| |
| THE SHAPES that frowned before the eyes | |
| Of the early world have fled, | |
| And all the life of earth and skies, | |
| Of streams and seas, is dead. | |
| |
| Forgotten is the Titan’s fame, | 5 |
| The dread Chimæra now | |
| Is but a mild innocuous flame | |
| Upon a mountain’s brow, | |
| Around whose warmth its strawberry red | |
| The arbutus hangs and goatherds tread. | 10 |
| |
| And now has Typho spent his rage, | |
| The Sirens now no more | |
| Entice the song-struck mariner | |
| To give his voyage o’er. | |
| The sailor past Messina hies, | 15 |
| And scorns the den where Scylla lies. | |
| |
| Leda’s twin sons no more are seen | |
| In battle’s hottest press, | |
| Nor shine the wind-tost waves between | |
| To seamen in distress. | 20 |
| |
| The muse is but the poet’s soul, | |
| That looked towards Helicon, | |
| And for its living thought divine | |
| Raised up a mountain throne. | |
| |
| But ah! is nought save fable slain | 25 |
| In this new realm of thought? | |
| Or has the shaft Primeval Truth | |
| And Truth’s great Author sought? | |
| |
| Yes, wisdom now is built on sense; | |
| We measure and we weigh, | 30 |
| We break and join, make rare and dense, | |
| And reason God away. | |
| |
| The wise have probed this wondrous world, | |
| And searched the stars, and find | |
| All curious facts and laws revealed, | 35 |
| But not Almighty mind. | |
| |
| From thinking dust we mould the spheres, | |
| And shape earth’s wondrous frame: | |
| If God had slept a million years, | |
| All things would be the same. | 40 |
| |
| O give me back a world of life, | |
| Something to love and trust, | |
| Something to quench my inward strife | |
| And lift me from the dust. | |
| |
| I cannot live with nature dead, | 45 |
| Mid laws and causes blind; | |
| Powerless on earth, or overhead, | |
| To trace the all-guiding mind; | |
| |
| Then boast that I have found the keys | |
| That time and space unlock, | 50 |
| That snatch from heaven its mysteries, | |
| Its fear from the earthquake shock. | |
| |
| Better the instinct of the brute | |
| That feels its God afar, | |
| Than reason, to his praises mute, | 55 |
| Talking with every star. | |
| |
| Better the thousand deities | |
| That swarmed in Greece of yore, | |
| Than thought that scorns all mysteries | |
| And dares all depths to explore. | 60 |
| |
| Better is childhood’s thoughtless trust | |
| Than manhood’s daring scorn; | |
| The fear that creeps along the dust | |
| Than doubt in hearts forlorn. | |
| |
| And knowledge, if it cost so dear, | 65 |
| If such be reason’s day, | |
| I ’ll lose the pearl without a tear, | |
| And grope my star-lit way. | |
| |
| And be the toils of wisdom curst | |
| If such the meed we earn; | 70 |
| If freezing pride and doubt are nurst, | |
| And faith forbid to burn. | |
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