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+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #65136 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65136)
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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Cathedral, by James Russell Lowell
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
-using this eBook.
-
-Title: The Cathedral
-
-Author: James Russell Lowell
-
-Release Date: April 22, 2021 [eBook #65136]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
-             Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-             produced from images generously made available by The Internet
-             Archive/Canadian Libraries)
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CATHEDRAL ***
-
-
-                          Lowell’s Writings.
-
-
-    _POEMS._ Complete. _Diamond Edition._ One volume.
-
-    _POEMS._ With Portrait. _Blue and Gold Edition._ Two volumes.
-
-    _POEMS._ With Portrait. _Cabinet Edition._ Two volumes.
-
-    _POEMS._ With Portrait. 16mo Edition. Two volumes.
-
-    _FIRESIDE TRAVELS._ One volume.
-
-    _A FABLE FOR CRITICS._ One volume.
-
-    _THE BIGLOW PAPERS._ Two Series. Each in one volume.
-
-    _THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL._ One volume.
-
-    _THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL._ Illustrated. _Red-Line Edition._ One
-    elegant small 4to volume.
-
-    _UNDER THE WILLOWS, AND OTHER POEMS._ One volume.
-
-    _AMONG MY BOOKS._ A new volume, in press, and nearly ready.
-
-
-                  FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., Publishers.
-
-
-
-
-                            The Cathedral.
-
-                  Οὐδὲν σοφιζώμεσθα τοῖσι δαίμοισιν.
-                  Πατρίους παραδοχὰς, ἄς θ’ ὁμήλικας χρόνῳ
-                  Κεκτήμεθ’, οὐδεις αὐτὰ καταβαλέι λόγος,
-                  Οὐδ’ ἣν δι’ ἄκρων τὸ σορόν εὔρεται φρενῶν.
-                                EURIPIDES, _Bacchæ_, 196-199.
-
-
-
-
-                            The Cathedral.
-
-                                  BY
-
-                         JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
-
-                       [Illustration: colophon]
-
-                                BOSTON:
-                         FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.
-                                 1870.
-
-
-      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
-
-                        FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,
-
-in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
-
-
-               UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
-                              CAMBRIDGE.
-
-
-
-
-                        To MR. JAMES T. FIELDS.
-
-
-MY DEAR FIELDS,--
-
-Dr. Johnson’s sturdy self-respect led him to invent the Bookseller as
-a substitute for the Patron. My relations with you have enabled me to
-discover how pleasantly the Friend may replace the Bookseller. Let me
-record my sense of many thoughtful services by associating your name
-with a poem which owes its appearance in this form to your partiality.
-
-                           Cordially yours,
-
-                                                          J. R. LOWELL.
-
-CAMBRIDGE, Nov. 29, 1869.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-
-
-
-               THE CATHEDRAL.
-
-
-    Far through the memory shines a happy day,
-    Cloudless of care, down-shod to every sense,
-    And simply perfect from its own resource,
-    As to a bee the new campanula’s
-    Illuminate seclusion swung in air.
-    Such days are not the prey of setting suns,
-    Nor ever blurred with mist of afterthought;
-    Like words made magical by poets dead,
-    Wherein the music of all meaning is
-    The sense hath garnered or the soul divined,
-    They mingle with our life’s ethereal part,
-    Sweetening and gathering sweetness evermore,
-    By beauty’s franchise disenthralled of time.
-
-    I can recall, nay, they are present still,
-    Parts of myself, the perfume of my mind,
-    Days that seem farther off than Homer’s now
-    Ere yet the child had loudened to the boy,
-    And I, recluse from playmates, found perforce
-    Companionship in things that not denied
-    Nor granted wholly; as is Nature’s wont,
-    Who, safe in uncontaminate reserve,
-    Lets us mistake our longing for her love,
-    And mocks with various echo of ourselves.
-
-    These first sweet frauds upon our consciousness,
-    That blend the sensual with its imaged world,
-    These virginal cognitions, gifts of morn,
-    Ere life grow noisy, and slower-footed thought
-    Can overtake the rapture of the sense,
-    To thrust between ourselves and what we feel,
-    Have something in them secretly divine.
-    Vainly the eye, once schooled to serve the brain,
-    With pains deliberate studies to renew
-    The ideal vision: second-thoughts are prose;
-    For beauty’s acme hath a term as brief
-    As the wave’s poise before it break in pearl.
-    Our own breath dims the mirror of the sense,
-    Looking too long and closely: at a flash
-    We snatch the essential grace of meaning out,
-    And that first passion beggars all behind,
-    Heirs of a tamer transport prepossessed.
-    Who, seeing once, has truly seen again
-    The gray vague of unsympathizing sea
-    That dragged his Fancy from her moorings back
-    To shores inhospitable of eldest time,
-    Till blank foreboding of earth-gendered powers,
-    Pitiless seignories in the elements,
-    Omnipotences blind that darkling smite,
-    Misgave him, and repaganized the world?
-    Yet, by some subtler touch of sympathy,
-    These primal apprehensions, dimly stirred,
-    Perplex the eye with pictures from within.
-    This hath made poets dream of lives foregone
-    In worlds fantastical, more fair than ours;
-    So Memory cheats us, glimpsing half-revealed.
-    Even as I write she tries her wonted spell
-    In that continuous redbreast boding rain:
-    The bird I hear sings not from yonder elm;
-    But the flown ecstasy my childhood heard
-    Is vocal in my mind, renewed by him,
-    Haply made sweeter by the accumulate thrill
-    That threads my undivided life and steals
-    A pathos from the years and graves between.
-    I know not how it is with other men,
-    Whom I but guess, deciphering myself;
-    For me, once felt is so felt nevermore.
-    The fleeting relish at sensation’s brim
-    Had in it the best ferment of the wine.
-    One spring I knew as never any since:
-    All night the surges of the warm southwest
-    Boomed intermittent through the shuddering elms,
-    And brought a morning from the Gulf adrift,
-    Omnipotent with sunshine, whose quick charm
-    Startled with crocuses the sullen turf
-    And wiled the bluebird to his whiff of song:
-    One summer hour abides, what time I perched,
-    Dappled with noonday, under simmering leaves,
-    And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloof
-    An oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,
-    Denouncing me an alien and a thief:
-    One morn of autumn lords it o’er the rest,
-    When in the lane I watched the ash-leaves fall,
-    Balancing softly earthward without wind,
-    Or twirling with directer impulse down
-    On those fallen yesterday, now barbed with frost,
-    While I grew pensive with the pensive year:
-    And once I learned how marvellous winter was,
-    When past the fence-rails, downy-gray with rime,
-    I creaked adventurous o’er the spangled crust
-    That made familiar fields seem far and strange
-    As those stark wastes that whiten endlessly
-    In ghastly solitude about the pole,
-    And gleam relentless to the unsetting sun:
-    Instant the candid chambers of my brain
-    Were painted with these sovran images;
-    And later visions seem but copies pale
-    From those unfading frescos of the past,
-    Which I, young savage, in my age of flint,
-    Gazed at, and dimly felt a power in me
-    Parted from Nature by the joy in her
-    That doubtfully revealed me to myself.
-    Thenceforward I must stand outside the gate;
-    And paradise was paradise the more,
-    Known once and barred against satiety.
-
-    What we call Nature, all outside ourselves,
-    Is but our own conceit of what we see,
-    Our own reaction upon what we feel;
-    The world’s a woman to our shifting mood,
-    Feeling with us, or making due pretence;
-    And therefore we the more persuade ourselves
-    To make all things our thought’s confederates,
-    Conniving with us in whate’er we dream.
-    So when our Fancy seeks analogies,
-    Though she have hidden what she after finds,
-    She loves to cheat herself with feigned surprise.
-    I find my own complexion everywhere:
-    No rose, I doubt, was ever, like the first,
-    A marvel to the bush it dawned upon,
-    The rapture of its life made visible,
-    The mystery of its yearning realized,
-    As the first babe to the first woman born;
-    No falcon ever felt delight of wings
-    As when, an eyas, from the stolid cliff
-    Loosing himself, he followed his high heart
-    To swim on sunshine, masterless as wind;
-    And I believe the brown earth takes delight
-    In the new snow-drop looking back at her,
-    To think that by some vernal alchemy
-    It could transmute her darkness into pearl;
-    What is the buxom peony after that,
-    With its coarse constancy of hoyden blush?
-    What the full summer to that wonder new?
-
-    But, if in nothing else, in us there is
-    A sense fastidious hardly reconciled
-    To the poor makeshifts of life’s scenery,
-    Where the same slide must double all its parts,
-    Shoved in for Tarsus and hitched back for Tyre.
-    I blame not in the soul this daintiness,
-    Rasher of surfeit than a humming-bird,
-    In things indifferent by sense purveyed;
-    It argues her an immortality
-    And dateless incomes of experience,
-    This unthrift housekeeping that will not brook
-    A dish warmed-over at the feast of life,
-    And finds Twice stale, served with whatever sauce.
-    Nor matters much how it may go with me
-    Who dwell in Grub Street and am proud to drudge
-    Where men, my betters, wet their crust with tears:
-    Use can make sweet the peach’s shady side,
-    That only by reflection tastes of sun.
-    But she, my Princess, who will sometimes deign
-    My garret to illumine till the walls,
-    Narrow and dingy, scrawled with hackneyed thought
-    (Poor Richard slowly elbowing Plato out),
-    Dilate and drape themselves with tapestries
-    Nausikaa might have stooped o’er, while, between,
-    Mirrors, effaced in their own clearness, send
-    Her only image on through deepening deeps
-    With endless repercussion of delight,--
-    Bringer of life, witching each sense to soul,
-    That sometimes almost gives me to believe
-    I might have been a poet, gives at least
-    A brain desaxonized, an ear that makes
-    Music where none is, and a keener pang
-    Of exquisite surmise outleaping thought,--
-    Her will I pamper in her luxury:
-    No crumpled rose-leaf of too careless choice
-    Shall bring a northern nightmare to her dreams,
-    Vexing with sense of exile; hers shall be
-    The invitiate firstlings of experience,
-    Vibrations felt but once and felt lifelong:
-    O, more than half-way turn that Grecian front
-    Upon me, while with self-rebuke I spell,
-    On the plain fillet that confines thy hair
-    In conscious bounds of seeming unconstraint,
-    The _Naught in overplus_, thy race’s badge!
-
-    One feast for her I secretly designed
-    In that Old World so strangely beautiful
-    To us the disinherited of eld,--
-    A day at Chartres, with no soul beside
-    To roil with pedant prate my joy serene
-    And make the minster shy of confidence.
-    I went, and, with the Saxon’s pious care,
-    First ordered dinner at the pea-green inn,
-    The flies and I its only customers,
-    Till by and by there came two Englishmen,
-    Who made me feel, in their engaging way,
-    I was a poacher on their self-preserve,
-    Intent constructively on lese-anglicism.
-    To them (in those old razor-ridden days)
-    My beard translated me to hostile French;
-    So they, desiring guidance in the town,
-    Half condescended to my baser sphere,
-    And, clubbing in one mess their lack of phrase,
-    Set their best man to grapple with the Gaul.
-    “Esker vous ate a nabitang?” he asked;
-    “I never ate one; are they good?” asked I;
-    Whereat they stared, then laughed, and we were friends,
-    The seas, the wars, the centuries interposed,
-    Abolished in the truce of common speech
-    And mutual comfort of the mother-tongue.
-    Like escaped convicts of Propriety,
-    They furtively partook the joys of men,
-    Glancing behind when buzzed some louder fly.
-
-    Eluding these, I loitered through the town,
-    With hope to take my minster unawares
-    In its grave solitude of memory.
-    A pretty burgh, and such as Fancy loves
-    For bygone grandeurs, faintly rumorous now
-    Upon the mind’s horizon, as of storm
-    Brooding its dreamy thunders far aloof,
-    That mingle with our mood, but not disturb.
-    Its once grim bulwarks, tamed to lovers’ walks,
-    Look down unwatchful on the sliding Eure,
-    Whose listless leisure suits the quiet place,
-    Lisping among his shallows homelike sounds
-    At Concord and by Bankside heard before.
-    Chance led me to a public pleasure-ground,
-    Where I grew kindly with the merry groups,
-    And blessed the Frenchman for his simple art
-    Of being domestic in the light of day.
-    His language has no word, we growl, for Home;
-    But he can find a fireside in the sun,
-    Play with his child, make love, and shriek his mind,
-    By throngs of strangers undisprivacied.
-    He makes his life a public gallery,
-    Nor feels himself till what he feels comes back
-    In manifold reflection from without;
-    While we, each pore alert with consciousness,
-    Hide our best selves as we had stolen them,
-    And each by-stander a detective were,
-    Keen-eyed for every chink of undisguise.
-
-    So, musing o’er the problem which was best,--
-    A life wide-windowed, shining all abroad,
-    Or curtains drawn to shield from sight profane
-    The rites we pay to the mysterious I,--
-    With outward senses furloughed and head bowed
-    I followed some fine instinct in my feet,
-    Till, to unbend me from the loom of thought,
-    Looking up suddenly, I found mine eyes
-    Confronted with the minster’s vast repose.
-    Silent and gray as forest-leaguered cliff
-    Left inland by the ocean’s slow retreat,
-    That hears afar the breeze-borne rote, and longs,
-    Remembering shocks of surf that clomb and fell,
-    Spume-sliding down the baffled decuman,
-    It rose before me, patiently remote
-    From the great tides of life it breasted once,
-    Hearing the noise of men as in a dream.
-    I stood before the triple northern port,
-    Where dedicated shapes of saints and kings,
-    Stern faces bleared with immemorial watch,
-    Looked down benignly grave and seemed to say,
-    _Ye come and go incessant; we remain_
-    _Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past;_
-    _Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot,_
-    _Of faith so nobly realized as this._
-
-    I seem to have heard it said by learned folk
-    Who drench you with æsthetics till you feel
-    As if all beauty were a ghastly bore,
-    The faucet to let loose a wash of words,
-    That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse;
-    But, being convinced by much experiment
-    How little inventiveness there is in man,
-    Grave copier of copies, I give thanks
-    For a new relish, careless to inquire
-    My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please,
-    Nobly, I mean, nor renegade to art.
-    The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,
-    Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,
-    The one thing finished in this hasty world,
-    Forever finished, though the barbarous pit,
-    Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout
-    As if a miracle could be encored.
-    But ah! this other, this that never ends,
-    Still climbing, luring fancy still to climb,
-    As full of morals half-divined as life,
-    Graceful, grotesque, with ever new surprise
-    Of hazardous caprices sure to please,
-    Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern,
-    Imagination’s very self in stone!
-    With one long sigh of infinite release
-    From pedantries past, present, or to come,
-    I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth.
-    Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream,
-    Builders of aspiration incomplete,
-    So more consummate, souls self-confident,
-    Who felt your own thought worthy of record
-    In monumental pomp! No Grecian drop
-    Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill,
-    After long exile, to the mother-tongue.
-
-    Ovid in Pontus, puling for his Rome
-    Of men invirile and disnatured dames
-    That poison sucked from the Attic bloom decayed,
-    Shrank with a shudder from the blue-eyed race
-    Whose force rough-handed should renew the world,
-    And from the dregs of Romulus express
-    Such wine as Dante poured, or he who blew
-    Roland’s vain blast, or sang the Campeador
-    In verse that clanks like armor in the charge,--
-    Homeric juice, if brimmed in Odin’s horn.
-    And they could build, if not the columned fane
-    That from the height gleamed seaward many-hued,
-    Something more friendly with their ruder skies:
-    The gray spire, molten now in driving mist,
-    Now lulled with the incommunicable blue;
-    The carvings touched to meanings new with snow,
-    Or commented with fleeting grace of shade;
-    The statues, motley as man’s memory,
-    Partial as that, so mixed of true and false,
-    History and legend meeting with a kiss
-    Across this bound-mark where their realms confine;
-    The painted windows, frecking gloom with glow,
-    Dusking the sunshine which they seem to cheer,
-    Meet symbol of the senses and the soul;
-    And the whole pile, grim with the Northman’s thought
-    Of life and death, and doom, life’s equal fee,--
-    These were before me: and I gazed abashed,
-    Child of an age that lectures, not creates,
-    Plastering our swallow-nests on the awful Past,
-    And twittering round the work of larger men,
-    As we had builded what we but deface.
-    Far up the great bells wallowed in delight,
-    Tossing their clangors o’er the heedless town,
-    To call the worshippers who never came,
-    Or women mostly, in loath twos and threes.
-    I entered, reverent of whatever shrine
-    Guards piety and solace for my kind
-    Or gives the soul a moment’s truce of God,
-    And shared decorous in the ancient rite
-    My sterner fathers held idolatrous.
-    The service over, I was tranced in thought:
-    Solemn the deepening vaults, and most to me,
-    Fresh from the fragile realm of deal and paint,
-    Or brick mock-pious with a marble front;
-    Solemn the lift of high-embowered roof,
-    The clustered stems that spread in boughs disleaved,
-    Through which the organ blew a dream of storm,--
-    Though not more potent to sublime with awe
-    And shut the heart up in tranquillity,
-    Than aisles to me familiar that o’erarch
-    The conscious silences of brooding woods,
-    Centurial shadows, cloisters of the elk:
-    Yet here was sense of undefined regret,
-    Irreparable loss, uncertain what:
-    Was all this grandeur but anachronism,--
-    A shell divorced of its informing life,
-    Where the priest housed him like a hermit-crab,
-    An alien to that faith of elder days
-    That gathered round it this fair shape of stone?
-    Is old Religion but a spectre now,
-    Haunting the solitude of darkened minds,
-    Mocked out of memory by the sceptic day?
-    Is there no corner safe from peeping Doubt,
-    Since Gutenberg made thought cosmopolite
-    And stretched electric threads from mind to mind?
-    Nay, did Faith build this wonder? or did Fear,
-    That makes a fetish and misnames it God
-    (Blockish or metaphysic, matters not),
-    Contrive this coop to shut its tyrant in,
-    Appeased with playthings, that he might not harm?
-
-    I turned and saw a beldame on her knees;
-    With eyes astray, she told mechanic beads
-    Before some shrine of saintly womanhood,
-    Bribed intercessor with the far-off Judge:
-    Such my first thought, by kindlier soon rebuked,
-    Pleading for whatsoever touches life
-    With upward impulse: be He nowhere else,
-    God is in all that liberates and lifts,
-    In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles:
-    Blessëd the natures shored on every side
-    With landmarks of hereditary thought!
-    Thrice happy they that wander not lifelong
-    Beyond near succor of the household faith,
-    The guarded fold that shelters, not confines!
-    Their steps find patience in familiar paths,
-    Printed with hope by loved feet gone before
-    Of parent, child, or lover, glorified
-    By simple magic of dividing Time.
-    My lids were moistened as the woman knelt,
-    And--was it will, or some vibration faint
-    Of sacred Nature, deeper than the will?--
-    My heart occultly felt itself in hers,
-    Through mutual intercession gently leagued.
-
-    Or was it not mere sympathy of brain?
-    A sweetness intellectually conceived
-    In simpler creeds to me impossible?
-    A juggle of that pity for ourselves
-    In others, which puts on such pretty masks
-    And snares self-love with bait of charity?
-    Something of all it might be, or of none:
-    Yet for a moment I was snatched away
-    And had the evidence of things not seen;
-    For one rapt moment; then it all came back,
-    This age that blots out life with question-marks,
-    This nineteenth century with its knife and glass
-    That make thought physical, and thrust far off
-    The Heaven, so neighborly with man of old,
-    To voids sparse-sown with alienated stars.
-
-    ’Tis irrecoverable, that ancient faith,
-    Homely and wholesome, suited to the time,
-    With rod or candy for child-minded men:
-    No theologic tube, with lens on lens
-    Of syllogism transparent, brings it near,--
-    At best resolving some new nebula,
-    Or blurring some fixed-star of hope to mist.
-    Science was Faith once; Faith were Science now,
-    Would she but lay her bow and arrows by
-    And arm her with the weapons of the time.
-    Nothing that keeps thought out is safe from thought,
-    For there’s no virgin-fort but self-respect,
-    And Truth defensive hath lost hold on God.
-    Shall we treat Him as if He were a child
-    That knew not His own purpose? nor dare trust
-    The Rock of Ages to their chemic tests,
-    Lest some day the all-sustaining base divine
-    Should fail from under us, dissolved in gas?
-    The armëd eye that with a glance discerns
-    In a dry blood-speck between ox and man,
-    Stares helpless at this miracle called life,
-    This shaping potency behind the egg,
-    This circulation swift of deity,
-    Where suns and systems inconspicuous float
-    As the poor blood-disks in our mortal veins.
-    Each age must worship its own thought of God,
-    More or less earthy, clarifying still
-    With subsidence continuous of the dregs;
-    Nor saint nor sage could fix immutably
-    The fluent image of the unstable Best,
-    Still changing in their very hands that wrought:
-    To-day’s eternal truth To-morrow proved
-    Frail as frost-landscapes on a window-pane.
-    Meanwhile Thou smiledst, inaccessible,
-    At Thought’s own substance made a cage for Thought,
-    And Truth locked fast with her own master-key;
-    Nor didst Thou reck what image man might make
-    Of his own shadow on the flowing world;
-    The climbing instinct was enough for Thee.
-    Or wast Thou, then, an ebbing tide that left
-    Strewn with dead miracle those eldest shores,
-    For men to dry, and dryly lecture on,
-    Thyself thenceforth incapable of flood?
-    Idle who hopes with prophets to be snatched
-    By virtue in their mantles left below;
-    Shall the soul live on other men’s report,
-    Herself a pleasing fable of herself?
-    Man cannot be God’s outlaw if he would,
-    Nor so abscond him in the caves of sense
-    But Nature still shall search some crevice out
-    With messages of splendor from that Source
-    Which, dive he, soar he, baffles still and lures.
-    This life were brutish did we not sometimes
-    Have intimation clear of wider scope,
-    Hints of occasion infinite, to keep
-    The soul alert with noble discontent
-    And onward yearnings of unstilled desire;
-    Fruitless, except we now and then divined
-    A mystery of Purpose, gleaming through
-    The secular confusions of the world,
-    Whose will we darkly accomplish, doing ours.
-    No man can think nor in himself perceive,
-    Sometimes at waking, in the street sometimes,
-    Or on the hillside, always unforewarned,
-    A grace of being, finer than himself,
-    That beckons and is gone,--a larger life
-    Upon his own impinging, with swift glimpse
-    Of spacious circles luminous with mind,
-    To which the ethereal substance of his own
-    Seems but gross cloud to make that visible,
-    Touched to a sudden glory round the edge.
-    Who that hath known these visitations fleet
-    Would strive to make them trite and ritual?
-    I, that still pray at morning and at eve,
-    Loving those roots that feed us from the past,
-    And prizing more than Plato things I learned
-    At that best academe, a mother’s knee,
-    Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed,
-    Thrice, stirred below my conscious self, have felt
-    That perfect disenthralment which is God;
-    Nor know I which to hold worst enemy,--
-    Him who on speculation’s windy waste
-    Would turn me loose, stript of the raiment warm
-    By Faith contrived against our nakedness,
-    Or him who, cruel-kind, would fain obscure,
-    With painted saints and paraphrase of God,
-    The soul’s east-window of divine surprise.
-
-    Where others worship I but look and long;
-    For, though not recreant to my fathers’ faith,
-    Its forms to me are weariness, and most
-    That drony vacuum of compulsory prayer,
-    Still pumping phrases for the Ineffable,
-    Though all the valves of memory gasp and wheeze.
-    Words that have drawn transcendent meanings up
-    From the best passion of all bygone time,
-    Steeped through with tears of triumph and remorse,
-    Sweet with all sainthood, cleansed in martyr-fires,
-    Can they, so consecrate and so inspired,
-    By repetition wane to vexing wind?
-    Alas! we cannot draw habitual breath
-    In the thin air of life’s supremer heights,
-    We cannot make each meal a sacrament,
-    Nor with our tailors be disbodied souls,--
-    We men, too conscious of earth’s comedy,
-    Who see two sides, with our posed selves debate,
-    And only for great stakes can be sublime!
-    Let us be thankful when, as I do here,
-    We can read Bethel on a pile of stones,
-    And, seeing where God _has_ been, trust in Him.
-
-    Brave Peter Fischer there in Nuremberg,
-    Moulding Saint Sebald’s miracles in bronze,
-    Put saint and stander-by in that quaint garb
-    Familiar to him in his daily walk,
-    Not doubting God could grant a miracle
-    Then and in Nuremberg, if so He would;
-    But never artist for three hundred years
-    Hath dared the contradiction ludicrous
-    Of supernatural in modern clothes.
-    Perhaps the deeper faith that is to come
-    Will see God rather in the strenuous doubt,
-    Than in the creed held as an infant’s hand
-    Holds purposeless whatso is placed therein.
-
-    Say it is drift, not progress, none the less,
-    With the old sextant of the fathers’ creed,
-    We shape our courses by new-risen stars,
-    And, still lip-loyal to what once was truth,
-    Smuggle new meanings under ancient names,
-    Unconscious perverts of the Jesuit, Time.
-    Change is the mask that all Continuance wears
-    To keep us youngsters harmlessly amused;
-    Meanwhile some ailing or more watchful child,
-    Sitting apart, sees the old eyes gleam out,
-    Stern, and yet soft with humorous pity too.
-    Whilere, men burnt men for a doubtful point,
-    As if the mind were quenchable with fire,
-    And Faith danced round them with her war-paint on,
-    Devoutly savage as an Iroquois;
-    Now Calvin and Servetus at one board
-    Snuff in grave sympathy a milder roast,
-    And o’er their claret settle Comte unread.
-    Fagot and stake were desperately sincere:
-    Our cooler martyrdoms are done in types;
-    And flames that shine in controversial eyes
-    Burn out no brains but his who kindles them.
-    This is no age to get cathedrals built:
-    Did God, then, wait for one in Bethlehem?
-    Worst is not yet: lo, where his coming looms,
-    Of Earth’s anarchic children latest born,
-    Democracy, a Titan who hath learned
-    To laugh at Jove’s old-fashioned thunderbolts,--
-    Could he not also forge them, if he would?
-    He, better skilled, with solvents merciless,
-    Loosened in air and borne on every wind,
-    Saps unperceived: the calm Olympian height
-    Of ancient order feels its bases yield,
-    And pale gods glance for help to gods as pale.
-    What will be left of good or worshipful,
-    Of spiritual secrets, mysteries,
-    Of fair religion’s guarded heritage,
-    Heirlooms of soul, passed downward unprofaned
-    From eldest Ind? This Western giant coarse,
-    Scorning refinements which he lacks himself,
-    Loves not nor heeds the ancestral hierarchies,
-    Each rank dependent on the next above
-    In orderly gradation fixed as fate.
-    King by mere manhood, nor allowing aught
-    Of holier unction than the sweat of toil;
-    In his own strength sufficient; called to solve,
-    On the rough edges of society,
-    Problems long sacred to the choicer few,
-    And improvise what elsewhere men receive
-    As gifts of deity; tough foundling reared
-    Where every man’s his own Melchisedek,
-    How make him reverent of a King of kings?
-    Or Judge self-made, executor of laws
-    By him not first discussed and voted on?
-    For him no tree of knowledge is forbid,
-    Or sweeter if forbid. How save the ark,
-    Or holy of holies, unprofaned a day
-    From his unscrupulous curiosity
-    That handles everything as if to buy,
-    Tossing aside what fabrics delicate
-    Suit not the rough-and-tumble of his ways?
-    What hope for those fine-nerved humanities
-    That made earth gracious once with gentler arts,
-    Now the rude hands have caught the trick of thought
-    And claim an equal suffrage with the brain?
-
-    The born disciple of an elder time,
-    (To me sufficient, friendlier than the new,)
-    Who in my blood feel motions of the Past,
-    I thank benignant nature most for this,--
-    A force of sympathy, or call it lack
-    Of character firm-planted, loosing me
-    From the pent chamber of habitual self
-    To dwell enlarged in alien modes of thought,
-    Haply distasteful, wholesomer for that,
-    And through imagination to possess,
-    As they were mine, the lives of other men.
-    This growth original of virgin soil,
-    By fascination felt in opposites,
-    Pleases and shocks, entices and perturbs.
-    In this brown-fisted rough, this shirt-sleeved Cid,
-    This backwoods Charlemagne of empires new,
-    Whose blundering heel instinctively finds out
-    The goutier foot of speechless dignities,
-    Who, meeting Cæsar’s self, would slap his back,
-    Call him “Old Horse,” and challenge to a drink,
-    My lungs draw braver air, my breast dilates
-    With ampler manhood, and I front both worlds,
-    Of sense and spirit, as my natural fiefs,
-    To shape and then reshape them as I will.
-    It was the first man’s charter; why not mine?
-    How forfeit? when deposed in other hands?
-
-    Thou shudder’st, Ovid? Dost in him forbode
-    A new avatar of the large-limbed Goth,
-    To break, or seem to break, tradition’s clew,
-    And chase to dreamland back thy gods dethroned?
-    I think man’s soul dwells nearer to the east,
-    Nearer to morning’s fountains than the sun;
-    Herself the source whence all tradition sprang,
-    Herself at once both labyrinth and clew.
-    The miracle fades out of history,
-    But faith and wonder and the primal earth
-    Are born into the world with every child.
-    Shall this self-maker with the prying eyes,
-    This creature disenchanted of respect
-    By the New World’s new fiend, Publicity,
-    Whose testing thumb leaves everywhere its smutch,
-    Not one day feel within himself the need
-    Of loyalty to better than himself,
-    That shall ennoble him with the upward look?
-    Shall he not catch the Voice that wanders earth,
-    With spiritual summons, dreamed or heard,
-    As sometimes, just ere sleep seals up the sense,
-    We hear our Mother call from deeps of time,
-    And, waking, find it vision,--none the less
-    The benediction bides, old skies return,
-    And that unreal thing, pre-eminent,
-    Makes air and dream of all we see and feel?
-    Shall he divine no strength unmade of votes,
-    Inward, impregnable, found soon as sought,
-    Not cognizable of sense, o’er sense supreme?
-    His holy places may not be of stone,
-    Nor made with hands, yet fairer far than aught
-    By artist feigned or pious ardor reared,
-    Fit altars for who guards inviolate
-    God’s chosen seat, the sacred form of man.
-    Doubtless his church will be no hospital
-    For superannuate forms and mumping shams,
-    No parlor where men issue policies
-    Of life-assurance on the Eternal Mind,
-    Nor his religion but an ambulance
-    To fetch life’s wounded and malingerers in,
-    Scorned by the strong; yet he, unconscious heir
-    To the influence sweet of Athens and of Rome,
-    And old Judæa’s gift of secret fire,
-    Spite of himself shall surely learn to know
-    And worship some ideal of himself,
-    Some divine thing, large-hearted, brotherly,
-    Not nice in trifles, a soft creditor,
-    Pleased with his world, and hating only cant.
-    And, if his Church be doubtful, it is sure
-    That, in a world, made for whatever else,
-    Not made for mere enjoyment,--in a world
-    Of toil but half-requited, or, at best.
-    Paid in some futile currency of breath,--
-    A world of incompleteness, sorrow swift
-    And consolation laggard, whatsoe’er
-    The form of building or the creed professed,
-    The Cross, bold type of shame to homage turned,
-    Of an unfinished life that sways the world,
-    Shall tower as sovereign emblem over all.
-
-    The kobold Thought moves with us when we shift
-    Our dwelling to escape him; perched aloft
-    On the first load of household-stuff he went;
-    For, where the mind goes, goes old furniture.
-    I, who to Chartres came to feed my eye
-    And give to Fancy one clear holiday,
-    Scarce saw the minster for the thoughts it stirred
-    Buzzing o’er past and future with vain quest.
-    Here once there stood a homely wooden church,
-    Which slow devotion nobly changed for this
-    That echoes vaguely to my modern steps.
-    By suffrage universal it was built,
-    As practised then, for all the country came
-    From far as Rouen, to give votes for God,
-    Each vote a block of stone securely laid
-    Obedient to the master’s deep-mused plan.
-    Will what our ballots rear, responsible
-    To no grave forethought, stand so long as this,--
-    Delight like this the eye of after days
-    Brightening with pride that here, at least, were men
-    Who meant and did the noblest thing they knew?
-    Can our religion cope with deeds like this?
-    We, too, build Gothic contract-shams, because
-    Our deacons have discovered that it pays,
-    And pews sell better under vaulted roofs
-    Of plaster painted like an Indian squaw.
-    Shall not that Western Goth, of whom we spoke,
-    So fiercely practical, so keen of eye,
-    Find out, some day, that nothing pays but God,
-    Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field,
-    In work obscure done honestly, or vote
-    For truth unpopular, or faith maintained
-    To ruinous convictions, or good deeds
-    Wrought for good’s sake, mindless of heaven or hell?
-    I know not; but, sustained by sure belief
-    That man still rises level with the height
-    Of noblest opportunities, or makes
-    Such, if the time supply not, I can wait.
-    I gaze round on the windows, pride of France,
-    Each the bright gift of some mechanic guild
-    Who loved their city and thought gold well spent
-    To make her beautiful with piety;
-    I pause, transfigured by some stripe of bloom,
-    And my mind throngs with shining auguries,
-    Circle on circle, bright as seraphim,
-    With golden trumpets silent, that await
-    The signal to blow news of good to men.
-
-    Then the revulsion came that always comes
-    After these dizzy elations of the mind:
-    I walked forth saddened; for all thought is sad,
-    And leaves a bitterish savor in the brain,--
-    Tonic, it may be, not delectable,--
-    And turned, reluctant, for a parting look
-    At those old weather-pitted images
-    Of bygone struggle, now so sternly calm.
-    About their shoulders sparrows had built nests,
-    And fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch,
-    Now on a mitre poising, now a crown,
-    Irreverently happy. While I thought
-    How confident they were, what careless hearts
-    Flew on those lightsome wings and shared the sun,
-    A larger shadow crossed; and, looking up,
-    I saw where, nesting in the hoary towers,
-    The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noiseless air,
-    With sidelong head that watched the joy below,
-    Grim Norman baron o’er this clan of Kelts.
-    Enduring Nature, force conservative,
-    Indifferent to our noisy whims! Men prate
-    Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered
-    On level with the dullest, and expect
-    (Sick of no worse distemper than themselves)
-    A wondrous cure-all in equality;
-    They reason that To-morrow must be wise
-    Because To-day was not, nor Yesterday,
-    As if good days were shapen of themselves,
-    Not of the very lifeblood of men’s souls;
-    Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturbable,
-    Thou quietly complet’st thy syllogism,
-    And from the premise sparrow here below
-    Draw’st sure conclusion of the hawk above,
-    Pleased with the soft-billed songster, pleased no less
-    With the fierce beak of natures aquiline.
-
-    Thou beautiful Old Time, now hid away
-    In the Past’s valley of Avilion,
-    Haply, like Arthur, till thy wound be healed,
-    Then to reclaim the sword and crown again!
-    Thrice beautiful to us; perchance less fair
-    To who possessed thee, as a mountain seems
-    To dwellers round its bases but a heap
-    Of barren obstacle that lairs the storm
-    And the avalanche’s silent bolt holds back
-    Leashed with a hair,--meanwhile some far-off clown,
-    Hereditary delver of the plain,
-    Sees it an unmoved vision of repose,
-    Nest of the morning, and conjectures there
-    The dance of streams to idle shepherds’ pipes,
-    And fairer habitations softly hung
-    On breezy slopes, or hid in valleys cool,
-    For happier men. No mortal ever dreams
-    That the scant isthmus he encamps upon
-    Between two oceans, one, the Stormy, passed,
-    And one, the Peaceful, yet to venture on,
-    Has been that future whereto prophets yearned
-    For the fulfilment of Earth’s cheated hope,
-    Shall be that past which nerveless poets moan
-    As the lost opportunity of song.
-
-    O Power, more near my life than life itself
-    (Or what seems life to us in sense immured),
-    Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
-    Share in the tree-top’s joyance, and conceive
-    Of sunshine and wide air and wingëd things
-    By sympathy of nature, so do I
-    Have evidence of Thee so far above,
-    Yet in and of me! Rather Thou the root
-    Invisibly sustaining, hid in light,
-    Not darkness, or in darkness made by us.
-    If sometimes I must hear good men debate
-    Of other witness of Thyself than Thou,
-    As if there needed any help of ours
-    To nurse Thy flickering life, that else must cease,
-    Blown out, as ’t were a candle, by men’s breath,
-    My soul shall not be taken in their snare,
-    To change her inward surety for their doubt
-    Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof:
-    While she can only feel herself through Thee,
-    I fear not Thy withdrawal; more I fear,
-    Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked with dreams
-    Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, Thou,
-    Walking Thy garden still, commun’st with men,
-    Missed in the commonplace of miracle.
-
-
-                   THE END.
-
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-<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Cathedral, by James Russell Lowell</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
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-
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Cathedral</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: James Russell Lowell</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 22, 2021 [eBook #65136]</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
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-
-<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CATHEDRAL ***</div>
-<hr class="full" />
-
-<p class="c">Lowell’s Writings.</p>
-
-<div class="blockquot"><p><i>POEMS.</i> Complete. <i>Diamond Edition.</i> One volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>POEMS.</i> With Portrait. <i>Blue and Gold Edition.</i> Two volumes.</p>
-
-<p><i>POEMS.</i> With Portrait. <i>Cabinet Edition.</i> Two volumes.</p>
-
-<p><i>POEMS.</i> With Portrait. 16mo Edition. Two volumes.</p>
-
-<p><i>FIRESIDE TRAVELS.</i> One volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>A FABLE FOR CRITICS.</i> One volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>THE BIGLOW PAPERS.</i> Two Series. Each in one volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.</i> One volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.</i> Illustrated. <i>Red-Line
-Edition.</i> One elegant small 4to volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>UNDER THE WILLOWS, AND OTHER POEMS.</i> One
-volume.</p>
-
-<p><i>AMONG MY BOOKS.</i> A new volume, in press, and nearly
-ready.</p></div>
-
-<p class="c">FIELDS, OSGOOD, &amp; CO., Publishers.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span>&nbsp; </p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span>&nbsp; </p>
-
-<p class="c"><span class="eng"><big>The Cathedral.</big></span></p>
-
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Οὐδὲν σοφιζώμεσθα τοῖσι δαίμοισιν.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Πατρίους παραδοχὰς, ἄς θ’ ὁμήλικας χρόνῳ<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Κεκτήμεθ’, οὐδεις αὐτὰ καταβαλέι λόγος,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Οὐδ’ ἣν δι’ ἄκρων τὸ σορόν εὔρεται φρενῶν.<br /></span>
-<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">Euripides</span>, <i>Bacchæ</i>, 196-199.<br /></span>
-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span></div></div>
-</div>
-
-<h1>
-<img src="images/the-cathedral.jpg"
-width="400"
-alt="The Cathedral."
-/></h1>
-
-<p class="c">BY<br />
-<br />
-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.<br />
-<br />
-<img src="images/cathedral.jpg"
-width="425"
-alt=""
-/><br />
-<br />
-<span class="redd">BOSTON:</span><br />
-FIELDS, OSGOOD, &amp; CO.<br />
-1870.<br />
-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span><br />
-<br /><small>
-Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by<br />
-FIELDS, OSGOOD, &amp; CO.,<br />
-in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.<br />
-<br />
-<br />
-<span class="smcap">University Press: Welch, Bigelow, &amp; Co.,<br />
-Cambridge.</span><br /></small>
-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span></p>
-
-<h2>To MR. JAMES T. FIELDS.</h2>
-
-<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">My Dear Fields</span>,&mdash;</p>
-
-<p>Dr. Johnson’s sturdy self-respect led him to invent the
-Bookseller as a substitute for the Patron. My relations
-with you have enabled me to discover how pleasantly the
-Friend may replace the Bookseller. Let me record my sense
-of many thoughtful services by associating your name with
-a poem which owes its appearance in this form to your
-partiality.</p>
-
-<p class="c">
-Cordially yours,<br />
-</p>
-
-<p class="r">
-J. R. LOWELL.<br />
-</p>
-
-<p><span class="smcap">Cambridge</span>, Nov. 29, 1869.</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span>&nbsp; </p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span>&nbsp; </p>
-
-<div class="figcenter">
-<a href="images/image007a.jpg">
-<img src="images/image007a.jpg" width="450" alt="" /></a>
-</div>
-
-<h2><a name="THE_CATHEDRAL" id="THE_CATHEDRAL"></a>T H E &nbsp; C A T H E D R A L.</h2>
-
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
-<span class="ig">
-<span class="dropcap">
-<img src="images/image007b.jpg"
-width="125"
-alt="F" /></span>AR through the memory shines a happy day,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Cloudless of care, down-shod to every sense,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">And simply perfect from its own resource,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">As to a bee the new campanula’s<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Illuminate seclusion swung in air.<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Such days are not the prey of setting suns,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Nor ever blurred with mist of afterthought;<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Like words made magical by poets dead,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Wherein the music of all meaning is<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">The sense hath garnered or the soul divined,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="ig">They mingle with our life’s ethereal part,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">Sweetening and gathering sweetness evermore,<br /></span>
-<span class="ig">By beauty’s franchise disenthralled of time.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">I can recall, nay, they are present still,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Parts of myself, the perfume of my mind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Days that seem farther off than Homer’s now<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ere yet the child had loudened to the boy,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And I, recluse from playmates, found perforce<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Companionship in things that not denied<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor granted wholly; as is Nature’s wont,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who, safe in uncontaminate reserve,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Lets us mistake our longing for her love,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And mocks with various echo of ourselves.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">These first sweet frauds upon our consciousness,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That blend the sensual with its imaged world,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">These virginal cognitions, gifts of morn,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Ere life grow noisy, and slower-footed thought<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Can overtake the rapture of the sense,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To thrust between ourselves and what we feel,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Have something in them secretly divine.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Vainly the eye, once schooled to serve the brain,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With pains deliberate studies to renew<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The ideal vision: second-thoughts are prose;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For beauty’s acme hath a term as brief<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As the wave’s poise before it break in pearl.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our own breath dims the mirror of the sense,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Looking too long and closely: at a flash<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We snatch the essential grace of meaning out,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And that first passion beggars all behind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Heirs of a tamer transport prepossessed.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who, seeing once, has truly seen again<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The gray vague of unsympathizing sea<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That dragged his Fancy from her moorings back<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To shores inhospitable of eldest time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Till blank foreboding of earth-gendered powers,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Pitiless seignories in the elements,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Omnipotences blind that darkling smite,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Misgave him, and repaganized the world?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Yet, by some subtler touch of sympathy,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">These primal apprehensions, dimly stirred,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Perplex the eye with pictures from within.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This hath made poets dream of lives foregone<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In worlds fantastical, more fair than ours;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">So Memory cheats us, glimpsing half-revealed.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Even as I write she tries her wonted spell<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In that continuous redbreast boding rain:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The bird I hear sings not from yonder elm;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But the flown ecstasy my childhood heard<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Is vocal in my mind, renewed by him,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Haply made sweeter by the accumulate thrill<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That threads my undivided life and steals<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A pathos from the years and graves between.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I know not how it is with other men,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whom I but guess, deciphering myself;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For me, once felt is so felt nevermore.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The fleeting relish at sensation’s brim<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Had in it the best ferment of the wine.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">One spring I knew as never any since:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">All night the surges of the warm southwest<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Boomed intermittent through the shuddering elms,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And brought a morning from the Gulf adrift,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Omnipotent with sunshine, whose quick charm<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Startled with crocuses the sullen turf<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And wiled the bluebird to his whiff of song:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">One summer hour abides, what time I perched,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Dappled with noonday, under simmering leaves,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And pulled the pulpy oxhearts, while aloof<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">An oriole clattered and the robins shrilled,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Denouncing me an alien and a thief:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">One morn of autumn lords it o’er the rest,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When in the lane I watched the ash-leaves fall,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Balancing softly earthward without wind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or twirling with directer impulse down<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On those fallen yesterday, now barbed with frost,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">While I grew pensive with the pensive year:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And once I learned how marvellous winter was,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">When past the fence-rails, downy-gray with rime,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I creaked adventurous o’er the spangled crust<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That made familiar fields seem far and strange<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As those stark wastes that whiten endlessly<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In ghastly solitude about the pole,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And gleam relentless to the unsetting sun:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Instant the candid chambers of my brain<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Were painted with these sovran images;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And later visions seem but copies pale<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From those unfading frescos of the past,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which I, young savage, in my age of flint,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Gazed at, and dimly felt a power in me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Parted from Nature by the joy in her<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That doubtfully revealed me to myself.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thenceforward I must stand outside the gate;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And paradise was paradise the more,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Known once and barred against satiety.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">What we call Nature, all outside ourselves,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Is but our own conceit of what we see,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our own reaction upon what we feel;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The world’s a woman to our shifting mood,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Feeling with us, or making due pretence;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And therefore we the more persuade ourselves<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To make all things our thought’s confederates,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Conniving with us in whate’er we dream.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">So when our Fancy seeks analogies,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Though she have hidden what she after finds,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">She loves to cheat herself with feigned surprise.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I find my own complexion everywhere:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No rose, I doubt, was ever, like the first,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A marvel to the bush it dawned upon,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The rapture of its life made visible,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The mystery of its yearning realized,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As the first babe to the first woman born;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No falcon ever felt delight of wings<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As when, an eyas, from the stolid cliff<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Loosing himself, he followed his high heart<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To swim on sunshine, masterless as wind;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And I believe the brown earth takes delight<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In the new snow-drop looking back at her,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To think that by some vernal alchemy<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It could transmute her darkness into pearl;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">What is the buxom peony after that,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With its coarse constancy of hoyden blush?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">What the full summer to that wonder new?<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">But, if in nothing else, in us there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A sense fastidious hardly reconciled<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To the poor makeshifts of life’s scenery,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where the same slide must double all its parts,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shoved in for Tarsus and hitched back for Tyre.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I blame not in the soul this daintiness,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rasher of surfeit than a humming-bird,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In things indifferent by sense purveyed;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It argues her an immortality<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And dateless incomes of experience,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This unthrift housekeeping that will not brook<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A dish warmed-over at the feast of life,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And finds Twice stale, served with whatever sauce.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor matters much how it may go with me<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who dwell in Grub Street and am proud to drudge<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where men, my betters, wet their crust with tears:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Use can make sweet the peach’s shady side,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That only by reflection tastes of sun.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But she, my Princess, who will sometimes deign<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My garret to illumine till the walls,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Narrow and dingy, scrawled with hackneyed thought<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">(Poor Richard slowly elbowing Plato out),<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Dilate and drape themselves with tapestries<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nausikaa might have stooped o’er, while, between,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Mirrors, effaced in their own clearness, send<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Her only image on through deepening deeps<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With endless repercussion of delight,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Bringer of life, witching each sense to soul,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That sometimes almost gives me to believe<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I might have been a poet, gives at least<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A brain desaxonized, an ear that makes<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Music where none is, and a keener pang<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of exquisite surmise outleaping thought,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Her will I pamper in her luxury:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No crumpled rose-leaf of too careless choice<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall bring a northern nightmare to her dreams,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Vexing with sense of exile; hers shall be<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The invitiate firstlings of experience,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Vibrations felt but once and felt lifelong:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">O, more than half-way turn that Grecian front<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Upon me, while with self-rebuke I spell,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On the plain fillet that confines thy hair<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In conscious bounds of seeming unconstraint,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The <i>Naught in overplus</i>, thy race’s badge!<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">One feast for her I secretly designed<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In that Old World so strangely beautiful<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To us the disinherited of eld,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A day at Chartres, with no soul beside<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To roil with pedant prate my joy serene<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And make the minster shy of confidence.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I went, and, with the Saxon’s pious care,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">First ordered dinner at the pea-green inn,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The flies and I its only customers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Till by and by there came two Englishmen,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who made me feel, in their engaging way,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I was a poacher on their self-preserve,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Intent constructively on lese-anglicism.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To them (in those old razor-ridden days)<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My beard translated me to hostile French;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">So they, desiring guidance in the town,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Half condescended to my baser sphere,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And, clubbing in one mess their lack of phrase,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Set their best man to grapple with the Gaul.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">“Esker vous ate a nabitang?” he asked;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">“I never ate one; are they good?” asked I;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whereat they stared, then laughed, and we were friends,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The seas, the wars, the centuries interposed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Abolished in the truce of common speech<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And mutual comfort of the mother-tongue.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Like escaped convicts of Propriety,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">They furtively partook the joys of men,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Glancing behind when buzzed some louder fly.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Eluding these, I loitered through the town,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With hope to take my minster unawares<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In its grave solitude of memory.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A pretty burgh, and such as Fancy loves<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For bygone grandeurs, faintly rumorous now<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Upon the mind’s horizon, as of storm<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Brooding its dreamy thunders far aloof,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That mingle with our mood, but not disturb.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Its once grim bulwarks, tamed to lovers’ walks,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Look down unwatchful on the sliding Eure,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whose listless leisure suits the quiet place,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Lisping among his shallows homelike sounds<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">At Concord and by Bankside heard before.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Chance led me to a public pleasure-ground,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where I grew kindly with the merry groups,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And blessed the Frenchman for his simple art<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of being domestic in the light of day.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">His language has no word, we growl, for Home;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But he can find a fireside in the sun,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Play with his child, make love, and shriek his mind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By throngs of strangers undisprivacied.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He makes his life a public gallery,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor feels himself till what he feels comes back<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In manifold reflection from without;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">While we, each pore alert with consciousness,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Hide our best selves as we had stolen them,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And each by-stander a detective were,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Keen-eyed for every chink of undisguise.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">So, musing o’er the problem which was best,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A life wide-windowed, shining all abroad,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or curtains drawn to shield from sight profane<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The rites we pay to the mysterious I,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span>&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With outward senses furloughed and head bowed<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I followed some fine instinct in my feet,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Till, to unbend me from the loom of thought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Looking up suddenly, I found mine eyes<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Confronted with the minster’s vast repose.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Silent and gray as forest-leaguered cliff<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Left inland by the ocean’s slow retreat,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That hears afar the breeze-borne rote, and longs,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Remembering shocks of surf that clomb and fell,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Spume-sliding down the baffled decuman,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It rose before me, patiently remote<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From the great tides of life it breasted once,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Hearing the noise of men as in a dream.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I stood before the triple northern port,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where dedicated shapes of saints and kings,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Stern faces bleared with immemorial watch,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Looked down benignly grave and seemed to say,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><i>Ye come and go incessant; we remain</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><i>Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past;</i><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><i>Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot,</i><br /></span>
-<span class="i0"><i>Of faith so nobly realized as this.</i><br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">I seem to have heard it said by learned folk<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who drench you with æsthetics till you feel<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As if all beauty were a ghastly bore,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The faucet to let loose a wash of words,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But, being convinced by much experiment<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">How little inventiveness there is in man,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Grave copier of copies, I give thanks<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For a new relish, careless to inquire<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nobly, I mean, nor renegade to art.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The one thing finished in this hasty world,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Forever finished, though the barbarous pit,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As if a miracle could be encored.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But ah! this other, this that never ends,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Still climbing, luring fancy still to climb,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As full of morals half-divined as life,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Graceful, grotesque, with ever new surprise<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of hazardous caprices sure to please,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Imagination’s very self in stone!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With one long sigh of infinite release<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From pedantries past, present, or to come,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Builders of aspiration incomplete,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">So more consummate, souls self-confident,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who felt your own thought worthy of record<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In monumental pomp! No Grecian drop<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">After long exile, to the mother-tongue.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Ovid in Pontus, puling for his Rome<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of men invirile and disnatured dames<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That poison sucked from the Attic bloom decayed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shrank with a shudder from the blue-eyed race<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whose force rough-handed should renew the world,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And from the dregs of Romulus express<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Such wine as Dante poured, or he who blew<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Roland’s vain blast, or sang the Campeador<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In verse that clanks like armor in the charge,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Homeric juice, if brimmed in Odin’s horn.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And they could build, if not the columned fane<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That from the height gleamed seaward many-hued,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Something more friendly with their ruder skies:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The gray spire, molten now in driving mist,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Now lulled with the incommunicable blue;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The carvings touched to meanings new with snow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or commented with fleeting grace of shade;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The statues, motley as man’s memory,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Partial as that, so mixed of true and false,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">History and legend meeting with a kiss<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Across this bound-mark where their realms confine;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The painted windows, frecking gloom with glow,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Dusking the sunshine which they seem to cheer,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Meet symbol of the senses and the soul;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the whole pile, grim with the Northman’s thought<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of life and death, and doom, life’s equal fee,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">These were before me: and I gazed abashed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Child of an age that lectures, not creates,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Plastering our swallow-nests on the awful Past,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And twittering round the work of larger men,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As we had builded what we but deface.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Far up the great bells wallowed in delight,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Tossing their clangors o’er the heedless town,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To call the worshippers who never came,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or women mostly, in loath twos and threes.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I entered, reverent of whatever shrine<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Guards piety and solace for my kind<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or gives the soul a moment’s truce of God,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And shared decorous in the ancient rite<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My sterner fathers held idolatrous.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The service over, I was tranced in thought:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Solemn the deepening vaults, and most to me,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fresh from the fragile realm of deal and paint,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or brick mock-pious with a marble front;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Solemn the lift of high-embowered roof,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The clustered stems that spread in boughs disleaved,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Through which the organ blew a dream of storm,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Though not more potent to sublime with awe<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And shut the heart up in tranquillity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Than aisles to me familiar that o’erarch<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The conscious silences of brooding woods,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Centurial shadows, cloisters of the elk:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Yet here was sense of undefined regret,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Irreparable loss, uncertain what:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Was all this grandeur but anachronism,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A shell divorced of its informing life,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where the priest housed him like a hermit-crab,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">An alien to that faith of elder days<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That gathered round it this fair shape of stone?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Is old Religion but a spectre now,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Haunting the solitude of darkened minds,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Mocked out of memory by the sceptic day?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Is there no corner safe from peeping Doubt,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Since Gutenberg made thought cosmopolite<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And stretched electric threads from mind to mind?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nay, did Faith build this wonder? or did Fear,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That makes a fetish and misnames it God<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">(Blockish or metaphysic, matters not),<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Contrive this coop to shut its tyrant in,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Appeased with playthings, that he might not harm?<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">I turned and saw a beldame on her knees;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With eyes astray, she told mechanic beads<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Before some shrine of saintly womanhood,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Bribed intercessor with the far-off Judge:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Such my first thought, by kindlier soon rebuked,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Pleading for whatsoever touches life<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With upward impulse: be He nowhere else,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">God is in all that liberates and lifts,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Blessëd the natures shored on every side<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With landmarks of hereditary thought!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thrice happy they that wander not lifelong<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Beyond near succor of the household faith,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The guarded fold that shelters, not confines!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Their steps find patience in familiar paths,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Printed with hope by loved feet gone before<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of parent, child, or lover, glorified<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By simple magic of dividing Time.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My lids were moistened as the woman knelt,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And&mdash;was it will, or some vibration faint<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of sacred Nature, deeper than the will?&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My heart occultly felt itself in hers,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Through mutual intercession gently leagued.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Or was it not mere sympathy of brain?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A sweetness intellectually conceived<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In simpler creeds to me impossible?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A juggle of that pity for ourselves<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In others, which puts on such pretty masks<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And snares self-love with bait of charity?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Something of all it might be, or of none:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Yet for a moment I was snatched away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And had the evidence of things not seen;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For one rapt moment; then it all came back,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This age that blots out life with question-marks,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This nineteenth century with its knife and glass<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That make thought physical, and thrust far off<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The Heaven, so neighborly with man of old,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To voids sparse-sown with alienated stars.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">’Tis irrecoverable, that ancient faith,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Homely and wholesome, suited to the time,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With rod or candy for child-minded men:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No theologic tube, with lens on lens<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of syllogism transparent, brings it near,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">At best resolving some new nebula,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or blurring some fixed-star of hope to mist.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Science was Faith once; Faith were Science now,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Would she but lay her bow and arrows by<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And arm her with the weapons of the time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nothing that keeps thought out is safe from thought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For there’s no virgin-fort but self-respect,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And Truth defensive hath lost hold on God.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall we treat Him as if He were a child<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That knew not His own purpose? nor dare trust<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The Rock of Ages to their chemic tests,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Lest some day the all-sustaining base divine<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Should fail from under us, dissolved in gas?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The armëd eye that with a glance discerns<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In a dry blood-speck between ox and man,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Stares helpless at this miracle called life,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This shaping potency behind the egg,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This circulation swift of deity,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where suns and systems inconspicuous float<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As the poor blood-disks in our mortal veins.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Each age must worship its own thought of God,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">More or less earthy, clarifying still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With subsidence continuous of the dregs;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor saint nor sage could fix immutably<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The fluent image of the unstable Best,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Still changing in their very hands that wrought:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To-day’s eternal truth To-morrow proved<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Frail as frost-landscapes on a window-pane.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Meanwhile Thou smiledst, inaccessible,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">At Thought’s own substance made a cage for Thought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And Truth locked fast with her own master-key;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor didst Thou reck what image man might make<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of his own shadow on the flowing world;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The climbing instinct was enough for Thee.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or wast Thou, then, an ebbing tide that left<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Strewn with dead miracle those eldest shores,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For men to dry, and dryly lecture on,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thyself thenceforth incapable of flood?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Idle who hopes with prophets to be snatched<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By virtue in their mantles left below;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall the soul live on other men’s report,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Herself a pleasing fable of herself?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Man cannot be God’s outlaw if he would,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor so abscond him in the caves of sense<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But Nature still shall search some crevice out<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With messages of splendor from that Source<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which, dive he, soar he, baffles still and lures.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This life were brutish did we not sometimes<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Have intimation clear of wider scope,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Hints of occasion infinite, to keep<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The soul alert with noble discontent<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And onward yearnings of unstilled desire;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fruitless, except we now and then divined<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A mystery of Purpose, gleaming through<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The secular confusions of the world,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whose will we darkly accomplish, doing ours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No man can think nor in himself perceive,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Sometimes at waking, in the street sometimes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or on the hillside, always unforewarned,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A grace of being, finer than himself,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That beckons and is gone,&mdash;a larger life<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Upon his own impinging, with swift glimpse<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of spacious circles luminous with mind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To which the ethereal substance of his own<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Seems but gross cloud to make that visible,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Touched to a sudden glory round the edge.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who that hath known these visitations fleet<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Would strive to make them trite and ritual?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I, that still pray at morning and at eve,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Loving those roots that feed us from the past,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And prizing more than Plato things I learned<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">At that best academe, a mother’s knee,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thrice, stirred below my conscious self, have felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That perfect disenthralment which is God;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor know I which to hold worst enemy,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Him who on speculation’s windy waste<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Would turn me loose, stript of the raiment warm<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By Faith contrived against our nakedness,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or him who, cruel-kind, would fain obscure,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With painted saints and paraphrase of God,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The soul’s east-window of divine surprise.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Where others worship I but look and long;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For, though not recreant to my fathers’ faith,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Its forms to me are weariness, and most<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That drony vacuum of compulsory prayer,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Still pumping phrases for the Ineffable,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Though all the valves of memory gasp and wheeze.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Words that have drawn transcendent meanings up<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From the best passion of all bygone time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Steeped through with tears of triumph and remorse,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Sweet with all sainthood, cleansed in martyr-fires,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Can they, so consecrate and so inspired,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By repetition wane to vexing wind?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Alas! we cannot draw habitual breath<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In the thin air of life’s supremer heights,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We cannot make each meal a sacrament,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor with our tailors be disbodied souls,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We men, too conscious of earth’s comedy,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who see two sides, with our posed selves debate,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And only for great stakes can be sublime!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Let us be thankful when, as I do here,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We can read Bethel on a pile of stones,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And, seeing where God <i>has</i> been, trust in Him.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Brave Peter Fischer there in Nuremberg,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Moulding Saint Sebald’s miracles in bronze,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Put saint and stander-by in that quaint garb<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Familiar to him in his daily walk,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not doubting God could grant a miracle<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Then and in Nuremberg, if so He would;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But never artist for three hundred years<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Hath dared the contradiction ludicrous<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of supernatural in modern clothes.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Perhaps the deeper faith that is to come<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Will see God rather in the strenuous doubt,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Than in the creed held as an infant’s hand<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Holds purposeless whatso is placed therein.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Say it is drift, not progress, none the less,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With the old sextant of the fathers’ creed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We shape our courses by new-risen stars,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And, still lip-loyal to what once was truth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Smuggle new meanings under ancient names,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Unconscious perverts of the Jesuit, Time.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Change is the mask that all Continuance wears<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To keep us youngsters harmlessly amused;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Meanwhile some ailing or more watchful child,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Sitting apart, sees the old eyes gleam out,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Stern, and yet soft with humorous pity too.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whilere, men burnt men for a doubtful point,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As if the mind were quenchable with fire,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And Faith danced round them with her war-paint on,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Devoutly savage as an Iroquois;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Now Calvin and Servetus at one board<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Snuff in grave sympathy a milder roast,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And o’er their claret settle Comte unread.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fagot and stake were desperately sincere:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our cooler martyrdoms are done in types;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And flames that shine in controversial eyes<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Burn out no brains but his who kindles them.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This is no age to get cathedrals built:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Did God, then, wait for one in Bethlehem?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Worst is not yet: lo, where his coming looms,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of Earth’s anarchic children latest born,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Democracy, a Titan who hath learned<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To laugh at Jove’s old-fashioned thunderbolts,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Could he not also forge them, if he would?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">He, better skilled, with solvents merciless,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Loosened in air and borne on every wind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Saps unperceived: the calm Olympian height<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of ancient order feels its bases yield,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And pale gods glance for help to gods as pale.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">What will be left of good or worshipful,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of spiritual secrets, mysteries,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of fair religion’s guarded heritage,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Heirlooms of soul, passed downward unprofaned<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From eldest Ind? This Western giant coarse,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Scorning refinements which he lacks himself,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Loves not nor heeds the ancestral hierarchies,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Each rank dependent on the next above<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In orderly gradation fixed as fate.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">King by mere manhood, nor allowing aught<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of holier unction than the sweat of toil;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In his own strength sufficient; called to solve,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On the rough edges of society,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Problems long sacred to the choicer few,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And improvise what elsewhere men receive<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As gifts of deity; tough foundling reared<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Where every man’s his own Melchisedek,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">How make him reverent of a King of kings?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or Judge self-made, executor of laws<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By him not first discussed and voted on?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For him no tree of knowledge is forbid,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or sweeter if forbid. How save the ark,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Or holy of holies, unprofaned a day<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From his unscrupulous curiosity<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That handles everything as if to buy,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Tossing aside what fabrics delicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Suit not the rough-and-tumble of his ways?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">What hope for those fine-nerved humanities<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That made earth gracious once with gentler arts,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Now the rude hands have caught the trick of thought<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And claim an equal suffrage with the brain?<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">The born disciple of an elder time,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">(To me sufficient, friendlier than the new,)<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who in my blood feel motions of the Past,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I thank benignant nature most for this,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A force of sympathy, or call it lack<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of character firm-planted, loosing me<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From the pent chamber of habitual self<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To dwell enlarged in alien modes of thought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Haply distasteful, wholesomer for that,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And through imagination to possess,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As they were mine, the lives of other men.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This growth original of virgin soil,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By fascination felt in opposites,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Pleases and shocks, entices and perturbs.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In this brown-fisted rough, this shirt-sleeved Cid,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This backwoods Charlemagne of empires new,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whose blundering heel instinctively finds out<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The goutier foot of speechless dignities,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who, meeting Cæsar’s self, would slap his back,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Call him “Old Horse,” and challenge to a drink,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My lungs draw braver air, my breast dilates<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With ampler manhood, and I front both worlds,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of sense and spirit, as my natural fiefs,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To shape and then reshape them as I will.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">It was the first man’s charter; why not mine?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">How forfeit? when deposed in other hands?<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Thou shudder’st, Ovid? Dost in him forbode<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A new avatar of the large-limbed Goth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To break, or seem to break, tradition’s clew,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And chase to dreamland back thy gods dethroned?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I think man’s soul dwells nearer to the east,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nearer to morning’s fountains than the sun;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Herself the source whence all tradition sprang,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Herself at once both labyrinth and clew.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The miracle fades out of history,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">But faith and wonder and the primal earth<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Are born into the world with every child.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall this self-maker with the prying eyes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">This creature disenchanted of respect<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By the New World’s new fiend, Publicity,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Whose testing thumb leaves everywhere its smutch,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not one day feel within himself the need<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of loyalty to better than himself,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That shall ennoble him with the upward look?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall he not catch the Voice that wanders earth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With spiritual summons, dreamed or heard,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As sometimes, just ere sleep seals up the sense,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We hear our Mother call from deeps of time,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And, waking, find it vision,&mdash;none the less<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The benediction bides, old skies return,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And that unreal thing, pre-eminent,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Makes air and dream of all we see and feel?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall he divine no strength unmade of votes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Inward, impregnable, found soon as sought,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not cognizable of sense, o’er sense supreme?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">His holy places may not be of stone,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor made with hands, yet fairer far than aught<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By artist feigned or pious ardor reared,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Fit altars for who guards inviolate<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">God’s chosen seat, the sacred form of man.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Doubtless his church will be no hospital<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For superannuate forms and mumping shams,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">No parlor where men issue policies<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of life-assurance on the Eternal Mind,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nor his religion but an ambulance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To fetch life’s wounded and malingerers in,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Scorned by the strong; yet he, unconscious heir<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To the influence sweet of Athens and of Rome,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And old Judæa’s gift of secret fire,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Spite of himself shall surely learn to know<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And worship some ideal of himself,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Some divine thing, large-hearted, brotherly,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not nice in trifles, a soft creditor,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Pleased with his world, and hating only cant.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And, if his Church be doubtful, it is sure<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That, in a world, made for whatever else,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not made for mere enjoyment,&mdash;in a world<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of toil but half-requited, or, at best.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Paid in some futile currency of breath,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A world of incompleteness, sorrow swift<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And consolation laggard, whatsoe’er<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The form of building or the creed professed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The Cross, bold type of shame to homage turned,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of an unfinished life that sways the world,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall tower as sovereign emblem over all.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">The kobold Thought moves with us when we shift<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our dwelling to escape him; perched aloft<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On the first load of household-stuff he went;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For, where the mind goes, goes old furniture.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I, who to Chartres came to feed my eye<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And give to Fancy one clear holiday,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Scarce saw the minster for the thoughts it stirred<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Buzzing o’er past and future with vain quest.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Here once there stood a homely wooden church,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Which slow devotion nobly changed for this<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That echoes vaguely to my modern steps.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By suffrage universal it was built,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As practised then, for all the country came<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">From far as Rouen, to give votes for God,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Each vote a block of stone securely laid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Obedient to the master’s deep-mused plan.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Will what our ballots rear, responsible<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To no grave forethought, stand so long as this,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Delight like this the eye of after days<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Brightening with pride that here, at least, were men<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who meant and did the noblest thing they knew?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Can our religion cope with deeds like this?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">We, too, build Gothic contract-shams, because<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Our deacons have discovered that it pays,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And pews sell better under vaulted roofs<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of plaster painted like an Indian squaw.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall not that Western Goth, of whom we spoke,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">So fiercely practical, so keen of eye,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Find out, some day, that nothing pays but God,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Served whether on the smoke-shut battle-field,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In work obscure done honestly, or vote<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For truth unpopular, or faith maintained<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To ruinous convictions, or good deeds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Wrought for good’s sake, mindless of heaven or hell?<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I know not; but, sustained by sure belief<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That man still rises level with the height<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of noblest opportunities, or makes<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Such, if the time supply not, I can wait.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I gaze round on the windows, pride of France,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Each the bright gift of some mechanic guild<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Who loved their city and thought gold well spent<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To make her beautiful with piety;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I pause, transfigured by some stripe of bloom,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And my mind throngs with shining auguries,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Circle on circle, bright as seraphim,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With golden trumpets silent, that await<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The signal to blow news of good to men.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Then the revulsion came that always comes<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">After these dizzy elations of the mind:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I walked forth saddened; for all thought is sad,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And leaves a bitterish savor in the brain,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Tonic, it may be, not delectable,&mdash;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And turned, reluctant, for a parting look<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">At those old weather-pitted images<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of bygone struggle, now so sternly calm.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">About their shoulders sparrows had built nests,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Now on a mitre poising, now a crown,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Irreverently happy. While I thought<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">How confident they were, what careless hearts<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Flew on those lightsome wings and shared the sun,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A larger shadow crossed; and, looking up,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I saw where, nesting in the hoary towers,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noiseless air,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With sidelong head that watched the joy below,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Grim Norman baron o’er this clan of Kelts.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Enduring Nature, force conservative,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Indifferent to our noisy whims! Men prate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On level with the dullest, and expect<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">(Sick of no worse distemper than themselves)<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">A wondrous cure-all in equality;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">They reason that To-morrow must be wise<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Because To-day was not, nor Yesterday,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As if good days were shapen of themselves,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not of the very lifeblood of men’s souls;<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturbable,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thou quietly complet’st thy syllogism,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And from the premise sparrow here below<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Draw’st sure conclusion of the hawk above,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Pleased with the soft-billed songster, pleased no less<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">With the fierce beak of natures aquiline.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">Thou beautiful Old Time, now hid away<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">In the Past’s valley of Avilion,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Haply, like Arthur, till thy wound be healed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Then to reclaim the sword and crown again!<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Thrice beautiful to us; perchance less fair<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To who possessed thee, as a mountain seems<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To dwellers round its bases but a heap<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of barren obstacle that lairs the storm<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And the avalanche’s silent bolt holds back<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Leashed with a hair,&mdash;meanwhile some far-off clown,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Hereditary delver of the plain,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Sees it an unmoved vision of repose,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Nest of the morning, and conjectures there<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">The dance of streams to idle shepherds’ pipes,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And fairer habitations softly hung<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">On breezy slopes, or hid in valleys cool,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For happier men. No mortal ever dreams<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">That the scant isthmus he encamps upon<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Between two oceans, one, the Stormy, passed,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">And one, the Peaceful, yet to venture on,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Has been that future whereto prophets yearned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">For the fulfilment of Earth’s cheated hope,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Shall be that past which nerveless poets moan<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As the lost opportunity of song.<br /></span>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<span class="i0">O Power, more near my life than life itself<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">(Or what seems life to us in sense immured),<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Share in the tree-top’s joyance, and conceive<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of sunshine and wide air and wingëd things<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">By sympathy of nature, so do I<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Have evidence of Thee so far above,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Yet in and of me! Rather Thou the root<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Invisibly sustaining, hid in light,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Not darkness, or in darkness made by us.<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">If sometimes I must hear good men debate<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of other witness of Thyself than Thou,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">As if there needed any help of ours<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To nurse Thy flickering life, that else must cease,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span><br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Blown out, as ’t were a candle, by men’s breath,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">My soul shall not be taken in their snare,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">To change her inward surety for their doubt<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof:<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">While she can only feel herself through Thee,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">I fear not Thy withdrawal; more I fear,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked with dreams<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, Thou,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Walking Thy garden still, commun’st with men,<br /></span>
-<span class="i0">Missed in the commonplace of miracle.<br /></span>
-</div></div>
-</div>
-
-<p class="fint">THE END.</p>
-
-<hr class="full" />
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