Imaginationis not thought, neither is fancy reflection:Thought paceth like a hoary sage, but imagination hath wings as an eagle:Reflection sternly considereth, nor is sparing to condemn evil,But fancy lightly laugheth, in the sun-clad gardens of amusement.For the shy game of the fowler the quickest shot is the surest;But with slow care and measured aim the gunner pointeth his cannon:So for all less occasions, the surface-thought is best,But to be master of the great take thou heavier metal.It is a good thing, and a wholesome, to search out bosom sins,But to be the hero of selfish imaginings, is the subtle poison of pride:At night, in the stillness of thy chamber, guard and curb thy thoughts,And in recounting the doings of the day, beware that thou do it with prayer,Or thinking will be an idle pleasure, and retrospect yield no fruit.Steer the bark of thy mind from the syren isle of reverie,And let a watchful spirit mingle with the glance of recollection:Also, in examining thine heart, in sounding the fountain of thine actions,Be more careful of the evil than of the good; and humble thyself in thy sin.
Imaginationis not thought, neither is fancy reflection:
Thought paceth like a hoary sage, but imagination hath wings as an eagle:
Reflection sternly considereth, nor is sparing to condemn evil,
But fancy lightly laugheth, in the sun-clad gardens of amusement.
For the shy game of the fowler the quickest shot is the surest;
But with slow care and measured aim the gunner pointeth his cannon:
So for all less occasions, the surface-thought is best,
But to be master of the great take thou heavier metal.
It is a good thing, and a wholesome, to search out bosom sins,
But to be the hero of selfish imaginings, is the subtle poison of pride:
At night, in the stillness of thy chamber, guard and curb thy thoughts,
And in recounting the doings of the day, beware that thou do it with prayer,
Or thinking will be an idle pleasure, and retrospect yield no fruit.
Steer the bark of thy mind from the syren isle of reverie,
And let a watchful spirit mingle with the glance of recollection:
Also, in examining thine heart, in sounding the fountain of thine actions,
Be more careful of the evil than of the good; and humble thyself in thy sin.
Theroot of all wholesome thought is knowledge of thyself,For thus only canst thou learn the character of God toward thee.He made thee, and thou art; He redeemed thee, and thou wilt be:Thou art evil, yet He loveth thee; thou sinnest, yet He pardoneth thee.Though thou canst not perceive Him, yet is He in all His works,Infinite in grand outline, infinite in minute perfection:Nature is the chart of God, mapping out all His attributes;Art is the shadow of His wisdom, and copieth His resources.Thou knowest the laws of matter to be emanations of His will,And thy best reason for aught is this,—Thou, Lord, wouldst have it so.Yea, what is any law but an absolute decree of God?Or the properties of matter and mind, but the arbitrary fiats of Jehovah?He made and ordained necessity; He forged the chain of reason;And holdeth in His own right hand the first of the golden links.A fool regardeth mind as the spiritual essence of matter,And not rather matter as the gross accident of mind.Can finite govern infinite, or a part exceed the whole,Or the wisdom of God sit down at the feet of innate necessity?Necessity is a creature of His hand: for He can never change;And chance hath no existence where everything is needful.
Theroot of all wholesome thought is knowledge of thyself,
For thus only canst thou learn the character of God toward thee.
He made thee, and thou art; He redeemed thee, and thou wilt be:
Thou art evil, yet He loveth thee; thou sinnest, yet He pardoneth thee.
Though thou canst not perceive Him, yet is He in all His works,
Infinite in grand outline, infinite in minute perfection:
Nature is the chart of God, mapping out all His attributes;
Art is the shadow of His wisdom, and copieth His resources.
Thou knowest the laws of matter to be emanations of His will,
And thy best reason for aught is this,—Thou, Lord, wouldst have it so.
Yea, what is any law but an absolute decree of God?
Or the properties of matter and mind, but the arbitrary fiats of Jehovah?
He made and ordained necessity; He forged the chain of reason;
And holdeth in His own right hand the first of the golden links.
A fool regardeth mind as the spiritual essence of matter,
And not rather matter as the gross accident of mind.
Can finite govern infinite, or a part exceed the whole,
Or the wisdom of God sit down at the feet of innate necessity?
Necessity is a creature of His hand: for He can never change;
And chance hath no existence where everything is needful.
Canstthou measure Omnipotence, canst thou conceive Ubiquity,Which guideth the meanest reptile, and quickeneth the brightest seraph,Which steereth the particle of dust, and commandeth the path of the comet?To Him all things are equal, for all things are necessary.The smith was weary at his forge, and welded the metal carelessly,And the anchor breaketh in its bed; and the vessel foundereth with her crew:A word of anger is muttered, engendering the midnight murder:The sun bursteth from a cloud, and maddeneth the toiling husbandman.Shall these things be, and God not know it?Shall He know, and not be in them? shall He see, and not be among them?And how can they be otherwise than as He knoweth?Truly, the Lord is in all things; verily, He worketh in all.Think thus, and thy thoughts are firm, ascribing each circumstance to Him;Yet know surely, and believe the truth, that God willeth not evil;For adversities are blessings in disguise, and wickedness the Lord abhorreth:That He is in all things is an axiom, and that He is righteous in all:Ascribe holiness to Him, while thou musest on the mystery of sin,For infinite can grasp that, which finite cannot compass.
Canstthou measure Omnipotence, canst thou conceive Ubiquity,
Which guideth the meanest reptile, and quickeneth the brightest seraph,
Which steereth the particle of dust, and commandeth the path of the comet?
To Him all things are equal, for all things are necessary.
The smith was weary at his forge, and welded the metal carelessly,
And the anchor breaketh in its bed; and the vessel foundereth with her crew:
A word of anger is muttered, engendering the midnight murder:
The sun bursteth from a cloud, and maddeneth the toiling husbandman.
Shall these things be, and God not know it?
Shall He know, and not be in them? shall He see, and not be among them?
And how can they be otherwise than as He knoweth?
Truly, the Lord is in all things; verily, He worketh in all.
Think thus, and thy thoughts are firm, ascribing each circumstance to Him;
Yet know surely, and believe the truth, that God willeth not evil;
For adversities are blessings in disguise, and wickedness the Lord abhorreth:
That He is in all things is an axiom, and that He is righteous in all:
Ascribe holiness to Him, while thou musest on the mystery of sin,
For infinite can grasp that, which finite cannot compass.
Inworks of art, think justly: what praise canst thou render unto man?For he made not his own mind, nor is he the source of contrivance.If a cunning workman make an engine that fashioneth curious works,Which hath the praise, the machine or its maker,—the engine, or he that framed it?And could he frame it so subtly as to give it a will and freedom,Endow it with complicated powers, and a glorious living soul,Who, while he admireth the wondrous understanding creature,Will not pay deeper homage to the Maker of master minds?Otherwise, thou art senseless as the pagan, that adoreth his own handywork;Yea, while thou boastest of thy wisdom, thy mind is as the mind of the savage,For he boweth down to his idols, and thou art a worshipper of self,Giving to the reasoning machine the credit due to its creator.
Inworks of art, think justly: what praise canst thou render unto man?
For he made not his own mind, nor is he the source of contrivance.
If a cunning workman make an engine that fashioneth curious works,
Which hath the praise, the machine or its maker,—the engine, or he that framed it?
And could he frame it so subtly as to give it a will and freedom,
Endow it with complicated powers, and a glorious living soul,
Who, while he admireth the wondrous understanding creature,
Will not pay deeper homage to the Maker of master minds?
Otherwise, thou art senseless as the pagan, that adoreth his own handywork;
Yea, while thou boastest of thy wisdom, thy mind is as the mind of the savage,
For he boweth down to his idols, and thou art a worshipper of self,
Giving to the reasoning machine the credit due to its creator.
Thekey-stone of thy mind, to give thy thoughts solidity,To bind them as in an arch, to fix them as the world in its sphere,Is to learn from the book of the Lord, to drink from the well of His wisdom.Who can condense the sun, or analyse the fulness of the Bible,So that its ideas be gathered, and the harvest of its wisdom be brought in?That book is easy to the man who setteth his heart to understand it,But to the careless and profane it shall seem the foolishness of God;And it is a delicate test to prove thy moral state;To the humble disciple it is bread, but a stone to the proud and unbelieving:A scorner shall find nothing but the husks, wherewith to feed his hunger,But for the soul of the simple, it is plenty of full-ripe wheat.The Scripture abideth the same, in the sober majesty of truth;And the differing aspects of its teaching proceed from diversity in minds.He that would learn to think may gain that knowledge there;For the living word, as an angel, standeth at the gate of wisdom,And publisheth, This is the way, walk ye surely in it.Religion taketh by the hand the humble pupil of repentance,And teacheth him lessons of mystery, solving the questions of doubt;She maketh man worthy of himself, of his high prerogative of reason,Threadeth all the labyrinths of thought, and leadeth him to his God.
Thekey-stone of thy mind, to give thy thoughts solidity,
To bind them as in an arch, to fix them as the world in its sphere,
Is to learn from the book of the Lord, to drink from the well of His wisdom.
Who can condense the sun, or analyse the fulness of the Bible,
So that its ideas be gathered, and the harvest of its wisdom be brought in?
That book is easy to the man who setteth his heart to understand it,
But to the careless and profane it shall seem the foolishness of God;
And it is a delicate test to prove thy moral state;
To the humble disciple it is bread, but a stone to the proud and unbelieving:
A scorner shall find nothing but the husks, wherewith to feed his hunger,
But for the soul of the simple, it is plenty of full-ripe wheat.
The Scripture abideth the same, in the sober majesty of truth;
And the differing aspects of its teaching proceed from diversity in minds.
He that would learn to think may gain that knowledge there;
For the living word, as an angel, standeth at the gate of wisdom,
And publisheth, This is the way, walk ye surely in it.
Religion taketh by the hand the humble pupil of repentance,
And teacheth him lessons of mystery, solving the questions of doubt;
She maketh man worthy of himself, of his high prerogative of reason,
Threadeth all the labyrinths of thought, and leadeth him to his God.
Comehither, child of meditation, upon whose high fair foreheadGlittereth the star of mind in its unearthly lustre:Hast thou nought to tell us of thine airy joys,—When, borne on sinewy pinions, strong as the western condor,The soul, after soaring for a while round the cloud-capped Andes of reflection,Glad in its conscious immortality, leaveth a world behind,To dare at one bold flight the broad Atlantic to another?Hast thou no secret pangs to whisper common men,No dread of thine own energies, still active day and night,Lest too ecstatic heat sublime thyself away,Or vivid horrors, sharp and clear, madden thy tense fibres?In half-shaped visions of sleep hast thou not feared thy flittings,Lest reason, like a raking hawk, return not to thy call:Nor waked to work-day life with throbbing head and heart,Nor welcomed early dawn to save thee from unrest?For the wearied spirit lieth as a fainting maiden,Captive and borne away on the warrior's foam-covered steed,And sinketh down wounded, as a gladiator on the sand,While the keen faulchion of Intellect is cutting through the scabbard of the brain.Imagination, like a shadowy giant looming on the twilight of the Hartz,Shall overwhelm judgment with affright, and scare him from his throne:In a dream thou mayst be mad, and feel the fire within thee;In a dream thou mayst travel out of self, and see thee with the eyes of another;Or sleep in thine own corpse: or wake as in many bodies;Or swell, as expanded to infinity; or shrink, as imprisoned to a point;Or among moss-grown ruins mayst wander with the sullen disembodied,And gaze upon their glassy eyes until thy heart-blood freeze.
Comehither, child of meditation, upon whose high fair forehead
Glittereth the star of mind in its unearthly lustre:
Hast thou nought to tell us of thine airy joys,—
When, borne on sinewy pinions, strong as the western condor,
The soul, after soaring for a while round the cloud-capped Andes of reflection,
Glad in its conscious immortality, leaveth a world behind,
To dare at one bold flight the broad Atlantic to another?
Hast thou no secret pangs to whisper common men,
No dread of thine own energies, still active day and night,
Lest too ecstatic heat sublime thyself away,
Or vivid horrors, sharp and clear, madden thy tense fibres?
In half-shaped visions of sleep hast thou not feared thy flittings,
Lest reason, like a raking hawk, return not to thy call:
Nor waked to work-day life with throbbing head and heart,
Nor welcomed early dawn to save thee from unrest?
For the wearied spirit lieth as a fainting maiden,
Captive and borne away on the warrior's foam-covered steed,
And sinketh down wounded, as a gladiator on the sand,
While the keen faulchion of Intellect is cutting through the scabbard of the brain.
Imagination, like a shadowy giant looming on the twilight of the Hartz,
Shall overwhelm judgment with affright, and scare him from his throne:
In a dream thou mayst be mad, and feel the fire within thee;
In a dream thou mayst travel out of self, and see thee with the eyes of another;
Or sleep in thine own corpse: or wake as in many bodies;
Or swell, as expanded to infinity; or shrink, as imprisoned to a point;
Or among moss-grown ruins mayst wander with the sullen disembodied,
And gaze upon their glassy eyes until thy heart-blood freeze.
Alonemust thou stand, O man! alone at the bar of judgment;Alone must thou bear thy sentence, alone must thou answer for thy deeds:Therefore it is well thou retirest often to secresy and solitude,To feel that thou art accountable separately from thy fellows:For a crowd hideth truth from the eyes, society drowneth thought,And being but one among many, stifleth the chidings of conscience.Solitude bringeth woe to the wicked, for his crimes are told out in his ear;But addeth peace to the good, for the mercies of his God are numbered.Thou mayst know if it be well with a man,—loveth he gaiety or solitude?For the troubled river rusheth to the sea, but the calm lake slumbereth among the mountains.How dear to the mind of the sage are the thoughts that are bred in loneliness;For there is as it were music at his heart, and he talketh within him as with friends:But guilt maddeneth the brain, and terror glareth in the eye,Where, in his solitary cell, the malefactor wrestleth with remorse.Give me but a lodge in the wilderness, drop me on an island in the desert,And thought shall yield me happiness, though I may not increase it by imparting:For the soul never slumbereth, but is as the eye of the Eternal,And mind, the breath of God, knoweth not ideal vacuity:At night, after weariness and watching, the body sinketh into sleep,But the mental eye is awake, and thou reasonest in thy dreams:In a dream, thou mayst live a lifetime, and all be forgotten in the morning:Even such is life, and so soon perisheth its memory.
Alonemust thou stand, O man! alone at the bar of judgment;
Alone must thou bear thy sentence, alone must thou answer for thy deeds:
Therefore it is well thou retirest often to secresy and solitude,
To feel that thou art accountable separately from thy fellows:
For a crowd hideth truth from the eyes, society drowneth thought,
And being but one among many, stifleth the chidings of conscience.
Solitude bringeth woe to the wicked, for his crimes are told out in his ear;
But addeth peace to the good, for the mercies of his God are numbered.
Thou mayst know if it be well with a man,—loveth he gaiety or solitude?
For the troubled river rusheth to the sea, but the calm lake slumbereth among the mountains.
How dear to the mind of the sage are the thoughts that are bred in loneliness;
For there is as it were music at his heart, and he talketh within him as with friends:
But guilt maddeneth the brain, and terror glareth in the eye,
Where, in his solitary cell, the malefactor wrestleth with remorse.
Give me but a lodge in the wilderness, drop me on an island in the desert,
And thought shall yield me happiness, though I may not increase it by imparting:
For the soul never slumbereth, but is as the eye of the Eternal,
And mind, the breath of God, knoweth not ideal vacuity:
At night, after weariness and watching, the body sinketh into sleep,
But the mental eye is awake, and thou reasonest in thy dreams:
In a dream, thou mayst live a lifetime, and all be forgotten in the morning:
Even such is life, and so soon perisheth its memory.
Speechis the golden harvest that followeth the flowering of thought;Yet oftentimes runneth it to husk, and the grains be withered and scanty:Speech is reason's brother, and a kingly prerogative of man,That likeneth him to his Maker, who spake, and it was done:Spirit may mingle with spirit, but sense requireth a symbol;And speech is the body of a thought, without which it were not seen.When thou walkest, musing with thyself, in the green aisles of the forest,Utter thy thinkings aloud, that they take a shape and being:For he that pondereth in silence crowdeth the storehouse of his mind,And though he hath heaped great riches, yet is he hindered in the using.A man that speaketh too little, and thinketh much and deeply,Corrodeth his own heart-strings, and keepeth back good from his fellows:A man that speaketh too much, and museth but little and lightly,Wasteth his mind in words, and is counted a fool among men:But thou, when thou hast thought, weave charily the web of meditation,And clothe the ideal spirit in the suitable garments of speech.
Speechis the golden harvest that followeth the flowering of thought;
Yet oftentimes runneth it to husk, and the grains be withered and scanty:
Speech is reason's brother, and a kingly prerogative of man,
That likeneth him to his Maker, who spake, and it was done:
Spirit may mingle with spirit, but sense requireth a symbol;
And speech is the body of a thought, without which it were not seen.
When thou walkest, musing with thyself, in the green aisles of the forest,
Utter thy thinkings aloud, that they take a shape and being:
For he that pondereth in silence crowdeth the storehouse of his mind,
And though he hath heaped great riches, yet is he hindered in the using.
A man that speaketh too little, and thinketh much and deeply,
Corrodeth his own heart-strings, and keepeth back good from his fellows:
A man that speaketh too much, and museth but little and lightly,
Wasteth his mind in words, and is counted a fool among men:
But thou, when thou hast thought, weave charily the web of meditation,
And clothe the ideal spirit in the suitable garments of speech.
Utteredout of time, or concealed in its season, good savoureth of evil;To be secret looketh like guilt, to speak out may breed contention:Often have I known the honest heart, flaming with indignant virtue,Provoke unneeded war by its rash ambassador the tongue:Often have I seen the charitable man go so slily on his mission,That those who met him in the twilight, took him for a skulking thief:I have heard the zealous youth telling out his holy secretsBefore a swinish throng, who mocked him as he spake;And I considered, his openness was hardening them that mocked,Whereas a judicious keeping-back might have won their sympathy:I have judged rashly and harshly the hand, liberal in the dark,Because in the broad daylight, it hath holden it a virtue to be close;And the silent tongue have I condemned, because reserve hath chained it,That it hid, yea from a brother, the kindness it had done by comforting.No need to sound a trumpet, but less to hush a footfall:Do thou thy good openly, not as though the doing were a crime.Secresy goeth cowled, and Honesty demandeth wherefore?For he judgeth—judgeth he not well?—that nothing need be hid but guilt.Why should thy good be evil spoken of, through thine unrighteous silence?If thou art challenged, speak, and prove the good thou doest.The free example of benevolence, unobtruded, yet unhidden,Soundeth in the ears of sloth, Go, and do thou likewise:And I wot the hypocrite's sin to be of darker dye,Because the good man, fearing, thereby hideth his light:But neither God nor man hath bid thee cloak thy good,When a seasonable word would set thee in thy sphere, that all might see thy brightness.Ascribe the honour to thy Lord, but be thou jealous of that honour,Nor think it light and worthless, because thou mayst not wear it for thyself:Remember, thy grand prerogative is free unshackled utterance,And suffer not the flood-gates of secresy to lock the full river of thy speech.
Utteredout of time, or concealed in its season, good savoureth of evil;
To be secret looketh like guilt, to speak out may breed contention:
Often have I known the honest heart, flaming with indignant virtue,
Provoke unneeded war by its rash ambassador the tongue:
Often have I seen the charitable man go so slily on his mission,
That those who met him in the twilight, took him for a skulking thief:
I have heard the zealous youth telling out his holy secrets
Before a swinish throng, who mocked him as he spake;
And I considered, his openness was hardening them that mocked,
Whereas a judicious keeping-back might have won their sympathy:
I have judged rashly and harshly the hand, liberal in the dark,
Because in the broad daylight, it hath holden it a virtue to be close;
And the silent tongue have I condemned, because reserve hath chained it,
That it hid, yea from a brother, the kindness it had done by comforting.
No need to sound a trumpet, but less to hush a footfall:
Do thou thy good openly, not as though the doing were a crime.
Secresy goeth cowled, and Honesty demandeth wherefore?
For he judgeth—judgeth he not well?—that nothing need be hid but guilt.
Why should thy good be evil spoken of, through thine unrighteous silence?
If thou art challenged, speak, and prove the good thou doest.
The free example of benevolence, unobtruded, yet unhidden,
Soundeth in the ears of sloth, Go, and do thou likewise:
And I wot the hypocrite's sin to be of darker dye,
Because the good man, fearing, thereby hideth his light:
But neither God nor man hath bid thee cloak thy good,
When a seasonable word would set thee in thy sphere, that all might see thy brightness.
Ascribe the honour to thy Lord, but be thou jealous of that honour,
Nor think it light and worthless, because thou mayst not wear it for thyself:
Remember, thy grand prerogative is free unshackled utterance,
And suffer not the flood-gates of secresy to lock the full river of thy speech.
Come,I will show thee an affliction, unnumbered among this world's sorrows,Yet real and wearisome and constant, embittering the cup of life.There be, who can think within themselves, and the fire burneth at their heart,And eloquence waiteth at their lips, yet they speak not with their tongue:There be, whom zeal quickeneth, or slander stirreth to reply,Or need constraineth to ask, or pity sendeth as her messengers,But nervous dread and sensitive shame freeze the current of their speech;The mouth is sealed as with lead, a cold weight presseth on the heart,The mocking promise of power is once more broken in performance,And they stand impotent of words, travailing with unborn thoughts;Courage is cowed at the portal; wisdom is widowed of utterance;He that went to comfort is pitied; he that should rebuke, is silent:And fools who might listen and learn, stand by to look and laugh;While friends, with kinder eyes, wound deeper by compassion:And thought, finding not a vent, smouldereth, gnawing at the heart,And the man sinketh in his sphere, for lack of empty sounds.There be many cares and sorrows thou hast not yet considered,And well may thy soul rejoice in the fair privilege of speech;For at every turn to want a word,—thou canst not guess that want;It is as lack of breath or bread: life hath no grief more galling.
Come,I will show thee an affliction, unnumbered among this world's sorrows,
Yet real and wearisome and constant, embittering the cup of life.
There be, who can think within themselves, and the fire burneth at their heart,
And eloquence waiteth at their lips, yet they speak not with their tongue:
There be, whom zeal quickeneth, or slander stirreth to reply,
Or need constraineth to ask, or pity sendeth as her messengers,
But nervous dread and sensitive shame freeze the current of their speech;
The mouth is sealed as with lead, a cold weight presseth on the heart,
The mocking promise of power is once more broken in performance,
And they stand impotent of words, travailing with unborn thoughts;
Courage is cowed at the portal; wisdom is widowed of utterance;
He that went to comfort is pitied; he that should rebuke, is silent:
And fools who might listen and learn, stand by to look and laugh;
While friends, with kinder eyes, wound deeper by compassion:
And thought, finding not a vent, smouldereth, gnawing at the heart,
And the man sinketh in his sphere, for lack of empty sounds.
There be many cares and sorrows thou hast not yet considered,
And well may thy soul rejoice in the fair privilege of speech;
For at every turn to want a word,—thou canst not guess that want;
It is as lack of breath or bread: life hath no grief more galling.
Come,I will tell thee of a joy, which the parasites of pleasure have not known,Though earth and air and sea have gorged all the appetites of sense.Behold, what fire is in his eye, what fervour on his cheek!That glorious burst of winged words! how bound they from his tongue!The full expression of the mighty thought, the strong triumphant argument,The rush of native eloquence, resistless as Niagara,The keen demand, the clear reply, the fine poetic image,The nice analogy, the clenching fact, the metaphor bold and free,The grasp of concentrated intellect wielding the omnipotence of truth,The grandeur of his speech in his majesty of mind!Champion of the right,—patriot, or priest, or pleader of the innocent cause,Upon whose lips the mystic bee hath dropped the honey of persuasion,Whose heart and tongue have been touched, as of old, by the live coal from the altar,How wide the spreading of thy peace, how deep the draught of thy pleasures!To hold the multitude as one, breathing in measured cadence,A thousand men with flashing eyes, waiting upon thy will;A thousand hearts kindled by thee with consecrated fire,Ten flaming spiritual hecatombs offered on the mount of God:And now a pause, a thrilling pause,—they live but in thy words,—Thou hast broken the bounds of self, as the Nile at its rising,Thou art expanded into them, one faith, one hope, one spirit,They breathe but in thy breath, their minds are passive unto thine,Thou turnest the key of their love, bending their affections to thy purpose,And all, in sympathy with thee, tremble with tumultuous emotions:Verily, O man, with truth for thy theme, eloquence shall throne thee with archangels.
Come,I will tell thee of a joy, which the parasites of pleasure have not known,
Though earth and air and sea have gorged all the appetites of sense.
Behold, what fire is in his eye, what fervour on his cheek!
That glorious burst of winged words! how bound they from his tongue!
The full expression of the mighty thought, the strong triumphant argument,
The rush of native eloquence, resistless as Niagara,
The keen demand, the clear reply, the fine poetic image,
The nice analogy, the clenching fact, the metaphor bold and free,
The grasp of concentrated intellect wielding the omnipotence of truth,
The grandeur of his speech in his majesty of mind!
Champion of the right,—patriot, or priest, or pleader of the innocent cause,
Upon whose lips the mystic bee hath dropped the honey of persuasion,
Whose heart and tongue have been touched, as of old, by the live coal from the altar,
How wide the spreading of thy peace, how deep the draught of thy pleasures!
To hold the multitude as one, breathing in measured cadence,
A thousand men with flashing eyes, waiting upon thy will;
A thousand hearts kindled by thee with consecrated fire,
Ten flaming spiritual hecatombs offered on the mount of God:
And now a pause, a thrilling pause,—they live but in thy words,—
Thou hast broken the bounds of self, as the Nile at its rising,
Thou art expanded into them, one faith, one hope, one spirit,
They breathe but in thy breath, their minds are passive unto thine,
Thou turnest the key of their love, bending their affections to thy purpose,
And all, in sympathy with thee, tremble with tumultuous emotions:
Verily, O man, with truth for thy theme, eloquence shall throne thee with archangels.
Onedrachma for a good book, and a thousand talents for a true friend;—So standeth the market, where scarce is ever costly:Yea, were the diamonds of Golconda common as shingles on the shore,A ripe apple would ransom kings before a shining stone:And so, were a wholesome book as rare as an honest friend,To choose the book be mine: the friend let another take.For altered looks and jealousies and fears have none entrance there:The silent volume listeneth well, and speaketh when thou listest:It praiseth thy good without envy, it chideth thine evil without malice,It is to thee thy waiting slave, and thine unbending teacher.Need to humour no caprice, need to bear with no infirmity;Thy sin, thy slander, or neglect, chilleth not, quencheth not, its love:Unalterably speaketh it the truth, warped nor by error nor interest;For a good book is the best of friends, the same to-day and for ever.
Onedrachma for a good book, and a thousand talents for a true friend;—
So standeth the market, where scarce is ever costly:
Yea, were the diamonds of Golconda common as shingles on the shore,
A ripe apple would ransom kings before a shining stone:
And so, were a wholesome book as rare as an honest friend,
To choose the book be mine: the friend let another take.
For altered looks and jealousies and fears have none entrance there:
The silent volume listeneth well, and speaketh when thou listest:
It praiseth thy good without envy, it chideth thine evil without malice,
It is to thee thy waiting slave, and thine unbending teacher.
Need to humour no caprice, need to bear with no infirmity;
Thy sin, thy slander, or neglect, chilleth not, quencheth not, its love:
Unalterably speaketh it the truth, warped nor by error nor interest;
For a good book is the best of friends, the same to-day and for ever.
Todraw thee out of self, thy petty plans and cautions,To teach thee what thou lackest, to tell thee how largely thou art blest,To lure thy thought from sorrow, to feed thy famished mind,To graft another's wisdom on thee, pruning thine own folly,Choose discreetly, and well digest the volume most suited to thy case,Touching not religion with levity, nor deep things when thou art wearied.Thy mind is freshened by morning air, grapple with science and philosophy;Noon hath unnerved thy thoughts, dream for a while on fictions:Grey evening sobereth thy spirit, walk thou then with worshippers:But reason shall dig deepest in the night, and fancy fly most free.
Todraw thee out of self, thy petty plans and cautions,
To teach thee what thou lackest, to tell thee how largely thou art blest,
To lure thy thought from sorrow, to feed thy famished mind,
To graft another's wisdom on thee, pruning thine own folly,
Choose discreetly, and well digest the volume most suited to thy case,
Touching not religion with levity, nor deep things when thou art wearied.
Thy mind is freshened by morning air, grapple with science and philosophy;
Noon hath unnerved thy thoughts, dream for a while on fictions:
Grey evening sobereth thy spirit, walk thou then with worshippers:
But reason shall dig deepest in the night, and fancy fly most free.
O books,ye monuments of mind, concrete wisdom of the wisest;Sweet solaces of daily life; proofs and results of immortality;Trees yielding all fruits, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations;Groves of knowledge, where all may eat, nor fear a flaming sword:Gentle comrades, kind advisers; friends, comforts, treasures:Helps, governments, diversities of tongues; who can weigh your worth?—To walk no longer with the just; to be driven from the porch of science;To bid long adieu to those intimate ones, poets, philosophers, and teachers;To see no record of the sympathies which bind thee in communion with the good;To be thrust from the feet of Him who spake as never man spake;To have no avenue to heaven but the dim aisle of superstition;To live as an Esquimaux, in lethargy; to die as the Mohawk, in ignorance:O what were life, but a blank? what were death, but a terror?What were man, but a burden to himself? what were mind, but misery?Yea, let another Omar burn the full library of knowledge,And the broad world may perish in the flames, offered on the ashes of its wisdom!
O books,ye monuments of mind, concrete wisdom of the wisest;
Sweet solaces of daily life; proofs and results of immortality;
Trees yielding all fruits, whose leaves are for the healing of the nations;
Groves of knowledge, where all may eat, nor fear a flaming sword:
Gentle comrades, kind advisers; friends, comforts, treasures:
Helps, governments, diversities of tongues; who can weigh your worth?—
To walk no longer with the just; to be driven from the porch of science;
To bid long adieu to those intimate ones, poets, philosophers, and teachers;
To see no record of the sympathies which bind thee in communion with the good;
To be thrust from the feet of Him who spake as never man spake;
To have no avenue to heaven but the dim aisle of superstition;
To live as an Esquimaux, in lethargy; to die as the Mohawk, in ignorance:
O what were life, but a blank? what were death, but a terror?
What were man, but a burden to himself? what were mind, but misery?
Yea, let another Omar burn the full library of knowledge,
And the broad world may perish in the flames, offered on the ashes of its wisdom!
Thepen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened?Ask of the scholar, he shall know,—to the chains that bind a Proteus:Ask of the poet, he shall say,—to the sun, the lamp of heaven:Ask of thy neighbour, he can answer,—to the friend that telleth my thought:The merchant considereth it well, as a ship freighted with wares;The divine holdeth it a miracle, giving utterance to the dumb.It fixeth, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment;Chaining up a thought, clearing it of mystery, and sending it bright into the world.To think rightly, is of knowledge; to speak fluently, is of nature;To read with profit, is of care; but to write aptly, is of practice.No talent among men hath more scholars, and fewer masters:For to write is to speak beyond hearing, and none stand by to explain.To be accurate, write; to remember, write; to know thine own mind, write;And a written prayer is a prayer of faith: special, sure, and to be answered.Hast thou a thought upon thy brain, catch it while thou canst;Or other thoughts shall settle there, and this shall soon take wing:Thine uncompounded unity of soul, which argueth and maketh it immortal,Yieldeth up its momentary self to every single thought;Therefore, to husband thine ideas, and give them stability and substance,Write often for thy secret eye; so shalt thou grow wiser.The commonest mind is full of thoughts; some worthy of the rarest:And could it see them fairly writ, would wonder at its wealth.
Thepen of a ready writer, whereunto shall it be likened?
Ask of the scholar, he shall know,—to the chains that bind a Proteus:
Ask of the poet, he shall say,—to the sun, the lamp of heaven:
Ask of thy neighbour, he can answer,—to the friend that telleth my thought:
The merchant considereth it well, as a ship freighted with wares;
The divine holdeth it a miracle, giving utterance to the dumb.
It fixeth, expoundeth, and disseminateth sentiment;
Chaining up a thought, clearing it of mystery, and sending it bright into the world.
To think rightly, is of knowledge; to speak fluently, is of nature;
To read with profit, is of care; but to write aptly, is of practice.
No talent among men hath more scholars, and fewer masters:
For to write is to speak beyond hearing, and none stand by to explain.
To be accurate, write; to remember, write; to know thine own mind, write;
And a written prayer is a prayer of faith: special, sure, and to be answered.
Hast thou a thought upon thy brain, catch it while thou canst;
Or other thoughts shall settle there, and this shall soon take wing:
Thine uncompounded unity of soul, which argueth and maketh it immortal,
Yieldeth up its momentary self to every single thought;
Therefore, to husband thine ideas, and give them stability and substance,
Write often for thy secret eye; so shalt thou grow wiser.
The commonest mind is full of thoughts; some worthy of the rarest:
And could it see them fairly writ, would wonder at its wealth.
O preciouscompensation to the dumb, to write his wants and wishes;O dear amends to the stammering tongue, to pen his burning thoughts!To be of the college of Eloquence, through these silent symbols;To pour out all the flowing mind without the toil of speech;To show the babbling world how it might discourse more sweetly;To prove that merchandize of words bringeth no monopoly of wisdom;To take sweet vengeance on a prating crew, for the tongue's dishonour,By the large triumph of the pen, the homage rendered to a writing.With such, that telegraph of mind is dearer than wealth or wisdom,Enabling to please without pain, to impart without humiliation.
O preciouscompensation to the dumb, to write his wants and wishes;
O dear amends to the stammering tongue, to pen his burning thoughts!
To be of the college of Eloquence, through these silent symbols;
To pour out all the flowing mind without the toil of speech;
To show the babbling world how it might discourse more sweetly;
To prove that merchandize of words bringeth no monopoly of wisdom;
To take sweet vengeance on a prating crew, for the tongue's dishonour,
By the large triumph of the pen, the homage rendered to a writing.
With such, that telegraph of mind is dearer than wealth or wisdom,
Enabling to please without pain, to impart without humiliation.
Fairgirl, whose eye hath caught the rustic penmanship of love,Let thy bright brow and blushing cheek confess in this sweet hour,—Let thy full heart, poor guilty one, whom the scroll of pardon hath just reached,—Thy wet glad face, O mother, with news of a far-off child,—Thy strong and manly delight, pilgrim of other shores,When the dear voice of thy betrothed speaketh in the letter of affection,—Let the young poet, exulting in his lay, and hope (how false) of fame,While watching at deep midnight, he buildeth up the verse,—Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die,For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal,—Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confessThe blessings poured upon the earth from the pen of a ready writer.
Fairgirl, whose eye hath caught the rustic penmanship of love,
Let thy bright brow and blushing cheek confess in this sweet hour,—
Let thy full heart, poor guilty one, whom the scroll of pardon hath just reached,—
Thy wet glad face, O mother, with news of a far-off child,—
Thy strong and manly delight, pilgrim of other shores,
When the dear voice of thy betrothed speaketh in the letter of affection,—
Let the young poet, exulting in his lay, and hope (how false) of fame,
While watching at deep midnight, he buildeth up the verse,—
Let the calm child of genius, whose name shall never die,
For that the transcript of his mind hath made his thoughts immortal,—
Let these, let all, with no faint praise, with no light gratitude, confess
The blessings poured upon the earth from the pen of a ready writer.
Moreover,their preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence:When the despairing lover waiteth day after day,Looking for a word in reply, one word writ by that hand,And cursing bitterly the morn ushered in by blank disappointment:Or when the long-looked-for answer argueth a cooling friend,And the mind is plied suspiciously with dark inexplicable doubts,While thy wounded heart counteth its imaginary scars,And thou art the innocent and injured, that friend the capricious and in fault:Or when the earnest petition, that craveth for thy needs,Unheeded, yea, unopened, tortureth with starving delay:Or when the silence of a son, who would have written of his welfare,Racketh a father's bosom with sharp-cutting fears.For a letter, timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection,And a letter, untimely delayed, is as rust to the solder.The pen, flowing with love, or dipped black in hate,Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged with censure,Hath quickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword,More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune;And shouldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most profit in the world,For answer take thou this, The prudent penning of a letter.
Moreover,their preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence:
When the despairing lover waiteth day after day,
Looking for a word in reply, one word writ by that hand,
And cursing bitterly the morn ushered in by blank disappointment:
Or when the long-looked-for answer argueth a cooling friend,
And the mind is plied suspiciously with dark inexplicable doubts,
While thy wounded heart counteth its imaginary scars,
And thou art the innocent and injured, that friend the capricious and in fault:
Or when the earnest petition, that craveth for thy needs,
Unheeded, yea, unopened, tortureth with starving delay:
Or when the silence of a son, who would have written of his welfare,
Racketh a father's bosom with sharp-cutting fears.
For a letter, timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection,
And a letter, untimely delayed, is as rust to the solder.
The pen, flowing with love, or dipped black in hate,
Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged with censure,
Hath quickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword,
More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune;
And shouldst thou ask my judgment of that which hath most profit in the world,
For answer take thou this, The prudent penning of a letter.
Thouhast not lost an hour, whereof there is a record;A written thought at midnight shall redeem the livelong day.Idea is as a shadow that departeth, speech is fleeting as the wind,Reading is an unremembered pastime; but a writing is eternal:For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent,And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe.As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin,So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul:The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture,And so, the mind that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.
Thouhast not lost an hour, whereof there is a record;
A written thought at midnight shall redeem the livelong day.
Idea is as a shadow that departeth, speech is fleeting as the wind,
Reading is an unremembered pastime; but a writing is eternal:
For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent,
And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe.
As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin,
So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul:
The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture,
And so, the mind that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.
Prodigalityhath a sister Meanness, his fixed antagonist heart-fellow,Who often outliveth the short career of the brother she despiseth:She hath lean lips and a sharp look, and her eyes are red and hungry;But he sloucheth in his gait, and his mouth speaketh loosely and maudlin.Let a spendthrift grow to be old, he will set his heart on saving,And labour to build up by penury that which extravagance threw down:Even so, with most men, do riches earn themselves a double curse;They are ill-got by tight dealing: they are ill-spent by loose squandering.Give me enough, saith Wisdom;—for he feareth to ask for more;And that by the sweat of my brow, addeth stout-hearted Independence:Give me enough, and not less, for want is leagued with the tempter;Poverty shall make a man desperate, and hurry him ruthless into crime:Give me enough, and not more, saving for the children of distress;Wealth ofttimes killeth, where want but hindereth the budding:There is green glad summer near the pole, though brief and after long winter,But the burnt breasts of the torrid zone yield never kindly nourishment.Wouldst thou be poor, scatter to the rich,—and reap the tares of ingratitude;Wouldst thou be rich, give unto the poor; thou shalt have thine own with usury:For the secret hand of Providence prospereth the charitable all ways,Good luck shall he have in his pursuits, and his heart shall be glad within him;Yet perchance he never shall perceive, that, even as to earthly gains,The cause of his weal as of his joy, hath been small givings to the poor.
Prodigalityhath a sister Meanness, his fixed antagonist heart-fellow,
Who often outliveth the short career of the brother she despiseth:
She hath lean lips and a sharp look, and her eyes are red and hungry;
But he sloucheth in his gait, and his mouth speaketh loosely and maudlin.
Let a spendthrift grow to be old, he will set his heart on saving,
And labour to build up by penury that which extravagance threw down:
Even so, with most men, do riches earn themselves a double curse;
They are ill-got by tight dealing: they are ill-spent by loose squandering.
Give me enough, saith Wisdom;—for he feareth to ask for more;
And that by the sweat of my brow, addeth stout-hearted Independence:
Give me enough, and not less, for want is leagued with the tempter;
Poverty shall make a man desperate, and hurry him ruthless into crime:
Give me enough, and not more, saving for the children of distress;
Wealth ofttimes killeth, where want but hindereth the budding:
There is green glad summer near the pole, though brief and after long winter,
But the burnt breasts of the torrid zone yield never kindly nourishment.
Wouldst thou be poor, scatter to the rich,—and reap the tares of ingratitude;
Wouldst thou be rich, give unto the poor; thou shalt have thine own with usury:
For the secret hand of Providence prospereth the charitable all ways,
Good luck shall he have in his pursuits, and his heart shall be glad within him;
Yet perchance he never shall perceive, that, even as to earthly gains,
The cause of his weal as of his joy, hath been small givings to the poor.
Inthe plain of Benares is there found a root that fathereth a forest,Where round the parent banian-tree drop its living scions;Thirstily they strain to the earth, like stalactites in a grotto,And strike broad roots, and branch again, lengthening their cool arcades:And the dervish madly danceth there, and the faquir is torturing his flesh,And the calm brahmin worshippeth the sleek and pampered bull:At the base lean jackals coil, while from above dependingWith dull malignant stare watcheth the branch-like boa.Even so, in man's heart is a sin that is the root of all evil;Whose fibres strangle the affections, whose branches overgrow the mind:And oftenest beneath its shadow thou shalt meet distorted piety,—The clenched and rigid fist, with the eyes upturned to heaven,Fanatic zeal with miserly severity, a mixture of gain with godliness,And him, against whom passion hath no power, kneeling to a golden calf:The hungry hounds of extortion are there, the bond, and the mortgage, and the writ,While the appetite for gold, unslumbering, watcheth to glut its maw:—And the heart, so tenanted and shaded, is cold to all things else;It seeth not the sunshine of heaven, nor is warmed by the light of charity.
Inthe plain of Benares is there found a root that fathereth a forest,
Where round the parent banian-tree drop its living scions;
Thirstily they strain to the earth, like stalactites in a grotto,
And strike broad roots, and branch again, lengthening their cool arcades:
And the dervish madly danceth there, and the faquir is torturing his flesh,
And the calm brahmin worshippeth the sleek and pampered bull:
At the base lean jackals coil, while from above depending
With dull malignant stare watcheth the branch-like boa.
Even so, in man's heart is a sin that is the root of all evil;
Whose fibres strangle the affections, whose branches overgrow the mind:
And oftenest beneath its shadow thou shalt meet distorted piety,—
The clenched and rigid fist, with the eyes upturned to heaven,
Fanatic zeal with miserly severity, a mixture of gain with godliness,
And him, against whom passion hath no power, kneeling to a golden calf:
The hungry hounds of extortion are there, the bond, and the mortgage, and the writ,
While the appetite for gold, unslumbering, watcheth to glut its maw:—
And the heart, so tenanted and shaded, is cold to all things else;
It seeth not the sunshine of heaven, nor is warmed by the light of charity.
Forcovetousness disbelieveth God, and laugheth at the rights of men;Spurring unto theft and lying, and tempting to the poison and the knife;It sundereth the bonds of love, and quickeneth the flames of hate;A curse that shall wither the brain, and case the heart with iron.Content is the true riches, for without it there is no satisfying,But a ravenous all-devouring hunger gnaweth the vitals of the soul.The wise man knoweth where to stop, as he runneth in the race of fortune,For experience of old hath taught him, that happiness lingereth midway;And many in hot pursuit have hasted to the goal of wealth,But have lost, as they ran, those apples of gold,—the mind and the power to enjoy it.
Forcovetousness disbelieveth God, and laugheth at the rights of men;
Spurring unto theft and lying, and tempting to the poison and the knife;
It sundereth the bonds of love, and quickeneth the flames of hate;
A curse that shall wither the brain, and case the heart with iron.
Content is the true riches, for without it there is no satisfying,
But a ravenous all-devouring hunger gnaweth the vitals of the soul.
The wise man knoweth where to stop, as he runneth in the race of fortune,
For experience of old hath taught him, that happiness lingereth midway;
And many in hot pursuit have hasted to the goal of wealth,
But have lost, as they ran, those apples of gold,—the mind and the power to enjoy it.
Thereis no greater evil among men than a testament framed with injustice:Where caprice hath guided the boon, or dishonesty refused what was due.Generous is the robber on the highway, in the open daring of his guilt,To the secret coward, whose malice liveth and harmeth after him;Who smoothly sank into the tomb, with the smile of fraud upon his face,And the last black deed of his existence was injury without redress:For deaf is the ear of the dead, and can hear no palliating reasons;The smiter is not among the living, and Right pleadeth but in vain.Yet shall the curse of the oppressed be as blight upon the grave of the unjust;Yea, bitterly shall that handwriting testify against him at the judgment.I saw the humble relation that tended the peevishness of wealth,And ministered, with kind hand, to the wailings of disease and discontent:I noted how watchfulness and care were feeding on the marrow of her youth,How heavy was the yoke of dependence, loaded by petty tyranny;Yet I heard the frequent suggestion,—It can be but a little longer,Patience and mute submission shall one day reap a rich reward.So, tacitly enduring much, waited that humble friend,Putting off the lover of her youth until the dawn of wealth:And it came, that day of release, and the freed heart could not sorrow,For now were the years of promise to yield their golden harvest:Hope, so long deferred, sickly sparkled in her eye,The miserable past was forgotten, as she looked for the happier future,And she checked, as unworthy and ungrateful, the dark suspicious thoughtThat perchance her right had been the safer, if not left alone with honour:But, alas, the sad knowledge soon came, that her stern task-master's willHath rewarded her toil with a jibe, her patience with utter destitution!—Shall not the scourge of justice lash that cruel coward,Who mingled the gall of ingratitude with the bitterness of disappointment?Shall not the hate of men, and vengeance, fiercely pursuing,Hunt down the wretched being that sinneth in his grave?He fancied his idol self safe from the wrath of his fellows,But Hades rose as he came in, to point at him the finger of scorn;And again must he meet that orphan-maid to answer her face to face,And her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him from rising with the just:For his last most solemn act hath linked his name with liar,And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow!
Thereis no greater evil among men than a testament framed with injustice:
Where caprice hath guided the boon, or dishonesty refused what was due.
Generous is the robber on the highway, in the open daring of his guilt,
To the secret coward, whose malice liveth and harmeth after him;
Who smoothly sank into the tomb, with the smile of fraud upon his face,
And the last black deed of his existence was injury without redress:
For deaf is the ear of the dead, and can hear no palliating reasons;
The smiter is not among the living, and Right pleadeth but in vain.
Yet shall the curse of the oppressed be as blight upon the grave of the unjust;
Yea, bitterly shall that handwriting testify against him at the judgment.
I saw the humble relation that tended the peevishness of wealth,
And ministered, with kind hand, to the wailings of disease and discontent:
I noted how watchfulness and care were feeding on the marrow of her youth,
How heavy was the yoke of dependence, loaded by petty tyranny;
Yet I heard the frequent suggestion,—It can be but a little longer,
Patience and mute submission shall one day reap a rich reward.
So, tacitly enduring much, waited that humble friend,
Putting off the lover of her youth until the dawn of wealth:
And it came, that day of release, and the freed heart could not sorrow,
For now were the years of promise to yield their golden harvest:
Hope, so long deferred, sickly sparkled in her eye,
The miserable past was forgotten, as she looked for the happier future,
And she checked, as unworthy and ungrateful, the dark suspicious thought
That perchance her right had been the safer, if not left alone with honour:
But, alas, the sad knowledge soon came, that her stern task-master's will
Hath rewarded her toil with a jibe, her patience with utter destitution!—
Shall not the scourge of justice lash that cruel coward,
Who mingled the gall of ingratitude with the bitterness of disappointment?
Shall not the hate of men, and vengeance, fiercely pursuing,
Hunt down the wretched being that sinneth in his grave?
He fancied his idol self safe from the wrath of his fellows,
But Hades rose as he came in, to point at him the finger of scorn;
And again must he meet that orphan-maid to answer her face to face,
And her wrongs shall cling around his neck, to hinder him from rising with the just:
For his last most solemn act hath linked his name with liar,
And the crime of Ananias is branded on his brow!
A goodman commendeth his cause to the one great Patron of innocence,Convinced of justice to the last, and sure of good meanwhile.He knoweth he hath a Guardian, wise and kind and strong,And can thank Him for giving, or refusing, the trust or the curse of riches:His confidence standeth as a rock; he dreadeth not malice nor caprice,Nor the whisperings of artful men, nor envious secret influence;He scorneth servile compromise, and the pliant mouthings of deceit;He maketh not a show of love, where he cannot concede esteem;He regardeth ill-got wealth, as the root most fruitful of wretchedness,So he walketh in straight integrity, leaning on God and his right.
A goodman commendeth his cause to the one great Patron of innocence,
Convinced of justice to the last, and sure of good meanwhile.
He knoweth he hath a Guardian, wise and kind and strong,
And can thank Him for giving, or refusing, the trust or the curse of riches:
His confidence standeth as a rock; he dreadeth not malice nor caprice,
Nor the whisperings of artful men, nor envious secret influence;
He scorneth servile compromise, and the pliant mouthings of deceit;
He maketh not a show of love, where he cannot concede esteem;
He regardeth ill-got wealth, as the root most fruitful of wretchedness,
So he walketh in straight integrity, leaning on God and his right.
Nogain, but by its price: labour, for the poor man's meal,Ofttimes heart-sickening toil, to win him a morsel for his hunger:Labour, for the chapman at his trade, a dull unvaried round,Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it!Labour, for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated desk,Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health;Labour, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the sea;Labour, with care, for the man of law, responsible in his gains;Labour, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth;Labour, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father;Labour unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head, or spirit,—The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is labour.Nevertheless, to the diligent, labour bringeth blessing:The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure;And time spent in doing hath a comfort that is not for the idle,The hardship is transmuted into joy by the dear alchemy of Mercy.Labour is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest,And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself useless:For wearily the body groaneth, like a door on rusty hinges,And the grasp of the mind is weakened, as the talons of a caged vulture.Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery:Enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened happiness:Enough is less than thy thought, O pampered creature of society,And he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights of his brother.
Nogain, but by its price: labour, for the poor man's meal,
Ofttimes heart-sickening toil, to win him a morsel for his hunger:
Labour, for the chapman at his trade, a dull unvaried round,
Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it!
Labour, for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated desk,
Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health;
Labour, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the sea;
Labour, with care, for the man of law, responsible in his gains;
Labour, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth;
Labour, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father;
Labour unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head, or spirit,—
The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is labour.
Nevertheless, to the diligent, labour bringeth blessing:
The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure;
And time spent in doing hath a comfort that is not for the idle,
The hardship is transmuted into joy by the dear alchemy of Mercy.
Labour is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest,
And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself useless:
For wearily the body groaneth, like a door on rusty hinges,
And the grasp of the mind is weakened, as the talons of a caged vulture.
Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery:
Enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened happiness:
Enough is less than thy thought, O pampered creature of society,
And he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights of his brother.
Manis proud of his mind, boasting that it giveth him divinity,Yet with all its powers can it originate nothing;For the Great God into all His works hath largely poured out Himself,Saving one special property, the grand prerogative,—Creation.To improve and expand is ours, as well as to limit and defeat;But to create a thought or a thing is hopeless and impossible.Can a man make matter?—and yet this would-be godThinketh to make mind, and form original idea:The potter must have his clay, and the mason his quarry,And mind must drain ideas from everything around it.Doth the soil generate herbs, or the torrid air breed flies,Or the water frame its monads, or the mist its swarming blight?—Mediately, through thousand generations, having seed within themselves,All things, rare or gross, own one common Father.Truly spake Wisdom, There is nothing new under the sun:We only arrange and combine the ancient elements of all things.Invention is activity of mind, as fire is air in motion;A sharpening of the spiritual sight, to discern hidden aptitudes:From the basket and acanthus, is modelled the graceful capital;The shadowed profile on the wall helpeth the limner to his likeness;The footmarks, stamped in clay, lead on the thoughts to printing;The strange skin garments cast upon the shore suggest another hemisphere:A falling apple taught the sage pervading gravitation;The Huron is certain of his prey, from tracks upon the grass:And shrewdness, guessing out the hint, followeth on the trail;But the hint must be given, the trail must be there, or the keenest sight is as blindness.
Manis proud of his mind, boasting that it giveth him divinity,
Yet with all its powers can it originate nothing;
For the Great God into all His works hath largely poured out Himself,
Saving one special property, the grand prerogative,—Creation.
To improve and expand is ours, as well as to limit and defeat;
But to create a thought or a thing is hopeless and impossible.
Can a man make matter?—and yet this would-be god
Thinketh to make mind, and form original idea:
The potter must have his clay, and the mason his quarry,
And mind must drain ideas from everything around it.
Doth the soil generate herbs, or the torrid air breed flies,
Or the water frame its monads, or the mist its swarming blight?—
Mediately, through thousand generations, having seed within themselves,
All things, rare or gross, own one common Father.
Truly spake Wisdom, There is nothing new under the sun:
We only arrange and combine the ancient elements of all things.
Invention is activity of mind, as fire is air in motion;
A sharpening of the spiritual sight, to discern hidden aptitudes:
From the basket and acanthus, is modelled the graceful capital;
The shadowed profile on the wall helpeth the limner to his likeness;
The footmarks, stamped in clay, lead on the thoughts to printing;
The strange skin garments cast upon the shore suggest another hemisphere:
A falling apple taught the sage pervading gravitation;
The Huron is certain of his prey, from tracks upon the grass:
And shrewdness, guessing out the hint, followeth on the trail;
But the hint must be given, the trail must be there, or the keenest sight is as blindness.
Beholdthe barren reef, which an earthquake hath just left dry;It hath no beauty to boast of, no harvest of fair fruits:But soon the lichen fixeth there, and, dying, diggeth its own grave,And softening suns and splitting frosts crumble the reluctant surface;And cormorants roost there, and the snail addeth its slime,And efts, with muddy feet, bring their welcome tribute;And the sea casteth out her dead, wrapped in a shroud of weeds;And orderly nature arrangeth again the disunited atoms;Anon, the cold smooth stone is warm with feathery grass,And the light sporules of the fern are dropt by the passing wind,The wood-pigeon, on swift wing, leaveth its crop-full of grain,The squirrel's jealous care planteth the fir-cone and the filbert:Years pass, and the sterile rock is rank with tangled herbage;The wild-vine clingeth to the briar, and ivy runneth green among the corn,Lordly beeches are studded on the down, and willows crowd around the rivulet,And the tall pine and hazel-thicket shade the rambling hunter.Shall the rock boast of its fertility? shall it lift the head in pride?—Shall the mind of man be vain of the harvest of its thoughts?The savage is that rock; and a million chances from without,By little and little acting on the mind, heap up the hot-bed of society;And the soul, fed and fattened on the thoughts and things around it,Groweth to perfection, full of fruit, the fruit of foreign seeds.For we learn upon a hint, we find upon a clue,We yield an hundred-fold; but the great sower is Analogy.There must be an acrid sloe before a luscious peach,A boll of rotting flax before the bridal veil,An egg before an eagle, a thought before a thing,A spark struck into tinder to light the lamp of knowledge,A slight suggestive nod to guide the watching mind,A half-seen hand upon the wall, pointing to the balance of Comparison.By culture man may do all things, short of the miracle,—Creation;Here is the limit of thy power,—here let thy pride be stayed:The soil may be rich, and the mind may be active, but neither yield unsown;The eye cannot make light, nor the mind make spirit.Therefore it is wise in man to name all novelty Invention;For it is to find out things that are, not to create the unexisting:It is to cling to contiguities, to be keen in catching likeness,And with energetic elasticity to leap the gulphs of contrast.The globe knoweth not increase, either of matter or spirit;Atoms and thoughts are used again, mixing in varied combinations;And though, by moulding them anew, thou makest them thine own,Yet have they served thousands, and all their merit is of God.
Beholdthe barren reef, which an earthquake hath just left dry;
It hath no beauty to boast of, no harvest of fair fruits:
But soon the lichen fixeth there, and, dying, diggeth its own grave,
And softening suns and splitting frosts crumble the reluctant surface;
And cormorants roost there, and the snail addeth its slime,
And efts, with muddy feet, bring their welcome tribute;
And the sea casteth out her dead, wrapped in a shroud of weeds;
And orderly nature arrangeth again the disunited atoms;
Anon, the cold smooth stone is warm with feathery grass,
And the light sporules of the fern are dropt by the passing wind,
The wood-pigeon, on swift wing, leaveth its crop-full of grain,
The squirrel's jealous care planteth the fir-cone and the filbert:
Years pass, and the sterile rock is rank with tangled herbage;
The wild-vine clingeth to the briar, and ivy runneth green among the corn,
Lordly beeches are studded on the down, and willows crowd around the rivulet,
And the tall pine and hazel-thicket shade the rambling hunter.
Shall the rock boast of its fertility? shall it lift the head in pride?—
Shall the mind of man be vain of the harvest of its thoughts?
The savage is that rock; and a million chances from without,
By little and little acting on the mind, heap up the hot-bed of society;
And the soul, fed and fattened on the thoughts and things around it,
Groweth to perfection, full of fruit, the fruit of foreign seeds.
For we learn upon a hint, we find upon a clue,
We yield an hundred-fold; but the great sower is Analogy.
There must be an acrid sloe before a luscious peach,
A boll of rotting flax before the bridal veil,
An egg before an eagle, a thought before a thing,
A spark struck into tinder to light the lamp of knowledge,
A slight suggestive nod to guide the watching mind,
A half-seen hand upon the wall, pointing to the balance of Comparison.
By culture man may do all things, short of the miracle,—Creation;
Here is the limit of thy power,—here let thy pride be stayed:
The soil may be rich, and the mind may be active, but neither yield unsown;
The eye cannot make light, nor the mind make spirit.
Therefore it is wise in man to name all novelty Invention;
For it is to find out things that are, not to create the unexisting:
It is to cling to contiguities, to be keen in catching likeness,
And with energetic elasticity to leap the gulphs of contrast.
The globe knoweth not increase, either of matter or spirit;
Atoms and thoughts are used again, mixing in varied combinations;
And though, by moulding them anew, thou makest them thine own,
Yet have they served thousands, and all their merit is of God.
Seamsof thought for the sage's brow, and laughing lines for the fool's face;For all things leave their track in the mind; and the glass of the mind is faithful.Seest thou much mirth upon the cheek? there is then little exercise of virtue;For he that looketh on the world, cannot be glad and good:Seest thou much gravity in the eye? be not assured of finding wisdom;For she hath too great praise, not to get many mimics.There is a grave-faced folly; and verily, a laughter-loving wisdom;And what, if surface-judges account it vain frivolity?There is indeed an evil in excess, and a field may lie fallow too long;Yet merriment is often as a froth, that mantleth on the strong mind:And note thou this for a verity,—the subtlest thinker when alone,From ease of thoughts unbent, will laugh the loudest with his fellows:And well is the loveliness of wisdom mirrored in a cheerful countenance,Justly the deepest pools are proved by dimpling eddies;For that, a true philosophy commandeth an innocent life,And the unguilty spirit is lighter than a linnet's heart:Yea, there is no cosmetic like a holy conscience;The eye is bright with trust, the cheek bloomed over with affection,The brow unwrinkled by a care, and the lip triumphant in its gladness.
Seamsof thought for the sage's brow, and laughing lines for the fool's face;
For all things leave their track in the mind; and the glass of the mind is faithful.
Seest thou much mirth upon the cheek? there is then little exercise of virtue;
For he that looketh on the world, cannot be glad and good:
Seest thou much gravity in the eye? be not assured of finding wisdom;
For she hath too great praise, not to get many mimics.
There is a grave-faced folly; and verily, a laughter-loving wisdom;
And what, if surface-judges account it vain frivolity?
There is indeed an evil in excess, and a field may lie fallow too long;
Yet merriment is often as a froth, that mantleth on the strong mind:
And note thou this for a verity,—the subtlest thinker when alone,
From ease of thoughts unbent, will laugh the loudest with his fellows:
And well is the loveliness of wisdom mirrored in a cheerful countenance,
Justly the deepest pools are proved by dimpling eddies;
For that, a true philosophy commandeth an innocent life,
And the unguilty spirit is lighter than a linnet's heart:
Yea, there is no cosmetic like a holy conscience;
The eye is bright with trust, the cheek bloomed over with affection,
The brow unwrinkled by a care, and the lip triumphant in its gladness.
Andfor yon grave-faced folly, need not far to look for her;How seriously on trifles dote those leaden eyes,How ruefully she sigheth after chances long gone by,How sulkily she moaneth over evils without cure!I have known a true-born mirth, the child of innocence and wisdom,I have seen a base-born gravity, mingled of ignorance and guilt:And again, a base-born mirth, springing out of carelessness and folly;And again, a true-born gravity, the product of reflection and right fear.The wounded partridge hideth in a furrow, and a stricken conscience would be left alone;But when its breast is healed, it runneth gladly with its fellows:Whereas the solitary heron, standing in the sedgy fen,Holdeth aloof from the social world, intent on wiles and death.
Andfor yon grave-faced folly, need not far to look for her;
How seriously on trifles dote those leaden eyes,
How ruefully she sigheth after chances long gone by,
How sulkily she moaneth over evils without cure!
I have known a true-born mirth, the child of innocence and wisdom,
I have seen a base-born gravity, mingled of ignorance and guilt:
And again, a base-born mirth, springing out of carelessness and folly;
And again, a true-born gravity, the product of reflection and right fear.
The wounded partridge hideth in a furrow, and a stricken conscience would be left alone;
But when its breast is healed, it runneth gladly with its fellows:
Whereas the solitary heron, standing in the sedgy fen,
Holdeth aloof from the social world, intent on wiles and death.
Needbut of light philosophy to dare the world's dread laugh;For a little mind courteth notoriety, to illustrate its puny self:But the sneer of a man's own comrades trieth the muscles of courage,And to be derided in his home is as a viper in the nest:The laugh of a hooting world hath in it a notion of sublimity,But the tittering private circle stingeth as a hive of wasps.Some have commended ridicule, counting it the test of truth,But neither wittily nor wisely; for truth must prove ridicule:Otherwise a blunt bulrush is to pierce the proof armour of argument,Because the stolidity of ignorance took it for a barbed shaft.Softer is the hide of the rhinoceros, than the heart of deriding unbelief,And truth is idler there, than the Bushman's feathered reed:A droll conceit parrieth a thrust, that should have hit the conscience,And the leering looks of humour tickle the childish mind;For that the matter of a man is mingled most with folly,Neither can he long endure the searching gaze of wisdom.It is pleasanter to see a laughing cheek than a serious forehead,And there liveth not one among a thousand whose idol is not pleasure.Ridicule is a weak weapon, when levelled at a strong mind:But common men are cowards, and dread an empty laugh.Fear a nettle, and touch it tenderly, its poison shall burn thee to the shoulder;But grasp it with a bold hand,—is it not a bundle of myrrh?Betray mean terror of ridicule, thou shalt find fools enough to mock thee;But answer thou their laughter with contempt, and the scoffers will lick thy feet.
Needbut of light philosophy to dare the world's dread laugh;
For a little mind courteth notoriety, to illustrate its puny self:
But the sneer of a man's own comrades trieth the muscles of courage,
And to be derided in his home is as a viper in the nest:
The laugh of a hooting world hath in it a notion of sublimity,
But the tittering private circle stingeth as a hive of wasps.
Some have commended ridicule, counting it the test of truth,
But neither wittily nor wisely; for truth must prove ridicule:
Otherwise a blunt bulrush is to pierce the proof armour of argument,
Because the stolidity of ignorance took it for a barbed shaft.
Softer is the hide of the rhinoceros, than the heart of deriding unbelief,
And truth is idler there, than the Bushman's feathered reed:
A droll conceit parrieth a thrust, that should have hit the conscience,
And the leering looks of humour tickle the childish mind;
For that the matter of a man is mingled most with folly,
Neither can he long endure the searching gaze of wisdom.
It is pleasanter to see a laughing cheek than a serious forehead,
And there liveth not one among a thousand whose idol is not pleasure.
Ridicule is a weak weapon, when levelled at a strong mind:
But common men are cowards, and dread an empty laugh.
Fear a nettle, and touch it tenderly, its poison shall burn thee to the shoulder;
But grasp it with a bold hand,—is it not a bundle of myrrh?
Betray mean terror of ridicule, thou shalt find fools enough to mock thee;
But answer thou their laughter with contempt, and the scoffers will lick thy feet.
Thepraise of holy men is a promise of praise from their Master;A fore-running earnest of thy welcome,—Well done, faithful servant;A rich preludious note, that droppeth softly on thine ear,To tell thee the chords of thy heart are in tune with the choirs of heaven.Yet is it a dangerous hearing, for the sweetness may lull thee into slumber,And the cordial quaffed with thirst may generate the fumes of presumption.So seek it not for itself, but taste, and go gladly on thy way,For the mariner slacketh not his sail, though the sandal-groves of Araby allure him;And the fragrance of that incense would harm thee, as when, on a summer evening,The honied yellow flowers of the gorse oppress thy charmed sense:And a man hath too much of praise, for he praiseth himself continually;Neither lacketh he at any time self-commendation or excuse.
Thepraise of holy men is a promise of praise from their Master;
A fore-running earnest of thy welcome,—Well done, faithful servant;
A rich preludious note, that droppeth softly on thine ear,
To tell thee the chords of thy heart are in tune with the choirs of heaven.
Yet is it a dangerous hearing, for the sweetness may lull thee into slumber,
And the cordial quaffed with thirst may generate the fumes of presumption.
So seek it not for itself, but taste, and go gladly on thy way,
For the mariner slacketh not his sail, though the sandal-groves of Araby allure him;
And the fragrance of that incense would harm thee, as when, on a summer evening,
The honied yellow flowers of the gorse oppress thy charmed sense:
And a man hath too much of praise, for he praiseth himself continually;
Neither lacketh he at any time self-commendation or excuse.