"Not all "the Echoes answer me- not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud arise for ever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent-we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone-not all our fame-
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us--

Not all the mysteries that in us lie----
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

ΤΟ

OT long ago, the writer of these lines,

In the mad pride of intellectuality,

Maintained" the power of words "-denied that ever

A thought arose within the human brain

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue :

ΤΟ

And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words-two foreign soft dissyllables--
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

66

(Who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")

Could hope to utter. And I my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,

I cannot write--I cannot speak or think

Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,

This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,

Upon the left, and all the way along,

Amid unpurpled vapours, far away

To where the prospect terminates-thee only.

I SAW thee once-once only-years ago:
I must not say how many-but not many.

It was a July midnight; and from out

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,