In doubt his mind or body to prefer ;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little or too much :
Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;
Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all.
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!
Go, wondrous creature! mount where science
guides,
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old Time, and regulate the sun;
Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere,
To the first good, first perfect, and first fair ;
Or tread the mazy round his followers trod,
And quitting sense call imitating God :
As eastern priests in giddy circles run,
And turn their heads to imitate the sun.
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule-
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.
I met a preacher there I knew, and said:
"Ill and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene?"
"Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been
Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the Living
Bread."
O human soul! as long as thou canst so
Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,
To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam--
Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night!
Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy
home.
ETERNAL LORD! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee ;
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee
To Thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated Face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine
My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe;
Wash with Thy Blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
MICHAEL ANGELO, trans. by WORDSWORTH.
TEARS though they're here below, the sinners' brine,
Above, they are the angels' spiced wine.
IF little labour, little are our gains;
Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
Richer entanglements, enthralments far
More self-destroying, leading by degrees,
To the chief intensity: the crown of these
Is made of love and friendship, and sits high
Upon the forehead of humanity.
All its more ponderous and bulky worth
Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth
A steady splendour; but at the tip-top,
There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop
Of light, and that is love: its influence
Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense,
At which we start and fret: till in the end,
Melting into its radiance, we blend,
Mingle, and so become a part of it,-
Nor with aught else can our souls interknit
So wingedly when we combine therewith,
Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith,
And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.
Ay, so delicious is the unsating food,
That men, who might have tower'd in the van
Of all the congregated world, to fan
And winnow from the coming step of time
All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime
Left by men-slugs and human serpentry,
Have been content to let occasion die,
Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium.
And truly, I would rather be struck dumb,
Than speak against this ardent listlessness :
For I have ever thought that it might bless
The world with benefits unknowingly;
As does the nightingale, up-perched high,
And cloistered among cool and branched leaves-
She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives,
How tiptoe Night holds back her dark gray hood.
Just so may love, although 'tis understood
The mere commingling of passionate breath,
Produce more than our searching witnesseth.
What I know not; but who, of men, can tell
That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit
would swell
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble stones,
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,
If human souls did never kiss and greet!
"WHAT is a Church?" Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek:
From Christian folds, the one selected race,
Of all professions, and in every place."
"What is a Church?" "A flock," our vicar cries,
"Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise ;
Wherein are various states and due degrees,
The bench for honour, and the stall for ease;
That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
The pious, peaceful prebendary shares."
"What is a Church?" Our honest sexton tells,
"'Tis a tall building with a tower and bells;
Where priest and clerk, with joint exertion strive
To keep the ardour of their flock alive;
That, by his periods eloquent and grave;
This, by responses and a well-set stave;
These for the living; but when life be fled,
I toll myself the requiem for the dead."
'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place
Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race;
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then forgotten, sleep:
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And like the builders, will in time decay.
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