Who feels full well and thinks in truth
The life, the spirit of his youth.
The light of heaven streams down his glance Upturn'd, and rapt as poet's trance,
As though the ray he wills to win Beam'd vivid to the soul within.
It droops; as fails the poet's thought Too long intent, too fully fraught.
Around the wall he glances now; Now half reclines his feverous brow: But scarce in languor, scarce oppress'd;
But aching in the deep unrest
Of thoughts for ever unexpress'd; And striving still to sum them well Within himself with studied spell, As magian in the secret cell
His haughtier spirits might compel.
That brow is sure a shrine of light— The throne of mind, the mountain height Like proud Olympus high and white, Where Homer's soul of sunlike eye Beheld the Thunderer's majesty.
That eye has lightning scorn for all
The things that irk us and enthral;
For what it sees with glance so keen, The world's imposture base and vain; But latent in the quiet mood
Which comes when all is understood: Too truly proud to tell how much Of his disdain is mov'd by such.
And, more than that the lofty look That little seems to deign or brook, That eye, where thoughts incessant gleam In subtile fire, a changeful beam, Like sunlight shining in a stream, Has some such glance resolv'd and high Of summ'dness strong and energy, As down the ranks in deep array Might dart command on battle day, Or o'er a senate with the word Throughout the nations to be heard.
And in that spirit-light which now Flashes from 'neath the throbbing brow The fervent thought that stirs below There is all that ardours so, When the poet's gazings glow On the glory of the vision, Hovering o'er his trance elysian, Rapt as martyr Heaven beholding All the Heaven of Heavens unfolding, All the hope he dies for holding,
Till the spirit, far on high, Faints from life in ecstasy.
High and haughty though the glance, Though the lakelike brow's expanse- Even as darkens some fair stream As the cloud comes o'er the gleam- Somewhat show of what is borne, Half severe, as somewhat worn By the hours of vigil deep,
By the thought that cannot sleep; Yet, there is a look shall show Much of more that is below; Of the sense of Love, which is Power, and truth, and happiness; Which the poet knows and feels, Most partakes and best reveals—
Song and music strain the meetest For the mightiest charm and sweetest-; And a somewhat of a thought
More than may in words be wrought,
Far and deep as is the sea,
And dark in its intensity,
Thought of Love, that cannot lie
Long in life—yet can it die?—
Thought that is all of one alone, Never, never to be known,
Thought that is deep and still, like pride,
Love like that where Dante died.
All accordant with the eye,
In earnest gaze or fond or high, Where its eloquences are
A world of soul, that world a star, All accordant every grace
O'er the ever vivid face,
On the lips of sculptur'd mould,
Like the living skill of old,
When Athenian mind inspir'd
The marble Gods, as though Gods fir'd The thought that to their heavens aspir'd- Every instant look, that seems
Shadow'd from the spirit's gleams, Like the formfulness of dreams- Even accordant all, as blending Strains in choral song ascending, As the fragrance of the rose With the bloom wherein she glows.
So much is there of steadfast might, Of thought in strong and stately height, That those may deem that look but there That he the passion and the care Which many a heart and aspect wear,
Would rule at least to secret strife, Nor let them in his look be life.
Well would he so there is not eye Should search him when his thoughts surge high.
Men mark him not, and pass him by.
But not by such as be our own
Mete we our thought of what are shown When he is all himself alone,
Hearkening his spirit's deepest tone.
One hill, O land of Wales! of thine, That hear'st me thus, thou land of mine ! Might whelm in silent gloom for ever, A fierce and mighty fire's endeavour : But earth has had the fires that win Their way, how deep soe'er within. The time has been, when fir'd commotion Blaz'd Andes' through the boiling ocean, O'er countless ages still to rise Beyond the thunders to the skies, Till earth again be cloven all,
Or other fire resorb the ball.
But ever there the soul all rife,
The Presence of th' immortal life,
(1) According to Humboldt all the volcanoes of America have burst through older igneous rocks. See, for instance, Phillips's Treatise on Geology, vol. ii. p. 195; Lond. 1839.
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