 
 That lay beyond it, and that looked like day ; 
 Guessing at truth, and picking up, or here 
 Or there, a few bright fragments, that but showed 
 How much lay undiscovered, and how much 
 Might one day be revealed to man, when, from 
 A loftier Olympus than they knew, 
 One should descend, to teach as never yet 
 Philosopher or poet had them taught : 
 With certainty the things of certainty 
 Proclaiming, from no fabled oracle 
 Of Delphi or Dodona ; uttering, 
 Not the " I think " of Athens or of Egypt, 
 But the " I know " of heaven ; saying to men, 
 As the old father notes, not " I am custom," 
 Or " I am reason," but with majesty, 
 " I am the truth ; all wisdom is in me." 
 
 ' Fair are thy slopes, O classic Attica ! 
 Yet in these palmy days of ancient thought 
 And earnest questioning, they never heard 
 The key-note of divine philosophy, 
 That " God is light ; " — the music of the heart, 
 Passing all other music, " God is love." 
 One of themselves, a prophet of their own, 
 He of Eleusis, old Euphorion's son, 
 Who fought at Marathon and sung at Athens, 
 Has spoken words of gravest thoughtfulness, 
 
i So MY OLD LETTERS. [line 640. 
 
 Painting in stateliest majesty of verse 
 
 The firmament of God, the rushing winds, 
 
 The river-springs, old ocean's countless smile, 
 
 Our mother earth, the sun's all-seeing eye, 
 
 And the One God, invisible, supreme ; 
 
 Describing in his measured roll of song 
 
 The rock-chained Titan on the sea-swept cliff 
 
 Of barren Caucasus, condemned and lone, — 
 
 The vulture ever gnawing at his heart, 
 
 Till the great gulf of yawning earth receive him, 
 
 And he descends into the dread abyss, 
 
 With the strange prophecy proclaimed, that there 
 
 He must remain, until from heaven some god 
 
 Go down, and, entering Hades in his stead, 
 
 Shall bear his penalty and bring him up 
 
 From the dread Tartarus, to which his crime 
 
 Of God-defiance and self-will had doomed him, — 
 
 The crime of stealing light from heaven against 
 
 The will of Him who made him what he was, 
 
 And gave him earth for his inheritance. 
 
 Yet but a gleam was this of the high truth 
 
 That the sick conscience of humanity 
 
 Had long been groping for, to heal its wounds, — 
 
 A guess at the great coming fact, on which 
 
 The new foundations of the universe 
 
 Were to be laid, — God manifest in flesh, 
 
 The Just One for the unjust suffering doom ; — 
 
 A gleam, a guess, which penetrated not 
 
 The long, lone darkness which o'erhung that land 
 
 Of wonder and of loveliness, where once, 
 
 Amid the clusters of its marble shrines, 
 
line 671.] BOOK VII. 181 
 
 Man's sorrowing search for something to fill up 
 
 The blank within his soul, found resting-place 
 
 In the cold worship of the unknown God. 
 
 There was a fire upon the altar there 
 
 Of Pallas, ever burning up to heaven ; 
 
 But no one knew its meaning. There was blood 
 
 Of consecrated victims, — sprinkled blood, 
 
 And outpoured wine, and holy festival ; 
 
 But no one guessed their import, for the light 
 
 Was but a spark, which glimmered and was gone. 
 
 ' What could not Greece have done, if intellect, 
 Keen as the sword of Pericles, and bright 
 As the broad evening-star that sets upon 
 The sea of Salamis, when all the air 
 Is calm as heaven, could search the unknown ether, 
 And bring from its still depths the long-sought gems 
 Of everlasting light to man below ? 
 Or dive into the dread eternal deep, 
 To bring up pearls which would enrich for ever 
 The human spirit's deepest poverty ? 
 
 ' But Greece has failed ; her truest and her best 
 Have owned the failure. He who drank the hemlock, 
 The man of progress, far beyond his age, 
 Philosophy's first martyr and her last, 
 Sighed as he sat upon the sterile edge 
 Of the great sea of knowledge, and looked o'er 
 Its mist-bewildered face, so tempting-fair, 
 Without a barque or skiff to navigate 
 Its glorious regions, or explore its isles, 
 Or fetch its golden fleece from realms afar. 
 " All that I know is that I nothing know : " 
 
182 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 702. 
 
 This the confession of the noblest spirit 
 That, in these four mysterious centuries, 
 These ages of God's silence and man's speech, 
 Searched all the depths and heights of finite knowledge, 
 And with calm modesty and meekness owned 
 The failure of a lifetime's solemn search ! 
 
 ' Era of human speech and thought, all song 
 And eloquence and overflow of mind, 
 How fair thy light, and yet how pale its ray ! 
 Strewed with the sparks of many a noble torch 
 Or fire, that seemed as if it fain would burn, 
 But could not for the still and stagnant air ; 
 Gleams of a sun that would have shone, but could not ; 
 Meteors that lighted up no earthly path, 
 Nor led one spirit to the spirit's home ; 
 Nor bid the day-spring rise upon our race, 
 Nor gave one glimpse of resurrection-hope. 
 
 ' Era of mighty minds, which uncontrolled 
 Roamed over wisdom's widest fields, yet plucked 
 No flowers from islands of the blest, no balm 
 Of sweet and subtle medicine for the soul ; 
 Which breathed the scent of the far-wandering winds, 
 Whose breath is health, and yet found health in none. 
 
 ' Noon of the olden earth, — if such we may 
 Call your pale splendour, hardly worth the name 
 Of twilight, — vainly didst thou struggle with 
 The heavy gloom of time, evanishing, 
 And leaving man unblessed and undelivered. 
 Ah, surely in your heavens the light of life 
 Was not,— the sure and the unchanging life 
 That lightens man with its all-healing rays, 
 
line 733-] BOOK VII. 183 
 
 And shineth on unto the perfect day ! 
 Love was not in your temples ; and your gods 
 Were gods of vengeance, despots of the sky. 
 We look to you in vain for charity, — 
 The charity that suffers long, and bids 
 Defiance to all hatred or revenge, — 
 The charity that gives all heaven to man, 
 And grudgeth not the gift beyond all price. 
 Your gods had other things to do than love ; 
 They had to feast, to quarrel, and to hate. 
 Your Jove was but the demon of the air, 
 Shedding on earth malignant influence, 
 And watching to destroy. You taught no love, 
 Nor could have taught it : he who would impart 
 Love's happy lessons must himself be love, — 
 Lesson and type and teacher all in one. 
 
 ' The old Orient ruled the body, Greece the mind, 
 And Rome the will. But were the chains of sin 
 Thus broken, or the spirit lifted up 
 To breathe the freer and diviner air 
 Of everlasting truth and holiness ? 
 Great in the sword, in thought, in wit and song, 
 Did man emerge from their victorious rule 
 Nobler in being, higher, and more godlike ? 
 Or was this globe transformed to fruitfulness 
 And universal, beauty by their touch ? 
 
 ' Thus musing on the failures of the past, 
 And made at length to feel how impotent 
 His wisdom and his zeal against the powers, 
 Invisible and visible, of ill, 
 That made this earth a chaos, he begins 
 
1 84 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 764. 
 
 To think of light above his own ; of truth 
 Which in the end, by its own vital force, 
 Must prove omnipotent in conquering ill ; 
 Of an eternal purpose working out, 
 By slow but certain processes below, 
 A better, brighter history for earth, 
 In which himself shall have a part, tho' not 
 The proud pre-eminence that once he hoped. 
 
 ' The once fond dreamer now has found his place, 
 And, like each part of what we nature call, 
 Does his own work, and fills up life with that 
 For which it had been given him, tho' at first 
 In his wild waywardness he saw it not. 
 'Tis a true life that now he lives ; a life 
 That tells upon the world, as tells the wind 
 Invisibly upon the swelling sail ; 
 As tells the oar upon the boat's sure progress. 
 Brought into conflict with a power of ill 
 Beyond his strength to cope with, he falls back 
 Upon that power which wields the wind and wave, 
 That rouses, like a lion from its lair, 
 The dormant hurricane, then says, " Be still," 
 Or bids the strong cliff countercheck its rage. 
 
 ' Within the fortress of Almighty strength 
 He hides himself when tempests are too strong ; 
 Or goeth forth in weakness, yet in trust, 
 To wield that strength against the mighty foe. 
 " They say that prayer is vain," so wrote he once ; 
 " Or at the best a needful utterance 
 Of pleasant feeling or of pent-up grief; 
 
line 794-] BOOK VII. 185 
 
 The solemn music of the inner man 
 
 When gazing on a greater than himself. 
 
 Not so to me did it appear : I saw 
 
 That if there be a God there must be prayer ; 
 
 The invisible conversing with the seen, 
 
 The seen with the invisible ; the child 
 
 Clasping the parent's hand, and looking up 
 
 For succour and for fellowship. I saw 
 
 In prayer the limits of my narrow being, 
 
 The line where finite touches infinite, 
 
 And where the seen looks out on the unseen ; 
 
 The point where God meets man and man meets God 
 
 In palpable fellowship, one loving heart 
 
 Throbbing upon another like its own ; 
 
 The point where strength meets weakness, weakness 
 
 strength ; 
 Where man receiveth, and God giveth all 
 That man can ask or think ; that wondrous shrine 
 Of true oracular question and response. 
 It did not seem to me incredible 
 That the same God who gave me this vast soul 
 Should speak with me, and suffer me to speak 
 With Him, as friend with friend ; rather would it 
 Have seemed incredible that He who made me 
 Should bar all intercourse, and mock the soul 
 That He had made, with everlasting silence, — 
 Answering no question, sitting far apart, 
 Like the chill statue of some marble god, 
 Dumb as the dead, and heedless of the cries 
 That His own creatures raise. Rather would I 
 Worship the vocal sea, or fruitful sun, 
 
iS6 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 824. 
 
 Or speaking star, that, with its love-bright eye, 
 
 Has whispered gladness these six thousand years 
 
 To troubled man, than such a god as this, 
 
 Who made me, yet who spurns me from His presence ; 
 
 Who knows my sorrows, but refuses still 
 
 To let me pour them out into His bosom ; 
 
 Who hears my cries as tho' He heard them not ; 
 
 My woes unpitied and unrecognised, 
 
 Myself a wandering atom, made in sport, 
 
 To sport with, not to bless, — He all the while 
 
 Sitting in self-enjoyment or repose, 
 
 Not answering, but mocking ; at the best, 
 
 Like rock that sendeth back in resonant scorn 
 
 The useless echo, dying in mid-air." 
 
 ' He lived to bless me ; and not me alone, 
 But others. Trained for special work on earth 
 By Him who needed such an instrument, 
 For a brief season he fulfilled his day ; 
 He did his work, and laid himself to rest 
 Upon the bosom of his earthly sire; 
 Departing with the golden cloud, that melts 
 From the still blue as we are gazing on it, 
 And wondering, as we gaze, how such a glory 
 Should ever cease to be, or, having ceased, 
 Should ever re-appear and shine anew 
 With its old glory in a gentler sky. 
 
 ' Each deathbed is a mystery and a fear, 
 Even when the sting is gone. And when I think 
 Of earth's unnumbered deathbeds, which each day 
 Draw the disconsolate eyes of loving friends 
 
line 8540 BOOK VII. 187 
 
 To watch the couch of pain and weariness, 
 I say, What mean these rendings of the heart ? 
 And how shall I unwind my tangled steps 
 From the dark labyrinth of human grief, 
 And brightly rise into that realm of life 
 Where what we love shall never pine and die ? 
 
 ' So did I reason when my child of love, 
 My boy of sorrow and of hope, lay down 
 In manhood's prime to sleep the blessed sleep. 
 I sat beside him in his troubled hours 
 Of long, long pain. Dear hours of watchfulness 
 To me, in that dim chamber where he tossed 
 From night to night, until the angel came 
 That bore him hence. Peace like a hidden spring 
 Welled up within him, tho' the flesh was weak ; 
 The cross was lighting up the vale of death 
 With its all-stedfast radiance. Joy was there. 
 The piercing nails had gone thro' other hands, 
 And his had not a scar. The rending thorns 
 Had torn another's brow, and he was free. 
 The angry spear had in another's side 
 Sheathed its sharp point, and he unwounded lay. 
 He tossed and moaned ; then looking up and up, 
 As if he saw into the far unseen, 
 Sighed to be free. Once and again I heard 
 His nunc dimittis breathed from pale, parched lips. 
 Oh, my chained eagle ! when wilt thou take wing? 
 I said, tho' loth to part. At length there came 
 The messenger of life to bid him go. 
 He went from earth ; could I but wish him joy ? 
 I closed his eyes and smoothed his silken hair, 
 
1 88 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 885. 
 
 Then kissed his forehead, laid my lips on his, 
 
 With the close pressure of heart-breaking love. 
 
 It was a bridal kiss, — just such an one 
 
 A mother gives her darling when about 
 
 To leave the dwelling of her childhood for 
 
 An untried home, where love will sweeten all. 
 
 A few sore struggles brought deliverance, 
 
 And then the sweet long calm : the storm was done ; 
 
 'Twas but the rattle of the falling links ; 
 
 The chain was broken, and the spirit free. 
 
 He did not weep ; the dying never weep, 
 
 The tread of coming death dries up the fount ; 
 
 He did not weep, 'twas I that shed the tears. 
 
 ' Farewell ! I follow soon ; then we shall meet 
 Where the full fellowship of heart with heart 
 Shall never sunder as they sunder here, — 
 Shall never lose their freshness and their joy. 
 
 ' How poor his death has left me, I must not 
 Essay to tell ; how dark my dwelling now, 
 Since the sad hour when its last light went out, 
 None save myself can know. Few understand 
 Deep sorrow ; fewer care to be beside it ; 
 For the world loves not sackcloth, hides its eyes 
 From dust and ashes, fears the name of death, 
 Shuns the mute mourner in his day of tears, 
 Thrusts away all that mars its festive mirth, 
 Or mocks the music of its reckless song. 
 
 ' Thus sorrow struck me with its two-edged sword, 
 And life was rent asunder ; one-half here, 
 And one above, with those who have gone up 
 
lineqiS-] BOOK VII. 189 
 
 To wait for me till we shall meet on high. 
 
 The cloud is o'er me, and within I feel 
 
 The daily bleeding of a hidden wound, 
 
 That neither time nor skill avail to stanch. 
 
 Often I go to their last place of rest 
 
 Beneath the turf ; last place of earthly rest 
 
 Till life shall come, and all my buried gems 
 
 Be plucked from the old spoiler's robber-grasp. 
 
 I walk amid the tombstones, touching each 
 
 With this old staff, as one who drops a line 
 
 Into some ancient well, and listens hard 
 
 To learn how deep it is. For graves are deep ; 
 
 Deeper than eyes have seen ; each one of them 
 
 Linked with the depths and heights of realms unknown. 
 
 And as we look at them, or hear the voice 
 
 Of the low wind, that, as it passes o'er, 
 
 Makes melancholy music, we go in 
 
 Thro' the low gates into the wide expanse 
 
 Of light that lies beyond, into whose joy 
 
 Our loved have entered, beckoning us to come. 
 
 ' We love to hide our grief, or fear to show it, 
 As if too sacred for the common eye ; 
 Yet not the less we cherish it ; perhaps 
 To give it out to God in prayer, to man 
 In song, and to ourselves in silent thought. 
 Each dwelling has its cloud, without, within ; 
 Earth's proudest cities know what sorrow is. 
 And yet it speaks not in the multitude 
 Of voices that we hear ; we walk the streets, 
 Yet see it not ; we pass its very door, 
 Yet hear it not. Deep, deep down hides the grief 
 
i go MY OLD LETTERS. [line 946. 
 
 That is the truest ; we must seek for it 
 If we would find it and bind up its wounds. 
 Joy puts the trumpet to its lips, and makes 
 The city ring with shout and song and mirth. 
 
 ' But 'twill not now be long. The storms are done, 
 And the last breaking wave has spent itself. 
 The winds are dying into peace, and morn 
 Smiles down upon me from the hills of home. 
 Life's weather-broken barque has safely reached 
 The long-sought bay ; the worn-out keel at length 
 Grazes the strand. I leap to land, and find 
 Myself at last upon the stormless shore.' 
 
BOOK VIII. 
 
 ' From this calm desert let me date these lines ' 
 (So writes a wanderer whom we knew in youth, 
 Who after uneventful years lay down 
 To rest beneath Geneva's sycamores). 
 ' The sands are all about me ; the nude rocks 
 With checkered peaks are watching for the dawn, 
 Whose tide of radiance now begins to flow, 
 After the ebb of night, and to steal up 
 With sweet obtrusion on the shaded air. 
 
 ' I am alone ; and for a time at least 
 I love to be so. Cares are for the crowd, 
 And here I part with them. Not that I turn 
 My back upon the race, as if to leave 
 All love behind me ; and yet would I seek 
 A time of breathing and a place of rest, 
 To fit me for the after-work of life, 
 The service, or the trial, or the toil ; 
 And here, in this unutterable calm, 
 I find the freshening which my spirit needs. 
 
 ' I watch in silence every change, and mark 
 Yon burst of radiance from the unrisen sun, 
 That like a billow breaks against the morn ; 
 Then springing upwards in divided wreaths, 
 
 191 
 
192 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 24. 
 
 Scatters its spray of beauty o'er the hills, 
 Braiding with its unearthly gold the clouds 
 That hang like tresses on the brow of dawn. 
 All leisurely the day is coming up, 
 Like one assured of welcome ; o'er the sands 
 The languid under-breeze is stealing by, 
 Scarce ruffling one of these acacia leaves. 
 O calm without a name, so sweet, so deep ! 
 O wondrous air, so sparkling, so serene ! 
 
 ' The skies are bluest when they bend above 
 The blue wide ocean ; they are purest when 
 They stretch across a wilderness like this, 
 Where man is not, and where no city-smoke 
 Stifles the noon, and dulls its trembling blue. 
 Man is polluting all the streams of earth : 
 Its very seas send shoreward with a sigh 
 The murky wave, no longer hyaline. 
 A veil, but not of night, nor swift eclipse, 
 Bedims the sun. Beauty and odour flee 
 The pale-faced flowers. With boughs of tarnished green 
 The forests droop. The showers have lost their freshness, 
 The snow its maiden splendour, and the breeze, 
 Or from the rising or the sinking sun, 
 Comes, with its tainted breath, to blanch the cheek 
 And take the blossom from youth's budding spring. 
 
 ' But here, in this untainted wilderness, 
 The far-spread poison ceases ; not a trace 
 Of living influence, for good or ill, 
 To tell of him whose hand, however skilful, 
 Ne'er touches but it mars, or leaves the trail 
 As of a serpent on the soil it tills ! 
 
line 55.] BOOK VIII. 
 
 193 
 
 ' Land of lone silence, over which there breaks 
 No city-murmur in the busy morn, 
 When millions rise to labour ; whose still nights 
 (So still that one might hear the moonbeams fall, 
 Or the soft dew alight, hour after hour, 
 Upon the acacia leaves or rittem bloom) 
 No sighing sick-bed and no tears disturb ; 
 Where neither death nor life is seen around ; 
 Where no voice meets you with its " Hush, be still, 
 For death is on that couch, within these curtains : 
 Tread softly lest you should disturb the dead." 
 Land of strange muteness, where the camel's hoof 
 Or foot of the half-sandalled Bedawi 
 Raises no echo ; where the bleat of flocks, 
 Or shepherd's call, or song of sleepless streams, 
 Is all unheard ! How I stand here and gaze 
 In silence, like your own, upon these wastes, 
 As if afraid to breathe ; then looking up 
 Into your lucid heavens, as if to scale 
 The summit of that bright miraculous arch, 
 Whose keystone is the star that never sets, 
 Whose base the sweep of these unending sands. 
 
 ' This is Arabia ! That the mount of God, 
 Whose granite peaks, bathed in descending flame, 
 Once shook as God came down, and the loud blast 
 Of trumpets filled the unaccustomed air. 
 Here would I sit beneath the spiky boughs 
 Of this acacia, and gaze all around. 
 The tread of million's once amid these rocks 
 Was heard ; but that has long since passed away. 
 A liberated nation sung its songs, 
 
194 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 86. 
 
 Reared its new altar here, and daily drenched 
 
 These dead dry sands with sacrificial blood. 
 
 But every stain of blood or trace of ashes 
 
 Has vanished in the wind and rain of ages. 
 
 A liberated nation sung its songs 
 
 Amid these valleys, but the strain has died. 
 
 A noble priesthood waved its censers here, 
 
 Fair with fresh gold, and glistening with new gems, 
 
 Sending from these into the virgin air 
 
 A fragrance never known on earth before, 
 
 Sweetness as perfect as it was divine. 
 
 * And here the pillared glory, dwelling-place, 
 Chariot, and throne of Him who fills the heavens, 
 Blazed in its cloudy brightness, day and night ; 
 A sun, a shield, a keeper, and a guide ! 
 It, too, is gone, and the sun smites the sand, 
 Without a cloud between : the wilderness 
 Is poorer than before ; for He who pitched 
 For forty years His tent above its wastes 
 Has left it, to return no more until 
 He comes as new-Creator of the earth. 
 Then shall this desert blossom as the rose ; 
 Its rocks shall gush with living springs and streams ; 
 The cedar and the myrtle and the olive 
 Shall cover its grey sands ; like Eden then, 
 Earth's long-lost garden, shall it all become, 
 And these fierce hungry rocks, like skeletons 
 Of the dead mountains of a former world, 
 That rise on every side, shall clothe themselves 
 With verdure such as Sharon knoweth not, 
 Nor Lebanon in greenest springs hath seen. 
 
line 117.] BOOK VIII. 195 
 
 ' Here the new river rushed from the deep cleft 
 Of the parched flint to quench a nation's thirst, 
 Went thro' the desert with the chosen race, 
 Then disappeared, in silent mystery, 
 To the deep source from which it first welled out, 
 Its happy embassy of love fulfilled ; 
 As if the angel of the waters had 
 Beckoned it forth, then beckoned it away. 
 
 ' Here, too, the unknown manna daily rained 
 Celestial food, angelic sustenance ; 
 And man on earth did eat the bread of heaven ; 
 A better than the best of earthly food, 
 And pledge of food more true and more divine, 
 The bread of God, the everlasting bread 
 Which whoso eateth hungers never more ; 
 Bread for the famine of a hungry world, 
 The soul's true provender, which giveth life 
 Above all human life to them who eat. 
 Be that bread ever mine ; and let all else 
 Pass by untasted ; nothing else can fill ; 
 No more I need ; no less can satisfy. 
 
 ' This way the millions marched, and here they 
 rested, — ■ 
 The host of the oppressed, set free, and yet 
 Unused to battle, with the broken links 
 Of Egypt's fetters on their weary limbs. 
 Here the Phoenician Amalek swept down 
 For spoil and havoc. On yon hill, that like 
 A sentinel looks down upon this plain, 
 The Hebrew leader sat with lifted rod, 
 Till, like the sand before the hurricane, 
 
196 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 147. 
 
 The desert foe was scattered to the night, 
 And, like the Egyptian chariots, seen no more. 
 
 ' Here stood the altar, where the blood of peace 
 Was shed and sprinkled ; meeting-place between 
 The nation and its God, where heaven and earth 
 Embraced each other ; the long-wandered son 
 And the still loving Father reconciled, 
 Each in the other's arms fast locked together, 
 Only the blood between, at that strange spot 
 Of the eternal peacemaking, where death 
 Gives place to life, and love gets unchecked vent 
 To all its yearnings o'er the sons of men. 
 O tide of love, flow in and on, till I 
 Am covered with thy gladness ! Thee I need 
 To bear me thro' the conflict. Righteous love, 
 Fill this unrighteous soul ;. and let thy joy 
 Abide with me, as at the altar I 
 In peace stand looking on the face of God. 
 
 ' Here was the feast of love, where God and man 
 Sat down together, of one common loaf 
 Eating, and of one cup, with wine of heaven 
 Filled day by day, partaking in their joy. 
 The crowds of earth far off : no Egypt now 
 To break the silence of these lonely sands, 
 Or mar the intercourse, or draw the heart 
 Of man from God by its attractive grace. — 
 O earth, how strong ! O human face, how fair ! 
 How treacherous the beauty of all things 
 Beneath the light of this soft-smiling sun ! 
 O comeliness of creaturehood, what power 
 Is in thee to bewilder ! Voices sweet 
 
line 178.] BOOK VIII. 197 
 
 Of man and woman, how ye win the ear, 
 And close it against melody divine ! 
 I feel that I must be alone, ere I 
 Be not alone ; and it is here I find 
 The one companionship that satisfies ; 
 It is the crowd that makes the solitude ; 
 This desert is not loneliness to me. 
 
 ' Strange legends, too, of later days, affix 
 Their marvels to each wizard cliff around. 
 Yon crimson peak, and yon tall yellow spire ; 
 And that green belt that girds the precipice, 
 And these lone palms of moonlight, that drink up 
 The scanty moisture of this burning soil ; 
 This solitary graveyard with its stones, 
 Unhewn and interfringed with desert -broom, 
 Whose history no wanderer can tell ; 
 That dried-up well, to which the traveller comes 
 In vain for water to his withered lips ; 
 That pale-faced rock, that like a minaret 
 Lifts itself, but on which or day or night 
 No watcher sits and no muezzin calls, — 
 All have their names and stories. Well they seem 
 Fitted for fable, so magnificent 
 And so unearthly do they show themselves 
 In starlight or in sunshine. Not the like 
 Doth earth contain of haggard majesty. 
 
 ' That old fantastic ruin is the place 
 Of buried gold ; and underneath that rock 
 Are gardens which would make a Paradise 
 (So tells the Bedawi the solemn tale 
 
i 9 8 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 208. 
 
 His fathers, and his father's fathers told). 
 
 On yon weird boulder strange lights have been seen 
 
 By wanderers, that point to hidden gems. 
 
 That cairn contains the bones of one who left 
 
 A name for blood behind him, and on it 
 
 Each Arab, as he passes, pours his curse. 
 
 That other heap retains a gentler name, 
 
 To which with softer voice he says, Lie still. 
 
 ' They say that to yon peak, that shooteth up 
 Like rugged splinter of a giant's lance, 
 And sparkles in the blue of awful night 
 As if some star had lighted on its top, 
 Two maidens climbed, each with a broken heart, 
 And, in the frenzy of love's dark despair, 
 Twining their raven tresses into one 
 Indissoluble braid, with close-linked arms 
 Flung themselves down that hideous pinnacle, 
 Inviting all the vultures of the rocks 
 To come and feed upon their quivering limbs. 
 
 ' Close by yon tiny spring, that wanders out 
 From the bare slope, and like an angel smiles 
 In the brown desert, rises sharp and high 
 A ponderous wedge of everlasting rock, 
 Barring all access once. A sword, men say, 
 (Men to whom fable is bright history, 
 And who have clothed their rocks with glowing dreams), 
 A swift miraculous sword clave it in twain, 
 And formed a gateway never to be closed, 
 Thro' which the wanderer might pass in and drink 
 Of the clear water, as it shines and smiles ; 
 A thing of life in this lone world of death. 
 
line 239.] BOOK VIII. 199 
 
 Fair fountain, clearer than Bandusian spring, 
 Tho' rocks be all thy shelter, and the sand 
 Thy only margin ! Yet a clearer fount 
 I know, from deeper rocks than these upwelling, 
 To cheer the desert with its crystal flow. 
 
 ' They point to two strange cells, the one hard by 
 The other, where still lie in ghastliness 
 The bones of two who sought to spend their lives 
 In prayer. A chain, reaching from cell to cell, 
 Linked them, and when the one lay down to rest, 
 The hard chain drew the other up to pray. 
 Thus day and night they toiled thro' a dark life, 
 Amid the echoes of these solitudes ; 
 As if to pray were better than to do ; 
 As if to groan were better than to love ; 
 As if the God, upon whose altar day 
 By day they laid their never-ending cries, 
 Were some stern Jupiter, who loved them not, 
 And would not answer them nor heed their tears ; 
 Or some gaunt desert-Moloch, whose delight 
 Was but to feed on human agony, 
 And drink the dismal music of despair. 
 
 ' Enough of legends, be they false or true ; 
 Turn to the real, the present, and the fair. 
 See this lone valley, with its pillared palms, 
 Each a tall minaret of waving green, 
 With shrub and underwood thick intertwined, 
 Untrimmed and shaggy ; tamarisk and thorn ; 
 The sacred seyal, clothed with pilgrim rags ; 
 The pliant rittem, with its hidden flowers ; 
 A gay, sweet garden, hedged with horrid cliffs. 
 
200 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 270. 
 
 Peaks of all shapes and heights are here ; some dark, 
 Like wing of desert-raven, and some bright, 
 Like knightly helmet with its vizor down, 
 Flashing afar the sheen of burnished steel 
 Midway in heaven to the responsive sun. 
 
 ' Here may I sit, in the palm-shaded grove, 
 So unlike all the wilderness beside,, 
 And dreaming, listen to the nightingale, 
 Safe from the sandstorm or the blinding heat, 
 Yet still enjoying in the forest shade 
 The deep, delicious sunshine, as it quivers 
 Along these sands or round these grim old cliffs, 
 Or, hovering gently like a weary bird, 
 Sinks silently to rest amid the palms. 
 
 ' Here may I sit and think of home again, 
 My western home, far greener than this grove, 
 With its soft sward and mountain rills, that know 
 No dearth nor drought, still flowing in their joy, 
 Silver and gold and crystal all in one ; 
 Tho' without vine or palm or sycamore, 
 Or olive with its sombre green ; and tho' 
 Without a nightingale to cheer the dark, 
 Or chant its gladness to the listening stars. 
 These heavens are clear, and the swift sun comes up, 
 With scarce a twilight, like a ball of fire, 
 Then goeth down with like unshaded blaze. 
 Yes ; they are clear, — too clear for those whose eyes 
 Have gazed on the magnificence of cloud 
 That fills the concave of our northern skies, 
 The wondrous Oberland above our heads. 
 Bluer, perhaps, than ours, but shallower far 
 
line 301.] BOOK VIII. 201 
 
 These desert heavens ; how low, each brilliant night, 
 Upon the horizon rests the constant star 
 Of midnight, — star of the unsetting pole ! 
 
 ' Nor books are here, nor man; yet man and books, 
 With all that made them dear of love or truth, 
 I can recall ; the thoughts of other days, 
 My own or those of others, pass before me, 
 Recorded in this volume, which I bear 
 About with me in journeyings, to link 
 My studious days with those of idleness. 
 
 ' " They say the cypress tree " (so read I here 
 The thoughts of former hours), " if once 'tis cut, 
 Puts forth no green again. They say the palm 
 Grows best when loaded. Be my symbol, then, 
 The palm and not the cypress. I would prize 
 The daily discipline that works its way 
 Into the secret chambers of the soul, 
 To purify my being and my life. 
 O solemn fast-days of the Church of God, 
 When the soul rises above earth, and seeks 
 A purer sunshine than this world can give, 
 Let me enjoy you while the world feasts on 
 In song and laughter, heedless of its sin. 
 
 '"Four thorns, 'tis said, are needful to make up 
 A good man's life, a true man's character, — 
 In front, behind, and one on either side. 
 Which of the wise or great has been without them ? 
 Pressure and pain and toil consolidate 
 The feeble will, and root the unrooted soul." 
 
 ' " Deep sorrow is God's loving messenger, 
 Tho' clothed in sackcloth, with a wreath of thorns 
 
202 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 332. 
 
 Round his pale brow, and his despatches filled 
 With evil tidings ; for he loves and loves not : 
 He knocketh calmly at the gate, and hands 
 His missive in, but speaketh not a word. 
 How terrible his silence, would we say ! 
 Oh, would that he would speak, and let us know 
 From the beginning what his message bears 
 Of worst or best, without the slow suspense 
 That tears up life and wastes the weary frame. 
 
 ' " The men of old, the wise in thought and speech, 
 Who love to knit in one the fair and true, 
 Tell that the myrtle carried in the hand 
 Turneth the traveller's weakness into strength : 
 I need the myrtle, for my strength is small, — 
 The tree which giveth life to all who touch." 
 
 ' " Sound tests the vessel and reveals the flaw. 
 So does our speech reveal us, as said well 
 The orator of Athens ; and a greater 
 Searches the fool with the unwelcome test, 
 And bids us know him by his empty words. 
 The idle speech, the idle silence too, 
 Must both one day be reckoned for by us : 
 I know not which containeth most of ill." 
 
 * " It is the little things of daily life 
 That test us and that tell us what we are, 
 Unfolding both to others and ourselves 
 The deepest secrets of the inner man. 
 If thou wouldst know thyself, take up and read 
 The little things of life, and thou shalt find 
 In them the true expression of the man. 
 The sap ascends, invisible and silent ; 
 
line 363.J BOOK VIII. 203 
 
 Light does its miracles without a voice ; 
 The forest putteth forth its thousand buds 
 By stealth, and day without a trumpet-note 
 Supplants the night ; the air leans down 
 On the subjacent earth, and yet its fields 
 Feel not the pressure, nor resent the load. 
 So be our life, — a silent energy, 
 An unseen potency of useful love. 
 Be what thou seem'st, and let that ever be 
 The best and truest ; wrong not by pretence. 
 Earth's deadliest aconite, I know, is plucked 
 From out its greenest fields ; beware lest thou, 
 With a fair-spoken lip of eloquence, 
 Or quiet sweetness, be the deadly bane. 
 
 ' " As in the God-appointed sacrifice, 
 Laid upon Israel's altars long ago, 
 No honey, sweetest of all earthly sweets, 
 Was to be mingled ; as the bitter herb 
 Gave zest to Israel's feast ; so with our life, 
 The life of strangers ; 'tis the bitter now, 
 The sweet hereafter ; tribulation here, 
 And then the exceeding weight of joy for ever. 
 
 '" In this low world of shadows and of death, 
 This earth, I mean, beneath yon silent sun, 
 Where evil doeth battle with the good, 
 And fills our air with strife's bewildering gloom, 
 Sorrow itself becomes our brightest torch, 
 As if impregnated with light from heaven. — 
 Torch of the desert, what do I not owe 
 To thee and to thy calm unearthly light ! 
 Torch of the midnight, bright when all is dark, 
 
204 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 394. 
 
 Fling out thy radiance on this pilgrim band ; 
 Illumine these our perilous rough paths, 
 Until the waste is traversed, and the day 
 Breaks in its splendour o'er the eternal plains, 
 Thro' which the living streams in gladness flow." 
 
 ' " I rest, yet rise ; I toil, yet am refreshed ; 
 I may not tarry till my work is done, 
 I would go forth to labour while 'tis day, 
 And then withdraw into myself, like flowers 
 At sunset, ready for the joyous dawn. 
 Rather would I be like the fabled bird 
 That sleeps on wing ; or like the earnest flowers, 
 Sleepless exhaling fragrance all around ! 
 Be one or many, yet be all thyself; 
 True to thy being, give that being out, 
 And let it tell upon the world around. 
 As the split sunbeam spreads its sevenfold glow, 
 So spread out all thyself in happy light 
 Upon the clouds, which else would all be gloom." 
 
 ' But I must rise and go ; elsewhere, amid 
 Fresher and greener beauty, to sit down 
 And tell you more of what this earth contains ; 
 For earth is fair, tho' once we know 'twas fairer, 
 And will be fairer still in days to come. 
 
 ' I am in Egypt, — that is her high sun, 
 These her gaunt palms, and this her brimming Nile! 
 Here, resting by this old imperial stream, 
 This majesty and pride of waters, where 
 Antiquity has cast her deepest shadow, — 
 
line 423.] BOOK VIII.. 205 
 
 Where, like a lion from his lair, it looks 
 Out from each obelisk and pyramid, 
 I sit and muse, strewing without an aim 
 Upon the dusky tremor of its wave, 
 That like a marble pavement spreadeth out, 
 The light acacia leaves that hang around, 
 And mark how quietly they pass away, 
 Without a whirl or eddy, down the sunshine. 
 
 ' Egypt, thy watch-towers are the Pyramids, 
 That battle with the spirit of the waste ; 
 Thy bulwarks, the immeasurable sands 
 That stretch on either side ; thy treasure-house 
 Of wealth, the wondrous river, which, unfed 
 By tributary waters, year by year 
 Flushes thy sandy wastes with fruitful soil. 
 O Rhone and Danube, rivers of high name, 
 Tiber and Tigris, venerable streams, 
 Whose banks are histories of kings and realms, 
 What are ye all beside this mighty flood ? 
 Like palm beside the sycamore, or like 
 The cedar in some olive-grove, this stream 
 Flows, from each river of the earth apart, 
 Without its fellow of the east or west, 
 The nurse and mother of old Memphis still. — - 
 Sea of the desert, what a shore is thine ! 
 Cities and palaces and giant fanes ; 
 Pillar and obelisk and architrave ; 
 With rock-hewn chambers, whose well-sculptured walls 
 Tell the great stories of old Mizraim's youth, 
 Each in itself a temple or a palace ! 
 Still on thou movest in thy river-march, 
 
206 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 454. 
 
 Unchanged amid the changes of thy kings, — 
 Thyself a king more kingly than they all, 
 Thy dynasty but one from first to last. 
 Still from the Nubian snows thou comest down, 
 As each bright summer bids thee overflow, 
 To do thine ancient work, and sternly urge 
 Thy annual battle with the sterile sand ; 
 Still driving back the desert on each side, 
 And, in thy stately progress to the sea, 
 Quickening the dead and barren soil to life, 
 Till the grey desert smiles, and the lean dust 
 Wakes into waving corn and blushing flowers. 
 
 ' Among the lemon-groves of Jaffa now, 
 Beneath her autumn palms, whose dropping clusters 
 Glow in the fiery noon, all bronze and gold, 
 I wander, drinking in the fragrance deep, 
 And looking out upon the fitful sea 
 Of old Philistia gleaming in the west. 
 Oldest of cities, linked with sacred truth 
 And classic fable from thy youngest dawn ; 
 By name the beautiful, surpassing fair, 
 As seen by mariner who steers his course 
 From the far Occident, where summer's sun 
 Goes down in the long reach of green and gold, 
 Flinging the spent shafts of his dying light 
 Full on thy face ! Nor less I call thee fair 
 When wandering 'neath thy shady orange-boughs, 
 That scent the still noon-air ; or 'neath thy palms, 
 That wave in beauty to the clear March noon, 
 And shake their foliage o'er thy spray-swept beach. 
 
line 484- J BOOK VIII. 207 
 
 Oldest of cities ! Sidon of the north, 
 And Kirjath Arba of the rocky south, 
 And Egypt's Zoan cannot equal thee. 
 Andromade and Perseus, if the lay 
 Of classic story speak the truth, were here ; 
 Monarchs of Palestine, and kings of Tyre, 
 And the brave Maccabee have all been here ; 
 And Cestius with his Roman plunderers ; 
 And Saladin and Baldwin, and the host 
 Of fierce crusaders from the British north, 
 Once shook their swords above thee, and thy blood 
 Flowed down like water to thine ancient sea. 
 First city where the European wave 
 Of superstitious battle broke in rage 
 Over those surf-washed rocks that guard thy haven. 
 Last city whence the dark crusading tide 
 Ebbed back in broken sullenness and gloom, 
 Leaving thy bay as placid as before. 
 City of terror ! where the rod of God 
 Pursued the flying prophet, and with storm 
 Brought back the unwilling messenger of ill. 
 City of gladness ! where apostles' hands 
 Wrought miracles of love, and dried up tears, 
 And with a word unlocked the gate of death. 
 ' Scenes such as these I would revisit still, 
 Rebuilding wall and fort and colonnade, 
 Repeopling all this emptiness and ruin ; 
 And, mingling with the men of other days, 
 Would share their thoughts and deeds. But chiefly thee, 
 Holiest of cities, — now the most defiled, — 
 Where stood the temple of the Only Wise, 
 
208 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 515. 
 
 Where the one altar sent its smoke to heaven, 
 Witness and symbol of the Coming One, 
 Whose death without the gate hath won the life 
 For us which only that one death could win. 
 Thee would I look upon as once thou wast, 
 When all thy gates were song, thy walls were strength, 
 And all thy stones were peace ; where melody, 
 The like of which has not been heard since then, 
 Rose up from voice and harp and trumpet clear, 
 Speaking the praises of the mighty King. 
 Thee would I traverse in that hour of hours, 
 When He who took my cross went forth in shame 
 To bear my guilt, and, in most sweet exchange, 
 To give me all His heavenly innocence, — 
 My raiment and my beauty and my peace ! 
 
 ' Am I not there ? Is not that city mine ? 
 And am I not a unit in that crowd ? 
 Is not my voice amid that shower of sounds 
 That fills the Roman hall ? And do I not 
 Behold the Man ? And do I not go forth 
 To gaze upon the Altar and the Lamb ? 
 Beyond the marble wall I see the cross, 
 And know its meaning ; for that cross is mine ; 
 Mine is the crown of thorns ; and thro' my hands 
 And feet the nails are driven ; it is my side 
 That the spear pierces, — I have died with Him. 
 All that is mine He takes, and gives me His. 
 I get another's wealth, another's name : 
 All that that wealth can give I get, and all 
 That that name covers is now reckoned mine ; — 
 His good supplants my ill, His death my death ; 
 
line 546.] BOOK VIII. 209 
 
 He takes my darkness, gives me all His light. 
 The imperfect and the perfect thus exchanged, 
 The bond is cancelled, and the debtor freed. 
 
 ' Back to the burning East (so dreamers speak), 
 Back to the burning East, whose skies are love, 
 And stars are splendour, and the sun all flame ; 
 Where night by night, without a veil to hide 
 Her beauty, in deep fondness bends o'er earth 
 The ever-filling, ever-emptying moon. 
 Yet not for splendour, nor for sparkling heavens ; 
 Nor for the luxury of golden noons ; 
 Nor for the mellow moonshine, under which 
 The cedar sinks to sleep ; nor for the breeze 
 That cools the olive on the mountain-slope ; 
 Nor for all these together, would I seek 
 The mighty East. I know that it is fair ! 
 Majestic slope of royal Lebanon, 
 Up which the sea-breeze rushes, when the storm 
 Is marshalling its strength ! Gorges of gloom, 
 Thro' whose split crags Leontes flows in power, 
 As if some giant, with a two-edged sword, 
 Had lengthwise cleft the mountain-ridge in twain, 
 From peak to lowest base, and left behind 
 The flashing weapon quivering in the rock ; 
 On whose precipitous ledges root themselves 
 The wild fig or the yellow jessamine, 
 And thro' whose crevices the upper snow, 
 Dissolved by summer's sun, pours itself down 
 In lucid rills, or gushes wildly out 
 In mirthful fountains, to enrich and bless 
 The gardens and the orchards underneath. 
 
210 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 577. 
 
 ' Yet not for all this beauty would I seek 
 The fragrant East, but for more glorious things : 
 There rose the sun that shall go down no more ; 
 There sprang the fountain that shall water earth ; 
 There burst the glory that shall never pale ; 
 There rose the life with which death strove in vain ; 
 There was the golden chain prepared and forged 
 Which knitteth earth to heaven ; there also stood 
 The more than golden ladder which connects 
 These lower chambers with the upper halls ; 
 There was the manger-cradle within which 
 Eternity was laid ; there stood the cross 
 Where love and justice met ; there was the tomb 
 From which came immortality and joy ; 
 There was the fiery battle fought and won, 
 Beneath Melchizedec's old city wall, 
 Outside the gate, where Death, his two-edged sword 
 Unsheathing as a conqueror, smote the Life, 
 And in that smiting lost his victory. 
 To thee, dear land! first home of heavenly truth, 
 And ancient fount of that all-healing sunshine 
 That yet shall fill this light-forsaken earth, — 
 To thee, dear land, old well of life divine, 
 And birthplace of eternal liberty, 
 The heart still turns, and from thy incense-hills 
 Inhales the odours of a lower heaven. 
 
 ' Not always westward has the current flowed ; 
 Eastward and southward was the progress once, 
 And many an eastern, many a southern realm 
 Has drunk the living water from the fount 
 Whence our great fathers drew their primal stores 
 
line6o8.] BOOK VIII. 211 
 
 Of knowledge and of art. Since then the tide 
 Has turned, and the old rivers seem to find 
 A new and vaster watershed, whence still 
 The ancient centres pour their melting snows 
 Upon the fields of other continents. 
 
 ' Westward the current has for ages flowed : 
 The genial East, the ancient home of truth, 
 Well-watered once, has long been bare and dry. 
 At last the tide has struck its bounds, and turns 
 Back to its birthplace on the eastern plains, 
 Where the old rivers ran, the old cities stood, 
 The old altars smoked to the one living God, 
 At Uz or Bethel, — shrines of ancient faith, — 
 Hebron, or Shiloh, or Moriah's hill ; 
 It is already on its way, to make 
 That faded land once more the Orient, 
 Rising as rises its own cloudless sun, 
 Rising as rises its own crowned palm. 
 The East revives ; and see, with it come up 
 Ages of history, once all but lost ; 
 Stone-carved, and buried in the drifted sand 
 Of Khorsabad or Philae or Dibhan. 
 The East awakes, — rich in its own past wealth, 
 So long entombed ; rich, too, in the full store 
 Of western treasure ; — East and West together, 
 Parent and offspring, gathering their one harvest 
 To fill the universal earth with joy. 
 
 ' The Orient is not dead, it only sleeps ; 
 Its sun has not gone down, 'tis only veiled. 
 It has a future which we dream not of, 
 A future for itself and for the world : 
 
2i2 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 639. 
 
 Its dawn of resurrection is at hand. 
 
 The mosque, which like a gravestone covers it, 
 
 From farthest Cabul to the rock of Tyre, 
 
 Shall be rolled off ; and the great Life shall come 
 
 Like a new morning to the land of morn. 
 
 ' " Uncover ye your heads as ye go in 
 To worship God within His holy house : " 
 So speaks the younger West, with its new thoughts 
 Of holiness in wall and arch and roof. 
 " Uncover ye your feet as ye pass in 
 To holy places, where a present God 
 Is worshipped in His glorious majesty : " 
 So speaks the older East, with its old thoughts 
 Of holy ground beneath our feet, which man 
 Must not defile, but tread with footstep clean. 
 
 ' Each has its thoughts of holy majesty ; 
 Each has its attitude of reverence ; 
 To each the way is open which leads up 
 To the eternal throne, where priestly lips 
 Pronounce the royal pardon in the name 
 Of everlasting justice to each one, 
 Of East or West, who names the blessed Name. 
 Within the souls of both, the mighty truth, 
 Working, reveals itself in different ways. 
 " God is a spirit ; they who worship Him 
 Must worship Him in spirit and in truth." 
 And in that day when the unsandalled East 
 Shall meet the uncovered West, and both in crowds 
 Ascend the holy hill, all earth shall join 
 In one unjarring song, the song of men 
 Who, with their many lips and dialects, 
 
line 670. J BOOK VIII. 213 
 
 Shall find themselves all one in Him whose cross 
 Shall be the uplifted banner of the world, 
 Centre and basis of all holy worship ; 
 Whose throne in Salem shall become the seat 
 Of righteous law and happy government 
 To a delivered world, in which both East 
 And West shall form one people and one realm. 
 ' The same fair moon that lights up Lebanon 
 Spreads its sweet silver o'er our Grampian heath ; 
 The dews and suns of every age are one ; 
 And the same rainbow, bright with ancient love, 
 Weaves its one wreath for every cloud and clime ; 
 The sun of May, rich, bright, Italian May, 
 Melting the snow upon the Splugen steeps 
 To flood the willow-shaded Valteline, 
 Calls up a paradise of heaven-sown flowers, — 
 Miles of blue gentian, Alpine amethysts, 
 Like drops of molten azure from the sky ; 
 The primrose and the snowflake by the shore 
 Of Leman, when the spring-noon gathers strength, 
 And frosts are melting from its tangled slopes ; 
 Night-scenting daphne, making darkness sweet ; 
 And violets bursting thro' the mouldering leaves 
 Of the last autumn's oaks beside the moss : 
 These are the broidered girdle of the earth, 
 That binds all realms together into one, 
 As if pervaded by a common soul. 
 The soft March rain of Palestine, that brings 
 Fertility and warmth in every drop, 
 Comes down upon her broken terraces 
 And ruin-cumbered soil ; then everywhere 
 
214 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 701. 
 
 Bursts up the wind-flower and the cyclamen, 
 Where the grey sand or rubbish lay before. 
 
 ' Thus round the globe moveth the breath of God ; 
 Thus all the earth receives His daily love, 
 In sun or shower or odour-bearing breeze ; 
 And His one family sit down beneath 
 His silent wing to share His gracious smile. 
 
 ' Thus round the globe moveth the light of God, 
 Rising and setting everywhere, — one sun. 
 I see it now, as o'er yon mountain curve 
 It bends its downward sweep, the same fair sun 
 That rose this morning over other hills ; 
 It droops and disappears, yet still I see 
 Its rays flung back from yonder rocky spire, 
 That like a watch-tower lifts itself on high. 
 But now it fades ; the twilight comes apace ; 
 The glow has vanished from the mountain-peak, 
 And the celestial abend-kuss is gone. 
 
 ' Thus in earth's mould is sown the seed of God, 
 Impregnated with universal life. 
 Faithful has been this mother-earth to each 
 Small seed or root entrusted to her bosom ; 
 And faithfully in her appointed time 
 Does she refund the treasure lodged within her. 
 When summer comes apace, the patient earth, 
 Long silent, as if wholly dumb, takes up 
 The frozen or forgotten lute, and sings 
 Its ancient plain-song to the answering woods, 
 And ocean never mute, or winged stream. 
 So faithfully, to liken great to small, 
 Shall this true earth refund the immortal seed 
 
line 732.] BOOK VIII. 215 
 
 Sown in her soil, with sevenfold usury, 
 
 In the great resurrection-harvest, when, 
 
 At rising of the never-setting sun, 
 
 From the dead dust shall spring the glorious life ; 
 
 Beauty exchanged for vileness and for shame, 
 
 Mortal become immortal, and the furrows 
 
 Of the long mute and barren grave at length 
 
 Yielding on earth the ripened fruit of heaven ; 
 
 The lower discords here dissolved at length 
 
 In higher harmonies, and the great song 
 
 Of the vast universe then taking in 
 
 Its deepest notes, unheard, unknown before ; 
 
 The one eternal purpose folding out 
 
 To its wide uttermost of joy and love, 
 
 And all the compass of its music then 
 
 Played out in full, unhindered and unstayed. 
 
 ' The lack of sunlight (so thought men of old) 
 Turns gold to iron ; and the sun, they said, 
 Pouring its yellow radiance into iron, 
 Turns it to gold. So think I when I see 
 The iron of this iron age : it lacks 
 The sun. And then I gladly think, that when 
 The fair new sun of the long-promised day 
 Shall sweetly rise, in its omnipotence 
 Of transformation, on this waiting world, 
 All shall be gold again, as at the first ; 
 And the bright age, renowned in ancient song, 
 Begin the joy of its unending noon. 
 
 ' The bearer of good tidings knocketh boldly, 
 Demanding instant entrance ; of ill news 
 The messenger knocks faintly, and with hand 
 
216 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 763. 
 
 That falters while it knocks. I seem to hear 
 In these strange days, and in the varied voices 
 Of men and things around me everywhere, 
 The loud, the loving, the impatient knock 
 Of Him who brings good tidings to the world 
 Of truth and order and deliverance 
 At hand ; when evil shall have done its worst, 
 And to some second cross have nailed all 
 That is or good or true upon the earth. 
 
 ' I would not be of those who speak of what 
 They know not, nor can see with mortal eye, 
 Eager to plunge into the tangled thicket 
 Of the great life beyond their little own, 
 Impatient of the present and the past. 
 And yet the ripple speaks the rising wind ; 
 The ruby dimple on the cheek of dawn 
 Says night is done ; the crash of breaking ice 
 In the far rivers of the frozen north 
 Says spring is come, and summer is at hand. 
 So look I round, and gather up the meaning 
 Of these surrounding discords. Evil comes, 
 And yet that evil is the womb of good. 
 The upas-tree is blossoming, and yet 
 From its far-scattered seed there shall arise 
 No second upas. In its place comes up 
 The tree of life, beneath which men shall sit, 
 And from whose boughs shall drop the eternal fruit. 
 
 ' Creation is in travail, and the birth 
 Will be divine ; the mother and the child 
 Like, yet unlike : the child supremely fair, 
 Sealed with the seal of everlasting youth, — 
 
line 794-] BOOK VIII. 217 
 
 A world without a wrinkle or a frown, 
 The dew of morning ever on its brow. 
 
 ' The dynasties of earth are looking out 
 For the last earthquake, under whose fell stroke 
 Each shall go down in darkness, making room 
 For the eternal monarchy that now 
 Is on its way to take the place of all, 
 And do for earth what they have failed to do. 
 Europe succumbs, like to the fabled maid, 
 Crushed with the armour heaped upon her head. 
 Its crowns dissolve ; the iron and the clay, 
 Long knit, now break asunder, beaten down 
 Like dust beneath the feet, and swept away 
 Like the light chaff of summer threshing-floor. 
 The City of the Seven Hills sinks in gloom 
 Beneath the angel's millstone, to be found 
 No more ; her place and name for ever gone. 
 The oriflamme of Gaul is torn and dim ; 
 The double eagle droops its broken wing ; 
 The chaos of the kingdoms now has come ; 
 Sceptres and spears lie broken on the plains ; 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, is now 
 The doom of earthly splendour, east and west. 
 Mortal magnificence, like mountain snow, 
 Has melted down before the rising sun. 
 
 ' Not till the race is ended do we know 
 Who is the winner : time will tell us all. 
 This only do we know, for Truth hath said it, 
 The last shall be the first, the first the last. 
 The swiftest are the silentest. The slow 
 Grate heavily upon their ponderous wheels ; 
 
2iS MY OLD LETTERS. [line 825. 
 
 The eagle noiseless cuts the unconscious air ; 
 
 And the red bolt is heard but when it smites ; 
 
 The arrow- showers of light are shot in silence 
 
 By the bright archer as he moves on high. 
 
 'Tis not the noise that marks or tests the progress ; 
 
 Mute is the speed of men in earnest, brief 
 
 The words they speak when shooting to the goal. 
 
 The language of the lips is loud and hollow ; 
 
 The language of the heart is deep and low. 
 
 ' Let us move on. The world is growing old, 
 And suns set quickly now ; in ambush lies 
 The foe on every side ; we may not tarry. 
 Day scatters us, but night doth gather all ; 
 The darkness summons home, and we obey, 
 Swiftly and silently we hasten forward ; 
 We must not loiter till to-morrow here ; 
 Ere stars are set, and the next sun is up, 
 We must be home within our city-gate. 
 
 ' But, — softly, — for the way is rough and steep ; 
 The unshod foot must still avoid the thorn, 
 And shun the stone o'er which it once has stumbled : 
 What one false step may do we cannot tell. 
 Yet, strongly, strongly, tho' you softly press 
 Along the way ; it will need all your strength. 
 They know the stream who have been swimming hard 
 Against its violence : slacken not your strokes, 
 Lest in a moment the great torrent-rush 
 Of human custom sweep thee powerless down, 
 And cast thee cold upon an unknown shore. 
 
 ' Let us move up. The height will soon be reached 
 From which the earth becomes invisible, 
 
line 856.] BOOK VIII. 219 
 
 And only heaven is seen. Both hope and fear, 
 
 From which temptations spring, will soon be left 
 
 Beneath our feet, and we shall see the banner 
 
 That waves upon the everlasting walls, 
 
 And beckons us to rise. Below is night, 
 
 Above is day ; behind us is the toil, 
 
 Before the rest in which the weariness 
 
 Of time's slow hours is all submerged at last. 
 
 No longer groaneth the astonished air 
 
 With human grief ; the height on which we stand 
 
 Makes every sound of earth inaudible. 
 
 ' When at that height of heights where all is pure 
 And calm as the eternal atmosphere, 
 Into which storm has never found its way, 
 Shall struggling creaturehood at length arrive ? 
 We grope and grovel here, while overhead 
 Sit the eternal beauty and high love 
 Beckoning us upwards, and yet upwards still. 
 
 ' To rise on wing, and find our tranquil way 
 To yon sweet star that rests in joy above us, 
 Like a snow-covered island far at sea, 
 How bright the thought, as day by day we climb 
 The slippery steep, or leap life's awful chasms ! 
 But when, — but when shall that glad flight be made ? 
 Not to yon sparkling island of the blest, 
 But to a region more divinely fair, 
 Where He whom now we see not reigns in light. 
 
 ' That light has come into the world ; but men 
 Have loved the darkness, and that heavenly ray 
 Has found no home nor resting-place. It has 
 Passed on from land to land, but stayed not long 
 
220 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 887. 
 
 In any ; and its rushing course has been 
 A torch-race of the ages, not yet done. 
 It has sought children everywhere ; and yet 
 Men have refused the sonship ! As if all 
 That such a fatherhood could offer were 
 But mockery of a nature such as theirs. 
 
 ' I've known the night ; when shall I taste the day? 
 I've sat in silence, with the sobbing gust 
 My one companion, and the shaken leaf 
 My gentle comforter, and the tired ripple 
 With soft sound falling on the moist grey sand, 
 The type of weary life ; with troubled eye, 
 Yet heart of hope, watching in patient joy 
 The long low flicker of the evening star 
 Across the heaving wave. I've seen its setting, 
 And the sad night come down ; then have I watched 
 For morn till morning came ; and when it came, 
 My inmost soul rejoiced, my eye grew bright. 
 
 ' O light of the eternal ages, come, 
 And with the sunshine of unsetting day 
 End the long midnight of humanity, 
 Which thou alone canst end. Fill with thyself 
 These heavy skies ; pour down thy love upon 
 The hills and valleys of this ancient earth, 
 Which waits for thee, that thou and it together 
 May yet rejoice, thou resting o'er it fondly, 
 And it as fondly looking up to thee, 
 The blight, the tempest, and the gloom all gone. 
 
 ' Death is not life's necessity ; but life 
 Is the one great necessity of death, 
 And out of death shall rise, in buoyant power 
 
LINEQI8.] BOOK VIII. 221 
 
 And beauty incorruptible, no more 
 
 To feel the law of weakness and decay. 
 
 Yet death is awful in its strength, and yet 
 
 More awful in its silence. Everywhere 
 
 We find its serpent-trail ; without the sound 
 
 Of axes or of hammers, it lays low 
 
 All that of life this vital earth contains, 
 
 The young, the gay, the strong, the beautiful. 
 
 It does not need the battle-field to slay, 
 
 Nor the dread blow of the hot lightning-bolt 
 
 To separate the temple from its guest, 
 
 The body from its co-mate here, the soul. 
 
 Death steals into the perfumed room of wealth, 
 
 As into the dark cell of poverty. 
 
 Como's sweet, sunny lake can quench young life 
 
 As surely as the dark sea of the North, 
 
 That lays its daily siege to the lone rock 
 
 Of the far Hebrides, and breaks in foam 
 
 Upon the cliffs of Jura or of Lorn. 
 
 ' There comes a time when night shall not be needed, 
 But only day, — one long, long, loving day. 
 O night and coolness after day's fierce glow ! 
 O night and darkness after noon's red blaze ! 
 How I have loved you, counting your soft shade 
 Sweeter than day ! And shall I part from you 
 Without a sigh, remembering how oft 
 Ye comforted and cooled our burning hearts ? 
 O soother of so many griefs, farewell ! ' 
 
BOOK IX. 
 
 The stars are out upon their pilgrimage, 
 And the sweet moon looks round in sympathy, 
 Listening, as, one by one, they sing in joy 
 Their nightly song in the blue-vaulted hall 
 Above us, moving on their pilgrim way 
 To some far shrine that eye hath never seen. 
 
 So let me follow them in love and song 
 To Him who gave them all their happy brightness ! 
 So let me move in constancy like theirs 
 Thro' all my nightly course, till day shall dawn, 
 And every orb has hid its stedfast beams 
 In rising light superior to its own. 
 
 A little bluer, and it will be dawn ; 
 A little fairer, and it will be morn ; 
 A little brighter, and it will be noon ; 
 And then the tide of day begins to ebb ! — 
 Is this the story of our common life ? 
 
 A little paler, and it will be eve ; 
 A little shadier, and the twilight falls ; 
 A little darker, and the night has come ; 
 And then the blank, broad midnight ! — Is this life ? 
 And is the growth of this immortal being 
 
line 23.J BOOK IX. 223 
 
 But the brief story of a summer's day, . 
 Made up of dew and sunlight, and beguiled 
 With hourly changes, like the varying notes, 
 Swelling or dying, of some wandering tune, 
 Which the great wind is playing as it sweeps 
 Thro' the brown network of the moorland pines ? 
 
 Life is but fantasy to some ; a mist 
 Steeped in soft sunshine, vanishing at eve. 
 To them the ideal is the true, the real 
 The false. They fashion for themselves a dream, 
 And call it life ; while that which God has made 
 For them, they call the commonplace and stale, 
 Beneath the dignity of royal minds. 
 
 Fancy repeats itself, and false life glides 
 Into some beaten track ; true life alone 
 Is fresh, and has a pathway for herself ; 
 Original by being simply true, 
 And acting itself out in common things. 
 Debtor to none on earth, she lets the voice 
 Pent up within her, in its native tones, 
 Speak out her own true thoughts, that they may do 
 The life-long work for which each one was given. 
 She lets the eye see what the Moulder meant 
 That it should look upon ; she lets the ear 
 Hear all the music it was meant to hear ; 
 She lets the seed within her spring and bear, 
 After its kind, its own peculiar fruit, 
 Unforced alike in season or in clime, 
 As the free sunshine and the generous air 
 May draw out the ripe riches of its root, 
 And make it all itself, and not another. 
 
224 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 54. 
 
 Let man be man, and woman, woman still. 
 
 Let ocean still be ocean, and the stream 
 
 Be still the stream, the breeze be still the breeze. 
 
 Let noon be noon, and night the sable fringe 
 
 Spangled with silver on the robe of day ; 
 
 And these low clouds, that hang above the east 
 
 Like scattered plumage of the purple morn, 
 
 Still be the clouds for suns to gaze upon 
 
 And stars to hide in. Each thing God has made, 
 
 Let it be just itself. Let not orie life 
 
 Steal from its fellow, nor the holy lines, 
 
 Dividing form and colour and sweet sounds 
 
 One from the other, be erased or dimmed. 
 
 'Tis not one general soul that fills the race, 
 
 Nor one monotonous voice that speaks in all ; 
 
 Each being has its landmarks and its laws, 
 
 For beauty and for use ; then let not law 
 
 Be mixed with law until all law be lost, 
 
 And sea with sky be mingled, hill and plain 
 
 Tumbled together, and the rainbow blanched 
 
 Into one pale and cold monotony. 
 
 He who made law, and all that law brings forth, 
 
 Draws His own lines of beauty, form, and order, 
 
 And gives each atom of the universe 
 
 Its own position, and assigns its work. 
 
 Each kind and species, both in soul and body, 
 Takes after a divine selection, which 
 Man has no power to thwart ; God, and not man, 
 Bade this bright globe revolve, and all things on it 
 Move onward in the path His wisdom chose, — 
 His will, not theirs, the inexorable law. 
 
line 85.] BOOK IX. 225 
 
 The vales are greener than the hills ; the hills 
 Are greener than the rocks ; the rocks, again, 
 Are greener than the sea-bleached sands. Yet who 
 Would fuse them all in one, or choose the greenest, 
 Casting out all the rest ? Or who would make 
 Earth one wide lawn, and turn the waving scene 
 Of rough and smooth, fruitful and barren land, 
 Into one round of tame, uncheckered verdure ? 
 Each song-bird has its note; the joyous lark, 
 Poised on the breeze of dawn ; the mellow thrush, 
 Haunting the grove of noon ; the nightingale, 
 Sweetening the darkness with its loving lay, — 
 Each sings its own wild song. Each gracious flower, 
 Fresh from the bosom of its mother earth, 
 Has its own fragrance and peculiar hue ; 
 Spring-lilies, pale as dawn ; the feather-grass, 
 All plumage ; willows shading the sweet brook 
 They love so well ; the ivy, with its tresses, 
 Hiding the ruin which it makes so fair ; 
 All beautiful, yet no one borrowing 
 Aught from his fellow ; each itself a voice 
 Speaking a language of its own, and choosing 
 Its season and its soil, its scent and hue. 
 So has each human spirit its own life, 
 Lesser or greater, which it must expand, 
 As does the bud the blossom, as the root 
 The tree of its own kindred. Woe to him 
 Who fondly covets what is not his own, 
 And lives a borrowed life ; who tries to do 
 Another's work and speak another's words, 
 As greater, worthier, loftier than his own ! 
 
226 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 116. 
 
 Nobly does every part of earth and sea 
 
 Do its own work, and keep its stedfast course. 
 
 Learn here thy lesson, vain, ambitious man ! 
 
 Do thine own work, and do it well while here ; 
 
 Bring out into full stretch thy proper strength, 
 
 Misused, it may be, or unused before. 
 
 Sweep the whole compass of your God-given lyre, 
 
 And let the unstolen music of your being 
 
 Come daily out into a jarring world. 
 
 So shall you tell upon that world, as you 
 
 Were meant to do, and leave some mark behind. 
 
 I stood upon the lofty Munster-platz 
 Of Roman Basel, seat of ancient kings. 
 Hard by me crouched the venerable crypt 
 Where Haus-schein and his noble co-mates rest. 
 Behind me rose the double spire, round which 
 Six centuries have thrown their solemn shade ; 
 And where, beneath the high cathedral arch, 
 In pale red marble old Erasmus sleeps. 
 Far down beneath me the great Rhine rushed on, 
 Winding and foaming ; on its sleepless bosom 
 Barges and bridges, and the busy craft 
 That bears along the priceless merchandise 
 Of cities and of nations. There it flows, 
 As it has flowed since Rome and Caesar stemmed it, 
 Doing its own old work unchangeably, 
 The highway of the nations, and the wall 
 That fences states and kingdoms, looking round 
 Upon the thousand cities which it feeds, 
 The ruined castles which it once defended, 
 And the ten thousand vineyards which it waters. 
 
line 14;.] BOOK IX. 227 
 
 There, downward still it sweeps with changeless course 
 Upon its ancient mission, as it holds 
 Its fearless way to the far Northern Sea. 
 Each river has its pilgrimage, on which 
 It hastes, like one in earnest, staff in hand ; 
 Nor stops nor swerves till it has reached the goal, 
 And knocketh at the ocean-gates for entrance 
 Into the rest which it hath sought so long ; 
 Some through strange deserts, silent as the night ; 
 Some trickling down the cliff like silver spray ; 
 Some stealing cold and turbid from beneath 
 The sliding glacier ; some through fields of green ; 
 Some through long avenues of palms ; and some 
 Through streets of mighty cities, or by towers 
 Each stone of which old fable has adorned ; 
 Some by the slopes of the sun-fronting vineyard ; 
 And some beneath the shadow of the pine. 
 Thus, woven into song and story, from 
 Its mountain-cradle to its ocean-tomb, 
 Each pilgrim-river, chanting its own lay, 
 Or low or loud, pours onward to the deep. 
 O music of the living streams of earth, 
 How sweet ! Each river with its well-known tune, 
 Unlike and yet so like its fellows, sings, 
 Not flowers alone, but human hearts to rest. 
 Sing on, ye streams and streamlets, still sing on, 
 And cease not, day nor night ; your well-strung chords 
 Have known no breaking, nor shall know it ; still 
 Throughout the ages speaking love to man, 
 Brightening and cheering, as ye pass along, 
 Ten thousand homes with your bright words of peace ! 
 
228 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 178. 
 
 So mused I silently, as o'er and o'er 
 I turned the wrinkled pages lying round ; 
 Now taking up, now laying down again 
 The well-worn relics of long-buried years 
 Which rise to life again in every page. 
 Here folds out one, with small tears spotted o'er, 
 Youth's first and bitterest, — tears dried up in haste, 
 As if the weeper were ashamed of each, 
 Wishing the stains undone. She writes as one 
 Dreaming o'er girlhood's memories ; o'er love, 
 That like a gilded barque went down beneath her, 
 Herself at once the wrecker and the wrecked. 
 ' I was too young to love, and yet I loved ; 
 He wooed and won me, though he knew it not. 
 Happy, yet half-ashamed, and insolent, 
 In the first consciousness of budding beauty, 
 I would not have it known that I was won. 
 He thinks of you, a maiden said to me ; 
 He thinks of me, I said to my own heart ; 
 And that one glowing dream of being loved 
 Set my whole life on fire, and wakened up 
 All womanhood within me, ripening 
 With passion's sudden heat my unripe girlhood, 
 Turning me into woman ere I knew. 
 
 ' I saw none like him among all the many 
 That came and went, and he saw none like me. 
 I knew it, and I trembled with delight, 
 Yet hid alike my passion and my joy. 
 But eyes will speak when lips are false or dumb; 
 For youth interprets silence, drinks in hope, 
 And without words one heart can meet another. 
 
line 209.] BOOK IX. 229 
 
 So eye looked into eye, and still the spell 
 Remained unbroken ; words refused to flow. 
 
 'We met where streams are meeting, where the Arve, 
 Strong from its mountain ice-founts, like a spear 
 Pierces the yielding Rhone ; again we heard 
 The soothing chimes of moonlit waterfalls ; 
 Walked the brown moor together ; climbed the cliff, 
 Which pine and hazel shaded ; took our way 
 Thro' the old garden, where the flowers seemed strewn 
 Like dust of broken rainbows 'neath our feet ; 
 Or up the mountain gorge, draped all in gold 
 Of furze and broom ; strolled at low sunrise o'er 
 The long, grey sandslope, which the sportive wave 
 Had just receded from ; or at pale eve 
 Drifted along the lake with idle oar, 
 Of motion all unconscious ; rather that 
 Not we, but the great hills were moving on, 
 Thro' the slow shadows of the languid twilight, 
 And the still lake looked as if sailing past us, — 
 A tremulous stretch of pearl and amethyst, 
 Wrought into rich mosaic, changing still 
 Its restless colours as the sun sank low. 
 Thus summer hours went by; the link was knit 
 Between us ere we knew, and all the sunshine 
 Of these fair months seemed woven unchangeably 
 Into our inmost being. Yet we parted ; 
 I might have been his bride, and yet we parted : 
 I need not tell you how it was, or why ; — 
 He to forget my fickleness and scorn, 
 Never to know the tears I shed for him ; 
 And I to cherish in my heart of hearts, 
 
230 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 24.0. 
 
 Till life's last ripple rolls upon the sand, 
 The recollections of the manly love 
 Which, in my girlish folly and caprice, 
 I threw away ; to me for ever lost. 
 
 first and fondest, let me dream again 
 Of love and thee, as in that summer prime 
 Of strange new feeling, ere I broke the spell. 
 Oh, had he but believed my eye, and not 
 
 My lip, all had been well ; we had not parted ; 
 He would have known me truer than I seemed ; 
 But he was frank, and I was proud and fair. 
 
 ' Then life with me began : self broke in pieces ; 
 Youth's sparkling dreamery dissolved in vapour, 
 Like ice-flowers on the window-pane at noon ; 
 And out of this dissolved self arose 
 A truer being ; out of these gay dreams 
 Sprang thoughts that went across both sea and earth, 
 Wide as the world, and widening still apace, 
 As sorrow upon sorrow struck me down. 
 For has it not been found that honest smart 
 Expels the narrow and brings in the wide ? 
 It is the false that shrivels up the soul, 
 And feeds the self from which its brooding sprang. 
 
 ' Another flower has faded from my path, 
 
 1 said in murmur, as the new stroke fell. — 
 Another folly fled, say rather thou, 
 
 A deep voice answered from my deeper souL 
 Another blank in this bewildered heart, 
 Another vacancy in this full earth, 
 Which lately was to me a lower heaven, 
 I said in dark and sullen bitterness. 
 
line 2; i.] BOOK IX. 23 r 
 
 Another idol fallen, the voice replied, 
 Another altar to the Unknown God 
 Displaced, and its inscription blotted out : 
 Room made at length in that o'ercrowded heart 
 And this o'erpeopled earth for Him whose light 
 Is dearer than the sun's, for Him whose love 
 Is richer than the love of lover here. 
 Another stone in life's once noble arch 
 Has fallen, and the whole fabric is unbraced, 
 I cried despondingly. The voice replied, 
 Another stone is laid here, to complete 
 The great foundation of the life to come. 
 My May of life is all December now ; 
 What should have been my summer, all in glow, 
 Is winter with its frost. So thought I then ; 
 But the true oracle spoke, All is well ; 
 Your summer is not lost, 'tis but deferred ; 
 Your flowers are coming, sweeter for delay. 
 Another storm has struck my panting barque, 
 Rending the last poor sail that I had spread 
 To bear me onward to the haven ; so spoke 
 My unbelief. The answer came again ; 
 Another breeze to bear thee swiftly home : 
 All storms blow over here ; some simply sink 
 To rest, while others die in joyous sunshine. 
 Love on, work on ; thy day of love and work 
 Amid thy fellows here will soon be done. 
 At death our doing of the work is o'er, 
 But the work done remains, endures for ever. 
 We die, but that which we have done still lives, 
 Bearing its proper fruit when we are gone ; 
 
232 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 302. 
 
 Our doings are the blossoms out of which 
 The fruit for coming ages is to grow.' 
 
 I fold another out ; it speaks ambition, 
 And utters thoughts of restless enterprise. 
 ' Only the blind man asks what beauty is, 
 And why it is so fondly doated on. 
 Only the man who has no eye for aught 
 Like a divine ideal in creation 
 Would set up for the architect of earth, ' 
 And turn away from such a scene as this 
 Which spreads before me here. The beautiful 
 Is not extinct, nor shall be while He lives 
 Who is the source and fountainhead of beauty. 
 It liveth on and on for evermore, 
 Flowing and ebbing, fading, freshening still, 
 In daily change, like hues upon the cloud 
 That fronts the setting or the rising sun. 
 The rustle of yon forest is a song, 
 The quiver of yon leaf is gracefulness. 
 The bulk of yon grim mountain-cliff is strength, 
 The twinkle of yon river is a smile ; 
 And beauty wanders o'er the gleaming wave, 
 Or, with the sinking sun, climbs peak by peak 
 That purple hill, till from its topmost rock 
 It takes its flight into the ambient gloom. 
 
 ' What I have seen but makes me long tne more 
 To look and look again on this fair world. 
 I love to think of earth's unvisited 
 And unknown scenes of beauty or of terror ; 
 The scorching splendour of the torrid south, 
 
line 332.] BOOK IX. 233 
 
 Or ice-lights of Spitzbergen's murky noon, 
 Gleaming across her fields of ancient snow, 
 Unstained by the red war-print. For I doubt not 
 That there are thousands of these hidden nooks, 
 In deep Brazilian forest, where the palm 
 And myrtle intertwine, like strength and beauty ; 
 Or Cuban meadows, sloping to the sea, 
 Where the luxuriant wild-flowers strew the plain, 
 And make a western Paradise, a strange, 
 Bright realm of fragrance, where all various forms 
 And hues are seen that eye can revel in ; 
 Wild virgin landscapes, stretching everywhere 
 O'er pathless continents, which human vision 
 Has never yet been gladdened with, true mines 
 Of silent wealth, untouched, and yet to yield 
 Their treasures to the gazer, and to fill 
 Millions of souls with wonder or with love ! 
 
 ' Scenes are there of the cliff or strand, to haunt 
 The dreams of poet, or, more blessed still, 
 To mould a nation's heart and change the currents 
 Of its great history, as rocks the stream, 
 Roughening the water, but imparting force, 
 And drawing out the hidden life below : 
 And mazy glens there are, walled in with rocks, 
 Thro' which the torrent leaps, and, as it leaps, 
 Calls out a world of echoes ; where above 
 Perches the lonely pine or shining birch, 
 And in its hollow nestles the wild rose ; 
 While right across the abyss of spray and foam 
 Sails the strong eagle on its way to heaven. 
 
 ' Ye hoary regions of the silent pole, 
 
234 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 363. 
 
 With your chaste coverlets of virgin snow, 
 
 Your boundless fields of everlasting ice, 
 
 And peaks that poise the north-star far on high, — 
 
 How I should joy, tho' but for one brief day, 
 
 To gaze upon your mute magnificence ; 
 
 The deep, stern stillness of the frozen air ; 
 
 The never-setting sun, that mocks the plains 
 
 With its faint warmth ; the ever-floating mists, 
 
 That wander ghost-like through the shivering sky ; 
 
 The blue, cold shadows hovering everywhere ; 
 
 The cliffs that overhang a world of death ; 
 
 The roll of the long line of surf, that falls 
 
 And rises, as it moans along the strand ; 
 
 The melancholy waterfall that pours 
 
 From the vast iceberg as it melts at noon, 
 
 Unseen and unadmired by human eye, 
 
 In chill monotony upon the wave ; 
 
 The harsh dull grating of the crystal blocks, 
 
 As, one by one, they strike and grind and fall ; 
 
 The lonely sea-gulls perched upon the ice 
 
 Or rocked upon the swell ; the snowy bear, 
 
 Prowling amid the drift to seize its prey ; 
 
 The seal and walrus stretched upon the floe ; 
 
 The grey fox stealing o'er the ice-bound stones ; 
 
 The treeless, shrubless, flowerless wastes of snow, 
 
 With only the dark lichen on the crag, 
 
 Last spark of nature's unextinguished fire : 
 
 All numbness and all death ; no May-day glow, 
 
 No frost-dissolving warmth, no living sunshine, 
 
 No blossoms bursting to the April breeze, 
 
 No dew upon the face of the dead soil, 
 
line 394.] BOOK IX. 235 
 
 No streamlet tumbling like a playful child 
 Between its banks of willow or of moss ; 
 But tyrannous winter, crushing hill and vale 
 Beneath its weight of never-yielding snow, 
 And breathing death into the dull, hard air ; 
 As if there were two worlds upon this globe, 
 One green as paradise, the other pale, 
 Like splintered fragment of the marble moon. 
 
 ' Of men and things beyond life's little range, 
 Visions and memories and hopes gone by, 
 Yet vivid still and verdant as of old, 
 Speaks this fair dawn-break, upon which I gaze 
 While seated here, and watching while I sit 
 The iridescence of yon twilight sky, 
 With its unrisen sun and fading stars, 
 Each in its order passing out of sight ; 
 The last, the loveliest, as it vanishes, 
 Buried in brightness brighter than its own. 
 See how each trembler sinks into the blue, 
 Dissolved like snow-flake in the hungry wave ; 
 Becoming part of the pale golden dome 
 In which its light like a rich pearl was set, 
 Ere sunshine, fusing with its magic skill 
 The gem and its soft setting into one, 
 Hid in the glow of morn the star of night, 
 Till eve, with resurrection-power, once more 
 Shall bring it up in beauty from the tomb. 
 
 ' How various in its power to please and cheer 
 Is that which we call nature ! Yet I find 
 Ofttimes the change is all within myself, 
 And not in her. I change, and change again ; 
 
236 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 425. 
 
 And the same scene seems either dark or bright, 
 
 As is the varying mood in which I see it. 
 
 It was but yesterday I looked around 
 
 Upon a wondrous sweep of scene, spread out 
 
 In loveliness of forest, vale, and stream ; 
 
 Yet I saw nothing save a blank, bleak outline, 
 
 From which had fled all greatness and all soul. 
 
 To-day I wander out, and the same scene 
 
 Unrolls its marvels, and my soul is tranced. 
 
 The landscape is too vast, too rich, for eye 
 
 To take in half its splendour and its joy. 
 
 It seemed as if some spirit had gone forth 
 
 From my own inner man, and overspread 
 
 With a glad veil of life and loveliness 
 
 A scene which yesterday was dead and cold, 
 
 Without a meaning and without a soul, 
 
 As if no pulse were beating, and no voice 
 
 Were coming up from lips once soft with song. 
 
 ' What I have seen of cities far and near, 
 Ruined or still robust in manhood's growth, 
 But makes me long to see what once was seen 
 Upon this earth, of grandeur or of grace, 
 In cities that have perished, leaving but 
 The fragment of a name, round which have sprung 
 Fables like weeds, or noble legends like 
 The ivy ever bright, to deck their stones. 
 Sea-buried Tyre, or sand-swept Nineveh ; 
 The hundred-gated Thebes, the wasted Troy ; 
 Carthage, the mighty city of the sea, 
 Phoenicia's younger daughter, like her parent, 
 Renowned alike in commerce and in war, 
 
line 456.] BOOK IX. 237 
 
 City and port and empire all in one, 
 
 The more than Venice of the ancient earth, 
 
 Which in a night went o'er the cataract, 
 
 And vanished, flung into Time's oubliette, 
 
 Down which all things have disappeared, or shall 
 
 Ere long, the best and worst, the great and small, 
 
 Kingdoms and kings, the doer and the deed, 
 
 The thinker and the thought ; all things except 
 
 The few which history in her caprice 
 
 Has plucked from dull oblivion ; hopes and fears, 
 
 The joys and sorrows of- a human heart, 
 
 The infant's smile and age's long-drawn sigh, 
 
 The broken fortunes and the withered strength 
 
 Of families and realms long passed away ; — 
 
 Down which have sunk not only man himself, 
 
 But his most stable handiworks, — the tower, 
 
 The gate, the column, and the obelisk, 
 
 The temple and the palace and the hall, 
 
 The glory or the shame of ages gone. 
 
 ' From the dull morn of yesterday until 
 To-day, and from to-day until to-morrow, 
 And from to-morrow till the day that follows, 
 There are but as three sand-grains on the shore, 
 Three oscillations of Time's pendulum, 
 Three atoms of our vast infinity. 
 And yet in these how much has come and gone 
 Of sorrow and of joy, of death and life ! 
 How much of the strange infinite of man 
 Has been begun that ne'er shall have an end ! 
 For nothing ceases, tho' from memory 
 And eye it vanishes, as lost for ever, 
 
238 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 487. 
 
 But still prolongs its motion or its being. 
 
 All things beget, and in their offspring live, 
 
 For evil or for good, still on and on. 
 
 Nothing is revocable : all things said 
 
 Or done by the obscurest child of earth 
 
 Speed on their arrowy way ; and wide and far 
 
 Send out thro' time and space their widening waves, 
 
 In everlasting undulations round 
 
 The universe, for better or for worse. 
 
 And sometimes that which has been left unsaid 
 
 Or left undone (which ought to have been done 
 
 And spoken when the speaking and the doing 
 
 Would have borne fruit for ages) makes a blank 
 
 Which nothing can replace, and draws on issues 
 
 Greater than that which has been said or done. 
 
 ' The infant's finger, with unconscious touch, 
 Raises the ripple on the summer-sea 
 Which the strong man is impotent to smooth. 
 Millions of arrows shot by human hands 
 Into the infinite of space and time, 
 Often without a thought, without an aim, 
 Must wander onward, in diverging flight, 
 To tell upon the universe for ever. 
 
 ' Some have the wisdom, others have the gold ; 
 A few, — their number is but small, — have both. 
 What is the world the better for it all ? 
 Some doat on riches, others worship power ; 
 Some bend the knee to fortune or to fate, 
 Others look down on life with folded hands ; 
 Some dream their days out, tangled in the snares 
 Of potent beauty, hiding heaven from man ; 
 
line s 1 8.] BOOK IX. 239 
 
 And others know not what it is to love, 
 But float along in frozen selfishness, 
 Like icy fragments when the rivers melt. 
 Strange world ! Strange dreams ! So soon, so soon 
 to end ! ' 
 
 Thus writes the friend whose name I do not name, 
 Who made his earnest way thro' life, and sowed 
 Seeds as he passed along, and left the earth 
 Richer, not poorer, for his being here. 
 And musing o'er his fruitful days, I said, — 
 Some lives are great in fame, and other some, 
 Not great, are useful, filling up the space 
 Allotted them with noble days and deeds. 
 They move on bravely, and they reach the goal ; 
 They do not say and unsay, do and undo, 
 Leaving behind them not one stedfast word, 
 No high consistency of life-long work ; 
 They do not wind about upon themselves, 
 Denying all that once they boldly held ; 
 Nor move along without advancing, like 
 The idle skiff that drifts, it knows not whither, 
 And at the weary day's end finds itself 
 Returning back to where it left at noon. 
 
 Steer for the haven with steady hand and helm ; 
 Press to the noble end ; work out your work 
 Till it is done ; slack not your energy 
 Nor stay your pace because the way is long. 
 Faint not, but work ; the world is calling loud 
 For fearless workmen in its day of need. 
 Shrink not, but work ; the Master needeth thee : 
 One sickle-stroke will not the harvest reap ; 
 
240 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 548. 
 
 One blow will not bring down the forest-oak ; 
 One oar-sweep will not fetch the boat to land. 
 
 Truth takes the shape of work ; as seed it goes 
 Throughout the nations, visible and great. 
 Truth takes the form of facts, and out of these, 
 As from eternal seed, it springs, and spreads 
 Over all climes and ages. Let thy life 
 Be truth in every part ; so written down 
 And so translated as that all may read. 
 Once He was here on earth, who spoke and did 
 As none have ever done before or since ; 
 For all His words were works, His works were words, 
 The words and works of everlasting health. 
 Poor is that word, by whomsoever spoken, 
 Or wheresoever, that becometh not 
 A work ; and poor the work, however great 
 It seem, that is not in itself a word 
 Laden with truth that dies not, nor grows old. 
 
 Look full into the future : it is thine. 
 Thy path lies yonder ; thou must tread it all, 
 And not another for thee ; 'tis thine own. 
 Let the clear eye show the clear conscience, purged 
 From guilt's disquietude by that which brings 
 A righteous peace to the tormented spirit. 
 Know Him to whom that future all belongs, 
 And fear not then to gaze into its depths. 
 The gate is open, and He leads thee in ; 
 He shows thee what is coming, and He bids 
 Thee measure well the present by the future, 
 The narrow now by the far-ranging ilien. 
 He points to ripened evil, ripened good, 
 
line S79.J BOOK IX. 241 
 
 And by the ripe fruit bids thee judge the tree. 
 
 He takes thee to the loftiest peak, and says, 
 
 Look down afar, and see the distant light 
 
 Of rising suns, or suns about to rise 
 
 Upon the crests of the eternal hills ; 
 
 Hear the keen echoes of the far-off joy ; 
 
 Inhale the fragrance of the myrrh and balm 
 
 Wafted to us upon the wakeful breeze, 
 
 That wanders downward, from the paradise 
 
 Which lies beyond the sepulchres of earth. 
 
 Look full into that future, and take on 
 
 Its colours and its odours and its form. 
 
 Live in it now, and it will mould thy being ; 
 
 Seek to be now what thou shalt be hereafter. 
 
 There is a holy city for the holy ; 
 
 Live as its citizens, and learn its ways, 
 
 Its laws, its customs, its companionships. 
 
 There is a home of peace for men of peace ; 
 
 Seat thyself under its eternal palms, 
 
 By the life-river which is flowing there, 
 
 All crystal, clearer than the sunny Nile, 
 
 Or shaded Jordan, or the mountain-streams 
 
 Whose living silver-gleams make glad the vales 
 
 Of the dear northern land which we call home ; 
 
 Drink in its melodies, and steep thine eyes 
 
 In its pure glory, as it shines afar ; 
 
 Taste thou the earnest of its royal wine ; 
 
 Put on its raiment of unearthly white, 
 
 And learn the love that has its fountain there. 
 
 Here sorrow lingers, joy goes by in haste ; 
 
 The rainbow vanishes, the cloud remains : 
 
 Q 
 
242 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 610. 
 
 There joy abides, and grief has fled away ; 
 The cloud is gone, the brightness never dies. 
 
 The future moulds the man ; to-morrow's sun 
 Shines sweetly on to-day ; hope ripens us, — 
 Like double sunshine, east and west, above, 
 Behind us, and in front, — before our time. 
 Our guardian angel thou, unseen, unheard 
 In thy quick motions round us, sky-born Hope, 
 Stooping each hour to cheer us and to bless, 
 In all the invisible gentleness of love, 
 Which knows no weariness nor stint in giving 
 To the beloved one its silent joy ! 
 
 We nerve ourselves for toil by looking onward 
 Into the splendour wherein all shall end. 
 Toil tries the spirit, but evokes the man. 
 In this our day of poverty we live 
 On the forepayment of our recompense ; 
 We trade on borrowed wisdom, and the strength 
 Of those to whom a double portion came. 
 The vine-twig clasps the elm ; the ivy makes 
 The ruined tower its ladder for ascent. 
 Thus we enjoy another's wealth ; and yet 
 We make him none the poorer, but more rich, 
 As having filled a thousand vessels, yet 
 Himself o'erbrimming still, like the full sun. 
 Thus we increase our present joy by thoughts 
 Of the large future, our fair heritage, 
 To which, with strenuous step, we hasten on. 
 The Church anticipates her holiday, 
 And keepeth festival before the time. 
 She celebrates her final victory 
 
line 641.] BOOK IX. 243 
 
 In thickest of the fight, when enemies 
 
 Swarm round her, like the furious breakers round 
 
 The solitary lighthouse far at sea. 
 
 Gaze out into God's future: He has drawn 
 Aside some little foldings of the veil, 
 And shown us issues which man dreams not of, 
 Outlines of mighty thoughts and purposes 
 Concerning us and this fair earth of ours, — 
 The haunt of evil now and death, ere long 
 To be the final seat of life and good. 
 Study His plan of progress and ascent ; 
 So shall man's dreams and fables cease to charm. 
 Filled with Himself and with His glory, see 
 How it reveals the grandeur of His throne : 
 Foreshadowing the coming reign of good 
 Under the holy King, it tells us what 
 A king should be, and how the thrones of earth 
 Should represent His kingdom, how its crowns 
 Should speak of Him to whom they all belong, 
 And on whose head they shall ere long be set; 
 Foretokening the coming reign of truth 
 Under the Prince of truth, it bids us shun 
 The falsehoods that are darkening the earth, 
 And, with the name of light, bewildering eyes 
 That once were looking for the star of dawn. 
 
 Some love the lie, and spend their hollow life 
 In spreading it because they love it, or 
 Because they look with evil eye upon 
 The truth, as that which frowns upon their sin. 
 Some cheat themselves into the fond belief 
 Of falsehood, as a thing most beautiful ; 
 
244 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 672. 
 
 Too beautiful to be untrue ; too bright, 
 
 Even tho' delusive, to be flung away. 
 
 Some dream vain dreams of what this world may be, 
 
 Or what it is ; of what its Maker is 
 
 Or what He ought to be as Ruler here, — 
 
 A Father, not a Judge, framing no laws 
 
 But those of nature, and condemning none, 
 
 But leaving each one free to work out all 
 
 The ill or good that may be born with him, 
 
 And then to vanish out of time and space, 
 
 As the cloud passes or the leaf decays, 
 
 Unjudged for good or evil done on earth. 
 
 Thus the two primal falsehoods still assert 
 
 Their ancient sway o'er man, and permeate 
 
 The race with the mute poison they distil : 
 
 ' Ye shall not surely die ; ' and ' ye shall be 
 
 As God, discerning both the good and ill.' 
 
 Light is but one, and truth, like light, is one ; 
 Both claiming kindred with the upper heaven, 
 And both asserting for themselves the rights 
 Of pure and noble blood, the honour due 
 To a divine and royal ancestry. 
 
 Count not the future a forbidden realm 
 For human footsteps or for mortal eye ; 
 It is the dwelling-place of love and joy, 
 Where all things true are gathered, where we shall 
 Keep the long feast of life's great harvest-home. 
 We need the future, as we need the past ; 
 Unless with both, our vessel goes astray, 
 Or founders in the shifting gales of time. 
 The foreship and the stern alike require 
 
line 703.] BOOK IX. 245 
 
 The anchor in the evil day ; without 
 
 The beacon and the fog-bell in the night 
 
 Of mist and hurricane, small hope there is 
 
 Of weathering the storm. Look out beyond 
 
 The screen which unbelief, or sense, or science 
 
 May draw before your vision, as if all 
 
 That unseen realm, where we so soon shall be, 
 
 Were the forbidden region into which - 
 
 Whoso shall seek to penetrate, tho' God 
 
 Himself shall be his guide, is but a fool. 
 
 The silent land, men call it. Is it so ? 
 
 Is there no sound because we hear it not ? 
 
 Is it not full of voices and of song ? 
 
 None mute among the dwellers there ; none slow 
 
 Nor feeble in their utterance of joy. 
 
 All vocal, like the sound of many streams : 
 
 There are the harpers, harping with their harps ; 
 
 There the full compass of all melody, 
 
 From hearts o'erbrimming with divinest peace. 
 
 They rest not there ; nor day nor night they rest, 
 
 Singing the glorious anthem, ever new ; 
 
 And this the key-note of their endless lay 
 
 In the bright luminous day, — Jehovah reigns. 
 
 All light is from the sun. What are the lamps 
 Or tapers of the earth ? What are the sparks 
 Or meteors of the air ? The beacon-lights 
 Of ocean, what are they ? The lanterns dim, 
 With which men walk the highway or the street, 
 What can they do beyond the narrow ring 
 Of yellow light, which for an hour they shed 
 Upon the timorous and uncertain path 
 
246 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 734. 
 
 Of him who mourns the absence of the sun, 
 And longs for dawn as for a port in storm ? 
 
 It is but taper-light by which we walk 
 Here on this earth, or at the brightest, but 
 Cold moonshine ; for the perfect has not come. 
 Yet it is coming ; what we know not now 
 We shall hereafter learn, when the thick film 
 Shall drop from these dull eyes, and we shall know 
 As we are known. Earth, on its wings of cloud, 
 Rushes thro' space, and bears us swiftly on 
 To the long day. When the high noon has come, 
 We shall no more our lamps or torches need ; 
 And all the visible shall then be seen, 
 Farthest and nearest, altho' hidden now 
 From eyes which cannot pierce the distant dark, 
 Nor the near mysteries which hem us in. 
 
 Man lights no stars : his self-made lamps are poor, 
 And but reveal the darkness of his night. 
 Man lights no suns : his noblest science can 
 Create no splendour such as morning brings 
 To the fair east, when wood and wave with song 
 Welcome the dawn. He only who is Light, 
 In whom no darkness is at all, — He only 
 Creates and kindles suns ; and who, save He, 
 Creates for man's dark spirit that which is 
 Brighter than sun of morn ? The light is His, 
 And dwells with Him. The truth which is man's sun 
 Radiates from Him alone ; self-kindled lamps 
 Are but at best as the bewildering flash 
 Of sudden lightning, in a moment quenched. 
 He is Himself Revealer and Revealed. 
 
line 765.] BOOK IX. 247 
 
 Who can reveal the Father but the Son ? 
 
 Who but the Father can the Son reveal ? 
 
 Or who can give us certainty but God ? 
 
 The truth which man needs are the things of God ; 
 
 Not flowers, nor rocks, nor stars, nor suns, nor all 
 
 That dead or living nature speaks to eye 
 
 Or ear or heart. The filling of the soul 
 
 Must come from Him who filled the universe 
 
 With stars and suns. The knowing of His name, 
 
 The finding of Himself, and of the way 
 
 By which the creaturehood of earth can come 
 
 And worship in His presence, from Himself 
 
 Must be derived. The voice of God must speak, 
 
 Or man must err in blindness and in gloom. 
 
 The words of God must from the lips of God 
 
 Be written down with an eternal pen, 
 
 Or man must strain his eye till it grows dim, 
 
 Looking within, without, or near, or far, 
 
 In vain. His wisest and his best may search 
 
 The dumb obscure, until despair benumbs 
 
 The intellect. The unknown remains unknown, 
 
 And man still asks his fellow, What is truth ? 
 
 Nature is but the echo of His voice, 
 
 And not the voice itself; 'tis but the print 
 
 Of His majestic footstep on the sand, 
 
 But not His feet ; 'tis but the lower skirt 
 
 Of His far-flowing raiment, not Himself. 
 
 The broken frame, the hollow cheek, the pale 
 
 And weary eye, the trembling limb and gait, 
 
 But make us ask, Where is the Perfect One 
 
 'Mid all this imperfection here below ? 
 
248 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 796. 
 
 These heavens are fair; and yet, with all their 
 beauty, 
 How little they reveal of His great being ; 
 How little of His heart, with the strong pulses 
 Of its deep love ; or of that righteousness 
 With which He sways the universe ! Still less 
 Can this dismantled earth, with pain and death, 
 With wars and terrors, sighs and burning tears, 
 With graveyards where a thousand hopes and joys 
 Are buried, make known Him whose name is Love. 
 God only can reveal Himself; and sad 
 Must be the thoughtful man, if such there be, 
 Who, as the sum of his philosophies, 
 Proclaims that God has not revealed His name ; 
 Has remained mute, and left His creature lone, 
 To grope in thickets which he cannot thread ; 
 Mocking the outcries of that mighty soul 
 Which He has given to man, by drawing round 
 His glory the dull mist which human eye 
 Can never pierce ; by uttering no voice, 
 And flashing down no glory and no love, 
 No truth, no light ; refusing to make known 
 The infinite, to make the unseen seen ; 
 To give a sign of life beyond that blue, 
 Or word of peace ; to show, even from afar, 
 The gates of a new city and new realm, 
 To which man might ascend ; as if He grudged 
 To His own offspring the deep blessedness 
 Which He Himself enjoys ; as if He sought 
 In selfish fulness to prohibit man 
 Even from the vision of His outer heaven. 
 
LINE 826.] BOOK IX. 249 
 
 O silent Deity ! whom human schools 
 Of thought profess to worship, and of whom 
 The poet-sceptic of old Rome once sung ; 
 Seated above on thy cold marble throne, — 
 If throne thou hast, or soul, or heart, or eye, — 
 With nothing of thyself or of thy love 
 To tell to weary, broken-hearted man ; 
 Hater, not lover of thy children here, 
 Was it from hands like thine those burning hearts 
 Of ours came forth ? From icy eyes like thine 
 Our human tears were drawn ? From lips like thine 
 Issued the happy words that bind in one 
 The sons and daughters of our scattered race ? 
 The gods of Hellas, at their best, all clouds, 
 The gods of high philosophy, all stone, 
 And truly named the Silences, are but 
 Reflections of a cold humanity, 
 Whose unthawed pulses have long ceased to beat. 
 The deities of science own no love, 
 And win no hearts ; in unresponding calm, 
 If calm it be, shut up, they but arrest 
 The music of the spheres, dislink the creature 
 From his Creator, sever heaven from earth, 
 Pass out of sight and hearing, lest their calm 
 Should be disturbed by this unresting earth. 
 I take yon block of marble, newly hewn 
 From the dead rock ; I shape it into beauty, 
 The perfect loveliness of female grace. 
 I kneel and say, O marble, love me, love me ! 
 Does it say yes ? Do these white eyes return 
 The glance of mine ? And does that chiselled lip 
 
250 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 857. 
 
 Press mine with fondness ? Or that perfect hand 
 
 Clasp mine with woman's warmth ? No ; all is cold ; 
 
 No love, no sympathy, no heart is there. 
 
 Hearts are not for the chisel, and dear love 
 
 Has nought to do with marble. So thy gods, 
 
 Frigid philosophy, where are they all ? 
 
 Distant, not near, and chill as ice or vapour ; 
 
 Gods without love, that can give no response 
 
 To the warm pulses of this beating heart, 
 
 Which nought can soothe but the responsive throb 
 
 Of one great heart still warmer than itself. 
 
BOOK X. 
 
 ' FIRST blank in life, first sorrow of my heart ' 
 
 (So read I in the record that calls up 
 
 The days of boyhood as they moved along 
 
 In shadow or in light, long passed away) ; 
 
 ' First bitter drop in the sweet cup of youth ! 
 
 My memory goes back to the chill hour, 
 
 When he to whom my reverence and love 
 
 Had early linked themselves went up from us 
 
 To join the heavenly household, ere yet age 
 
 Had crushed him with her threescore years and ten ; 
 
 All his large learning gathered richly round him, 
 
 And his calm faith, that sought the things unseen, 
 
 Lifting him upward, as he walked beneath 
 
 The shadow of the cross, — bright as bright noon 
 
 In all the purity of noble life, 
 
 And all the goodness which makes home a heaven, 
 
 And all the happy wisdom which leads on 
 
 The young and buoyant in their fervent course, 
 
 When the ripe words dropped ripely from his lips, 
 
 As autumn's fruit falls from the laden tree. 
 
 'Doubly we knew him ; more than father he, 
 The teacher and companion of our youth : 
 Doubly he knew us, and in us he found 
 
252 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 24. 
 
 How true the proverb of the Eastern sages, 
 
 He who instructs a child begets a son. 
 
 Doubly we loved him, and with childhood's trust 
 
 Leant on his arm, or clasped his willing hand. 
 
 Playful and affable, he drew us out, 
 
 And led us on in safe and sunny ways. 
 
 In him we learned that in simplicity 
 
 Of nature is the power to please and mould. 
 
 Knowledge is courteous, and the wise are good ; 
 
 The truly good are simple and sincere ; 
 
 The great are gentle, and the true are tender ; 
 
 All kindness is magnetic, and all wisdom ; — 
 
 One with the other linked, they send abroad 
 
 A common influence to win and bless. 
 
 'Doubly we mourned him ; but the grief moves on, 
 And loses its quick edge, or but becomes 
 A gentle shadow flung o'er fiery youth, 
 A bridle to rein in the wayward speed 
 Of folly in the headlong race of time. 
 
 ' One also well I knew, who passed away 
 In full maturity of womanhood, 
 With fourscore autumns sitting gently on her, 
 And giving out their mingled light and shade, 
 Like laden fruit-branch of the mellowest hue, 
 In some old orchard when the sun is low. 
 Meek with no common meekness, self-denied, 
 Mindful of all around, she walked in light, 
 A stranger here, her fellowships above ; 
 Mother of children who rise up to bless her, 
 And to tread softly in her steps of peace. 
 My spirit clung to her, and in the night 
 
line 55.] BOOK X. 253 
 
 Or shaded nook of life still found in her, 
 When other lights went out or were obscured, 
 An inextinguishable joy; as yon clear star 
 Of the deep sky, the star that never sets, 
 Midnight's lone darling, so was she to me. 
 
 ' And three I knew, caught from our circle here 
 Ere the long shadows fell on them, or age 
 Had stolen their strength or made their fragile forms 
 More fragile : wise and kind and ever true, 
 Yet hidden, like the silent, shaded pool 
 Of some sweet streamlet, from the gaze of man. 
 They stole thro' life with such a quiet grace, 
 That no one knew how much had gone from us 
 Until we missed them, and began to measure 
 The blank which had been made in home and heart. 
 
 ' Him too can I forget, a second father, 
 Who, when the hand paternal was unclasped 
 By death, took up the hands of tender boyhood, 
 And led us on in goodness and in truth ? 
 Self-diffident, yet able, above most, 
 To take a higher place for worth and wisdom ; 
 Studious, as one who loved to dwell among 
 The stores of other days and other men, 
 Yet glad to share his wealth, and to distribute 
 To all around the knowledge he had stored. 
 Like and yet unlike each of those around, 
 Links of a golden chain we were ; and he 
 Knit us together, and we walked in love, 
 Leaning and leaned upon, our sympathies 
 Embracing a long past of ancestry. 
 Of fathers and of fathers' fathers, we 
 
254 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 86. 
 
 Were undivided parts ; for are we not 
 
 Made up of bits of all our ancestors ? 
 
 In us they meet, and are in us, or more 
 
 Or less, all imaged and all reproduced. 
 
 I have the memory of a calm, bright day, 
 
 One of youth's holidays, long since gone by, 
 
 Half-summer and half-autumn. Sky and earth 
 
 Were passing beautiful ; and the bland air, 
 
 Sweet with the spoil of the red clover-bloom, 
 
 And proud of robbery that made it rich, 
 
 Yet left none poorer, breathed in softness by. 
 
 The face of ocean, by whose side we walked, 
 
 Sheeted all over with broad-hammered gold, 
 
 Shone in the glow of noon : we loitered on, 
 
 Mile after mile, upon the grassy bent 
 
 Or yielding sand, chasing the slender wave 
 
 As it went back into its parent-sea, 
 
 Or with light foot retreating from its flow, 
 
 As it returned and swept the sloping strand ; 
 
 Sending with oft unskilful hand the shell 
 
 Across its level face, and making count 
 
 Of each successive bound along the wave. 
 
 We strolled, or stood, or lingered ; meanwhile he, 
 
 Our teacher, drew us on to hear and learn. 
 
 Too short these noons ; too quickly fled these days ; 
 
 Only the memory abiding still, — 
 
 The scene all changed. The sand, the rock, the cave; 
 
 The small ravine down which the rillet poured ; 
 
 The grassy slopes, with sea-pink studded o'er ; 
 
 The shell, the shingle, and the bald bluff rock, 
 
 Where oft we stood to hook the swarming fry, — 
 
line 1 1 7.] BOOK X. 2S5 
 
 All gone ; swept over by the iron wheels 
 
 And iron pathways of this iron age, — 
 
 Age of the new, contemptuous of the old ; 
 
 Age of the present, thankless of the past ; 
 
 That buries out of sight her noblest dead, 
 
 Or builds their monuments, or writes their names 
 
 Upon the tombstone, that she may forget 
 
 The men themselves, and the great words they spoke. 
 
 ' One too I knew, cut down in happy girlhood 
 (Her woman's love and sweetness buried with her) ; 
 All brightness on her brow and in her eye, 
 And in the waving tresses which flowed down 
 Like sunshine on her bosom, or flew back 
 Upon the breeze, as, with elastic step, 
 She headed her fair compeers in their sport, 
 Or climbed the cliff, or plucked the July rose. 
 She sprung, then drooped, for the keen winter smote her ; 
 The scorpion east wind struck the tender bud 
 Of the half-wakened spring : the blossom died, 
 And all its fragrance with it ; all the love 
 Remained unspoken ; all the promise high 
 Of life's ripe fruitage withered in an hour. 
 'Twas a calm July morning when she left us, 
 And with sad hands we closed her tearless eyes, — 
 Truth-speaking eyes of girlhood, o'er whose blue 
 Guile had not drawn its dimness, and on which 
 But one deep grief was written, when the light 
 Of her young soul, the blue-eyed fair-haired boy, 
 Child of her love and brother of her heart, 
 Went out and was extinguished as a star, 
 That rises but to set and disappear. 
 
2S6 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 148. 
 
 ' I've looked upon the face of coffined childhood : 
 Would that I ne'er may look on it again ! 
 She who lay shrouded there had been our joy : 
 How much we loved her, how we wept, when death, 
 The coward spoiler, stole from us our pearl 
 And left us but the shell, I need not say. 
 The tears are dried, long dried, nor do I wish 
 That they again should flow ; let it suffice 
 That they flowed once, and would not be restrained. 
 The wound is cicatrized, the pain is dulled, 
 And the sharp edge of grief is blunted now, 
 But can we e'er forget our child of love ? — 
 Her low voice softer than the plaintive note 
 Of the Zenaida dove, as it sweeps o'er 
 The sands of Florida, and melts the heart 
 Of the rough pirate. Or can I forget 
 The pleasant love that, like an angel, spoke 
 From the bright motion of her clear blue eye, 
 And the quick twinkle of her laughing lip, 
 Sparkling with childhood's eagerness of joy ? 
 
 ' O stars that never set, whose beams on high 
 Are a perpetual gladness, shining on 
 Without eclipse or dimness ; into whose 
 Far-sweeping orbits, as ye march thro' space, 
 Death and its shadow, sickness, come not ; hills 
 Upon whose peaks only the morning dwells ; 
 Fields of eternal fragrance ; fountains clear, 
 That well out immortality and joy ; 
 Sea of the undefiled, whose waves are light ; 
 Streams of the sorrowless, whose placid flow 
 Is health and mildness ; with no icy breeze, 
 
line 179.J BOOK X. 257 
 
 No scourging east-wind, how I long for you ! 
 
 The voyage has been rough ; the vessel rocks, 
 
 And plunges thro' the brine ; the timbers creak ; 
 
 The strong masts bend ; o'er us the billows rush ; 
 
 Strained is the cordage ; every sail is rent ; 
 
 On every side go down the reeling barques : 
 
 Yet we move onward, onward, onward still ; 
 
 The beacon-light before us, and beyond 
 
 Its light, the haven, and beyond the haven, 
 
 The land without the tempest and the wave, 
 
 The fields without the curse, or sign of death, 
 
 The city of the song that never dies. 
 
 Here we lie listening, while the organ's skill 
 
 Weaves the smooth texture of the pliant air 
 
 Into a web of many-coloured song. 
 
 But the notes die in discord, and the song 
 
 Is ended, or in dirges passes down 
 
 To a heartbreaking sadness that awakes 
 
 The cry of oft-defeated hope, How long ? 
 
 When shall the harps of heaven wake up the hymns 
 
 In which no exile's wail shall find a place ? 
 
 When shall the gathered hosts of the redeemed, 
 
 Of every clime and every tongue, begin 
 
 The home-bright minstrelsy, in which shall join 
 
 The long-hushed voices, which while here, so oft, 
 
 Tho' with imperfect skill and faltering lips, 
 
 Took up in days of earthly weariness 
 
 The words prepared afore for the great host 
 
 Of the unnumbered and the undefiled, 
 
 Assembled on the everlasting hills ? 
 
 ' O wind, O twilight wind, so pale and calm, 
 
258 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 210. 
 
 Bring back the voices thou hast borne away, 
 
 And pour their love once more into my soul ! 
 
 I know they never can be what they were : 
 
 The soul has fled, the more than fragrant breath 
 
 That bore their love to us has died away. 
 
 I dig into the tomb, and find but bones ; 
 
 The eye is gone, and the delicious light 
 
 That flashed out from beneath its eyelids once 
 
 Is quenched. I might, perchance, re-light a star, 
 
 But the dear starlight of a loving eye 
 
 Comes back no more ; for, once, and only once, 
 
 Such living gladnesses come up ; they may 
 
 Have a fair offspring, but themselves return not 
 
 From the deep tomb to which they have gone down. 
 
 They print their image and then pass away. 
 
 There may be many harps, all sweet in tone, 
 
 But the lost lyre of Orpheus sounds no more. 
 
 New bards may yet arise, but only one 
 
 Sings of the Paradise that once was lost. 
 
 There may be dreams and dreamers yet to come, 
 
 But the great pilgrim-dreamer dreams no more. 
 
 There may be Marathons in future days, 
 
 But the great Marathon is past ; the thought 
 
 Linked with that battle-field can never be 
 
 Linked with another. Nothing repeats itself, 
 
 Nor can ; the past can never be the present, 
 
 Nor can the future borrow from the past : 
 
 Each age does its own work, then passes off, 
 
 Leaving the next to do its destined work 
 
 For man and for man's earth, for good or ill.' 
 
line 240.] BOOK X. 259 
 
 ' I see them all ; ' — thus writes a trembling pen, 
 Long since laid down, once used so oft and well 
 To send the word of cheer, the cordial greeting, 
 The homely news, the mirthful or the grave, 
 Or deeper thoughts of peace and truth, to hearts 
 That waited for the welcome messenger ; — 
 ' I see them all, — a goodly band they form, 
 The true and trusted ones of earlier days, 
 Over whose graves we wept no hopeless tears, — 
 Land safely, one by one, upon that shore 
 Where the dead live, and where the sleepers wake, 
 Where the closed eye reopens and relumes, 
 Purged from this mortal film of earth and sense, 
 Which hid from it the immortal. I am left 
 Behind them all upon a broken barque, 
 Out on a surging sea, whose next high wave 
 Will fling me on the strand. Yet I am glad ; 
 They, — they are safe. It was a strong-limbed vessel, 
 Fitted to breast the billow, and it held 
 One happy family, our faces turned 
 All homeward. Suddenly the sky grew sad, 
 The swift storm smote us, and the big, broad waves 
 Burst heavily across, sweeping away 
 One and another and another still. 
 I stood and gazed. I could not help nor follow ; 
 I could but watch and see them one by one, — 
 The infant, with his fair and glossy curls, 
 Like the blanched sea-weed floating thro' the foam ; 
 The fond one passing into womanhood, 
 With her pale cheek and forehead marble-pure, 
 Thro' the cold breakers struggling. How I stretched 
 
260 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 271. 
 
 My eager hands ; but till my time arrived 
 
 I could not follow. I saw each in safety 
 
 Land on the seaboard of an endless home. 
 
 The partings were like swords within my soul, 
 
 But the bright eyes, as each one reached the shore, 
 
 And leaped among the flowers, and looking back 
 
 To the still struggling vessel, waved the hand 
 
 In triumph, beckoning me to follow soon, 
 
 Spoke gladness, and dried up the dropping tears. 
 
 I was so soon to follow, — they were safe ! 
 
 No peril more for them ; and the dear day 
 
 Of the home-meeting was at hand. I knew it, — 
 
 I knew it, and I said Amen, tho' left 
 
 Almost alone to fill up what remained 
 
 Of life, till I should plunge into the wave 
 
 And reach the loved ones landed long before. 
 
 ' Not with the blithe buds of the bursting spring ; 
 Not with the roses of the sun-loved June ; 
 Not with the brown of Autumn's dusky leaves, 
 Sown broadcast by October's frosty wind ; — 
 My chequered life-path has been strangely strewn. 
 Not by the margin of the burnished stream, 
 Whose jocund ripples speak perpetual mirth, 
 And where the velvet verdure springs unbidden 
 On footpaths of the rush-embroidered brook, 
 That winds and circles on its sportive way, 
 Sending up joy into the hazel boughs 
 That root their freshness in its mossy stones. 
 But by the sharp edge of the sea-vexed cliff, 
 Beneath which, on. the barren slope, are spread 
 
line 301.] BOOK X. 261 
 
 The broken relics of a hundred storms. 
 
 Not thro' Hesperian gardens, or fair groves 
 
 Of Syrian olives, has my journey been, 
 
 But o'er the moorland, where the shining furze, 
 
 Shunned by the bee, waves fruitless ; where the breeze 
 
 Wounds while it braces, — bids the traveller 
 
 Look to his steps and gird his loosened loins. 
 
 ' Some lives have ever been upon the edge 
 Of evil, yet have missed it ; the keen bolt 
 Has struck on this side and on that, yet left 
 Them all untouched ; my life has been upon 
 The margin of the prosperous, yet my feet 
 Have seldom crossed the line. I have gone round 
 The sunny lake, yet found no skiff in which 
 I might embark, to revel in the gleams. 
 
 ' Yet 'twas not evil that thus threw its shade 
 Above me ; it was good, tho' shaped like evil, 
 And speaking with its voice : it seemed to me 
 A cruel stranger, yet I found that I 
 Had entertained an angel unawares. 
 The evil came unasked ; shall not the good 
 Come in still larger measure, when the cry 
 Of the sore spirit has gone up to God ? 
 Does the Creator hate His handiwork, 
 Or does the Blessed One not love to bless, 
 And is the Son of God not pitiful ? 
 Are not the worst things that befall us here, 
 That seem devoid of meaning, or contain 
 The least of love and beauty, those from which 
 The heavenly Alchemist extracts the gold 
 That makes us rich ? Are they not those from which 
 
262 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 332. 
 
 He brings the plastic influence which moulds 
 
 And tones our being ? Shall we grudge the pain 
 
 Of the mysterious process, or recoil 
 
 In anger from the blessed hand that blest us ? 
 
 Break thou these bonds, I said, and I shall soar 
 
 Above those bright, bewildering snares of youth. 
 
 He took me at my word ; he smote my gods, 
 
 And for the ease which I had looked for, gave 
 
 The thorn and sackcloth of adversity. 
 
 The cords were cut, and yet I did not rise ; 
 
 The ballast was flung out, but all in vain ; 
 
 I needed more than the mere broken chain. 
 
 Earthward my spirit tended, and I needed 
 
 The buoyancy of an indwelling power, 
 
 To lift me to the heavens ; without that strength, 
 
 That new elastic energy of soul, 
 
 All failure is but shipwreck, in whose shock 
 
 The vessel goes to pieces, and her freight 
 
 Of all things goodly sinks without a hope, 
 
 Dragged down in fragments to the silent gloom 
 
 Of ocean's everlasting solitudes, 
 
 Without a monument or history. 
 
 ' How often in the conflict of the soul, 
 When deep was calling unto deep, and all 
 Thy heavy waves were going over me, 
 Has the rebellious spirit spoken out, 
 And sought to call in other comforters, 
 That could administer no healing balm ! 
 O time and change, I said, rub off and blunt 
 With your subduing touch the edges keen 
 Of this pervading ache, which still returns 
 
line 363.] BOOK X. 263 
 
 Hour after hour with the fresh bitterness 
 
 Of a new sting, as if the poisoned shaft 
 
 Were still embedded in the fiery wound. 
 
 Yet how shall time do that, if God withhold 
 
 His touch divine of comfort and of health ? 
 
 Or how shall change assuage the throbbing pain, 
 
 If the celestial anodyne have failed ? 
 
 Were time (again I said) to soothe me ere 
 
 The discipline divine were perfected, 
 
 And the ripe end were gained, then should I not 
 
 Lose the vast blessing thus in store for me ? 
 
 'Yet would I say, as I have spoken oft, 
 To Him who knoweth all my ways and wants, — 
 " Into the blessed sunshine, Father, lead me ! 
 Too long, it seems to me, my life has been 
 The shade and frost ; my being seems to droop, 
 Benumbed, beneath too long a weariness. 
 Lighten this load at last, and swallow up 
 This lower sorrow in Thy higher joy !" 
 
 'Yet do I know myself? Or shall I tell 
 The sculptor where and how to use his chisel ? 
 Does he not know the marble he has chosen, 
 And has he not the mould before his eye ? 
 May not the work be further on than I 
 In ignorance imagine ? Could I see 
 What he sees, in the light of his own day, 
 Might I not wonder and rejoice, as each 
 Feature and line and shade of my old being 
 Has vanished, and the new is rising up ? 
 Far more is wrought in us than now we know ; 
 And what we know not now, we shalj hereafter, 
 
264 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 394. 
 
 When day has burst and shadows fled away. 
 Morn comes, and beauty comes to earth each day, 
 Revealing wonders to the enamoured eye 
 That gazes from afar ; yet morn creates 
 Not one new object for the gazer's vision. 
 It shows but what was lying there before ; 
 It draws aside the curtain, and, as from 
 Some mystic fount of molten gold, it pours 
 Soft splendour over earth, and lighteth up 
 Its fair pure face, still pale, and moistened o'er 
 With night's cold tears. Sun of the mighty dawn, 
 When wilt thou wake, and to our waiting east 
 Bring thy warm radiance, and reveal the grace 
 Long latent here beneath the veil of night ? 
 
 ' The waves are many, but the sea is one ; 
 The rays are many, but the sun is one. 
 O oneness of this royal universe, 
 With all thy stars and suns that float upon 
 The double stream of endless space and time, 
 But find no ocean into which to pour 
 Themselves and rest ! Thou oneness manifold, 
 Speak out to us of Him from whom thou earnest, 
 Whose boundless wisdom filleth all in all, 
 Unerring, unconfused, unfailing still, 
 Thro' all the never-straightening labyrinths 
 Of force and motion and resistless change ! 
 
 ' I muse upon the genesis of time, 
 Written by Him who gave to time its birth, 
 In the one record out of which we gather 
 The long and varied story of this earth. 
 There the beginning pointeth to the end, 
 
line 425.] BOOK X. 265 
 
 And there the end points back to the beginning ; 
 Strange history midway, like sudden night, 
 Or like a dread eclipse, that maketh day 
 The more to be desired. For first and last, 
 Light irrepressible, tho' shaded oft, 
 Like a rich clasp of gold has knit the volume 
 Within which lie the immortal gems of thought, 
 That never shall grow dim or be dissolved. 
 Bright the beginning, and as bright the end, 
 With many a change between of shade and sun.' 
 
 ' Earth's annals have not yet been written out, 
 As they shall one day be ; ' — so read I here, 
 In this exploring page, which speaks to me 
 With the articulate voice of one who had 
 Read and re-read the story of our world, 
 Unravelled its perplexities, and tried 
 To fathom its deceptions. — ' In the fight, 
 The soldier knows not how the battle goes ; 
 The miner with his feeble lamp sees nought 
 Beyond the swing of his small pickaxe, nor 
 Fathoms the veins that lie on every side ; 
 The lark, however high he soareth, cannot 
 Measure the ridges of the clover field 
 In which his nest lies hidden from the eye. 
 
 ' He only comprehends earth's history 
 Who knows to take the measure of events, 
 Or good or ill, by superhuman rule. 
 He only writes her pregnant annals truly 
 Who comprehends the great eternal purpose ; 
 Who has, however dimly, seen the end 
 
266 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 455. 
 
 Of these sad ages of permitted wrong, 
 Of this hard conflict between ill and good ; 
 Who has, but with no human plummet-line, 
 Sounded the soul's abyss, and understood 
 How from one drop of that which God calls sin 
 Has issued forth the universal flood 
 Of woe and war, of passion and of hate, 
 Of blood and torture and of broken hearts, 
 Of lust and pride, ambition and revenge ; 
 Who has, but with no human light, surveyed 
 The wanderings of the race amid the gloom 
 And thickets of this sin-bewildered earth ; 
 Who, by the light of the one lamp which hangs 
 Upon the cross of Golgotha, has turned 
 His own once-erring steps into the way 
 That leads to the great life beyond this death. 
 
 ' Each story of a soul is great ; but who 
 Shall write it, for who knows what makes the great- 
 ness ? 
 Or who can sift it, and bring out the grain, 
 Winnowed and clean from the concealing chaff? 
 Who can the dross dissever from the gold ? 
 Who estimate the little or the great 
 Even in one human word ? Or who shake out 
 The folded feelings of a human heart ? 
 Or who unwind the one hour's ravelled thoughts 
 Of one poor mind even in its idlest day ? 
 
 ' The balances of man are all untrue ; 
 His weights and eyes deceitful. He may write 
 The story of a pebble or a rock, 
 The annals of a beetle or a worm ; 
 
line 485.] BOOK X. 267 
 
 But the great story of his own vast being, 
 The hills and valleys of his life, he cannot ; 
 A life made up of but a few short years, 
 And yet containing in its troubled round 
 Tempests and tides and changes, failures, conquests, 
 In daily flux and reflux without end. 
 
 ' Deep in the facts of time the thoughts of God 
 Are found embedded, like the golden ore 
 Within the rocks, or like the flower within 
 The unsightly seed ; no fact but has a meaning 
 Worthy of Him who shaped it, or allowed 
 It to be shapen into what it is, — 
 The good, the excellence which to Himself 
 Belongs ; the evil, that which in the creature still 
 Inheres, by its own law of creaturehood ; 
 And each event of earthly history, 
 Each movement of creation's smallest atoms, 
 Wraps up or manifests some thought or truth, 
 Greater or smaller ; none is wholly barren. 
 He who best reads these is the man of thought ; 
 He who misreads, or reads them not at all, 
 Treads under foot alike both pearl and shell. 
 Round one small fact, — a child's poor birth of old, 
 In a mean village, — all earth's history 
 Revolves, and shall revolve for evermore, 
 As round the Pleiad star the universe. 
 From the low manger-crib, where heaven met earth, 
 And where the eternal link was knit between them, 
 Like a betrothment, plighting faith and love, 
 There has burst forth a radiance that has filled 
 All space to its extreme, and yet shall fill 
 
268 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 516. 
 
 All time, each far-illuminating ray 
 An emanation from that village scene, — 
 That scene a fragment of earth's history, 
 So like the rest, that but a few, whose eyes 
 Could penetrate beneath its homely surface, 
 Read aught in it beyond a common birth, — 
 A Hebrew mother, and a Hebrew child. 
 
 ' If God be love, should not this world have been 
 More beautiful by far than now we see it ? 
 So the fool reasons ; and the wise are dumb, 
 Afraid to answer, and ashamed to tell 
 What sin has done with that which God made good. 
 
 ' Deserts, where are ye ? — There are none on earth, 
 Nor throughout God's dominions. Man calls that 
 A desert from which he himself is absent ; 
 Yet scenes and places which contain the least 
 Of man may hold in them the most of God ; 
 For the great fulness filleth all in all. 
 Man may be far from you, ye solitudes, 
 When silence sits on every rock and tree, 
 And the broad sands are dumb ; but God is near. 
 He fills you like the universal air. 
 His steps are everywhere ; their speechless sound 
 Echoes from cliff to cliff. His voice comes down 
 From the tall peak, and spreads along the wild, 
 Or wakes the palm to music ; while the moon, 
 Spell-bound above this wide majestic waste, 
 Bends over the vast plain, and sings of Him 
 In whom we live and move and have our being, 
 The song that without words speaks out His praise ; 
 The silken sunbeams, winking thro' the leaves 
 
line 547.J BOOK X. 269 
 
 Of the acacia's summer-loving boughs, 
 Writes on the silent sand-waste, God is love. 
 ' There are no solitudes in earth or heaven ; 
 Fulness and speech and sweet society 
 Are everywhere, except where God is not. 
 All earth is populous, and the still air 
 Has its bright companies, whose fellowships 
 Greet us and gladden us on every side. 
 There are no solitudes in history ; 
 Fulness is everywhere throughout the ages, 
 That make up the slow lifetime of our race ; 
 No sterile moorlands in these plains or uplands 
 Of the long centuries that lie behind us. 
 No lips are dumb throughout the peopled past ; 
 No voice but has a music of its own ; 
 No mute unconscious statue which has nought 
 To say to those who gaze upon its marble. 
 O history of man, thy wondrous volumes, 
 Or written now, or to be writ hereafter, 
 Contain in them immortal truth, or dark 
 Or bright, as each new phase of being must, 
 In creatures God has made ; such is the greatness 
 That cleaveth to the weakest and the worst 
 Atom of creaturehood. Each thing below 
 Is eloquent : not sun, nor moon, nor star 
 Alone in their majestic brightness ; nor 
 Seas, rivers, forests in their loveliness ; 
 But each small fragment of a human life, 
 The life of childhood or of poverty, 
 Too mean for man to notice or record, 
 Speaks with as true an utterance, and contains 
 
270 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 578. 
 
 A deeper wisdom and a loftier power. 
 No commonness nor littleness belongs 
 To aught that claims an everlasting future, — 
 Endless capacity for grief or joy, 
 Relationship to the Eternal All. 
 
 ' Hills of the royal earth, that stretch to heaven 
 Like ruins of a yet more royal world, 
 Once fair, but now o'erthrown and desolate, 
 Whose giant relics cover this green round ; — 
 Or first-growths of a wondrous world to come, 
 When the dark deluge of unfathomed evil 
 Shall be rolled off the surface of our globe, 
 And the long-hidden grandeurs reappear, 
 Fairer and nobler far than eye hath seen! 
 Hills of the sacred earth, designed by Him 
 Who drew it from the void and called it good, 
 To be the dwelling-place of holy men ; 
 Mysterious peaks, muffled in silver mist, 
 Or sheathed in golden sunshine ; robed in snow 
 As with a priestly stole, or wreathed with green, 
 Each with his own star-broidered diadem 
 Set on his forehead by no earthly hand ; — 
 Wild ridges of the Syrian Libanus ; 
 Helvetian Jungfrau ; Ida of old Troy, 
 That gazes on the gleaming Hellespont, 
 Mother of fountains and heroic streams ; 
 Or tall Olympus, at whose verdant feet 
 Sweet Tempe slumbers in her loveliness, 
 Reputed haunt of fabled deities ; 
 Asian Hemodus, looking down afar, 
 As from a thousand watch-towers, on the plains 
 
line 609.] BOOK X. 271 
 
 Of India, with all their princely state ; — 
 Each, to his summit, every inch a king. 
 
 ' And yet with all your greatness, cliffs of earth, 
 Mountains of west or east, that lonely hut 
 That roots itself upon your lowest slope, 
 And which your pines or boulders almost bury, 
 Contains a nobler piece of heavenly skill, 
 A truer revelation of the godlike, 
 Than can be seen in you. That human life, 
 Or fragment of it, that is lived beneath 
 Yon lowly roof, has in it more of grandeur, 
 Wraps up within it more of lofty truth, 
 In one hour of its common history, 
 Than many thousand peaks of noblest Alp 
 Or Apennine, on which we gaze and gaze, 
 As on the vastest of the works of God.' 
 
 ' You know my life, a plain and common one ' 
 (Writes the old college friend who crossed the threshold 
 Of learning's ancient porch along with me) ; 
 ' No matter of romance, for tale or song, 
 Does it contain ; a placid journey mine, 
 With but a shade or two reminding me 
 That night is on its way to me, and that 
 Beyond the night is day. I cannot tell 
 Of wrecking tempests and of sinking barques, 
 Of the swollen river to be crossed when darkness, 
 With all its added fears, came down on us, 
 Making the bravest shrink. My feet have trod 
 A smoother path than most ; and as I look 
 Back on its pleasant windings, day by day, 
 
272 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 639. 
 
 I wonder how I should have stolen along 
 So tranquilly, as if between the storms 
 Which on the right and left went roaring by. 
 
 ' Sweet silver childhood, like a May-day song, 
 Gave out its melody and died in joy, 
 Yet left behind it life-long chimes of love, 
 To soothe and sweeten all my after years, 
 And with their echoes to reverberate , 
 Thro' every chamber of my listening soul, 
 Till the last shadow falls upon the brow, 
 And memory succumbs to palsied age. 
 Immortal dreams of childhood ! How I love 
 To wander back with still elastic step 
 Amid the fragrance of your morning flowers, 
 To breathe again your soft delicious air, 
 To mark the present mingling with the past, 
 Like gold on which a star is shining, or 
 Like the sea's myriad drops, exhaled on high, 
 Returning to their fountains on the hills. 
 
 ' Yet in these dreams the land beyond the dream 
 Dimly revealed itself. I caught the outline, 
 Tho' but in glimpses, of its loveliness, 
 And took possession in my childish heart 
 Of the eternal heritage, as if 
 I were already there. I heard the voice 
 Which spoke on earth as never man had done, 
 All wisdom and all tenderness ; I said, 
 Did He not mean me when He spoke the words 
 Of grace and welcome from His human lips ? 
 Or would He in His large and lowly love 
 Repel me, when I took His hand and asked 
 
line 670.] BOOK X. 273 
 
 That He should lead me thro' the mists of earth 
 To His own city, where the holy dwell ? 
 
 ' Boyhood came up, and with it also came 
 New eyes and ears, to look and hear and know, — 
 More serious eyes and ears, tho' not less glad. 
 The soul was growing, and the thoughts went out 
 With graver earnestness to things beyond 
 The fairy landscape of our younger days. 
 The airy views of childhood now dissolved 
 In visions wider, fuller than the child 
 Had dreamed of in his most fantastic moods. 
 Life's low horizon raised its curve, and grew 
 Larger and more capacious, falling back, 
 And leaving in the foreground ampler space 
 For action, and for fancy, and for joy. 
 The daisies vanished, and the roses came ; 
 The blossom fell, and the rich fruit began 
 To peer out from the crevices in which 
 It had been hidden by the tinted bloom. 
 My feet sought loftier scope ; my steps disdained 
 The common level of the garden walk, 
 Which up till then had been my more than Tempe. 
 They climbed the cliff; they swept along the moor. 
 The bee and butterfly were now forgot ; 
 The lark bewitched me with his dewy wing, 
 And voice that sung of sunrise and of heaven, 
 As, like a winged gem, he hung above 
 His low nest curtained round with clover bloom, 
 Where all night long he dreamed of dew and flowers. 
 The sea-bird swung across the whitened deep, 
 Or dived for prey beneath its populous wave, 
 
274 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 701. 
 
 Nor envied the white plumage of the breaker, 
 Rejoicing in the purer snow that tipped 
 Her silver crest, or sheathed her shining neck. 
 The bounding spaniel breasted the red stream ; 
 The mountain goats toiled up their slippery way 
 To the sharp summit of the naked peak, 
 Wondering that I should follow to a crag 
 Which only they and the strong eagle knew. 
 Wild cliffs of childhood, what a joy of spirit 
 Were ye, in your old grandeur, when we stood 
 On your bold height to mark the rounded earth, 
 Or watch the sparkle of the distant sail, 
 Or take the measure of the ample sea, 
 Longing to plunge in the majestic clouds 
 That hung upon its frontier ! Here we sat, 
 And sung our jubilate to the winds, 
 Our hymn of morning as the morning rose, 
 And claimed for God the first song of the day, 
 While far beneath us slept the sea of dawn : 
 Or, leaning o'er the rock when woke the storm, 
 We watched with ear and eye the ascending surge, 
 Breaking beneath, in thunder 'gainst the wall 
 Of the wave-chiselled precipice, and smiting 
 With fruitless vehemence the jutting rounds 
 Or sharp-receding hollows of the cliff, 
 Which gave back every stroke, and sent aloft 
 Their swelling tumult, like the echoing blows 
 Upon the boss of Odin's shield, or sound 
 That filled fair Goldau, when adown its slopes, 
 With its huge avalanche of woods and rocks, 
 The Rossberg rushed into the fields below : 
 
line 732.] BOOK X. 275 
 
 Or, in the purple summer evening, lay- 
 Watching the universal lamp of earth 
 Go down in the far plain of the flushed sea, 
 Where sky, and cloud, and wave were locked within 
 Each other, as if woven into one • 
 Spreading its changeful radiance under it 
 Like miles of beaten gold, or like the sparks 
 From the half-molten iron on the anvil, 
 When the high hammer-stroke comes heaving down. 
 
 ' The moorland, too, in its waste loneliness, 
 That gem of untilled nature, relic rare 
 Of the uncivilised, untutored earth, 
 Level, or heaving with a thousand swells, 
 Was ever fair to me, and wonderful. 
 It won my heart, and with its varied vastness 
 Drew my free footsteps mile on mile to roam, 
 'Mid its bewitching pathlessness of heath, 
 O'er which the spotted moorfowl hurries on, 
 And where the ladybird and dragon-fly 
 In many-coloured beauty ply their wings, 
 Not without music of their own, to break 
 The drowsy whisper of the wilderness ; 
 When shade and light, in their still ebb and flow, 
 Softening or brightening the motley hues 
 Of straggling shrub or ever-verdant moss, 
 Or wild-flowers by the edge of rushy pool, 
 Moved over all and made perpetual change. 
 
 ' Dear willows of the brook, old summer friends, 
 Dropping your tresses o'er the welcome wave, 
 And stretching over it your ancient boughs ! 
 How often have I sat beneath your shade, 
 
276 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 763. 
 
 To rest, and dream, and hear the pleasant song, 
 At noon, of eddy or low waterfall ! 
 
 ' I know, too, — for I've seen and shared it all, — 
 The keen unshaded fervour of high noon 
 Upon that ruddy plain, or level flush 
 Of more than earthly glow, when the low sun 
 Sinks o'er that stretch of moorland, when the heath 
 Is all in harvest-blossom, sky and earth 
 Mingling their purple ; all the Occident 
 Festooned with sunshine, hung upon the wreaths 
 Of many-folded clouds. There, too, I've seen 
 Night's placid grandeur, when the rounded moon, 
 Like a cold statue newly sculptured, rises 
 In virgin beauty on the dusky waste ; 
 Or when the starlight with its diamond rain, 
 As with a spell, revives the weary flowers. 
 I've seen the night departing ; — swiftly, softly, 
 It shakes its sable pinions and is gone ! 
 The red dawn breaks like an inflowing tide, 
 And fills with luminous ripples all the space 
 Between these island-orbs that float above, 
 Till, in the advancing waters of a light 
 Far brighter than their own, their beams are buried. 
 
 ' A storm is on the moor ! The boy is there, 
 Delighting in the tumult of the scene. 
 It is the tempest's chosen battle-field ; 
 Not even the ocean wilder or more gloomy. 
 The heath is surging into ruddy waves, 
 Swayed to and fro by the remorseless gale, 
 Yet un-uprooted even by the strokes 
 That snap the birch or tear up the tall fir. 
 
line 794.] BOOK X. 277 
 
 The gorse, too slender to resist or break, 
 Bending and rising with its feathery bloom, 
 Waves its rich gold, like banners of a host 
 Gaily equipped and marching to the war. 
 The wild knoll grows still wilder, as if rocked 
 Down to its base by the all-scourging wind, 
 And shadowed by the dark clouds overhead, 
 Which rain their fury on the passive plain, 
 And scoop sharp runnels upon every slope. 
 It waits till the fierce foe has spent his rage, 
 And, with no wreck upon its unscarred face, 
 No relic of the gale save freshened beauty, 
 Shines out again as if no storm had swept it. 
 
 ' Boyhood soon dreamed itself away ; too soon ! 
 I wished it, yet I wished it not, to go. 
 Go, said I, go, but come again ; and when 
 Thou goest, take not all thy sunshine with thee ; 
 I cannot part with thy fair morning glow. 
 Take not thy music with thee when thou bidst 
 Farewell, but pass it on to manhood, and 
 Let youth and manhood clasp each other's hands, 
 And move along abreast. It might not be : 
 I could not have both noon and morn in one ; 
 For life divides itself, and rivers deep 
 Sunder its rugged continents. Stern days 
 And sterner studies came ; still life was fair. 
 There was a joy in everything, and peace, 
 Like a perpetual lamp, not of this earth, 
 Shone in my heart, and lighted up my steps. 
 The clouds that oft hung heavily around, 
 And gathered up within their bulky folds 
 
278 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 825. 
 
 The storms that break the calm of human hearts, 
 And wreck the goodliest and most full of hope, 
 Went past me, leaving not one broken flower. 
 
 ' By the deep well of knowledge, softly fringed 
 With the green moss of ages, I sat down ; 
 I looked into its depths, and stooped and drank ; 
 All love, divine and human, seemed within 
 My reach. Each draught refreshed me, and I drank 
 Again, and still again. I could not stay, 
 For in the cup with which I drew the treasure 
 From the clear fount, seemed magic, and the water, 
 With which it sparkled, quickened every part 
 Of my awakening spirit ; and I felt, 
 With each new draught, new vigour and new life 
 Perfusing me, and lifting up my soul. 
 To know seemed only worth the living for, 
 And not to know was like a living death. 
 
 ' All life seemed changing ; my whole being woke, 
 And looked round on a world which hitherto 
 Had seemed what it was not, or had not seemed 
 What it in essence was. All faces changed, 
 All sounds and scenes ; the change within myself 
 Altered each thing without me, giving depth 
 Of meaning to the meaningless ; with music 
 Filling up that which seemed unmusical ; 
 Transforming into venerable softness 
 Words which, when uttered first, perchance seemed 
 
 rude; 
 Making even silence eloquent ; the sweet 
 Still sweetening ; the waves of stormy life 
 Smoothing into a bright and solemn calm. 
 
line 855.] BOOK X. 279 
 
 ' Thus passed the day of discipline and growth : 
 Leaf, bud, and blossom came and disappeared ; 
 The bubbling fountain welled, and rose, and sunk. 
 I learned from failure. My successful plans 
 Were built on ruins, or it might be ashes, — 
 My own or others ; daily teaching came, 
 And daily did I welcome it. I knew 
 Blind error sometimes hath a seeing son ; 
 The rough, dark seed brings forth the fruitful tree ; 
 And the best things are the most deeply hid, 
 Like pearls beneath the breaker's restless foam. 
 
 ' Let me, my friend, then, ere I close this page, 
 And bid thee, as in duty bound, good-night, 
 Write down for thee some parting thoughts, which I 
 Have gathered in my pilgrimage, and which 
 Perchance may teach thee something that will last. 
 
 ' Live well, for thou shalt not live long ; not broad, 
 Tho' deep, is life's inevitable stream. 
 Gather up- wisdom as you gather gold : 
 Buy it, but sell it not ; seek till you find. 
 Yet hoard not, like the miser ; freely give, 
 And in your giving double all your store. 
 The wise learn slowly ; at a single bound, 
 Fools, clearing every fence, move o'er the field, 
 And at the end are just as at the first. 
 Thrust in your sickle everywhere ; glean well, 
 And glean in every field. Count none too poor 
 Or too unlikely for your toil. They say 
 Children and fools are prophets, and that God 
 Supplies from His own wisdom what in them 
 Is lacking of the full and mellow culture ; 
 
2S0 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 886. 
 
 Even as He feeds the ravens, and instructs 
 
 The wren to build a nest which man in vain 
 
 May try to imitate. It may be so ; 
 
 I know not ; but I know that from each thing 
 
 That lives or moves or is, even man may learn 
 
 Much of high wisdom, which if he despise, 
 
 He shall be poorer ; something which he can 
 
 Get nowhere else than from the slighted lip 
 
 Of fool or child. Yet waste no strength on trifles ; 
 
 The lion hunts not ants, nor eagles flies. 
 
 Aim high, tho' not in pride, nor to o'ertop 
 
 Your fellows here ; the higher that you soar, 
 
 Be thou the lowlier, for as you rise and rise, 
 
 The purer is the air, the wider is 
 
 The horizon, and the clouds are all beneath. 
 
 Make haste ; the loiterer loses many a scene, 
 
 Which all the flowers he gathers cannot equaL 
 
 Life is half-spent before we know its worth. 
 
 Be calm, tho' earnest ; hold the bridle firm 
 
 Of fancy and of passion ; do not say 
 
 That only little souls and hearts are still. 
 
 Great is the sea, yet with its mighty waves 
 
 It can sink down to gentleness and love. 
 
 All violence of speech or deed is evil ; 
 
 'Tis weakness and not strength to them who use it 
 
 Dispute but sparingly ; the warmth of words 
 
 Warps judgment, blunts the conscience, leads aside 
 
 Into one-eyed, one-sided bitterness. 
 
 In over-eagerness the archer oft 
 
 Misses the mark, and wounds both peace and love. 
 
 In much debating, truth itself is lost, 
 
line 917.J BOOK X. 281 
 
 And work is left undone. The seamen quarrel, 
 And the ship drifts upon an iron shore : 
 The shepherds fight, and straightway comes the wolf 
 To snatch an easy prey from folds unwatched. 
 
 '"Error is breadth,"' — so runs the creed of 
 progress ; 
 Error is straitness, and must ever be, 
 If God Himself, the Infinite, be TRUTH. 
 No error, bold soever let it be, 
 Ever enlarged or purified the soul. 
 Shun most the impure poet, who defiles 
 His God-given power of song, and vomits forth 
 His filth upon mankind, and leaves the world 
 Uncleaner than he found it. Rather far 
 Would I, like Egypt's ancient sons, bow down 
 To leek, or crocodile, or sacred bull, 
 Or ibis of the plain, lone perched amid 
 The shallows of the melancholy Nile, 
 Than give my homage to the human brute 
 That fills his song with oaths and lust and wine. 
 From the pure air distils the heavy dew ; 
 From the bright petals of the brightest flowers 
 The poison comes ; so from the book of truth 
 The error that destroys is sucked by man. 
 In strife, if strife must be, he suffers least 
 Who bridles well his lips, or steeps his pen 
 In charity. It is the loving who are strong. 
 The great are always pitiful ; the true 
 Are tender-hearted, easy to be won. 
 The blessed of the Blessed One is not 
 The conqueror ; no, — but the peacemaker, he 
 
282 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 947. 
 
 Who knows that sword-wounds may be healed, but 
 
 hardly 
 Those of the tongue, the poison is so deadly. 
 
 ' It is for peace that arms are forged, not war; 
 And one sword keeps the other in its sheath. 
 Unstring the bow, shiver the spear in pieces, — 
 Will human passion die, or pride give way ? 
 Will the lie perish, and the truth be king ? 
 Will lust of power, or gain, or glory cease 
 When armies are disbanded, when the flag 
 That waved its colours over them is rent, 
 And the war-trumpet sounds the charge no more, 
 And the war-steed goes home to plough the soil ? 
 Man's heart is the great arsenal of war ; 
 New-mould it, purge it, and then all is peace ; 
 Till then in vain you blame the sword and shield. 
 The strong are few, the feeble everywhere ; 
 The passive power of weakness rules the world, 
 By numbers bridling and controlling strength ; 
 And weakness is not wisdom, tho' it oft 
 Has counterchecked what wisdom would have done. 
 
 ' Heaven's ever-moving universal lamp 
 Will do for all, man's torch for barely one. 
 One word divine is light for evermore ; 
 The many words of man go out in darkness, 
 Like sparks of molten iron on the anvil, 
 Or firefly's gleam, which, though it twinkle bright, 
 Is yet no sun to light the traveller. 
 The arrow shot, the stone flung from the sling, 
 Return not ; so the sentence from the lips, 
 Once sent, can never be recalled j 'tis gone, 
 
line 977.] BOOK X. 2S3 
 
 To wander onward thro' eternity. 
 
 Thy secret is thy prisoner, says the proverb ; 
 
 But let it go, tho' but a foot beyond thee, 
 
 And straightway thou art prisoner to it. 
 
 He who has enemies must not go to sleep ; 
 
 And foes are round us in this world of sin, — ■ 
 
 One foe above the rest, who sleepeth not ; 
 
 Watch on thy knees against that foe of foes. 
 
 Often behind the cross that evil one 
 
 Lurketh, all unsuspected and unseen, 
 
 And from beneath its shade throws out his snares, 
 
 Or shoots the deadliest of his deadly darts. 
 
 Put on the armour and defy the foe ; 
 
 For armour better than Pelides wore 
 
 Lies at thy side, — the armour forged in heaven. 
 
 Then, tempter, ply thy darts ; they pierce me not ! 
 
 ' Be stable ; play no double game, or with 
 Thyself or others ; trifle not with truth, 
 Or honesty, or conscience. Ah ! how soon 
 Do we forget what we have been and done, 
 And, as convenience asks, reverse ourselves 
 Like the ignoble wind, forsworn, untrusted. 
 The lie, tho' fair in promise, wrongs the soul, 
 And truth, tho' stern, will do thee good at last. 
 
 ' Anchor thy soul on truth ; it shall be well 
 With thee whatever tempests may arise. 
 If skies are ominous, and night is long, 
 And clouds are mustering where the dawn should 
 
 spring, 
 Fold round thee closer the celestial mantle, 
 In which the men of other days went forth 
 
284 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 1007. 
 
 Upon their journey ; for the road is one, 
 
 The dangers still the same, both thine and theirs. 
 
 ' A time will come when bitter shall seem sweet, 
 And sweet seem bitter, good and ill alike ; 
 When palm and upas, growing side by side, 
 Shall seem the same, and men shall feed on both, 
 Pitching their tents beneath their common shadow ; 
 When sea and earth shall mingle, and when each 
 Shall vanish in the other ; when, amid 
 The abrasion of old truths and creeds, no man 
 Shall find the landmarks of the certain, but 
 Amid a restless chaos wander on. 
 Without a compass and without a star. 
 May I and mine, before that day of evil, 
 Be safely anchored where the light is light, 
 And day is day for ever, without night ; 
 Where sweet is sweet, and all the bitter gone ! ' 
 
BOOK XI. 
 
 ' Fair earth ! with thy calm sun and calmer moon, 
 Thy thoughtful stars, like loving sentinels 
 That pace their rounds about thee day and night, 
 With never-slackening faithfulness and care 
 Keeping their glorious watch, and guarding thee 
 'Gainst the rude darkness rolling in and in 
 From regions out of sight 1 I call thee good, 
 As He once called thee who made thee so, 
 And made thee for Himself. 
 
 ' All-nurturing earth ! 
 With thy soft couch and coverlet of green, 
 Thy curtains of the never-fading azure, 
 Which have for ages rested, still the same 
 In colour and in compass, on the wide 
 And waving circle of a thousand plains ! 
 Round thy rose-braided waist, the constant sun 
 Flingeth each morn his lover's arm of light, 
 Softer than down, and sings to thee the songs 
 Thou lovest best from his own radiant lips. 
 
 ' Far-seeing earth ! that lookest forth on space, 
 Which, like an unclaimed common, sweepeth out 
 Into the dim and sad invisible, 
 Beyond the darkness and beyond the light, — 
 
286 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 24. 
 
 Space, of which no man knows the awful range, 
 The depth profound, or height above all scale, 
 Haunt of old fable, home of mythic dreams ! 
 Thine eye is on each orb that lies becalmed 
 In the dim offing of the universe, 
 Like white barque coming into sight, each one 
 Freighted with sunbeams from some port of light; 
 Thyself unseen, unnamed, unknown by them, 
 In thy lone distance, as an atom here, 
 From whose small compass millions of keen eyes 
 Look up and wonder at the upper glory 
 In the star-studded azure round and round : 
 Thy garment the glad air, with ductile folds 
 Fitting thee close, yet shaken by the breeze, 
 Or vibrating with angry thunder, which 
 Imparts its tremor to the startled wave, 
 And wakes it from its silence and its sleep : 
 Thy veil the dreaming clouds, behind whose folds 
 Thou hidest thy fair brow from moon and sun ; 
 Or playful mists that wander to and fro, 
 , Chasing each other over hill and vale : 
 Thy cincture the interminable main, 
 That untamed thing of beauty and of dread, 
 Sparkling with everlasting amethyst, 
 Clasped by sunrising and sunsetting gold, 
 And on whose never-ending wilderness 
 Of wave and foam the mimic stars each night 
 Perform with silver feet their sparkling dance : 
 Thy pliant streams, with their pellucid chains 
 Knitting the sundered realms and tribes of earth, 
 Binding in one her scattered provinces, 
 
line 55.] BOOK XI. 287 
 
 Making one realm of many, riveting 
 Ocean and earth together, flinging out 
 Their silver network, never soiled by age, 
 Veining the hill-slopes with their living streaks, 
 And clasping cities with their sunny zones : 
 Thy rich embroidery of wood and cliff, 
 Of lake and vale, of mountain and fresh field, 
 With songs of wind that sweeps the unseen chords 
 Of thy ^Eolian harp, now loud, now low, 
 In storm or calm, with fragrance carried up 
 From twice ten thousand blossoms, all awake, 
 Soothing and sweetening the unsoiled air, 
 In the pale twilight or luxurious noon. 
 
 ' Gay orb ! that smilest like an emerald 
 Within the sapphire casket of these skies, 
 That fold thee fondly in their pure embrace ; 
 Thy depths unsearchable, but filled with all 
 The locked-up secrets of His love and power 
 Whose thoughts are everlasting purposes, 
 Whose purposes are everlasting thoughts ; 
 Stored with His truth and wisdom everywhere, — 
 In mystic cells beneath, in heights above, 
 Of cloud and mountain, sea, and stream, and wood, 
 Each with His thoughts impregnated, and with 
 His beauty bright, in feature and in form. 
 
 ' Benignant earth ! bearing upon thy breast, 
 Like nurse or mother, thy vast progeny 
 Of sons or daughters ; still sustaining all, 
 Feeding and fondling each, replenishing 
 In thy impartial bounty all alike, 
 The lovely or unlovely, great or small. 
 
288 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 86. 
 
 ' Glad earth ! thy golden day filled up each hour 
 With all the sweetness of far-travelled sunshine, 
 Arriving on thy shore from stranger-lands 
 The messenger of heavenly peace and love ; 
 Thy nights star-lighted, or shot thro' with meteors, — 
 Brightest when all thy dark is at its darkest, 
 Like planet-lightning from another orb, 
 Or gleam of angel's lantern flashing thro' 
 The astonished midnight, as its bearer passes 
 On gracious errand to the sons of men. 
 
 ' Dear ocean, too, — how shall I speak of thee ? 
 Ebb thou and flow, and frown and smile and heave ; 
 Still be, as thou hast ever been to me, 
 My friend of friends in sympathy of soul, 
 The partner of my joys and hopes and griefs ! 
 Thy voice is melody, thy breath is balm ; 
 Thy face, as the broad sun lights up its lines 
 At noon or even, a wilderness of gold ; 
 Thy touch is magic to these throbbing veins ; 
 Thy ripple-song is music to this ear, 
 Like an old air perpetually new, 
 All love and life in each familiar note 
 Which the free breeze draws from thy well-tuned 
 
 strings. 
 All that I know of beauty and of song 
 Is in my vision ever knit with thee ! 
 In the capricious strains that from thy harp, 
 Wind-swept, come forth, so varied and so full, 
 I hear the compass of all harmony, 
 The terror and the tenderness of sound ; 
 The winds above thee swelling the high chord, 
 
LINEH6.] BOOK XI. 289 
 
 And thou the lower octave here below. 
 Free as the gales that ride upon thy furrows, 
 Or rest upon thy foam ; yet made for man, 
 Not man for thee ; the common of the nations, 
 Which not even she, who says she rules the waves, 
 Can call her own, or venture to enclose. 
 
 ' Great ocean ! never stale, nor tame, nor poor ; 
 Yet still the same in voice, and hue, and vastness, 
 As when yon azure awning first hung o'er thee ! 
 Thy rocks grow grey, but still thy wave is green, 
 And ever young, as when the first sun rose 
 Upon thy face and drew forth all its smiles ; 
 Thy Occidental wave as full, as when 
 Long since it rolled before the imperious gale, 
 And carved old Scotland's rockwork of the west 
 Into a thousand bays and caves and isles, — 
 The home of mist, of shadow, and of foam ; 
 Thy breakers still as strong as when they struck 
 The splitting cliffs of Thracian Chersonese, 
 And breached the Dardanelles, or open flung 
 The gates of Calpe, to let in the storms 
 Of the far west upon the inland lake 
 That knits three continents, and drops its freshness 
 Upon the verdure of a hundred isles. 
 
 ' Companion of my sweetest solitude, 
 I lock my arm in thine, and roam along 
 Thy margin, still conversing with thy waves ! 
 I dream of thee ; my thoughts, like happy clouds, 
 Float o'er thy wind-worn plains ; I fondle thee, 
 As does the child its mother, and my eye, 
 From farthest deserts, ever turns to thee ! 
 
290 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 147. 
 
 How soft thy rising ripple's cheerful whisper, 
 And thy light wave's low wail along the shore, 
 When the ripe restless corn-field, doubly yellow 
 With the low radiance of the dropping day, 
 Fringes thy green with gold ! O listening night ! 
 With eyes and ears all open, hour by hour, 
 What dost thou hear and see, when leaning o'er 
 The solemn surge that gazes up to thee, 
 And into thy profoundest darkness sings, 
 As into the bright depths of burning day, 
 Its ever new and ever ancient song ? 
 The melody of waves ascends to thee ; 
 From thee there cometh down, like falling dew, 
 The sparkle of a beauty never stale, — 
 Some planet-smile, or glow of triple star, 
 Sweeter than all the rest that shine above, 
 On the expanse of the meek-fronted heaven. 
 What gems are thine, on bosom and on brow ! 
 Around thy neck heaven's happy daisy-chain, 
 The Milky Way, that clasps thy stainless blue ; 
 Around thy waist pearl upon pearl is sparkling ; 
 And on thy rounded skirts what diamonds hang, 
 Which ages only burnish, and which motion, 
 Swift as the lightning-shaft, displaces not 
 From the deep settings of their heavenly fixture ! ' 
 
 Thus wrote in musing mood, with easy pen, 
 On this old scroll, the poet-friend of youth, 
 The studious dreamer, who now dreams no more ; 
 For they that are the dearest take the lead, 
 And pass on swiftest to the resting-place, — 
 Bemoan them as we may, — like shipwrecked men, 
 
line 178.] BOOK XL 291 
 
 Brought all the sooner to the quiet shore. 
 For dreams exhaust the soul which they inspire ; 
 Love wears existence down, and these fresh lives 
 Are exhalations which the noon drinks in. 
 I visit oft his tomb, and smooth the turf 
 That swells above him. 'Tis a gentle spot, 
 Where he, and not a few like him, revered, 
 Rest, after earth's brief weariness. I look 
 Around me, and I see them all again, — 
 I see and see not, for they are not here ; 
 I find nought but the ashes or the dross 
 Of life's exhausted mines, the crumbled walls 
 Of Time's dismantled forts. I multiply 
 Figure on figure to depict the scene 
 Of loneliness and ruin, yet of hope. 
 Here in this graveyard, with their broken wheels, 
 Disyok'ed and idle, in confusion lie 
 Life's empty chariots, heaped above each other ; 
 The race all run, the steeds like vapour vanished, 
 And the impetuous charioteer gone up 
 To wear the garland that he ran for here. 
 So muse I o'er his dust, and oft recall 
 The pleasant past of fellowship and joy. 
 
 days for ever green, for ever dear ! 
 Palm-trees in the now silent wilderness 
 Of irrecoverable youth ; glad isles 
 
 At which we touched, when voyaging across 
 That ocean which we navigate but once. 
 
 1 seem to see these palms, these islands still ; 
 Their glow is mellower, but yet matchless all, 
 In life's calm twilight, like some Abenberg 
 
292 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 209. 
 
 That catches the last rays of the low sun, 
 When evening steals along the Alpine vale. 
 
 I found him once, — 'tis an old story now, — 
 In a soft morn of August stretched asleep 
 Within a shaded glen, arched o'er and o'er 
 With pendulous birch. The breeze went freshly by, 
 And the black moss clung to the broken rocks, 
 O'er which, thro' heath and fern and roses scant, 
 The runnel from the mountain trickled down, 
 Groping its way in darkness to the sea. 
 Pale as his own pale dream the dreamer lay ; 
 Light fell upon his forehead, and his hand 
 Held fast the pen, as if he still would write, 
 And still would think. The sheep were browsing near, 
 And the sly raven sought to steal the pages, 
 That flitted loosely in the busy wind, 
 Taking their way to the broad pool below. 
 I stopped the straying thoughts, and gave them back 
 To their unconscious owner, as he woke, 
 And thanked me for the treasure I had saved. 
 As I returned the pages, thus I read 
 The written thoughts, not worthy to be lost : — 
 ' The basis of man's law is sad despair 
 Of human rectitude, or dark belief 
 Of ineradicable ill ; and all in it 
 Is stern repression and imperious threat. 
 It is by penalties the world is ruled. 
 The key to the slow mysteries of time 
 Is creature-evil, — the fragility 
 And helplessness of all that is not God. 
 Long has man laboured with his iron bars 
 
line 240.] BOOK XL 293 
 
 To imprison the volcano, which he hears 
 
 Roaring beneath him, ready to devour. 
 
 Long has he toiled, with bulwarks reared to heaven, 
 
 To break the rage of storms he cannot lay ; 
 
 Or within walls of stone to circumscribe 
 
 The unblunted lightning which he cannot quench. 
 
 He sees the evil, but the cure he knows not ; — 
 
 And yet that evil was his own : 'twas he 
 
 Who sowed the earth with poison ; who took out 
 
 From the sweet air its health ; who lighted up 
 
 The fires beneath ; who let the tempest loose, 
 
 At whose assaults he stands aghast in fear. 
 
 In the great Potter's moulding of this clay, 
 
 So perverse and rebellious, we discern 
 
 Power, but more wisdom. In His purpose vast, 
 
 Of still evoking light from the abyss 
 
 Of the profoundest gloom, which creaturehood 
 
 Has drawn around itself and round its world, 
 
 We see the patience of a heavenly love, 
 
 Which clasps all being in its dear embrace, 
 
 And seeks our love by loving to the last ; 
 
 We hear the voice that daily bids us rise ; 
 
 And all things here, if rightly used by us, 
 
 Would help us to obey. The hammer-stroke 
 
 That smites us to the earth yet says, Arise ; 
 
 Grief wounds that it may heal ; the steady drill 
 
 Of daily toil is that by which brave men 
 
 Rise up into true manhood ; hunger calls 
 
 To the high feast, and bids us diet on 
 
 The life-containing bread, which whoso eats 
 
 Becomes immortal, like the bread he feeds on.' 
 
294 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 271. 
 
 We parted not for hours ; the joyous day 
 Was far too glad for parting, and the scene 
 Too fair not to be revelled in together. 
 Our walk was by the sea, and it was gold ; 
 We breathed the mountain air, and it was balm ; 
 We drank the well, and found its waters pure ; 
 We sought the stream, and it was musical ; 
 We looked up to the heavens, and all was light ; 
 We listened to the cuckoo from afar, 
 Hid in the dreamy forest, like a brook 
 Warbling unseen its happy, simple lay. 
 So judged we that a true man's words and thoughts 
 Should ever be. . . . And so it was with him. 
 He did not try to make men think him wise, 
 By clothing his lean thoughts in broken mist. 
 He did not write in ecstasies, nor speak 
 Mysterious words which have but half a meaning. 
 No sounding torrents rushed along his lines ; 
 Few seraphs graced his pages ; angel-wings 
 Were not extended there ; no triple sun 
 Burst from the broad, black wave, to countercheck 
 The hosts of stubborn night. He sung his song, 
 His own clear song, and sung it well. Men heard, 
 And took in all its melody and truth. 
 Better than oracle or mystery 
 
 Was calm, full speech, which no man might mistake, 
 But which, within each word, contained some seed 
 Of everlasting health and noble life, 
 Making this poor world richer and more wise. 
 
 We took our last look of abating day 
 From that majestic pinnacle of rock 
 
line 302.] BOOK XL 295 
 
 Which fronts the deep, and breasts the fretful wave. 
 We watched the struggling sunshine, ruby-bright, 
 Caught in the meshes of the rising cloud 
 That swung across the waters, and which seemed 
 Part of both sky and sea, — more heaven than earth. 
 
 Peace to the pallid waste, across whose face 
 Yon sea-bird sails to reach its craggy home, 
 In that lone island anchored far at sea, 
 The dread of shipwrecked men, upon whose rocks 
 The laden merchant barque has gone to pieces, 
 Strewing the shore with odours and with gems ! 
 Peace to the dying day, across whose face 
 Darkness is spreading deep her raven veil, 
 Lest mocking eyes should look upon the form 
 Of the unshrouded and uncovered dead ! 
 Calmer and calmer grows the calm night air, 
 Cooling the hot pulse of the fevered earth. . . . 
 And so we turn our faces to the east, 
 In hope of day once more ; for always day 
 Is the world's hope, to which she lifts her eye, 
 However weary and however sad 
 The nights have been. Oh ! soothing sweet, 
 Beyond what words can utter, is the thought 
 That 'mid the imperfection all around, 
 The perfect somewhere does exist, instinct 
 With life unquenchable, tho' dormant now, 
 And that or late or soon, 'twill surely come. 
 They say that from the far and lonely stars 
 There cometh heat to us low dwellers here ; 
 None from the nearer moon : so the true hope, 
 Full of its own unborrowed warmth and light, 
 
296 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 333. 
 
 Is better than the nearer glow of things 
 
 Less real, though seeming greater. Whether we 
 
 Are moving toward it, or it to us, 
 
 It matters not ; the meeting day must come, 
 
 When no love shall be distant, and no light 
 
 Be djm or trembling. The unconscious earth 
 
 Moves on its way undrifting, yet without 
 
 Or helm or sail or pilot ; so all things 
 
 Are moving out of darkness into light, 
 
 Even when they seem most still and motionless. 
 
 What the great day may be, what it may bring, 
 
 We know not. It is said that fire shall seize 
 
 The stubborn earth, and take possession of 
 
 The universal air ; that the still stars, 
 
 Their steerage gone, shall rush out into space, 
 
 Or crash together in stupendous ruin, 
 
 Quenching each other's light, or, it may be, 
 
 Raising their blazes higher ; and that out 
 
 Of this confusion and commixture wild 
 
 Will rise the endless beauty and the calm 
 
 Of universal order, ne'er again 
 
 To be disturbed or marred. It may be so, 
 
 Or not ; a few swift years will tell the tale. 
 
 Homewards we moved, tho' slow. The listless winds 
 Went to and fro across the sleeping grass ; 
 The cheerful waves, that slept not day nor night, 
 Sung their old songs to us as on we passed ; 
 And we gave back the music, soft and low. 
 The air was peace ; the mists seemed happy dreams ; 
 Star-loving silence gently breathed around ; 
 Night, with its precious balm of secret health, 
 
line 364.] BOOK XI. 297 
 
 Dropped down upon the wave, and filled the sky ; 
 
 One slender belt of cloud revealed the line 
 
 Where sky and sea were meeting lovingly, 
 
 Each seeking for itself the last embrace 
 
 Of the last sunbeam, as it smiled adieu 
 
 To the dim hills of the envermeiled west. 
 
 The profile of dead nature, as it lay 
 
 Beneath us in the dimness, spoke of calm 
 
 And tender beauty, such as noontide knows not, 
 
 With all the sunshine of its glowing life. 
 
 So parted we that night : he o'er the moor, 
 That lay between him and his home, took way ; 
 I up the mountain to the glen beyond. 
 Dear paths, which steps of friendship have made dear ! 
 For spots are holy which beloved feet 
 Have trod, or upon which beloved eyes 
 Have gazed. O labyrinths of love and life, 
 Of faith and doubt, of vision and of blindness, 
 Our being's daily riddle ! — Who shall give 
 The unwinding thread that leads us calmly out 
 From your dim thickets into open day ? 
 
 earnest faith, and earnest unbelief ! 
 Are ye both one, as many tell us now ? 
 And do ye both conduct to one sure goal ? 
 Or as we sow shall we not also reap ? 
 Eternal faith, eternal unbelief, 
 Have they not separate offsprings ? Or are both 
 The parents of a boundless blank ? Is truth 
 A dream, or something colder than a dream ? 
 Is certainty a thing which creaturehood 
 Can never hope for ? Being and non-being, 
 
298 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 395. 
 
 Are they the same, — mere words of man, no more ? 
 We have lived long enough if this be all. 
 Being of beings ! Teach a doubting world 
 What being is, — what its own being means ! 
 
 Days dimly pass, and I return once more 
 To my long work of love, the folding out 
 And slow deciphering of these pages old, 
 In which I live again my former life, — 
 One life, yet many lives, I call it truly ; 
 The lives of others in their varied freshness, 
 Like ivy twined in greenness round my own. 
 
 Here, then, folds out another of these scrolls ; 
 Old, but still plain and legible ; half worn, 
 Yet with the small familiar characters 
 Just as they were when first I read its lines. 
 Here is the seal, sharp as when first impressed ; 
 One little dint upon its edge, as if 
 The hand that sealed had shaken in its pressure. 
 Here are the waving lines, the blots, the bends, 
 And turns and interlinings, that reveal 
 At one quick glance the writer, and recall 
 The image of remembered worth and sweetness, — 
 The face of age and wisdom, yet of one 
 Far younger than she seemed ; for change and care 
 Had on her features done their mellowing work, 
 And the whole womanhood within came out 
 In loving gentleness and patient grace, 
 Sooner by many a year than might have been : 
 As if in haste to see the finished form, 
 Sorrow had, in impatient eagerness, 
 
LINE 425.] BOOK XI. 299 
 
 Snatched the slow chisel from the lingering hand 
 
 Of Time, and with a cunning all its own, 
 
 Had, from the girl's bright buoyancy of feature, 
 
 Struck out the staid maturity of woman ; 
 
 Each line a history, each shade a record 
 
 Of conflicts and of hard-won victory. 
 
 The dreams shut up within her drooping eyes 
 
 Came out and showed themselves ; the hopes and 
 
 fears 
 That wrought within her soul had found their way 
 To her whole outer being, — in her tones 
 Speaking with chastened softness ; in her steps 
 Moving with quiet grace ; the silken life 
 Of childhood wrought with skill into a texture 
 Of bolder hue and firmer fibre ; yet 
 The woman, all the woman, still was there. 
 No gloom spoke from her eye, or on her brow 
 Sat with a melancholy shade ; her lips, 
 Fresh from some ruby mine, betrayed their birth, 
 And sparkled like the morn, with earnest smiles, 
 That spoke of the deep love within; her face, 
 Quiet and lovable, like autumn sunshine, 
 Took and returned the gladness all around. 
 
 ' 'Tis light that casts the shadow,' thus she writes. 
 ' And thus my life has been ; its many shades 
 Have come to me as messengers of light, 
 And in the shadow I could read the sun. 
 Life was too bright for me at first, it wrapt 
 My soul in ecstasy and earthliness. 
 This is my resting-place, I said ; here is 
 My heaven, and these my gods and goddesses. 
 
300 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 455. 
 
 It was too bright to last, yet, while it lasted, 
 It hid the better life and brighter heaven. 
 
 ' The stroke of evil smote me, yet I felt 
 In the sore smiting a deep joy begun, 
 And midnight seemed to me a softer noon. 
 Out from the dazzling lamps, whose sickening light 
 Filled the false halls of gaiety and mirth 
 And soul-subduing music, to the hill, 
 Which night was visiting, I hastened forth, 
 And drew in with each liberated breath 
 What day denied me, — long and silent draughts 
 Of the delicious darkness. Now the rock, 
 The desert rock, was smitten by the hand 
 That knew the when and how of smiting well. 
 Forth gushed the heavenly waters, never more 
 To cease their flow, and, with their freshening stream, 
 To quench the thirst, and turn the wilderness 
 Into a garden, where all fruits and flowers 
 Hang out their healing sweetness, and exhale 
 Their blessed balm into the broken heart. 
 
 ' The wine of earth, which I had drunk so long 
 From an o'erbrimming cup, had lost its sparkle. 
 I knew its adder's bite, its scorpion-sting ; 
 I knew, too, how it can, with secret spell, 
 Intoxicate and poison. It was gone : 
 The cup was broken and the wine was spilt ! 
 In place of it there came the sapphire cup, 
 All fresh from heaven and sparkling with its joy, — 
 The cup of blessing, filled with wine of peace 
 And health celestial. Then I heard the voice 
 Speak from above in solemn tenderness, 
 
line 486.] BOOK XL 301 
 
 The voice of the long slighted and despised : 
 " My flesh is meat, my blood is drink indeed." 
 I took the cup, I drank, and found in it 
 The wine of heaven to renovate and heal. 
 
 ' For even here, upon these famished plains, 
 We eat the bread that maketh dead men live, 
 The eternal loaf which feedeth earth and heaven ; 
 We drink the wine which sobers all who taste it, — 
 Wine of a vintage which earth knoweth not ; 
 Wine which brings down the fevered pulse of sin, 
 Making it soft and gentle as a child's. 
 
 ' Earth's achings, too, I had been made to taste ; 
 The sweet and bitter both had been my lot : 
 First sweet, then bitter, and both born of time, 
 Both shaken from the world's enchanted tree. 
 The sweet was passing sweet to me, the bitter 
 Was bitterness in essence ; both are now 
 Forgotten like a sick man's stormy dreams. 
 'Tis rest, but still the tempest shakes the sky ; 
 'Tis peace, but battle thunders all around. 
 
 ' Ah, surely nothing ripens here below i 
 There is no sunshine that can sweeten aught. 
 Our autumns bring no mellowing gentleness ; 
 The climate suits not, and the air is chill ; 
 The winds that walk our valleys tear the blossoms, 
 And scatter all the love which they enfold ; 
 The mistral smites the Etrurian olive-bud, 
 And the sirocco blights the Syrian bloom. 
 Toil, passion, fret, hate, — these are not the rays 
 To ripen things of heaven ; more genial far 
 Must be the blaze which such soft service needs, 
 
302 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 517. 
 
 Or which can draw out all the secret stores 
 Of sweet and noble in the soul of man 
 Or woman, till the whole perfection comes 
 At once, like clusters in September's vine. 
 
 ' I found, what, soon or late, all else have known ; 
 That not for ever is the love of man 
 To man on earth : it breaks, it fades, it dies. 
 The lightning strikes it, or the worm destroys, 
 Or the frost chills it into apathy. 
 Man loves and loves not ; fondly doats to-day, 
 To-morrow freezes ; few love on and on. 
 The truest love that ever filled a soul 
 Has ebbed, and left the heart all barrenness ; — 
 The love that never changes is not here. 
 All round the vaults of this our human life 
 Are ranged in silent rows the empty jars 
 Of love's delicious wine, exhaled and gone, 
 Or spilt like water on the absorbing ground. 
 
 * The first strange drop of wormwood, as it fell 
 ' Into my cup, I can remember well. 
 
 It was not broken friendship, loss of gold, 
 Nor crushed ambition, nor a blighted name, 
 Nor woman's wounds of disappointed love. 
 'Twas the slow death-bed of one dear as life, 
 Summed up in all the sadness of that morn 
 When she went up from us, and left behind 
 Only the mortal raiment, soon to fall 
 In pieces and be laid beneath the turf, 
 Till the glad day of the unfolding comes. 
 Death never seemed so far, nor life so near ; — 
 O bud of beauty, gem of spring and hope, 
 
line 548.] BOOK XL 303 
 
 Half open and half shut, like twilight star 
 
 Ascending from the silence of the sea, 
 
 Girt with the morn, a thing all light and love ! 
 
 On thy smooth forehead sat immortal youth ; 
 
 Thy lip was that of one who could not die, — 
 
 Sweetness and strength compounded, — which was 
 
 fullest 
 You could not say, so perfect was the mixture. 
 In hope we long had watched ; now hope is o'er, 
 And fear with hope ; anxieties are gone, 
 Because the worst has come ; the loved has left us. 
 Death is the death of care, even tho' it be 
 The mother of all grief ; for care and grief, 
 Like two pale streams that long have flowed together 
 Pass into one, and each absorbs the other. 
 
 ' The pressure of the hand had ceased ; the eye 
 Had lost its diamond sparkle ; the cold cheek 
 Grew colder still ; and the dishevelled hair, 
 With its fair curls like twining honeysuckle, 
 Was flung back on the pillow's love-smoothed snow ; 
 And the full marble forehead now stood out 
 In noble grandeur, tho' the soul had left 
 That field, o'er which it wandered like a star, 
 Sometimes half-hidden, sometimes full as day, 
 Filling each vein and working in each line 
 Of soft intelligence that quivered there. 
 Life fluttered on a while, like some maimed dove 
 With broken wing and bleeding at the heart ; — 
 Life, like a flame just ready to take wing, 
 Sank and revived, departed and returned, 
 Then vanished, and the mortal chill came on. 
 
304 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 578. 
 
 ' How oft the one that we could spare the least 
 Is taken, and the idlers left behind ! 
 
 ' A mother's kisses, like the gentle rain, 
 Had come down tenderly from day to day 
 Upon her fair young face, and under them 
 She grew to girlhood, full of budding hope, 
 That looked into the future with an eye 
 That drank in only gladness ! Now she sleeps, — 
 Her woman's heart all unexpanded there, 
 Her woman's love dried up in its deep well, 
 When its first overflow had just begun 
 In all its sweet translucency of joy ; 
 And I have laid her down for her last rest, 
 And the long kiss has sealed the long farewell. 
 
 ' If dreams have shadows, surely such are here ; 
 And there she sleeps, the shadow of a dream. 
 
 ' The light steals in upon her parted hair, 
 And moves across her brow, ere death has made 
 Her all his own. How bright that sudden gleam, 
 How softly has she fallen asleep beneath it, 
 Like snow-peak welcoming the sun's last ray, 
 When twilight creeps along the darkening plains ! 
 Life touched her gently all her girlhood thro' ; 
 But little of its sorrow she had known, 
 Save what had come from her own buoyant heart 
 And its quick throbbings, as they went and came, 
 Like the low violet trembling in the breeze. 
 Yes ; there she lies ; her spirit all ebbed out, 
 But resting still on her unclosed eye, — 
 All stillness and all softness to the last, 
 Like a long, golden wave about to break 
 
LINE 609.] BOOK XI. 305 
 
 Upon a shore of gems. O bitter grief! 
 
 Like sword of double edge, when he has come, 
 
 The dark destroyer, with his poisoned spear, 
 
 Which neither skill nor armour may repel, 
 
 To smite our loveliest, whose arms had been 
 
 Linked lovingly in ours from infancy, 
 
 To cut asunder soul from soul, to tear 
 
 In pieces, like the blossoms of the spring, 
 
 The loves and hopes and joys that had begun 
 
 To burst in beauty, like immortal buds 
 
 Dropt down from heaven upon this wondering earth, 
 
 Prophetic of a summer rich in fruit, 
 
 And calm in the deep beauty of its skies. 
 
 The serpent's fang has left its scar upon 
 
 The rounded dimple of her cheek ; but she 
 
 Has passed beyond the poison and the pain. 
 
 ' Eternity shall never shed its leaves ; 
 'Tis only summer in its groves of green : 
 It knoweth not the chilliness of age. 
 The forehead wrinkles not ; the living light 
 Takes on no shade : the face is ever fair, 
 The tresses blanch not, and the eye still sparkles 
 Without or change or end. Oh, well with us 
 When the undying gladness has begun ! 
 It cannot come too soon. Each day appears 
 An age, which with immeasurable stretch 
 Goes out beyond the range of human hope. 
 The future is our anchorage, amid 
 The tides and tempest here ; tho' long delayed, 
 The rest is coming for a weary race. 
 
 ' With her all life was doubled, and I missed not 
 
 u 
 
306 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 640. 
 
 Others if she were left ; but her departure 
 Quenched all the rest. We can be comforted 
 In the sad silence of the loneliest night 
 If but one voice be left that whispers love. 
 The music-teeming air, bereft of all 
 Its myriad cadences save one, is still 
 Vocal and sweet ; the one makes up for all : 
 But when that one is gone all music dies. 
 
 ' I looked about for comfort ; went to one 
 Faithful and wise and good ; but soon returned 
 To speak my sorrow to myself alone. 
 He had not suffered : how then could he speak 
 To sufferers ? In presence of deep grief 
 Let him be dumb, or let his words be few. 
 He had no son or daughter laid beneath 
 The swelling turf; he could not understand 
 How to walk softly thro' the churchyard paths, 
 Or how to wipe the dew from gentle graves. 
 Ere man can comfort man, he first must suffer, — 
 The tearless dry no tears ; the whole in heart 
 Bind up no broken spirits ; 'tis not theirs 
 To mix and minister the balm that heals. 
 It is by sorrow that God trains His own, 
 And moulds them for the highest service here, 
 Like His who, as the Man of sorrows, knew 
 To soothe the sad, to speak the words that cheer. 
 For common duty between man and man, 
 All who have hands to toil, or lips to speak, 
 Are in their measure fit ; but for high work, — 
 For skill in dealing with the finest tissues 
 Of man's most inmost being when laid bare 
 
line 671.] BOOK XL 307 
 
 With griefs that dry up life ; with bleeding souls 
 That mutely plead for sympathy and solace, 
 They only can be trusted who have been 
 Trained in the school which teaches how to teach. 
 For weighty are the words of sore- tried men : 
 They find, we know not how, their solemn way 
 Into our inner essence ; like the voice 
 Of prophet, speaking language not of earth. 
 
 ' Could He not teach us without sorrow's stroke, 
 Or mould us without all this hourly pressure, 
 Or purge our dross with less of furnace-heat, 
 Or cure us with a sweeter draught than this ? ' 
 
 ' Nay, but, O child of time, whose dwelling is 
 Between the two eternities, who, — who 
 Art thou, replying against Him with whom 
 Is no reply, and proudly arguing 
 Against the wisdom of the Only Wise ? 
 And who art thou, that callest hard and stern 
 A discipline which trains thy headlong will, 
 Imparts to it a heavenly pliancy, 
 And tears the fibre of self-will and pride 
 From its rough texture, till it sweetly moves 
 In unreluctant unison with His 
 High and all-perfect will, who thus hath tuned it ? 
 Yes, who art thou, that callest long and sore 
 The process, whose design is to strip off 
 Incrusted evil, and to perfect thee ; 
 To bring out all thy silent depths of life 
 And thought and character, which but for this 
 Had lain within thee cold and unrevealed ? 
 Does the harp murmur at the cunning stroke 
 
308 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 702. 
 
 Of the musician as he sweeps its chords ? 
 Does the cold canvas cry aloud against 
 The hand of genius, flinging on its face 
 The magic of a thousand lights and shades, 
 The colour and the freshness and the life 
 Which but for that bold touch had never been ? 
 Does the rough marble blame the chisel's sharpness, 
 Or taunt the sculptor with unskilfulness, 
 Because he did not with one master-stroke 
 Draw out the beauty from the shapeless stone ? 
 
 ' How much we should have lost, if these slow years 
 Of sore, but ever-working discipline, 
 Had been cut down into a single day ! 
 How little of ourselves should we have known, 
 How little of the heart's deep mysteries, 
 How little of the Chastener's power and love 
 And patient wisdom, ever fresh and new, 
 Had it not been for these oppressive hours 
 When all the light of earth went out from us. 
 And left us in this desert desolate ! 
 How much of glory should our God have lost, 
 Had no such seasons drawn out His full heart, 
 And made us feel, in weariness and pain, 
 The pressure of the everlasting arm ! 
 
 'How else should we have learned what angels 
 know not, 
 What angels cannot teach, what God's own Son 
 Learned only by a life like ours on earth 
 Of weariness and pain and poverty, — 
 The Father's power to solace and to cheer, 
 The filial look of trust, and the response 
 
line 732.] BOOK XI. 
 
 309 
 
 Of lovingness from Him to whom we look, — 
 The tender touch of a paternal hand, 
 That held us up and wiped away our tears, 
 That in the day of suffering smoothed the brow 
 Which agony had wrinkled ; above all, 
 Which thus crushed out of us each earthly taint, 
 And taught us what we ne'er shall know in heaven, 
 The evil of a human heart, the dark 
 Malignancy of sin that brought to man 
 And to man's earth such ages of the curse, 
 The fruit of one sad sin, — a sin which seemed 
 So innocent, that none but God could know 
 The eternal woes to issue from its womb ? ' 
 
 Here lies the letter of a muser, fond 
 To read the deeper features of the age, 
 And to discover what lies underneath 
 The unbeliefs and the beliefs, the loves 
 And hatreds, the alliances and strifes 
 Of men and minds, as they ferment and fume, — 
 The occult affinities of things that differ, 
 And the repulsions of what seem the same : 
 The self-will reigning everywhere, and yet 
 The cry for universal brotherhood. 
 ' What means all this ? ' he asks. 'The sounds I hear 
 Deep thundering over Europe, rolling round 
 The labouring globe, they mean far more than meets 
 The general ear. They come from the great depths 
 Of pained humanity, with fevered heart, 
 Tossing its limbs, as if by change of couch 
 Or change of posture it could heal itself. 
 
310 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 762. 
 
 The swollen veins, the bloodshot eye of nations, 
 
 The secret sobbing of ten thousand hearts, 
 
 The cry for water to allay the thirst, 
 
 For bread to satisfy the famished spirit, 
 
 For rest to ease the impatient weariness ; — 
 
 These tell of maladies beyond the reach 
 
 Of man's profoundest art or boldest fraud. 
 
 O sick beyond the power of wine or gold, 
 
 Of cunning statecraft or despotic steel, 
 
 Of politician, priest, philosopher, — 
 
 Sick to the inmost soul, and He alone, 
 
 Who heals and loves, unsought for and unknown ! 
 
 O sick to death, and in thy dark despair, 
 
 Seeking to gods who cannot heal or save, 
 
 Sending thy midnight messengers afar 
 
 To Ammon or Olympia, if that from 
 
 The dead, some voice of hope at length may come ; 
 
 Since heaven is shut, and earth contains no friend, 
 
 And only hell is open to thy call. 
 
 ' Strange groping after the unseen, the world 
 That lies without us, into which all go, 
 But out of which no one has yet come back 
 To tell us what he saw ! Strange appetite 
 Of unbelief, for the incredible ! 
 Blind passion for the mystical and dim, 
 For what is dark and magical, for error 
 That looks like truth, and truth that looks like 
 
 error, — 
 The old priestly lust of power invisible 
 Over men's souls and bodies, — to be gods 
 Controlling life and death ; by touch or word, 
 
line 792.] BOOK XL 311 
 
 To pour into the mortal, deathlessness, 
 Without a resurrection or a grave. 
 
 'So faith dies down, and the poor shrivelled soul 
 Closes against the love of love, against 
 Belief in the divinely true, the certainties 
 Of hope, which, like the stedfast vault above, 
 Gird us around, and stay our tossing hearts 
 Amid the uncertainties of time and evil. 
 Thus the hot air of an unhealthful age, 
 From which the bracing energy is gone, 
 Poisons the sweet blood of untainted youth, 
 Turning it all to fever ; making dim 
 The dawning lustre of a star-bright eye, 
 Till shadows fall where noon alone should be. 
 Thus the last snare of the ensnarer, set 
 With matchless art, secures its victim man. 
 Thus the world struggles on the desperate hook 
 Of the dark fisher, to be landed soon, 
 His sure and easy prey. Men heed not warnings, 
 When faith in the invisible has perished. 
 Prophet and conjuror are both alike 
 To him who has no future and no haven. 
 The mirror is not for the blind, and to 
 The deaf both lute and trumpet speak in vain. 
 The issue is at hand ; the ripened evil 
 Calls itself good, and glories in its ripeness. 
 All things unknit themselves ; the keystone drops, 
 And the old arch collapses ; into shreds 
 The banner rends ; the strong man fights in vain, — 
 The shield is broken, and the sword has dropt 
 From the strong warrior of a thousand fields. 
 
312 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 823. 
 
 * Health stealeth slowly, slowly in, as if 
 Afraid to enter ; sickness with one stride 
 Passes into the chamber ; with one stroke 
 Smites down the strongest : the deep tide of life 
 Ebbs swiftly, but flows in with tardy wave. 
 
 ' And so we wait in breathless awe and trust 
 For what is surely coming. Some men say 
 Earth's sun shall never set, while others point 
 To the thin shadows lengthening o'er the fields, 
 And with forecasting finger bid us mark 
 Yon clouds of muffled tempest, moving on, 
 Like an armada with its thunder-store 
 Of recompense for ages of old wrong. 
 Others more hopeful or less wise, or both, 
 Tell us the worst is past ; for see 
 The storm has spent itself, and the last bolt 
 Has struck the peak ; the clouds are limbering up ; 
 The dread artillery is moving off 
 The field ; and the rough air will soon be calm.' 
 
 ' And where wert Thou, O better than the best 
 Of all on earth, my everlasting friend ? 
 O tardum gaudium meum, as to Thee 
 The old father said, confessing days of sin, 
 (So read I in this scroll that open lies, 
 The record of a life once all but wasted, 
 Yet plucked at last from vanity, and nailed 
 In happy consecration to the cross). 
 Not always felt nor loved, but ever near ; 
 Not always sought, but ever found when sought ; 
 Created beauty oft preferred to Thine, 
 
line 8s 3] BOOK XI. 313 
 
 And creature-love usurping this vain heart 
 
 Which owed Thee all its homage : this poor world 
 
 Admired and worshipped, Thou alone forgot, 
 
 And Thy fair world to come, with all its fulness, 
 
 Shut out from eye and heart. O once unloved 
 
 And once unknown, now loved and known the best, 
 
 Where was Thy voice amid the voices then ? 
 
 And where was Thy companionship amid 
 
 The brotherhoods and fellowships of earth ? 
 
 For Thou wert ever speaking, yet I heard not, 
 
 And ever following, yet I fled from Thee, 
 
 And ever loving, yet I loved Thee not. 
 
 Strewed by ten thousands o'er my daily path, 
 
 Like flowers and gems and ingots of fair gold, 
 
 Thy gracious thoughts and purposes I find, 
 
 As I look back along the narrow vista 
 
 Of this one life, so great in Thy esteem, 
 
 And yet so madly flung away by us, 
 
 As if no pregnant future hung upon it. 
 
 Like the bright dew they sparkled everywhere : 
 
 I find them in each step I took, in each 
 
 Mutation of my life ; my being's orbit 
 
 Has swept all these into its ample curve. 
 
 This poor and foolish history of mine 
 
 Teems with Thy tender love, in every part 
 
 Ennobled and enriched and dignified 
 
 By its connection with Thyself, and with 
 
 Thy unbeginning past, Thy endless future. 
 
 ' The day was Thine, and yet I saw Thee not 
 In its glad ministries of health and light. 
 The night was Thine, and yet I felt Thee not 
 
3 H MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 884. 
 
 In the cool darkness, as Thy careful hand, 
 
 Like a fond mother's in her watchfulness, 
 
 Thy star-embroidered curtain round me drew ; 
 
 The hills were Thine, and yet I found Thee not 
 
 On their soft slopes or in their shadowy glens, 
 
 Or in the sculptured cliffs that tell of art 
 
 Beyond all art, of power beyond all power. 
 
 The streams were Thine, yet, when I drank of them, 
 
 I did not drink of Thee, O living fount, 
 
 Nor quench my thirst at the eternal well ; 
 
 Nor let the influx of Thy mighty law 
 
 Fill the void channels of this dried-up heart. 
 
 The sea was Thine, — the unmeasurable main, 
 
 Free as the wind, yet fettered as the rock, 
 
 Swung to and fro by the great orbs above, 
 
 And bathing in their daily, nightly glow, 
 
 Yet in its vastness I discerned Thee not, 
 
 Nor in its majesty acknowledged Thine. 
 
 The flowers were Thine, — all thro' the well-pleased air 
 
 From their bright censers breathing incense round, 
 
 And brightening earth's low fields with hues of heaven ; 
 
 I read no love in these, nor saw in Thee 
 
 The birthplace of creation's loveliness. 
 
 In exultation o'er the past I cried, 
 
 " The world is changed, and better days have dawned ; 
 
 The golden age has come back all in bloom, 
 
 And the hard iron time is at an end : 
 
 And gold is taken at its proper price. 
 
 Men may securely mock Cassandra's tale, 
 
 And smile to silence her prophetic woes. 
 
 Now life is at its noon, an endless noon ; 
 
line gi 5-J BOOK XI. 3 IS 
 
 The shadow has gone by, the substance comes ; 
 Death has now done its worst, its shafts are spent ; 
 Evil is disappearing like a plague 
 Which has fulfilled its mission ; the sweet air 
 Distilleth only health and length of days." 
 
 ' And where wert Thou, O gracious Son of God, 
 Son of the Blessed, ever-pitiful ? 
 And what wert Thou to me, in days like these, 
 When youth and childhood followed other gods 
 And other Christs, hewing out for themselves 
 The cisterns that broke as soon as hewn ? 
 To me Thy cross was nought but a rough plank 
 Cut by a Roman axe from Jewish tree, 
 To which, or justly or unjustly, some 
 Poor Hebrew criminal was nailed in scorn. 
 I saw it, but I heeded not ; the world 
 Like a rich veil concealed the Crucified, 
 And hid the wondrous cross of Golgotha. 
 I passed it and repassed it ; but it won 
 From me no look of homage or of faith. 
 Absorbed in creaturehood, the things beyond, 
 What the eye saw or the hand fondly clasped, 
 To me were shadows or disturbing dreams : 
 And youth's light barque, with May-day pennon gay, 
 Swept over a fair ocean, all whose shores 
 Were emeralds. Some spell had softly bound me ; 
 I would not have it broken ; yet it broke : — 
 It broke at last, the golden veil was gone 
 That hid the cross ; the world had disappeared, 
 And face to face, I found myself alone 
 With Him whom I had scorned and crucified. 
 
316 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 946. 
 
 Weary I found myself, and here was rest ; — 
 
 Eternal blessing for the child of time : 
 
 Poor, and the riches of the universe 
 
 Were gathered here : I needed but to take. 
 
 Strange years of vanity had taught my soul 
 
 That this world has no wells ; if e'er it had, 
 
 They have long since run dry. But here there welled 
 
 The life-fount whose deep gushings are for ever. 
 
 A shadowy faith had made all truth untrue, 
 
 And all reality to me unreal. 
 
 I had believed in dreams, and called them bliss ; 
 
 I had believed in mists and clouds and air, 
 
 Calling them fields and flowers and palaces. 
 
 Now all went up in vapour : I was left 
 
 Without a refuge ; with a heart as blank 
 
 As the wide basin of a dried-up sea, 
 
 Or the dark sweep of some far upland heath, 
 
 Whose very weeds the unsparing hurricane 
 
 Has torn up by the roots, or trodden down. 
 
 ' O summer-love, that springs and blooms and dies, 
 Within one soft, short noon, leaving us bare, 
 Like a scorched Eden, or a blasted palm, 
 Is there no summer when your sun has set, 
 No second summer sweeter than the first ? 
 Has ocean but one pearl, or heaven one star ? 
 
 ' Yes, well for me that the old cross still stood ! 
 The rush of ages has not shaken it ; 
 The wars of earth have left it all unharmed ; 
 The fall of kingdoms has not touched its greatness ; 
 The slow decay of cities and of temples 
 Has not corroded its perennial green ; 
 
line 977] BOOK XI. 317 
 
 The shock of storms and earthquakes, sweeping o'er 
 
 A tottering earth, has left it where it stood, 
 
 Untrembling and unbroken ; the one thing 
 
 In all this crumbling globe that cannot fall. 
 
 To some it seems the relic of an age 
 
 Which, with its good or evil, is all gone. 
 
 To some it seems in sombre gloom to stand 
 
 Beclad in sackcloth ; some would drape it o'er 
 
 With ornament, to hide its ruggedness ; 
 
 And some would hew it down with hellish axe ; — 
 
 To me it shone out like a central sun, 
 
 Diffusing over earth resistless health, 
 
 With life and freedom and supernal peace. 
 
 There He who tasted death dispenseth life ; 
 
 He who Himself was weary giveth rest ; 
 
 He over whom the sun, for three sad hours, 
 
 Was darkened, giveth light, — Himself the Sun ! 
 
 ' In a dark world how bright that glory beams, 
 How excellent its splendour and its power ! 
 That naked cross, untouched by human art, 
 Uncarved, unpolished by the hand of man, 
 Just as it stood on Golgotha, outside 
 The wall of Salem ; when the eternal Son 
 As the One Victim, going forth to die, 
 Ascended it and took with Him our guilt : 
 That Roman cross, set up on Hebrew soil, 
 Where Jew and Gentile meet, where earth and heaven 
 Have come together, like converging orbs, 
 Henceforth to be but one ; when every race 
 And every nation of the populous globe 
 Shall gather to this glorious centre, round 
 
318 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 1008. 
 
 The Christ that has been, is, and is to be : — 
 
 One heaven, one earth, one kingdom, and one fold, 
 
 The centre of God's boundless universe, 
 
 Home of the royal priesthood, fountainhead 
 
 Of ministry for the eternal ages, seat 
 
 Of holy service for the hosts of God. 
 
 ' The oneness lingers ; yet from far we hear 
 Strains that foretell its advent, sweet and slow : 
 Let us be still and listen ; earthly motion 
 Mars the descending melody ; our ears 
 Are blunted with the jarring sounds of time. 
 Shut out the babbling voices of the world, 
 And let the one great voice be heard ; as if 
 Thou and that voice were all the universe. 
 Be still, be still ; let not thy throbbing pulse 
 Deafen thine ear : ask not for sign, nor say, 
 Belief comes only with the touch or sight. 
 All fragrance is invisible ; the clear air 
 Receives the rose-breath, but betrays it not 
 To keenest eye or ear ; and all unseen 
 The happy perfume floats on every side, 
 But by its sweetness known. The ministry 
 Of holy feet, as they move daily thro' 
 The world's great hospital, is without noise. 
 'Tis not the stars alone that speak to us 
 In their articulate and beamy silence : 
 The livingness of nature all around 
 Breathes up the gentlest of all gentle voices, 
 Had we but ears to hear the melody. 
 
 ' 'Tis not the din of hammers that proclaims 
 The rising temple. It is not in sound 
 
LINE 1039.J BOOK XL 319 
 
 That strength is stored. The tempest does the 
 
 wrecking, 
 It is the calm that does the building up. 
 That which the angels know so well, and that 
 Which man needs yet to learn so greatly, is 
 The ministry of silence, the strange offices 
 Of power and love performed by the unheard. 
 
 ' The true man sounds no trumpet, and his work, 
 Unheralded, is done ere men can see 
 Who did it, or put forth the bustling hand 
 To help what needs no help ; itself alone, 
 Like angel-breath, resistless yet unfelt, — 
 Or felt but as the needle feels the pole, 
 Or as the ocean feels the far-off moon.' 
 
BOOK XII. 
 
 ' I CROSSED the brook to-day, as musical 
 And frolicsome as in bright days long gone ; 
 With silvery leap skipping from rock to rock, 
 Like a fair child on whose white silken dress 
 Plays the quick sunbeam. Thro' the mead I went 
 Starred with wild daisies, all in snowy bloom. 
 Above me the ribbed granite precipice, 
 Festooned with overhanging ivy-wreaths ' — 
 (So writes the buoyant pen of one who went 
 From day to day, o'er hill and moor and stream, 
 To feed his portion of the flock of heaven). — 
 ' Spread o'er the knolls, or clustered in the glens, 
 The cottage chimneys scattered their grey smoke 
 Upon the sleepy breeze. The road was rough, 
 And the big boulder blocked my onward path 
 Upon the ridge that overhangs the wave. 
 I climbed it, and sat down to gaze around. 
 The mountains rose in majesty above me ; 
 The sea broke far beneath me, just so far 
 As I could hear its dash upon the rocks. 
 A little child was playing with the ripples ; 
 The idiot boy walked idly to and fro, 
 Watching the far-off sail with vacant eye, 
 
LINE 24.] BOOK XII. 321 
 
 His hands behind him, holding each the other ; 
 The dim stripes went and came upon the wave, 
 The clouds watched leisurely their own strange shadows, 
 And sometimes showed and sometimes hid the sun : 
 The sea-bird screamed and flashed along the ooze, 
 Or plunged into the brine to snatch his prey. 
 The breath of day was sweet, and its warm pulse 
 Quickened all nature with a double glow. 
 
 ' I sat and gazed ; — a flock of sheep went by, 
 Entrusted to a cripple's care ; they turned 
 Aside and wandered everywhere : with much 
 Labour and weariness, he followed them 
 Along their devious ways, mile after mile, 
 Till one by one he gathered them, and brought 
 The undivided flock to the green fields, 
 That lay before them in the pleasant glen 
 Just out of sight, where shelter, shade, and stream 
 Awaited them. Even such the way, I said, 
 In which the better Shepherd brings His flock, 
 Weary and straggling, o'er a hundred wastes, 
 Thro' perilous uplands to the fields of life. 
 Often I've wondered how, with such fierce foes, 
 Such storms and snares and meagre pasturage, 
 And with such poor and feeble shepherding, 
 The little flock of earth should ever reach 
 The eternal fold. And yet they all are there, 
 Or shall be soon, not one left wandering here, 
 Prey to the prowling wolf, or 'mid the rocks 
 Famished and lorn and lost ; for above all, 
 Still looking down upon His helpless ones 
 And loving them with undecaying love, 
 
322 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 55. 
 
 Sits the Good Shepherd, He who gave His life 
 For the dear flock, and who forsakes them not. 
 
 ' Good Shepherd ! in these days of subtle ill, 
 When all the elements of earth and sky- 
 Are on the side of doubt ; when unbelief 
 Assumes the garb of faith, speaks with its voice, 
 And steals its holiest words ; when the dark foe, 
 Unwearied seeks his victims ; day and night, 
 Watch Thy lone flock ; and tho' the shepherds here 
 Know little of the Shepherd's love and skill, 
 Take Thou Thyself the rod and crook and staff; 
 Do Thou the work which only Thou canst do ! 
 Watch Thou the fold, for every beast of prey 
 That loves the night, howls round its broken wall. 
 Fetch home the wanderer ; bid the loiterer haste, 
 Lest night come down ere shelter has been found. 
 Bind up the broken, bid the weary rest ; 
 Soothe sorrow with Thy words of sweetest grace ; 
 Be eyes to the benighted and the blind ; 
 Lay Thy strong hand on frowardness, and let 
 The wilful learn submission to Thy will. 
 Grasp firm, with hand that cannot let them go, 
 The timid lambs that look all round for help : 
 Unspotted from the world, O Shepherd, keep them ; 
 Let not their feet be taken in its snares. 
 The sky is sullen, and its air is cold ; 
 The day has no kind promise in its air ; 
 The wind goes by in anger, threatening soon 
 To come again and do its work of waste : 
 The lightning lurketh in yon ragged cloud, 
 Ready to strike. The rivers are dried up, 
 
line 86.] BOOK XII. 323 
 
 The pastures poor and scanty, interspersed 
 With poison-weeds, so like the pleasant grass, 
 That, in their hunger, the unwary sheep, 
 Unwatched, unwarned by heedless shepherds here, 
 Feed on the beauteous poison-leaf, and die. 
 O flock, O fold, O Shepherd good and true, 
 Must it be ever thus ? Hast Thou, O Christ, 
 Forgot Thine own, or has Thy love been foiled ? 
 Thy sheep are bleating, and they plead with Thee. 
 Hast Thou no answer in this day of cold, 
 Bleak half-belief or worse, when faith pines o'er 
 The dried-up pastures which once promised fair ? 
 And must Thy flock appeal to Thee in vain ? 
 Is Thine hand shortened that it cannot save ? 
 Hast Thou begun to break the bruised reed ? 
 Hast Thou resolved to quench the smoking flax ? 
 ' When God is angry with His flock, they say, 
 He sends them a blind shepherd in His wrath. 
 Be no such blindness mine ! No indolence, 
 Idling away the living hours of morn, 
 And dreaming all day long of noble work, 
 Yet leaving all that noble work undone. 
 No love of self be mine, as if for self 
 This life were given ; no shrinking from the toil, 
 The heat, the frost, the tempest or the night, 
 If one poor sheep be out upon the moor. 
 
 ' One such lorn waif I still remember well, 
 Tho' he has passed the border long ago, 
 And gone into the upper fold, where storms 
 Vex not, nor hot winds dry the pasture up. 
 
324 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 116. 
 
 He lived in yonder heath-thatched hut, o'er which 
 
 That graceful mountain-ash is casting now 
 
 Its flitting shadow, as the quick breeze shakes it. 
 
 'Tis a poor dwelling for humanity : 
 
 The rain drips thro' the roof, the gable-chinks 
 
 Let in the wintry chills, the floor is clay : 
 
 The lattice small and dim, tho' round it trails 
 
 The sweetest rose that ever blushed in June. 
 
 In front the little patch of garden breathes 
 
 Fragrance and health, from many a beaming flower 
 
 That lifts its beauty to the admiring sun, 
 
 As daily he smiles down upon this waste. 
 
 ' There he was born ; and there it was he heard 
 In childhood the immortal words of peace, 
 The news of life, thro' the almighty death 
 Of Him who went up to the cross for us, 
 That the great darkness might be overcome, 
 And sunshine, brighter than the day's, descend 
 To breathe eternal brightness over earth. 
 The Just One bound, the unjust goeth forth ; 
 The captive's chain, transferred to other limbs, 
 No more forbids the victim to be free ! — 
 
 ' But from his home he went ; and his home-faith 
 Passed out of him ; and one by one each gem 
 Of cherished truth was flung upon the sand. 
 He would be greatly wise ; he would create 
 His own high wisdom, and to none would he 
 Be debtor, least of all to those who lived 
 In other days, and thought the olden thought 
 Save to himself, he would owe nought to any. 
 He would believe in matter, not in spirit ; 
 
line 147.] BOOK XII. 325 
 
 In darkness, not in light ; in unbelief, 
 And not in faith ; in guesses, not in truth ; 
 In newness, not in oldness ; and his creed 
 Should wholly be his own and not another's. 
 Whether this green earth had an owner, he 
 Would find out for himself ; whether above 
 These skies there was a region, goodlier, 
 And more unchanging, he would for himself 
 Make sure ; — philosophy would tell him all, 
 Or tell him there was nothing to be told. 
 
 ' But darkness could not bring him rest, and doubt 
 Had poison in it to his soul ; he walked 
 In sadness to and fro ; his troubled heart 
 Took on the darkness it had chosen, till 
 His very being was a thing of doubt, 
 And all within was storm ; before his eyes 
 Thin spectres flitted ; he had lost the power 
 Of crediting the words of God or man. 
 
 ' Evil became his good : he drank each cup 
 Presented to his lips, and what might be 
 Therein of sweetness or of bitterness 
 He asked not ; for he said that joy 
 Was all a fable ; he would eat and drink, 
 Depart and be forgotten in the earth, 
 Like a tired leaf that drops into the stream, 
 And on it takes its way to the wide sea, 
 In its cold depths to find a sepulchre. 
 
 ' Self-hindered in the race of life, he blamed 
 All but himself ; and most of all the Being 
 Whose dreaded name his lips refused to name. 
 He threw himself upon a midnight tomb, 
 
326 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 178. 
 
 And between sod and star protested loud 
 Against his own creation. He was wronged ; 
 But how to right the wrong he could not find, 
 Or to avenge himself against his foe. 
 The marble flung itself against the sculptor, 
 And called for justice. Who had dared 
 Without his will to assign him such a lot ? 
 
 ' Poor as he was, he had both read and thought ; 
 Yet all in vain : life was a destiny 
 He must fulfil, he said ; he could not shun it, 
 Even tho' he would ; and he must bravely breast 
 The billows to the last, until he sank, 
 And in that sinking take revenge upon 
 A fate with which it was in vain to struggle. 
 
 ' I watched his wanderings, pitied him, and strove 
 To win him to the love that he had lost, 
 And to the faith that he had cast away. 
 O'er many a waste I followed the stray sheep, 
 But it fled faster from me ; I pursued 
 Thro' darkness and thro' light, in cold and heat ; 
 In weariness and sorrow I went on. 
 But all in vain ; the wanderer fled apace, 
 The shepherd from his weary search returned, 
 Baffled in love, but not ashamed of loving. 
 
 ' Sweet childhood, like a trampled garden, lay 
 Behind him and around him, meant to be 
 Fragrant and beautiful, but marred throughout ; 
 Its flowers all dead or broken. Often back 
 Upon it he would cast a troubled eye, 
 When his dark follies bore him down to earth ; — 
 But still he chased the wind and sowed the sand. 
 
line 209.] BOOK XII. 327 
 
 ' Sin smote him to the dust at last : his god 
 Could not deliver in the day of ill. 
 And he lay down to die, returning home 
 After long erring years ; without a hope. 
 The light seemed blotted from his firmament ; 
 Nor sun nor stars for many days appeared. 
 He wished to hide himself from God and man. 
 
 ' But hope was nearer than he thought ; it came 
 In ways he little looked for. The old truth, 
 Buried so long and trodden under foot, 
 Rose up to re-assert its dormant power 
 Within him, as he lay thus, face to face 
 With the near death he had so long defied. 
 The well-known walls seemed written o'er with it : 
 The cottage-hearth seemed to retain its warmth ; 
 His father's grave, hard by the churchyard gate, 
 Beneath the elm, shone strangely bright with it : 
 The old hills echoed it, and to the rocks 
 It seemed to cleave still closer than the moss 
 That clothed them with a softness not their own. 
 The happy stream seemed to derive its mirth 
 From the glad words that had so often mixed 
 With its own music. ; the benignant breeze 
 Bore back the hymns of childhood to his heart. 
 He was like one from whom all later life 
 Had passed away, as by some sudden spell, 
 And into whom his former, truer being 
 Had come in haste, as with transfiguring powe.\ 
 It was as if some angel in his arms 
 Had lifted him in love, and borne him back 
 O'er twenty wasted years, to set him down 
 
328 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 240. 
 
 Once more beneath the shadow of the cross, 
 To have his fever cooled, his wounds bound up, 
 His spirit's strength restored as by a touch 
 From heaven, and all his worn-out being healed. 
 
 ' Yet not without a struggle ; for the darkness 
 Fought with the light, and the deep unbelief 
 Repelled the faith. — But the true light was strong, 
 And overcame : the night gave place to day. 
 He seemed to stand beside the altar ; there 
 The smoke and incense rose, and filled the air, 
 Covering the guilty one as with a shield. 
 The blood took hold of him ; and its strange touch 
 Dissolved his guilt, as if it had not been. 
 Another's life was lying there instead 
 Of his ; and all his doom he saw reversed. 
 Another's strength had fought the fight for him, 
 Another's love had won the victory, 
 Another had gone in for him to God, 
 And had prevailed. The righteous peace was sealed. 
 
 ' It was as if in him, the furthest gone 
 Of earth's poor waifs, forgiving love had been 
 Strained to the uttermost ; as if for him 
 The mighty sacrifice of Golgotha, 
 Whose fulness is beyond all thought, had been 
 Taxed to its highest value : seldom had 
 Wounds such as his been healed, and stains so foul 
 Been blanched to purity ; and seldom had 
 Anguish like his passed into such sweet peace, 
 The prelude of the peace to which he went. — 
 Was ever tempest ended in such calm ? 
 
 ' Good Shepherd, Thou hast won Thine own at last ! 
 
line 271.J BOOK XII. 329 
 
 The sheep is on Thy shoulders now ; Thy joy 
 Is greater than his own : Thou hast not sought 
 The lost in vain ; Thy search is ended now ; 
 The song begins ; — hark, how it swells afar, — 
 Lo, this my son was dead and is alive, 
 Was lost, is found ; 'tis meet we should be glad ! 
 
 ' Good Shepherd, we would know Thy tender love, 
 The love that knows no failure and no bounds, 
 And all that love has undergone for us, — 
 The mountains Thou hast crossed in search of us, 
 The floods which Thou hast breasted, the wild tracts 
 Of desert and of darkness Thou hast traversed, 
 The toil Thou barest, all the bufifetings 
 Of tempest, all the bitterness of death 
 Thou hast encountered, to deliver us ! 
 Thou followedst us, who bidst us follow Thee : 
 Thou restedst not till Thou hadst found for us 
 A rest which weariness shall ne'er invade ; 
 Thou canst not rest till all Thine own are gathered ; 
 That fold of Thine would not be what it is, 
 The home of gladness and of plenty, were 
 One, even the least of all Thine own, left out. 
 Blest they who find Thee, blest whom Thou hast found ; 
 Within Thy fold of peace they dwell secure. 
 Around its walls the wolf may rage in vain ; 
 O'er it the storm may gather : they are safe. 
 
 ' I sought him out the night before he died. 
 The snow was drifting, and the impetuous gale 
 Shook the spare walls. Its din disturbed him not ; 
 The inner calm repelled the outer tempest, 
 And the low voice, soft stealing from above, 
 
330 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 302. 
 
 Filled every chamber of his happy being : 
 There was no room for other voices now. 
 " Into the valley I go down with Thee, 
 
 Son of God," he said ; " and where Thou once 
 Didst rest Thee will I rest ; Thy tomb be mine, 
 And mine Thy resurrection : Thou in me, 
 
 And I in Thee, in death as well as life. 
 Each has his resting-place, and I have mine, 
 A heavenly pillow for an earthly bed. 
 
 1 know Thou livest ; nay, Thou canst not die. 
 Because Thou livest, I shall also live, 
 
 And Thou wilt show to me the path of life, 
 For all Thy immortality is mine." 
 
 ' He seemed to see within the open gate, 
 And his eye kindled with a brightness which 
 Was not of earth, as if the glow of sunrise 
 Upon the top of some immortal hill 
 Had caught his vision ; or it might have been 
 The glory of the city, where they need 
 No sun or moon to lighten them, but where 
 Jehovah is the everlasting light, 
 And the long day of mourning at an end. 
 
 ' He passed away as some belated star, 
 Last of his fellows, in the summer dawn, 
 Dissolves into the gold of rising day : 
 The bright still bright, altho' invisible 
 To our short-visioned eye ; the beautiful 
 Lost in superior beauty, yet still fair 
 To other eyes beyond that rounded roof. 
 
 ' So have I seen, after some sweeping storm, 
 When the gale sunk, the long wave wearily 
 
LINE 333.J BOOK XII. 331 
 
 Fling itself down upon the welcome sand, 
 Glad of a resting-place however cold. 
 
 ' I left, retracing thro' the deep-strewn snow 
 My steps in darkness. I had found the lost, 
 And what to me was winter's ice or wind ? 
 I had seen thro' the half-unfolded gate, 
 And watched the worn-out wanderer passing in, 
 The earth-robes of this lean mortality- 
 Exchanged for raiment richer than the noon. 
 That was enough. All summer gathered round me ; 
 The shrill pipe of the winter-blast was song, 
 And the bare boughs were blossoming. The snow 
 Transformed itself into a lily-plain, 
 And sudden fragrance filled the air with balm. 
 The stars shone out and formed the avenue 
 Thro' which the wanderer had just gone home, — 
 A home from which he should go out no more, 
 In that untainted clime, whose loveliness, 
 Divinely luminous, divinely pure, 
 Knows but the sunshine of a heavenly morn. 
 
 ' I've known a land ; and I have called it mine ; 
 Than which there seems none fairer ; none so fair. 
 There may be smoother skies and safer seas ; 
 Winters less rude and springs of softer breath ; 
 There may be gayer gardens, ruddier fruits ; 
 But not to these does my soul warmly turn. 
 The land I've known has grandeur grander still ; 
 In rugged majesty of hill and vale 
 It lifts its head above its richer peers. 
 The tale it telleth of the wise and good, 
 The great in war, in council, and in love, 
 
332 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 364. 
 
 Is such as this old earth has seldom told. 
 
 I know the uplands where the torrents rush, 
 
 Beloved nurslings of the mountain-slope, 
 
 Chasing with silver feet each other down 
 
 Into the deep pool of the hazel glen. 
 
 I know the forests whose gaunt branches weave, 
 
 Between us and the clouds, their roof of gloom ; 
 
 Where, wandering like lost children in the wood, 
 
 The night-winds sigh for day. I've climbed the steeps 
 
 On which the boulder rests, caught in its plunge 
 
 From the grey precipice, around whose waist 
 
 The heather twines its old imperial purple, 
 
 Like robe of kings. I've watched the bluffs that fling 
 
 Their broken shadows o'er the subject sea ; 
 
 The forelands where the free, far-travelled gale 
 
 Breaks in dark wrath or breathes in summer balm ; 
 
 The lonely lakelet, like a silver cup 
 
 Set round with emerald amid the hills ; 
 
 The iris on the cold, exhaling spray 
 
 Of the lone waterfall, as it descends 
 
 Amid the verdure of a thousand firs, 
 
 When summer wanders thro' the waving woods. 
 
 I know old Cheviot's green, round summits, which 
 
 Watch the wide ocean spreading out afar, 
 
 And smile upon a hundred gushing streams 
 
 Beneath his feet, from Solway to the Tweed : 
 
 The mountains, too, at whose far-stretching base 
 
 Rome once her legions mustered, when she pierced 
 
 The Caledonian forest with her sword : 
 
 And the grey peaks of Torridon that frown 
 
 O'er the Atlantic surges, when the sun, 
 
line 395.] BOOK XII. 333 
 
 Like some bright bird of gold, with outspread wings, 
 
 Is seen escaping into Western night. 
 
 I know, too, the lone islands far at sea, 
 
 The ten score Hebrides, whose battlements 
 
 Defy old ocean's war, and countercheck 
 
 The long rush of the angry Occident ; 
 
 The battered clefts between whose granite walls 
 
 The surge sweeps booming, where the brittle wave, 
 
 Caught in its rising by the tempest, breaks, 
 
 And spreads its sparkling fragments o'er the shelf 
 
 Of the brown rock. I know that island-speck 
 
 Of giant columns, heaving like the wreck 
 
 Of some submerged cathedral of past ages, 
 
 Which had gone down into the deep and left 
 
 Its organ-pipes still standing, all their music 
 
 Buried for ever, while, around the ruin, 
 
 The mocking waves roll their unfeeling jar. 
 
 I've walked the mist-swept moorlands which the bard 
 
 Has peopled with the fables of the past, 
 
 Where Fingal's sword once gleamed, and Ossian's voice 
 
 Threw far its broken notes upon the wind ; 
 
 To polished ages sending down the bold 
 
 Unchiselled verses of the olden day ; — 
 
 Where streamy Carum rolls in joy, and where 
 
 The trembling dweller of the rock took up 
 
 His harp, to sing of coming war and death, 
 
 The haunts of mystery where the shrieking gale 
 
 Scatters the waves o'er the white sands of Mora. 
 
 ' Men scorn the bareness of a land like this, 
 And sing of the gay garden-vales afar 
 Where flowers send up their thrilling scent, like song. 
 
334 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 426. 
 
 They say the heath is our sole garden flower, 
 Varied sometimes by thistle and by thorn. 
 So be it : yet it is this ruggedness 
 That has so marked and shapen us, engraving 
 Its own peculiar impress on our foreheads, 
 Moulding our mien, our song, our history. 
 The step of mountaineers is always graceful, 
 The soul of mountaineers is always free, 
 The song of mountaineers is always clear. 
 
 ' Such is the land I've looked on : it is fair ; 
 None seemeth fairer to my eye than this 
 But what of all its beauty, set beside 
 The glory of the realm surpassing thought ; 
 Realm of the living and the holy, where 
 Of beauty the perfection dwells, fit realm 
 For perfect and immortal eyes to gaze upon. 
 
 ' Into that land the wanderer now has gone 
 (I said within myself) ; out of this cold 
 He has gone up to where no winter comes. 
 Sickness is changed into eternal health ; 
 The child of day has reached the light at last. 
 I wished him joy that night, and only sighed 
 Because I could not follow him ; for now 
 The icy blast blew keener, and the snow 
 Smote me on every side, and blocked my way, 
 Waking me up, from happy reverie, 
 To the sad consciousness that I was still 
 On this side of the City, many a mile 
 Between me and that gate across whose threshold 
 The shade of death has never once been thrown. 
 
line 456.] BOOK XII 335 
 
 ' Death, how I hate you ! foe of man and God, 
 First-fruit of sin and old ally of hell ; 
 Breaker of human hearts, and poisoner 
 Of earthly peace ; unseen, but mightier 
 Than all that's visible ; linked with no clime 
 Or age, but claiming all ; who enterest 
 With ease where armies cannot force their way, 
 Mocking the barred fort ; whose foremost joy 
 Is to lay desolate our hearths and homes, 
 To break the links of love and rend in twain 
 All that we call the indissoluble here : 
 To fill this soil with graves, and spread above them 
 The smiling turf to cover thy misdeeds, 
 Rearing the stone to bid it tell how much 
 Of lost affection thou hast buried there. 
 Death ! how we loathe thee ; even when thy sting 
 Has been plucked out ; and how we daily long 
 Impatient, yet in hope, for the glad day 
 When, for the havoc thou hast wrought on earth, 
 The unrepented slaughter of His Saints, 
 God shall Himself arise to spoil the spoiler, 
 And pour His righteous vengeance on thy head ! 
 All nature hateth thee, dark sorcerer, 
 Under whose venomous spell her beauty pales. 
 Thy curse is upon her ; her curse on thee : 
 Which shall prevail at last she knows, and thou 
 Knowest right well ; O thou who hast so long 
 Into corruption turned her comeliness ! 
 Beneath thy wanton touch her blossoms die, 
 Shape, scent, and hue all smitten by thy breath. 
 Thy rude remorseless hand shakes down her strength; 
 
336 MY OLD LETTERS. [LINE 487. 
 
 Thy leaden look maketh her fair cheek wan, 
 
 To ashes turns her glory, brings to dust 
 
 Her power and grandeur, so that all she was 
 
 Becomes as tho' it was not. Mighty death ! 
 
 What sway is thine ; and yet that sway shall cease ! 
 
 Thy sceptre shall be shivered, and thyself 
 
 Cast out for ever ; tho' creation's hope 
 
 Seems to have passed away, and dull despair 
 
 Crept over man. The inarticulate earth 
 
 Sobs, but no one regardeth, weepeth sore, 
 
 Like Rachel for her children ; but they come not, 
 
 And vain man tells her they shall never come. 
 
 Yet still she waiteth on ; her hills and vales 
 
 Are sighing for the day, when from above 
 
 The signal shall be given, and the great shout 
 
 Shall rise from the delivered earth and sea 
 
 Of victory won, and the long warfare o'er. 
 
 ' Upon the battle-plain, where blood like streams 
 Moistened the soil, and bodies of the slain 
 Made rich the barren dust, there spring bright flowers, 
 Unseen before, turning the moorland waste 
 Into a garden ; so upon the soil 
 Of our dead joys, our slaughtered hopes, there rise 
 Flowers of unearthly loveliness, and trees 
 Of broadest shadow and of sweetest fruit. 
 We are enriched by death ; our highest life 
 Is cold corruption's offspring, and the grave 
 The parent of celestial fruitfulness. 
 
 ' And need they then the gate and wall and tower, 
 These dwellers in the Salem that shall be ? 
 
line si;.] BOOK XII. 337 
 
 Not as we need them now ; for then no foe 
 Assails ; no fierce Assyrian more shall pitch 
 His tent before thee, city of the blest, 
 Or shake his spear against thy palaces. 
 No Gentile battle-axe shall ever hew 
 Thy rampart down, or thunder at its bars. 
 No Roman torch shall fire thy shrine, or light 
 Thy funeral pyre ; no prophet, false or true, 
 Shall mount thy walls to warn of coming doom, 
 Or say, Flee out of her, her hour is come, 
 Her day of trouble and of treading down, 
 Her day of farewell and captivity. 
 
 ' All that is over : tears are wiped away : 
 Thy songs shall never cease ; no night is thine ; 
 No death can find its way into thy streets, 
 Or hang its drapery upon thy walls. 
 Thy joy is full ; thy light shall never fade, 
 For the one Sun that cannot set has risen 
 Upon thee with its holy health and love. 
 
 ' Why need they then these gates, even tho' of 
 pearl? 
 Not as they needed them of old, against 
 Assault of battle, but for beauty, as 
 The soul the body needs, the stars the blue 
 In which their light is set ; not for defence, 
 But to enhance the splendour and the joy. 
 
 ' O ever-open gates, that without voice 
 Bid a perpetual welcome all around, 
 Beckoning the numbers without number in ! 
 The city-gates of earth receive alike 
 The evil and the good ; but ye the good 
 
338 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 547. 
 
 Admit alone into the unstained city ; 
 For nothing that defileth enters there. 
 
 ' Ye silent hands and knees ; ye upturned eyes 
 Of the far-scattered family, who o'er 
 These frozen plains of earth are pressing on 
 To the one common home-land ; full of hope, 
 Yet pressed with burdens others know not of : 
 I think of you ! The sounds of revelry 
 Are air about you, for the inebriate world 
 Rests not, nor day nor night ! Its wassail-cup 
 Goes round the city, and its song is loud. 
 The notes that cheer you, children of the light, 
 Come from afar. How sweetly do they steal 
 In on the ruffled spirit, like night odour 
 From gardens all in bloom, that floateth up, 
 And sweetly thro' the cool, calm darkness breathes 
 Into the chamber, where, in weariness, 
 Fever lies tossing on its burning bed. 
 
 ' But now I quit this rocky resting-place, 
 Where I have lain, unmindful of the hours, 
 Which like so many dreams have come and gone ; 
 And take my onward way, to tend my flock, 
 Sore needing all the watchfulness and love 
 That a poor earthly shepherd can bestow : 
 And as I go, I sing the ancient hymn, 
 To shepherds first the heavenly Shepherd came ; 
 Or muse upon the Church's old refrain, 
 The Lamb redeems the sheep ; and call to mind 
 
line 575.] BOOK XII. 339 
 
 The old father's words, just such as suit me now, 
 Feeding their sheep they found the Lamb of God. 
 
 ' " Only a shepherd," said I to myself, 
 As I moved onward ; " not a priest am I ; 
 Yet of the royal priesthood I am part." 
 I wear no ephod, and I shed no blood ; 
 No incense and no censer do I bear : 
 'Tis not with fire and ashes that I deal ; 
 These hands no victim bind, and lift no knife 
 To slay the unblemished lamb at morn or even. 
 The sacrifice, with which I daily deal 
 For others and myself, is past and done : 
 I cannot add aught to its potency. 
 'Tis once for all ; no poor unfinished rite 
 That needs to be repeated day by day. 
 It had what I have not, and what my doings 
 Can never have, — perfection infinite ; 
 And that prevails for me ; in it I stand, 
 Received of God, because of that pure life, 
 And that great death accepted in my name. 
 I do not eat the holy presence-bread, 
 Yet have I bread to eat which others know not, — 
 The bread of God which giveth dead men life, 
 Celestial fruit that maketh sick men whole, 
 And nourishes the living in this land 
 Of mortal famine ; better far to me 
 Than angel-viands, the eternal bread 
 Divine and true, the soul-sustaining wine, 
 From a celestial banquet, ever new. 
 I do not stand without, as one in dread, 
 Nor gaze with awe upon an unrent veil, 
 
340 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 606. 
 
 Or sword of fire that threatens death to me 
 If I go in to worship. Nothing now 
 Of danger or of distance or of death ! 
 
 ' I do not come to sacrifice, nor raise 
 Anew an altar that has passed away. 
 And yet I come with blessing and with peace 
 From priestly hands, resistless in their power, 
 Able to cope with evil at its worst, 
 To pluck from the world's heart its sharpest thorn, 
 Whitening its reddest stains, eradicating 
 Each root and tendril of envenomed ill, 
 More than restoring the long-banished joy. 
 Then shall be joy, the joy of sorrow past 
 And evil days all done ; of ended toil, 
 And well-rewarded watching here, the joy 
 Of the great gathering of the scattered flock 
 To the one fold by the one door, when He 
 Of the sharp sickle and the golden crown 
 Shall come to reap the harvest of the ages ! 
 
 ' It shall be morning then ! The morn of morns, 
 On the long slopes of the eternal hills ! 
 The sun that bringeth undecaying health 
 To a sick world shall rise ; the stars depart, 
 Unneeded then. And with that dawn shall come 
 All the good things that morning brings with it, 
 Light, song, and gladness for the sons of men. 
 Unbar the gate of morning ! Let it fly 
 Wide open with its amber and its gold. 
 
 ' I do not see the end, and yet it comes : 
 I see no change in seasons or in years. 
 They keep their time, unhastened and unstaid 
 
line 637.J BOOK XII. 341 
 
 By human changes : just what summer was 
 
 Two thousand years ago is summer now. 
 
 The fields put on their green as May returns, 
 
 And the flowers know their months ; the wind takes up 
 
 Its summer-harp, and thro' the long rich day 
 
 Pours its new melody in concert with 
 
 The carol of the streams, the mirth of waves, 
 
 The joy of blossoms ; and the ancient sun 
 
 Shines as at first, taking his well-known place 
 
 Each morn, still fair and young, and undiscoloured 
 
 By the smoke-taints that stain our thickened air. 
 
 No poorer are the stars with their long years 
 
 Of liberal lending to a needy earth : 
 
 In orbit, motion, sparkle, still the same 
 
 As when they burst upon the new-made globe. 
 
 All things continue as they were, above, 
 
 Below ; and look as if no change could come, 
 
 No law of nature suffer a reverse. 
 
 ' But yet we know the past is not the future, 
 And God does not repeat Himself ; we may 
 Be nearer the grand conflict than appears, — 
 The final battle between ill and good 
 That shall decide this planet's destiny. 
 Let it make haste ; it shall be welcome ; not 
 For its own self, but for the peace it brings, 
 The victory in which the spoiler shall 
 Be spoiled, his weapons broken, and himself 
 Bound in eternal chains, by Him who came 
 To fight our battle here, and to undo 
 Our evil and to conquer earth for man. 
 
 ' What on its surface, or in secret depths 
 
342 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 668. 
 
 Of its infinity, space may contain, 
 
 Of dormant treasure and unquickened good, 
 
 Yet to arise and visit its vast realms, 
 
 We know not now. But if six thousand years 
 
 Have in this one small sphere uncovered stores 
 
 So measureless, what may we look for, when 
 
 The ages of the ages shall reveal 
 
 Their still unripened hoards, their untouched mines, 
 
 Their depths to which no plummet has gone down ! 
 
 What unimagined harvests may we not 
 
 Reap from the seed sown for the universe, 
 
 In this rough outfield of our barren earth, 
 
 Where the eternal Word took flesh and lived ; 
 
 Where the eternal Son bore sin and died ; 
 
 From which, in His own body, He has carried 
 
 Up to the throne our very dust, a pledge 
 
 Of all things glorious to be done and seen, 
 
 Not here alone, but thro' creation, when 
 
 The day of the deliverance shall dawn ! 
 
 ' O heaven and earth, who fathoms your profound ? 
 All that we know of you is as a leaf 
 From some interminable forest-waste. 
 O time and space, who knoweth what ye are ? 
 We see above us the unmoving vault > 
 Studded with gems. But what are ye ? And whence 
 Come ye, or into what do ye move on ? 
 Around what centre do your orbs revolve ? 
 Where are your temples and your palaces i 
 Or to what hill of worship do your tribes 
 Go up, to sing the universal song ? 
 Ye speak to us of things beyond what eye 
 
LINE 699.] BOOK XII 
 
 Hath seen, the unbeginning and unending. 
 In you we are be-misted ; not a trace 
 Of footsteps, save the few around our tents ; 
 All beyond these is solitude and awe. 
 That star-beach, which men call the Milky Way, 
 From what invisible sea hath it rolled in ? 
 That radiant arrow, light zodiacal 
 They name it, from what quiver hath it come ? 
 ' Sorely and long has this sick world of ours 
 Needed a healer ; for her wounds are deep, 
 And they who bind them up but mock her pain. 
 Her fever runneth high ; and yet she says, 
 "My brain is tranquil, and my eye is clear ; 
 There is no riot in this peaceful pulse : 
 I need no healing, save that which has come 
 From the old tree of knowledge, on whose fruit 
 The race has fed, and, feeding, has outgrown 
 Its infancy, becoming nobly wise. 
 Man is his own Messiah, and shall soon 
 Bring all things under his self-potent sway. 
 Judge of what God has spoken, or should speak, 
 Why should he not be God, if not to others, 
 At least to his own self? Why should he not 
 Discern all things, the evil and the good ? 
 Why should he not defy both pain and death, 
 And be himself the judge of wrong and right, 
 Untrammelled by exterior law in aught ; 
 Uncircumscribed in liberty or thought 
 By writ or rescript, human or divine ; 
 Unchallenged in his claims to disbelieve 
 Or to believe what seemeth best to him ? " 
 
 343 
 
344 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 730. 
 
 ' Man thinks, and toils, and reasons, but the race 
 Reaches no higher level : sword and science 
 Have done their utmost, but the world is not 
 At rest : philosophy looks round and wonders ; 
 The orator, with open palm persuading, 
 Or with clenched hand denouncing, does his work ; 
 But the deep seat of evil is unreached : 
 The statesman marvels at the helplessness 
 Alike of steel and gold, and asketh why 
 It is so difficult to minister 
 Justice and order. Human voices speak 
 Nobly and well, but ever speak in vain ; 
 They all are but the signals of distress, 
 The rockets fired at sea to call for help, 
 Which none can give, for each man needs the same, 
 
 ' And still the wound remains unprobed, uncured ; 
 The head still acheth, and the fever rages ; 
 A few years turn the golden head to grey ; 
 The sick-bed tosses, and the lazarhouse 
 Still moans ; man maketh war with death, 
 But death takes no alarm ; it holds its own, 
 Unslackened in its enmity or power, 
 Pressing to every lip with pitiless hand 
 The mortal aconite, whose silent drop, 
 Falling alike on age and infancy, 
 Dissolves the link between the visible 
 And the unseen of this compounded frame, 
 Expels the soul, and leaves the body dust, 
 Filling the mould with graves, the air with sighs ; 
 Living and dead alike the witnesses 
 Of a malignant foe, whose mastery 
 
line 761.] BOOK XII. 345 
 
 No skill can baffle, and no strength disarm. 
 
 Man girdeth on his armour for the war, 
 
 But takes the field in vain : unarmed or armed, 
 
 Wary or rash, the issue is the same ; 
 
 He fights a foe that never lost a field, 
 
 Nor shall, till the long-promised Conqueror comes. 
 
 Then life resumes its glory ; this dull dust, 
 
 Like morning, sparkles into loveliness 
 
 Brighter than what it lost when it lay down. 
 
 Ah ! love, and light, and peace, long banished hence, 
 
 Return again and fill this vacant earth, 
 
 Which long has missed your presence, and has sighed 
 
 For your return and stay ; when shall we have 
 
 Your rainbow-visits, then no longer brief, 
 
 Or marked by clouds, but as the ages long, 
 
 And numerous as the happy hours of day ? 
 
 ' Nothing is lost of good that ever moved 
 Across the face of this tenacious earth, 
 Which, with most jealous grasp, like miser's, holds, 
 Unseen, unfelt, the imperishable life 
 Which once it nourished ; and the light of ages 
 Is stored for coming ages, purged and winnowed 
 From all depraving grossness, and all leaven 
 Of mutinous evil such as taints it now. 
 No failure more in creaturehood ; the height 
 Is reached ; descent becomes impossible. 
 Then the " Survival of the fittest " comes ; 
 But He alone selects the fittest who 
 Made every atom, moveth every star, 
 Giving to each its proper law of being. 
 
 ' We wrong creation and we wrong ourselves : 
 
346 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 792. 
 
 Our masters are within us ; we are not 
 The freemen that we think ; we do not see 
 Our bonds and scourges, but the tyranny- 
 Is not the less disastrous. Freedom comes 
 All from without ; the law of liberty 
 Owneth a gravitation not of earth. 
 The law of life, and progress, and ascent, 
 Is something which we only guess at here. 
 Evil is bondage, and it works by law ; 
 By law alone, then, can it be annulled, 
 And man made master of himself once more. 
 
 ' Age rolls on age, and all are big with meaning ; 
 Each era has its thought, or great or small, 
 Or false or true, and the thought marks the age. 
 We know some by their songs, and others by 
 Their silence ; others by their storm and cloud ; 
 Few by their sunshine, for the age of sunshine 
 Is yet to come, — end of eclipse and gloom, 
 End of all failure and all feebleness, 
 Of misplaced purposes and wasted lives ; 
 When retrogression shall be known no more, 
 But all be progress, ever on and up, 
 To levels higher than all science dreams. 
 Dawns the fair day of knowledge when we pluck 
 The unforbidden tree, and are made wise, 
 When holy rule knits the whole world in one, 
 And the true comity of nations comes, — 
 One throne, one brotherhood, and God Himself 
 Leading the glory of unfolding life, 
 Throughout the expanding universe of joy, 
 The first, the last, the all of space and time. 
 
line 823.J BOOK XII. 347 
 
 The potency of sin has been unveiled ; 
 
 The cancerous taint, the deep and terrible 
 
 Evil of evil, has through ages dark 
 
 Been brought to view, and the one cure of all, 
 
 Resistless and enduring, now is found. 
 
 Health of the world, thou everlasting cross ! 
 
 Diffuse thy balm, and bid humanity 
 
 Sit down beneath thy shadow, there to rest, 
 
 Safe from the tempter and his subtle snare, 
 Beyond the dread of ill. The years of peril 
 
 Have not been few ; often has hope's fond 
 finger 
 
 Been pointed to some gleam between the clouds ; 
 
 And oft the cheated heart has gaily said, 
 
 But said in vain, The promised calm has come ! 
 
 ' Yet not in darkness do we worship here, 
 Nor bow before an unknown God. The night 
 Of signs is passed : God dwelleth not in symbols, 
 Nor hides Himself in altars ; the red smoke 
 Of sacrificial fire has cleared away, 
 And shadows only blind, misteach, ensnare ; 
 Our eyes and ears do but betray our souls ; 
 In hands of sensuous man, all symbolism 
 Or soon or late becomes idolatry. 
 
 ' Thou unborn light, descending from above, 
 Making the dead alive, the prisoner free, 
 We bid thee welcome ! Light of charity, 
 Such as earth knows not of, nor yet has seen, 
 Full-beaming in the face of Him who is 
 The world's one Light, break in upon 
 The ancient mists, and bring the blessed noon! 
 
348 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 853. 
 
 Hell cannot stay Thee in Thy radiant march, 
 Nor the deep grave bar Thy victorious way. 
 
 ' Love is not beauty, beauty is not love, 
 As some have taught ; yet both are linked together, 
 Mother and daughter, each her proper self, 
 And yet inseparable in their joy, 
 Like sun and summer ! Both I see afar, 
 Advancing hand in hand, ere long to fill 
 Alike the lower and the upper sphere 
 With the perfection. they alone can give. 
 Life brightens with the brightness that is shed, 
 Not only from what has been, but from what 
 Is yet to be. Let the whole earth rejoice : 
 These are not clouds that hang above it, but 
 The avenue thro' which we enter in 
 To light above all light, there to sit down 
 As sons of peace in peace's inmost hall. 
 Thro' these dim, winding ages of the mortal, 
 Life threads its way to that which cannot die. 
 
 ' As yet the time is not ; maturity 
 Of ill as well as good God waiteth for. 
 For unripe evil, just as unripe good, 
 He will not pluck ; 'tis ripeness that He deals with. 
 O deadly clusters of the poisoned vine, 
 When will ye ripen for the vintage ? When 
 Shall the dread voice, long listened for, be heard, — 
 The voice of Him who sitteth on the cloud ? 
 Thrust in Thy sickle, for the hour is come ; 
 Gather the clusters of the vine of earth 
 For the great wine-press of the wrath of God. 
 But meanwhile here we toss, and dream, and wake, 
 
line 884.J BOOK XII. 349 
 
 Like sick men ill at ease ; we would be gone ; — 
 But who shall lift us out of all this ill, 
 Loosing our bonds and bidding us go free ? 
 Upwards we cast our home-sick eyes, to see 
 If some stray angel, passing by, will not 
 Have pity on us, and remove us hence. 
 Wait, starlight, wait, we say, as we look out 
 On some dim dawn after a broken night ; — 
 Wait, starlight, wait, tho' but for one brief hour ; 
 We will go with you, for our souls are sick 
 With the wild roar of this poor drunken earth. 
 We dread another day, with all the clamour 
 Which it will bring. Oh, wait and take us with you 
 Upon your beamy wings. Nearest and purest, 
 Thou gem of sweetness, star of holy dawn, 
 Let us go with thee, and it shall be well ! 
 Thy city shall be ours, thy home our home, 
 Where we shall rest beyond this withering strife. 
 Nothing shall part us, sweetest star of heaven, 
 Half silver and half gold, fair dove of dawn ! 
 Oh, take us with thee ; we have loved thee long, 
 And fain, fain would have been with thee ere now. 
 Canst thou not stoop to take us ? Or drop down 
 Some silver cord, strong with eternal light, 
 To lift us to your land of shadeless morn, 
 Where not a cloud obscures the jewelled azure ; 
 Where nothing dies, where nothing lives in vain ; 
 Where light is light, and love is without change ; 
 No hollow promises, nor fevered hands 
 Clasping love's hand> in vain ; no pallid lips, 
 Pressed close together in the agony 
 
35Q MY OLD LETTERS. [line 915. 
 
 Of farewells that send back the burning blood 
 
 Cold to the heart ; no disappointed faith, 
 
 Weary with waiting ; no red stains of sin 
 
 Falling upon us ; no foreboding dreams 
 
 Of what to-morrow may bring forth ; no fears 
 
 Of failure for ourselves or others then ; 
 
 No vessels, that once seemed at anchorage, 
 
 Slipped from their moorings to go down at sea ; 
 
 No pillaged derelicts, that once were barques 
 
 Of noble name and goodly freight, as if 
 
 Earth's mines had poured their riches into them : 
 
 No widow's wail nor orphan's sob is yonder ; 
 
 No piteous songs of madness or of grief ; 
 
 No care-begotten furrows of the brow 
 
 That should have been all marble in its smoothness ; 
 
 No midnight shadows, no disastrous stars 
 
 Darting their distant poison down on man ; 
 
 No splintering bolt of fire, no sullen surge 
 
 Of the sad ocean watching for its prey ! 
 
 ' Roll up, ye clouds, and let the sun burst thro' ! 
 Earth needs it all ! Too long have been the years 
 Of shade and frost Dissolve the fixed ice 
 That sits upon each mountain-top, and sends 
 Down on our valleys its benumbing chill. 
 One day of that deep sunshine will undo 
 Dark year; of frost. Draw up these mists, O sun, 
 That drench us with their cold, unmeaning spray, 
 And clear the troubled air of sighs and dreams ; 
 Breathe lovingly, thou balmy breeze of dawn, 
 Shake the last rain-drops from the forest-boughs.; 
 Raise the crushed violets, which the heavy foot 
 
line 946.] BOOK X 11. 351 
 
 Of the hard hurricane had trodden down ; 
 Swell out, O voice of the expanding song ; 
 Into one holy concord gather up 
 The squandered melodies of time, supplant 
 The jar of ages, strike the unknown chord ; 
 Still the world's wild waltz-music, — siren-sweet 
 And quick with sudden fire to kindle up 
 All youth's warm blood into the fever-heat 
 Of passion, with its too delicious thrill. 
 
 ' Swing the great censer ; let the holy fire 
 Evoke the fragrance, scattering healthful balm 
 From hands that knew no sin, and from a shrine 
 Into which evil never found its way. 
 Creation waiteth for the healing breath 
 Of Him from whom all sickness flees, whose cross 
 Struck into earth's dark soil shall be the cure 
 For all creation's ills, tho' planted there 
 By hands of men who knew not what they did, 
 Nor how from it a purged world should rise. 
 
 'Roll out, ye incense-wreaths, diffuse your sweetness ; 
 Do battle with the curse, and overcome it ; 
 Wipe off each trace of the old serpent's slime ; 
 Revivify the blasted wastes of death ; 
 Bring back to sea and air their primal calm ! 
 Man has been struggling with this froward clay 
 For ages, but has failed ; its barrenness 
 Defies his skill and toil. O priestly breath 
 Of One more potent than a child of sin, 
 Go forth and do thy work upon this earth ! 
 Clothing with gladness the desponding hills, 
 And disinfecting this hot atmosphere, 
 
352 MY OLD LETTERS. [line 977. 
 
 Tainted for ages with the fetid breath 
 
 Of human sin. Call into vernal bloom 
 
 Nature's long-budding beauty, checked and marred 
 
 With cruel frost, or seared into abortion 
 
 By suns too fierce to ripen or expand. 
 
 ' O sunny feast-days of the Church of God, 
 That with the happy seasons come and go, 
 Each with diffusive joy its glory shedding 
 On the low scenes of earth, and making bright 
 The gloom of common days ; when shall ye spread 
 Over creation all your mirth and beauty, 
 Lifting the low into the high, transfiguring 
 The meanest things that be to comeliness, 
 Such as ye only know, impregnating 
 The universal air with breath from Him 
 Whose breath is life, whose love the sacred light 
 That fills the holy city, and lights up 
 That hall wherein the one great feast is held, 
 In which shall end the festivals of time ? 
 
 ' Draw bridle now ; the home-gate comes in view, 
 Quick lights are glancing from each window-pane, 
 The flag from the old turret signals peace, 
 And voices from within shout, Welcome home ! ' 
 
 THE END. 
 
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