Thoughts, Moods and Ideals: Crimes of Leisure | Page 6

for eternity.
The True fears not Forever: fear
thou not.
Duty and Love are noble man and wife
(If otherwise thou
see them 'tis illusion),
'Tis she sends Duty forth with dear embrace

And proudest of his battle through her tears
Encourages: 'Regard me
not but strike!'
And 'If thou must depart alas, depart!
Follow thy
noblest, I am ever true!'
He strikes and presses, sending back his heart

As forward moves his foot on the arena;
Or marches bravely far
and far, until
Hope of return as mortal disappears:
This should true

soul endure, though everlasting--
But then, besides, we know that
One has mercy."
TO A FELLOW-STUDENT OF KANT.
The sweet star of the Bethlehem night
Beauteous guides and true,

And still, to me and you
With only local, legendary light.
For us who hither look with eyes afar
From constellations of
philosophy,
All light is from the Cradle; the true star,
Serene o'er
distance, in the Life we see.
TO THE SOUL.
AN ODE OF EVOLUTION
O lark aspire!
Aspire forever, in thy morning sky!--
Forever soul,
beat bravely, gladly, higher,
And sing and sing that sadness is a lie.
Forever, soul, achieve!
Droop not an instant into sloth and rest.

Live in a changeless moment of the best
And lower heights to
Heaven forgotten leave.
Man still will strive.
Delight of battle leaped within his sires.
They
laughed at death; and Life was all alive:
In him not blood it seeks, but
vast desires.
He wakens from a dream
Reviews the forms he fought in ages gone--

He or his ancestors, their shapes are one:--
And also of himself the
forms he battled seem.
He sees the truth!
"I wrestled with myself, and rose to strength.
Still
be that progress mine!--I see at length
All World, all Soul are one, all
ages youth!"
THE PALMER.

O solemn clime to which my spirit looks,
No more will I the path to
thee defer,--
Worn here with search--a too sad wanderer,--
The
dance-tune spent, surpassed the sacred books,
And spurned that city's
walls where I did plan
A thousand lives, unwitting I was pent;
As
though my thousand lives could be content
With any vista in the
bounds of man!
Eternal clime, our exile is from thee!
Flood o'er thy portals like the
tender morn!--
Receive! receive! and let us new be born!
We are
thy substance--spirit of thy degree--
Mist of thy bliss--fire, love,
infinity!
And only by some mischance from thee torn.
THE ARTIST'S PRAYER.
I know thee not, O Spirit fair!
O Life and flying Unity
Of
Loveliness! Must man despair
Forever in his chase of thee!
When snowy clouds flash silver-gilt,
Then feel I that thou art on high!

When fire o'er all the west is spilt,
Flames at its heart thy majesty.
Thy beauty basks on distant hills;
It smiles in eve's wine-colored sea;

It shakes its light on leaves and rills;
In calm ideals it mocks at me;
Thy glances strike from many a lake
That lines through woodland
scapes a sheen;
Yet to thine eyes I never wake:--
They glance, but
they remain unseen.
I know thee not, O Spirit fair!
Thou fillest heaven: the stars are thee:

Whatever fleets with beauty rare
Fleets radiant from thy mystery.
Forever thou art near my grasp;
Thy touches pass in twilight air;

Yet still--thy shapes elude my clasp:--
I know thee not, thou Spirit
fair!
O Ether, proud, and vast, and great,
Above the legions of the stars!


To this thou art not adequate;--
Nor rainbow's glorious scimitars.
I know thee not, thou Spirit sweet!
I chained pursue, while thou art
free.
Sole by the smile I sometimes meet
I know thou, Vast One,
knowest me.
In old religions hadst thou place:
Long, long, O Vision, our pursuit!

Yea, monad, fish and childlike brute
Through countless ages
dreamt thy grace.
Grey nations felt thee o'er them tower;
Some clothed thee in fantastic
dress;
Some thought thee as the unknown Power,
I, e'er the
unknown Loveliness.
To all, thou wert as harps of joy;
To bard and sage their fulgent sun:

To priests their mystic life's employ;
But unto me the Lovely One.
Veils clothed thy might; veils draped thy charm;
The might they
tracked, but I the grace;
They learnt all forces were thine Arm,
I
that all beauty was thy Face.
Night spares us little. Wanderers we.
Our rapt delights, our wisdoms
rare
But shape our darknesses of thee,--
We know thee not, thou
Spirit fair!
Would that thine awful Peerlessness
An hour could shine o'er heaven
and earth
And I the maddening power possess
To drink the cup,--O
Godlike birth!
All life impels me to thy search:
Without thee, yea, to live were null;

Still shall I make the dawn thy Church,
And pray thee "God the
Beautiful."
THE WIND-CHANT.
The Soul, the inner, immortal Ruler.--Hindu Upanishad.

"Witch-like, see it planets roll,
Hear it from the cradle call--

Nature?--Nature is the soul;
That alone is aught and all.
Grieved or
broken though the song,
The fount of music is elate,
For the Soul is
ever strong,
For the Soul is ever great."
"For the Soul is ever great!"--
Songless sat I by a grove,
Pines, like
funeral priests of state,
Chanted solemn rites above.
Dark and
glassy far below,
The River in his proud vale slept,
Eve with
olive-shafted bow
Like a stealthy archer crept.
Why, O Masters, then I