P429 
 
 O P 
 
 B 3 SMfi 
 
 CP 
 
 01 
 
 01 
 
POEM 
 
 DELIVERED BEFORE THE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 PHI BETA KAPPA SOCIETY, 
 
 SEPTEMBER 13, 1825. 
 
 BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL, 
 
 PUBLISHED AT THE REQUEST OF THE SOCIETT. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY RICHARDSON & LORD, WASHINGTON STREET, 
 
 Press of the North American Review. 
 
 W. L. LEWIS, PRINTER, 
 
 1826. 
 

 DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS to wit: 
 
 DISTRICT CLERK S OFFICE. 
 
 BE it remembered, that on the twenty-sixth day of December, A. D. 1825* 
 in the fiftieth year of the independence of the United States of America) 
 Richardson & Lord, of the said district, have deposited in this office the title 
 of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following, 
 to wit : 
 
 " Poem delivered before the Connecticut Alpha of the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Society, September 13, 1825. By James G. Percival. Published at the request 
 of the Society." 
 
 In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled "An 
 Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts 
 and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times 
 therein mentioned :" and also to an Act entitled " An Act supplementary to 
 an Act, entitled an Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the 
 copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such 
 copies during the times therein mentioned ; and extending the benefits thereof 
 to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints." 
 
 JOHN W. DAVIS, 
 
 Clerk of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
POEM. 
 
 OF Mind, and its mysterious agencies, 
 And most of all, its high creative Power, 
 In fashioning the elements of things 
 To loftier images, than have on earth 
 Or in the sky their home that come to us 
 In the still visitation of a dream, 
 Or rise in light before us when we muse ; 
 Or at the bidding of the mightier take 
 Fixed residence in fitly sounding verse, 
 Or on the glowing canvass, or in shapes 
 Hewn from the living rock : of these, and all 
 That wake in us our better thoughts, and lead 
 The spirit to the enduring and sublime, 
 It is my purpose now to hold awhile 
 Seemly discourse, and with befitting words 
 Clothe the conceptions, I have sought to frame. 
 
 There are, diffused through nature, certain Forms, 
 That ever hold dominion o er the Mind, 
 And with an awful or a pleasing Power 
 Control it to their bidding. Life may change 
 In its perpetual round Manners may take 
 
 M195176 
 
( 6 ) 
 
 Turning her curious eye, to see that all 
 
 Is right behind, and with a keen survey 
 
 Choosing her onward path. But these, which are 
 
 Lords of the Heart, as she is of the Mind 
 
 In its pure reason these at once approach, 
 
 And with their outstretched pennons overshadow 
 
 The willing soul. We look abroad on earth 
 
 And heaven we see the glories of the day, 
 
 And night s more tranquil glories we look down 
 
 From some uplifted pinnacle, and gaze 
 
 On waving woods and ever-varying shapes 
 
 Of hill and level we behold the sea 
 
 Working in ceaseless undulation, while 
 
 Its never wearied voice sends up to heaven 
 
 Its one eternal hymn we stand and look 
 
 Shuddering, down to the gulf, where leaps the river 
 
 With all its wealth of waves, and through the night 
 
 Of the profound, catch only now and then 
 
 A flash of foam we listen to the sound 
 
 Of its unwasting din, and feel the earth 
 
 Shake where we tread, and as we look, we tremble, 
 
 And know at once the mighty and the vast 
 
 That dwell around us. Like the revelation 
 
 Of centuries and ages yet to come, 
 
 That in the moment of a hallowed dream 
 
 Startle the Prophet s eye, so the sublime 
 
 Strikes instant on the heart. Tis but to look, 
 
 And all is felt and known and he, who then 
 
 Is equal to the burden, may be filled 
 
 With the conceptions of a loftier vision, 
 
( 7 ) 
 
 Than Poet ever sung, or Painter drew, 
 
 And yet find all his efforts to portray 
 
 The thoughts that nil him, like the faint endeavour 
 
 To throw off from his labouring heart the weight 
 
 Of an oppressive dream. Much has been thrown 
 
 On living canvass much been cast abroad 
 
 In words of loftiest import much been framed 
 
 By plastic hands to shapes of awe and wonder ; 
 
 But nothing ever bodied out the soul 
 
 In its most daring flight. The eagle soars not 
 
 Above the highest clouds ; and when at sunset 
 
 The sky is full of fiery shapes, that lie 
 
 Filling the half of heaven, there are, that catch 
 
 The sun s last smile, too high for any wing 
 
 To fly to, but they are the loveliest 
 
 And brightest so the visions of the soul 
 
 Are often higher than the boldest leap 
 
 Of Execution, who with vain attempt 
 
 Lags far behind the rapid lightning glance 
 
 Of quick Conception. Hence there may have been 
 
 Poets, who never framed a show of words 
 
 From out the busy workings of their brain, 
 
 And who in solitude and loneliness 
 
 Communed with all sublimity, and played 
 
 With every shape of beauty, and yet never 
 
 Put forth one visible sign to tell the world, 
 
 How much they felt and knew. And some there are. 
 
 Whose minds are like a treasure-house of art, 
 
 Full of such pictures, as an Agnolo 
 
 Would summon forth in vain faces that breathe 
 
All passion and all pride, and attitudes 
 
 All might and force, all loveliness and love ; 
 
 Shrinking from sight, and with beseeching art 
 
 Kneeling before their fond idolatry ; 
 
 Or shrouded in inherent majesty, 
 
 And wrapped about with mystery as with clouds, 
 
 Looking a soul of high command, beneath 
 
 Portending brows, where terror sits, and scorn 
 
 Of every meaner thing. Yes, there are minds 
 
 Who know not even the names of these high arts, 
 
 And yet have all their elements and powers ; 
 
 The imagination, wonder, love, and awe, 
 
 Awe, silent, deep, and wonder, proud and high, 
 
 And love, tender and glowing, and a wealth 
 
 Of bright creations, richer than the west, 
 
 When at the hour of setting, overcast 
 
 With every shape of air. Then who shall say, 
 
 That Poetry consists in ordered verse, 
 
 And Painting in the rules of light and shade, 
 
 And measured tint, and shapes exact and true ? 
 
 Who would not rather own, these are but aids 
 
 To give a higher charm, to what alone 
 
 Is all-attractive ? If the unchanging forms 
 
 Of greatness or of beauty fill the page, 
 
 Or canvass, little care we, if all art 
 
 Is centered there. We see them, and we pay 
 
 Due homage, and in doing this, we own 
 
 There is one beautiful, and only one, 
 
 One great, one true. Hence there are bards, who lived 
 
 So early, that their very lives are fable, 
 
( 9 ) 
 
 Whose rhapsodies and songs have come to us 
 
 From ages, of which history has no record, 
 
 And yet are read with the same eagerness, 
 
 As when they first were sung. Eternal youth 
 
 Is round them, Like the never fading bay 
 
 They flourish in a green old age, and go 
 
 Forward, with step as firm, and brow as high, 
 
 To the last consummation, as at first 
 
 They charmed the listening crowd in chieftain s hall 
 
 Or after battle in the tented field, 
 
 Or when at night they sat beneath the moon, 
 
 The round full moon, and o er the Egean sailed, 
 
 Keeping due time, with balanced oars, to sounds 
 
 Of minstrel music. Though a chosen few 
 
 Alone can read the ancient words, that seem 
 
 Like magic letters to the common eye ; 
 
 Yet in the humble garb of common prose, 
 
 Or in the guise of more ambitious verse ; 
 
 Bereft of all their sounding harmony, 
 
 Or hidden by a load of modern art, 
 
 Unseemly ornament and fitted ill 
 
 To the simplicity of heroic times ; 
 
 Yet even thro all these shadowings, every eye, 
 
 That hath a natural sense, can see the brightness 
 
 And beauty, Time can never dim or fade. 
 
 And yet these are for minds, that have a share 
 
 In that imaginative opulence, 
 
 Which gives a life to all created things, 
 
 The coldest and the dumbest. Not the crowd 
 
Who keep the gift of nature unperverted. 
 
 Through all the busy clamorings of want, 
 
 And all the needful cares of animal life, 
 
 The toils that comfort and necessity 
 
 Impose so strictly on us. Therefore they 
 
 Look not with transport on the enduring forms 
 
 Of an eternal nature. Not the whole 
 
 In its unchanging rest commands their eye, 
 
 But ever shifting circumstance alone 
 
 Sways them, and therefore, what is falsely styled 
 
 By the great name of Life, the sacred name 
 
 Of the pure vital Being, calls alone 
 
 Their hearts to joy. They praise the ready hand, 
 
 That imitates the imitative tricks, 
 
 One from another borrows in the round 
 
 Of senseless ceremony and idle form ; 
 
 And with their noisy plaudits cheer the voice, 
 
 That gives an echo to the vapid jest 
 
 Of poor mechanic life, and wakes a laugh 
 
 Only because it comes upon their blank 
 
 And stolid dullness, like a farthing candle 
 
 Lighting a stifled vault. These have their day, 
 
 And well are they rewarded. What they give, 
 
 That they receive. They deal in common things 
 
 They tell the vulgar, be they high or low, 
 
 Just what they are ; and for this, they may live 
 
 As richly vulgar as their wishes claim. 
 
 Not so the few, who earnestly have sought 
 To seat themselves on the far eminence, 
 
( 11 ) 
 
 Where the eternal Geniuses are holding 
 
 Their intellectual court. Not so with them. 
 
 Their aim was not to catch the popular air. 
 
 They did not seek to spread their open wings 
 
 To such a fickle gale. They took their way 
 
 Beneath the guidance of a better star, 
 
 And with the heralding of better sounds, 
 
 Than the cheap clamors of the common voice. 
 
 They formed their own conceptions, and with toil, 
 
 Long, earnest toil, they brought their laboring minds 
 
 To the high level of the fame they loved, 
 
 And then went boldly on. They were alone 
 
 In their endeavor. None to cheer them nigh : 
 
 None to speak favorable words of praise. 
 
 They charmed their solitude with lofty verse, 
 
 And made their hours of exile bright with song. 
 
 They had no comforter, and asked for none ; 
 
 No help, for none they needed. Loneliness 
 
 Was their best good ; it left them to themselves. 
 
 Kept out all vain intrusion, and around them 
 
 Spread silently an atmosphere of thought, 
 
 A sabbath of devotion, such as never 
 
 Hallowed the twilight vaults of ancient minster, 
 
 Or filled with many prayers the hermit s cave. 
 
 It was the deep devotion of the mind 
 
 In all its powers, sending itself abroad 
 
 In search of every fair and blessed thing, 
 
 And with a winning charm enticing home 
 
 All to itself. They came at its command, 
 
 Trooping like summer clouds, when the wide air 
 
( 12 ) 
 
 Is thick with them, and every one is touched 
 By the full noon to a transparent brightness, 
 Like heaps of orient pearl. The kindled eye 
 Ran over them, as lightning sends its flash 
 Instant through all the billows of the storm, 
 And took the fairest, and at once they stood 
 In meet array, as if a temple rose, 
 Graced with the purest lines of Grecian art, 
 At the sweet touch of an Apollo s lyre. 
 
 But they are gone, and now are of the few, 
 
 Whose fame goes brightening on from age to age, 
 
 Taking allowed precedency of all, 
 
 Who in their day were lauded by the crowd, 
 
 For motley jests, and tales of low intrigue, 
 
 And such entangled stories as they love, 
 
 Like riddles, to untie. These lived at ease 
 
 Courting and courted ; shaping all to suit 
 
 The ear of such, as had the strings of favor 
 
 At their control ; speaking smooth flatteries, 
 
 And with obsequious readiness commending 
 
 Their suit of wealth, not fame. The present day 
 
 Bounded their narrow aim. They cared for nought, 
 
 So they were wafted swimingly along 
 
 The even tide. Opinions, none they sought, 
 
 But golden ; and they recked not if oblivion 
 
 Seized them and all their deeds, when they had danced 
 
 Their merry life away, and death had come 
 
 To close their masquerade, and send them where 
 
 No laugh could reach them, and no goblet flow. 
 
( 13 ) 
 
 And such has been their fate, for novelty 
 Is the fantastic sovereign of the train 
 Of their once high admirers. Tis with them, 
 As with the imps of fortune. When they shine 
 Gaudy and glittering, they are then surrounded 
 By a whole swarm of such, as are like them, 
 The insects of a day ; but when they lose 
 The polish of their plumes, and dark adversity 
 Hovers above them, like a boding owl, 
 Scared by the omen, all their summer friends 
 Fly to the shelter of a newer shade. 
 But the true champions of the undying strain, 
 That ever-sounding melody of Heaven, 
 Whose essence is eternally the same 
 These as they had no favour from the world 
 Whose love is change, so they are still above it, 
 And ever mounting to a purer sky, 
 And a less clouded air, a clearer sun 
 Lights them, and fuller emanations flow 
 From their inherent brightness, so that they 
 Kindle with years, and catch from every age 
 Some new reflection of their glory, till 
 Like Deities they ride in the mid heaven, 
 Commanding worship and forbidding doubt. 
 And with a sure compulsion leading us 
 To look upon them with becoming awe. 
 
 It were not difficult to say of them, 
 
 Theirs was the better choice, if all we knew 
 
 Were this their end. The generous love of fame ! 
 
( 14 ) 
 
 There is no higher passion that can fill 
 
 The laboring breast. It hath a touch of Heaven ; 
 
 And he who owns it, is awhile refined 
 
 From the poor dross of earth, and then he shines 
 
 ,In nature s purest ore. His thoughts are bent 
 
 From the base aim of mercenary life ; 
 
 And centered in the goal of his desires, 
 
 Bear the man upward, till he wears about him 
 
 The livery of honor, and the weeds 
 
 Of Mind s nobility, whose seal is stamped 
 
 In the true mint of Glory. If we knew 
 
 Only the first warm breathings after fame, 
 
 The strife to gain the lofty seat they hold, 
 
 While yet the heart was young, the spirit full 
 
 Of crowding fancies, and the vigorous arm 
 
 Ready to do the bidding of the will, 
 
 And do it bravely could we then behold him 
 
 Wearing his clustering honors with a grace, 
 
 That shewed he well deserved them, neither bowed 
 
 Beneath their weight, nor yet elate with pride, 
 
 But keeping on his even way, well knowing 
 
 They were his due, and so were but a part 
 
 Of his own state not as a mumming pageant 
 
 Worn for a moment s bravery, then cast off, 
 
 Like borrowed robes not as a player s crown, 
 
 Who struts awhile the King, and then retires 
 
 To revel with his menial but as things 
 
 Of high concernment, which with gentle bearing 
 
 He should assume, and with a household thrift 
 
 Closely retain. Could we then follow him 
 
( 15 ) 
 
 To his recess, and mark his holy musing, 
 
 The quick and sudden motion of his eye, 
 
 The working of his eloquent lips, the lines 
 
 Deep furrowed in his brow, the dexter hand 
 
 Armed for its toil, the other firmly clasped, 
 
 As if the earnest purpose of his will 
 
 Had set its token there had we then seen 
 
 How when his upward glance had caught the light, 
 
 That falls from Heaven, and the prophetic power 
 
 Descended on him, how his flying fingers 
 
 Ran o er the page, giving to fleeting thoughts 
 
 A soul and form, and coining words of might, 
 
 Such as shall ever hold mysterious power 
 
 Over the listening world. Could we then leap 
 
 Athwart the desolate gulf, wherein he sank, 
 
 When the loud burst of curious novelty 
 
 Had died away when all his noblest doings 
 
 Were as a twice-told tale when but to say, 
 
 This thing is Tasso s, were enough to damn it, 
 
 And call from some low scribbler high remarks. 
 
 How he had fallen away, how he had then 
 
 Lost his first fire arid finish lost the beauty, 
 
 And all the sweetness of his earlier strains 
 
 How, when he scorned to be the drudge of princes. 
 
 And do their bidding for a scanty dole ; 
 
 When he preferred to follow out the path, 
 
 He had begun so nobly, to the toil, 
 
 That breaks the spirit, and unmans the heart, 
 
 By which some great man sought to bind him down 
 
 To be his client and his slave and when 
 
( 16 ) 
 
 He found for this, and all that he had shed 
 
 Of light around his country s name, neglect 
 
 And bitterer taunts, and false upbraidings, telling, 
 
 How he had thrown aside that good, the state 
 
 And people pressed upon him, and had chosen 
 
 To wander forth in poverty, and beg 
 
 His way from door to door, casting dishonor 
 
 On the high art he practised, and despite 
 
 On those who patiently, with kind intent, 
 
 Sought to befriend him warmly, but in vain : 
 
 How, with a spirit that disdained to tell 
 
 His sorrows, or repel the insolent falsehoods, 
 
 A cold world loaded him withal, and choosing 
 
 Rather to keep the freedom of his thoughts. 
 
 Than live a gilded bondsman he retired 
 
 Silently to an unobserved retreat, 
 
 And there with lean and chilling poverty 
 
 Wrestled his way to death could we o erleap 
 
 That interval of woe, and see him now 
 
 In his confirmed regality, the monarch 
 
 Of a whole host of worthies, like the star 
 
 Of Jove, who shows his golden front in Heaven 
 
 First of the midnight train O ! we would proudly 
 
 Pronounce his choice the happiest, and our yearnings 
 
 Would be to live, and die, and rule like Him. 
 
 But these are only Men. The glowing mind 
 Rich in unborrowed light the feeling heart, 
 Whose strings are moved by every breath of hope. 
 And joy, and fear the spirit, whose aspirings 
 
( 17 ) 
 
 Are after loftiest fame the vast desires 
 For knowledge and for power these cannot save 
 The man, who bears them deep within himself, 
 From the assaults of fortune. He has need, 
 Like other men, of comfort and of friends, 
 And most of all of love. Such men are made 
 To be most happy, or most miserable, 
 According as their life is turned to hope 
 Or to despair. Open the path of Fame 
 Brightly before them let their motives, toils, 
 Rewards and honors, be proportioned to them ; 
 Filling the very compass of their powers, 
 And moving onward with an even flow, 
 None are so happy none so full of hope, 
 So earnest in their labors, and so bent 
 To measure life by deeds, and not by years. 
 But set them on a path, that they abhor, 
 Where every day tells them more sullenly. 
 They only toil to live, and live to toil ; 
 Where not a ray of hope falls on the dull 
 And joyless round of labor, ever turning 
 In the same fruitless circle not a motive 
 To bear them onward ; all their best desires 
 Lavished in bitterest regrets, their powers 
 Buried in cold obstruction, and their strength 
 Wasted in most laborious idleness ; 
 Bind them to such a slavish lot as this, 
 And they will wear their life away in sighs ; 
 And if they plunge not in their deep despair 
 In some forbidden gulf of appetite, 
 
( 18 ) 
 
 Seeking to drown the keener sense of wrong 
 In the mere animal and grosser pleasures, 
 They will go sorrowing to an early grave, 
 Or in their madness rush before their time, 
 Urisummoned arid unbidden to their doom. 
 
 O ! would that History had not to tell 
 
 The wrongs of those that now are reverenced 
 
 With a religious awe. Who would not change 
 
 The best estate, that wealth or present power 
 
 Can lavish on the man, whose path has been 
 
 Ever ascending, and that easily, 
 
 As it it were a pastime to be great 
 
 In the world s way who would not change it all. 
 
 To wear the crown of Milton or of Dante, 
 
 Spenser or Tasso ? Who but must allow 
 
 The meanness of his spirit, and confess 
 
 He has no feeling of the stirring hope, 
 
 That sends us after fame. And yet tis painful 
 
 To think, how these were left to pine away 
 
 A sad old age, and sink into a grave, 
 
 Unwept, unhonored how the Bard of Heaven, 
 
 Who could not plume his wing for lower flight, 
 
 Than its empyreal towers how he decayed, 
 
 Blind, lonely, poor, the prey of slow disease, 
 
 And harsh neglect, that eat with keener tooth 
 
 Into his generous heart how he retired 
 
 Into a dark retreat, that he might shun 
 
 The sentence of outlawry from a king, 
 
 Who played the fool and vice upon his throne, 
 
( 19 ) 
 
 Making one half his people fools like him, 
 And on the rest slipping the dogs of war 
 How Dante, who with his capacious mind 
 Mastered his age, and held the golden key 
 Of all its wisdom he who equally 
 Sang of the bliss of Heaven, the woe of Hell, 
 Groping through the dim caves of Erebus, 
 And winding up the penitential mount, 
 Then soaring through the widening orbs of Heaven 
 Up to the Holiest how his native Florence, 
 His dear ungrateful Florence, thrust him out, 
 And on him closed her ponderous iron doors, 
 Barring to the last moment all return, 
 And with a stern and savage cruelty 
 Chasing him in his exile, till they left 
 No pillow for his head no dying pillow, 
 Where he might find an instant of repose, 
 Even for his last confession how he went 
 Sadly from court to court, seeking a shelter, 
 And all too bold and free, to please the ear 
 Of princes, or command the turbulent crowd- 
 How after many wanderings, he found 
 Twas hard to climb another s stair, and bitter 
 To eat another s bread, and leaving this. 
 His only legacy, went to his grave 
 Willingly, as a laborer to his couch, 
 Seeking in death the kindness he had never 
 Found in his home thus telling to the world, 
 How desolate and cold the height of fame. 
 Nor can we think with less indignant sorrow, 
 
( 20 ) 
 
 How Tasso, full of tenderness and love, 
 
 The worshipper of beauty, with a heart 
 
 Framed to all gentleness and elegance, 
 
 Whose very words were music, and whose thoughts 
 
 Were all of hope and joy, how he was doomed 
 
 To wear the maniac s chain, and keep account 
 
 Of the long lingering hours, and days, and years, 
 
 Within the narrow compass of his cell, 
 
 Feeding at times his heart on dreams of love, 
 
 And visions of bright honor then upbraiding 
 
 The dark barbarian who had bound him there, 
 
 Till reason went indeed, and his high soul 
 
 Raved in distempered conference with spirits, 
 
 For even his madness was sublime, and took 
 
 Its color from the mind that wrought the web 
 
 Of love and war how Spenser sued in vain, 
 
 At the deaf ears of courtiers, for a boon. 
 
 Only a pittance of the fair estate 
 
 Rent from him by the hand of violence, 
 
 How, when through long entreaty, which had bowed 
 
 His better spirit, though it proudly scorned 
 
 To play the beggar s part, his queen had deigned 
 
 To give a scanty dole, the unfeeling Burleigh 
 
 Withheld it, even in his extremity, 
 
 Withheld it, though it might have given his heart 
 
 A warmer fire, and helped to smooth for him 
 
 The passage to the grave O! it is painful, 
 
 To think the very chiefest of the mighty, 
 
 Heroes in song, as there are those in war 
 
 How they were made the butt and sport of fools, 
 
( 21 ) 
 
 Trampled and crushed by such as would have perished 
 
 Utterly, had not they asserted thus 
 
 An impious fame O ! tis enough to deaden 
 
 All the fond hopes, the generous desires, 
 
 The emulous strivings of a heart awake 
 
 To high ambition, and with early glow 
 
 Bearing itself up the proud eminence 
 
 Of intellectual fame. Go on, fond youth, 
 
 While yet the charm is on thee, and the power 
 
 Of virtue is unquestioned let no thought 
 
 Of what may come, disturb thee there is in thee 
 
 A buoyancy, that can awhile sustain 
 
 The world s cold burden let this time of respite 
 
 Be filled up well, for it may give to thee 
 
 Fit leisure for attaining such a height 
 
 As after violence cannot wrench thee from. 
 
 Know too the high-strung hopes of youth impari 
 
 An energy, and passion to the song, 
 
 That they inspire. There may be nicer art. 
 
 And a more fitting harmony of sounds, 
 
 And words of better choice in riper strains : 
 
 But youth, and much too often, hope is gone 
 
 At least the hope of greatness, and for this 
 
 Nothing is left, but what the erring light 
 
 Of a far-distant glory, or the call 
 
 Of instant need can waken. Therefore seize 
 
 The undoubting moment, and may heaven befriend thee, 
 
 And lead thee in the shadow of thy faith, 
 
 Nor quite desert thee, till the point is gained, 
 
 When thou canst say, a victory is won. 
 
 That none should scorn. 
 
( 22 ) 
 
 But let us turn aside, 
 
 From thoughts so little kindred to the scope 
 Of our endeavor let us rather choose 
 A path that winds through a fair wilderness, 
 Where all the visible things are leaves and flowers, 
 Green leaves and sunny flowers, and all the air 
 Is ravishing with perfume and with song. 
 So let us to a feast of nectared sweets, 
 The banquet of celestial Poesy 
 And while the hours permit us to enjoy 
 The blessed light of heaven, let us abroad, 
 And mid the graceful garniture of fields 
 Take our delighted way. Nor shall we lack 
 Companions to our revelry in air, 
 Or the still waters. Sounds shall go with us, 
 The voice of the light winds, the liquid lapse 
 Of sunny streams, and haply from the wood 
 A choir of tuneful birds, taking their last, 
 And not ungrateful farewell of the shades, 
 Where they have nestled and have plumed their youn< 
 In the gay season. If our thoughts incline 
 To a more gentle mood, we shall have friends 
 [n the now fading boughs, and withered flowers. 
 They will have meanings for us, such as quell 
 Heart-stirring discontent, and hopes too high 
 For the mind s peace. They tell us of decay, 
 And lead us to the evening of our days, 
 Making life s darker shades familiar to us, 
 In no ungraceful guise, but shedding round them 
 A pensive beauty. Let us then abroad. 
 
( 23 ) 
 
 And in the open theatre of fields 
 And forests, let us read the magic lines, 
 Where Spirit stamps on all inferior Being 
 Its essence and its power. 
 
 There is a life 
 
 In all things, so a gifted mind hath told 
 In most oracular verse, and we may well 
 Forgive a heart, that could not brook the sight 
 Of any suffering thing, that he indulged 
 Such fond imaginings, as gave to him 
 Companions, whereso er he took his way 
 Through hill or valley. He beheld himself 
 Surrounded by a multitude of friends, 
 Who with familiar faces welcomed him 
 In the blank desert for the changing sky, 
 Cloudless, or overshadowed by all shapes, 
 That grow from air the sun who walks at noon 
 Untended, and the lesser light that binds 
 Her brow with stars, and all her retinue 
 Of living lamps, had each a voice for him 
 Distinctly audible, though to other ears 
 They had no sound. The mountain, whose bald forehead 
 Looked o er a host of hills, each compassing 
 A grassy vale, and in each vale a lake 
 Of crystalline waters, and a busy brook 
 Winding in ever shifting light along 
 The daisy-tufted meadows, now asleep 
 in a smooth-mirrored pool, then all awake 
 To leap the cascade, and go hurriedly 
 
Over the sparkling pebbles and bright sands 
 
 The mountain, and its train, had all for him 
 
 A welcome, and they uttered it with smiles 
 
 All the long summer, and they told to him 
 
 In winter such high mysteries, he learned 
 
 To speak a holier language, and his heart 
 
 Was ever haunted by a silent power, 
 
 In whose immediate presence, he became 
 
 Thoughtful and calm and so his lofty faith, 
 
 Which some of poorer spirit have pronounced 
 
 A madness, was to him the quickening spring 
 
 Of Poesy, such as we cannot read 
 
 Without a sense of awe. Then wherefore doubt. 
 
 At least the gracious tendency of belief 
 
 So rich in comfort to the lonely mind, 
 
 That oftentimes finds all access denied 
 
 To the society of living men, 
 
 Perchance, of books. The captive, who may catch 
 
 Glimpses of nature through his dungeon bars, 
 
 If so persuaded, may have friends with him, 
 
 The live-long day : and in his darker hours, 
 
 The silver planet, or the many lights, 
 
 That keep their watch above him, or the clouds. 
 
 That lie so tranquilly on the far hills, 
 
 Will speak a meaning, that hath power to calm 
 
 His passionate soul, and lead him unto rest 
 
 Through a fair train of sadly pleasing dreams. 
 
 With such a gifted spirit, one may read 
 The open leaves of a philosophy, 
 
( 25 ) 
 
 Not reared from cold deduction, but descending, 
 
 A living spirit, from the purer shrine 
 
 Of a celestial reason. One is found 
 
 By slow and lingering search, and then requires 
 
 Close questioning of minutest circumstance, 
 
 To know, it has the genuine stamp. The other 
 
 Is in us, as an instinct, where it lives 
 
 A part of us, we can as ill throw off, 
 
 As bid the vital pulses cease to play, 
 
 And yet expect to live the spirit of life, 
 
 And hope, and elevation, and eternity, 
 
 The fountain of all honour, all desire 
 
 After a higher and a better state, 
 An influence so quickening, it imbues 
 All things we see, with its own qualities, 
 And therefore Poetry, another name 
 For this innate Philosophy, so often 
 Gives life and body to invisible things. 
 
 And animates the insensible, diffusing 
 
 The feelings, passions, tendencies of Man, 
 
 Through the whole range of being. Though on earth. 
 
 And most of all in living things, as birds 
 
 And flowers, in things that beautify, and fill 
 
 The air with harmony, and in the waters. 
 
 So full of change, so apt to elegance 
 
 Or power so tranquil when they lie at rest. 
 
 So sportive when they trip it lightly on 
 
 Their prattling way, and with so terrible 
 
 And lion-like severity, when roused 
 
 To break their bonds, and hurry forth to war 
 
 With winds and storms though it find much on earth 
 
( 26 ) 
 
 Suited to its high purpose, yet the sky 
 
 Is its peculiar home, and most of all, 
 
 When it is shadowed by a shifting veil 
 
 Of clouds, like to the curtain of a stage, 
 
 Beautiful in itself, and yet concealing 
 
 A more exalted beauty. Shapes of air, 
 
 Born of the woods and waters, but sublimed 
 
 Unto a loftier Being ! Ye alone 
 
 Are in perpetual change. All other things 
 
 Seem to have times of rest, but ye are passing 
 
 With an unwearied flow to newer shapes 
 
 Grotesque and wild. Ye too have ever been 
 
 The Poet s treasure-house, where he has gathered 
 
 A store of metaphors, to deck withal 
 
 Gentle or mighty themes. I then may dare 
 
 To call ye from your dwellings, and compel ye 
 
 To stoop and listen. Who that ever looked 
 
 Delighted on the full magnificence 
 
 Of a stored Heaven, when all the painted lights 
 
 Of morning and of evening are abroad ; 
 
 Or watched the moon dispensing to the wreaths, 
 
 That round her roll, tinctures of pearl and opal 
 
 Who would not pardon me this invocation 
 
 To things like clouds ? I recollect one night. 
 
 A winter s night the air is clearer then, 
 
 And all the skyey creatures have a touch 
 
 Of majesty about them ; there were clouds, 
 
 So thick, they blotted out the maiden moon, 
 
 Then in her fullness, and the scanty light, 
 
 That visited the earth, came through the rifts, 
 
 Where they had parted. I had gone abroad 
 
( 27 ) 
 
 Upon some fanciful intent, and long 
 
 Had dallied with the dancing radiance, 
 
 That now and then flitted from parting clouds 
 
 Over the snow-fields when at once it seemed, 
 
 Just by me, as if heaven itself were opened, 
 
 And from the visible presence, there had come 
 
 A sudden flash, to herald the approach 
 
 Of some celestial messenger. I stood 
 
 As startled as if instantly a bolt 
 
 Fell smouldering at my feet but on the moment 
 
 Turning me, whence the emanation flowed, 
 
 I saw the moon unveiled pure, spotless orb, 
 
 She stood in a deep sea of glorious light, 
 
 Too deep to sound. It seemed as if a wall 
 
 Were built around her, of the brightest silver. 
 
 Or rather like the changeful brilliancy 
 
 Of Girasol or opal. It inclosed 
 
 The semblance of a well, and it meseemed 
 
 I occupied its depth, and from above, 
 
 The sky looked in, sole tenanted and filled 
 
 By the round moon. Language were all in vain 
 
 To give a body to the spectacle, 
 
 That met me then ; and yet I will not shrink 
 
 From my endeavor. First there seemed below 
 
 A solid mass just touched by the full light, 
 
 And palely passing into utter darkness 
 
 On the low-lying clouds above it rose 
 
 Huge piles, like rounded rocks, that glowed intensely 
 
 With a rich golden blaze ; and higher still 
 
 There lay ten thousand painted heaps of foam, 
 
 Pure white, and covered over with such rainbows. 
 
( 28 ) 
 
 As gem the morning dew and still above them 
 
 Shone a whole harvest of such seeded pearl, 
 
 As the swart Genii pour from coral urns, 
 
 To win the favor of their love they seemed 
 
 All hues, and from them mounted waveringly, 
 
 Even to the centre, where they seemed to fan 
 
 Pale Dian s face, long shadowy streamers, floating 
 
 Like pennons on the newly risen gale, 
 
 That freshly steals ashore they seemed to grow 
 
 From that deep bed of pearls, like sea-fans waving 
 
 Over the white sands of the ocean s floor. 
 
 Glorious creation ! vision of a moment ! 
 
 It vanished, leaving not a rack behind. 
 
 The clouds closed in, heavy and lowering clouds. 
 
 And the night thickened, and the flaky snow 
 
 Began to fall. I then betook myself 
 
 To my warm hearth, and musing, as I sat, 
 
 A vision stood before me. Then, methought. 
 
 A mountain rose above the highest clouds, 
 
 Far in the distance, like a shadowy thing 
 
 Floating in thinnest air. The driven snow, 
 
 Hardened by centuries of frost, beheld, 
 
 A winter s midnight, on the highest Alps, 
 
 When the moon holds unquestioned sway in heaven. 
 
 Were dim to such a brightness, as encompassed 
 
 That shadowy cone. Methought, around it flew 
 
 A multitude of white-winged cherubim, 
 
 And well as I could read their looks, so far. 
 
 Each with a most severe serenity, 
 
 As if all thought and at the highest point 
 
 There seemed the likeness of a throne, whereon 
 
( 29 ) 
 
 Sat one, whose eye steadily gazed upon 
 
 The sky above him, reading all therein. 
 
 Planet and star, as most familiar letters, 
 
 His pastime, not his toil and by him sat 
 
 One, who ran over with perpetual glance 
 
 All visible things, seeking to fashion them 
 
 To one fixed law and at his other hand 
 
 A spirit of a most sagacious eye, 
 
 With an internal vision questioning 
 
 Mind and its thoughts. Methought a voice proclaimed, 
 
 This is the seat of intellect, where pure 
 
 And freed from all investment, passion, pride, 
 
 Fancy, and other shades, that might impair 
 
 The edge of sight it holds supremacy 
 
 Over imagination s highest flight, 
 
 And the most gifted spirits, who would throw 
 
 Their rainbow colours round the form of Truth. 
 
 Masking the perfect brightness of the sun 
 
 With infinite variety of hues 
 
 Born of the pictured morning. As I gazed 
 
 With deep intensity, rapt and engulfed 
 
 In wonder and in awe, as when the martyr 
 
 Sees the world passing with its clouds away. 
 
 And from the sapphire walls and crystal gates 
 
 Of the highest Heaven, a wave of light descending. 
 
 And round it myriads of golden wings, 
 
 Like the bright margin of the o erflowing stream. 
 
 At which he drinks and lives drinks and awakes 
 
 To immortality and joy or rather 
 
 Like the strong gaze of Dante, when he saw, 
 
 Then standing in the loftiest sphere of Heaven. 
 
( 30 ) 
 
 A radiant point, shedding such burning brightness, 
 
 None but the blessed could behold and live, 
 
 And therefore veiled by the nine circular choirs 
 
 Of saints and angels or when he beheld, 
 
 As to that empyrean he ascended, 
 
 His guide, his own Beatrice, there transformed 
 
 To a most spiritual shape of light, encircled 
 
 With such a dazzling glory, as the sun 
 
 Holds at the fullest noon, when the clear air, 
 
 Dense in its clearness, heightens to the highest 
 
 The lustre of his beams then as I gazed, 
 
 A most majestic sea of rolling clouds 
 
 Seemed to surround that throne, and it advanced, 
 
 And gradually took form, and I beheld, 
 
 Each on his shadowy car, spirits, who told, 
 
 By their commanding attitudes, that they 
 
 Were wont to rule. They occupied three spheres 
 
 The highest, like the throne, they now surrounded, 
 
 Bright, snowy, pure, only the waving folds 
 
 That circled it, were tinted with the hues 
 
 That fall from diamond prisms, the deepest hues 
 
 That flow from light. The one below it seemed 
 
 Woven from silken curls of tenderest blue, 
 
 Edged with the ruby tints, that fill the sky 
 
 Just as the twilight vanishes. The lowest 
 
 Was like an awful thunder cloud, a ridge 
 
 Of gloomy towers, each with its summit bronzed 
 
 By an ill-omened flame, and all beneath 
 
 Purple and dun, down to its lowest depth, 
 
 Where all was dark unmingled darkness, deep. 
 
 As bottomless abyss, or the profound 
 
( 31 ) 
 
 Of central caves. This sea of clouds rolled on, 
 Like the slow tide of lavas, or the storm 
 That hangs for hours on the far distant hills, 
 Deepening its horrors, till the unclouded sun 
 Is saddened in its shade. 
 
 The highest sphere 
 
 Bore on its airy seats, four of the train, 
 Who, by their calm serenity, betokened 
 How deep their thoughts and therefore they were seated 
 The nearest to the Mind s celestial throne : 
 But by the golden hues that flowed around them, 
 Visions of fancy, such as they had loved, 
 Were shadowed forth. Two were bereft of sight ; 
 Their outward eyes were closed yet not the less 
 They rolled their sightless orbs from earth to heaven 
 With hurried glance, and often fixed them long 
 On the bright sky, as if in holy trance 
 They saw unveiled the very throne of glory, 
 The habitation of the One Supreme, 
 Or the Olympian dwelling of the gods 
 Of the olden time, before the living Sun 
 Descended, and made visible to man 
 The secrets of the Mightiest. I could hear 
 Their voices, full, sonorous, rolling on, 
 Like the perpetual stream of ocean, borne 
 To earth s remotest shores. Yet not alike 
 Their tones for one was ever up at heaven. 
 Or if it took a softer note, as pure 
 As the far echo of an angel s lyre 
 Behind a golden cloud. Less harmony 
 
( 32 ) 
 
 Was in the other song for now the bolt 
 
 Seemed suddenly hurled in rattling peals, and then 
 
 The shrill blast of the trumpet told of war, 
 
 And then the merry din of flutes and viols 
 
 Rang, like a festive glee ; and then, methought, 
 
 Loud laughter shook the dome, and last of all 
 
 Came a low-muttered sound, as if from caves 
 
 An oracle went forth, or bodiless ghost 
 
 Gibbered in Hades. Of the other two, 
 
 One by the broad expansion of his brow, 
 
 And his high arching forehead, fair as heaven, 
 
 When air is purged by storms, and by an eye. 
 
 Now calm, anon in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 
 Then all dissolved in smiles, and by the light 
 
 And delicate contour of his lips, revealed 
 
 Not only all the majesty of thought 
 
 But a quick change of fancy ever shifting 
 
 Like clouds before the wind, and with it too 
 
 A nice observance of the smallest seemings, 
 
 By which the admiring world have judged him gifted 
 
 With a seer s eye. The summit where he sat, 
 
 Was fair as bodiless thought ; but all below 
 
 There hung such wealth of folds, as round the couch 
 
 Of royal beauty wave and they were part 
 
 Too rich to gaze on fixedly, while others 
 
 Sweeping in cumbrous trains, were dim and dark 
 
 With horror, and beside them not a few 
 
 Trailed to the ground like serpent coils, obscenely 
 
 Dallying with meanest things. The last who held 
 
 That upper station, wore a thoughtful look 
 
 Of mild humanity, whereon was stamped 
 
( 33 ) 
 
 The seal of power. It seemed his happiness 
 
 To gaze on loftiest Being, and to read 
 
 The deep recesses of the human heart, 
 
 And with a chain of tenderest links to twine 
 
 Man and his feeblest nature to the height 
 
 Of all Divinity so, though his voice 
 
 At times might chide the thunder, it resounded 
 
 So full and loud, it stole at other times 
 
 Like the low breathings of a happy child 
 
 In its undreaming sleep, or like the whisper 
 
 Of summer winds through the still forest boughs, 
 
 Or like the scarce heard murmur of a brook 
 
 Kissing its turfy margin. These were they, 
 
 Who rode the proudest; but so much of thought. 
 
 Busy and deep, and such a silent calmness 
 
 Of passion filled them, that they bore themselves 
 
 Meekly in all their honors. 
 
 In the sphere 
 
 Beneath them, there were many ; but I marked 
 Two of so gentle aspect, they controlled 
 My thoughts to them alone. The one had bound 
 His front with olive, where few scattered leaves 
 Of laurel, and a twine of greenest myrtle 
 Added their graces. He had sung of peace 
 Cheerfully and most sweetly, and of love 
 With an undying strain ; but when he took 
 The warlike trumpet, broken were the sounds 
 That issued, though a few were nobly filled : 
 And soon he laid it by with a sad look, 
 As if he had done violence to himself 
 5 
 
( 34 ) 
 
 By so unwelcome effort. Then he sung : 
 
 Lay me beneath the hospitable shade 
 
 Of ancient boughs, and let me dream away 
 
 In quiet musing, such a blameless life, 
 
 As marked the golden age ; and let me hear 
 
 The sweet musician of the silent night 
 
 Pour out her tender heart, till sleep steal on 
 
 Opening the ivory door of happy visions, 
 
 Though all unreal, that the cheated soul, 
 
 Awhile may wander through Elysium, 
 
 And quaff oblivion on a couch of flowers. 
 
 Thus sang he, while the other listening lay. 
 
 Propped on his elbow, like a heart-sick girl 
 
 Reading a tale of visionary grief. 
 
 There was a dewy softness in his eye, 
 
 And this awhile threw over him a cloud, 
 
 That added sweeter beauty to his face, 
 
 Itself so beautiful, it seemed the shrine 
 
 Of all the fair and lovely. One would say. 
 
 His Being was essential elegance, 
 
 And nothing came within its charmed sphere, 
 
 But took a brighter hue, and bore around it 
 
 Something to grace and please. Even Majesty 
 
 Softened itself before him, and became 
 
 The minister of kindness. He could sing 
 
 Of war, but it was honorable war, 
 
 The pride of chivalry, that sunned itself 
 
 In ladies eyes ; but most of all he loved 
 
 To tell us of enchanted palaces, 
 
 Groves, gardens, lakes, and rivers, mingled all, 
 
 As if not. art but nature had bestowed them, 
 
( 35 ) 
 
 And yet so tasteful that the hand of art 
 
 Was surely there, and then to fill their shades 
 
 With a voluptuous beauty, wantoning 
 
 In innocent dalliance, for he never dreamed 
 
 Of aught that was not pure his inmost soul 
 
 Shone as sincerely pure, as mountain ice 
 
 Hewn from the glacier. So he played with beauty, 
 
 And with enamoured fondness followed it 
 
 Through sorrow to his grave. 
 
 I turned me then 
 
 To the lower sphere, and on its fiery towers 
 Saw three, who there sat proudly eminent, 
 Erect and firm. Lines of unwearied thought 
 Were stamped, but an intensity of passion, 
 That burned like a red furnace, gave to them 
 A wild mysterious glare. Passion had gained 
 The mastery, and meditation served 
 Only to give more fatal energy 
 To what it willed, and willing, bore at once 
 To the irrevocable act. Such spirits 
 Have made the world turn pale. Passion thus guided 
 Has given us conquerors, who have swept the earth 
 With a consuming fire, and with the blaze 
 Of conflagration dazzled us, and then 
 Left after them a gloom, that sank like night 
 Over the frighted nations. 
 
 / 
 
 Of the three, 
 
 One sat with sternly gathered brows, and mused 
 Earnestly, while his swart eye shot beneath 
 
(\ 36 ) 
 
 A fire that had no rest. He found his pleasure 
 
 In planting daggers in the naked heart, 
 
 And one by one drawing them out again, 
 
 To count the beaded drops, and slowly tell 
 
 Each agonizing throb. Therefore he took 
 
 The horrors of the AtridaB for his theme, 
 
 Where every passion strove for mastery, 
 
 And every sense of duty went to war 
 
 With hatred and revenge ; fit theme for one, 
 
 Who loved to put the spirit on the rack, 
 
 And wrench the instincts of our better nature 
 
 From all they clung to. He too willingly 
 
 Sent all his energy into the wrongs 
 
 Of that mysterious Titan, who bestowed 
 
 On man the gift of fire, or rather gave 
 
 A light from heaven Knowledge, the blessed light . 
 
 That quickens us, and bids our clay-cold spirits 
 
 Awake and live and for this act of kindness 
 
 Was seized by the revengeful gods, and bound 
 
 In adamantine chains confined by power 
 
 Struggling with truth, in a captivity 
 
 That has no end, till one shall stoop from heaven. 
 
 To bear for him his sufferings, and descend 
 
 Into the gloomy depths of Tartarus. 
 
 Strange and mysterious words, and spoken too 
 
 In a dark age, when nothing yet of light 
 
 From off a higher altar, had descended 
 
 To fill the idol temple. Boldly, too, 
 
 This, and full many a startling truth were spoken, 
 
 That have been, and will yet be carried on 
 
 To their fulfilment. Yes, the time will come, 
 
( 37 ) 
 
 When ail the fetters, violence and pride, 
 
 Hypocrisy and fraud, have twined around 
 
 The soul of man, shall sever like the flax 
 
 Before the furnace, and the united voice 
 
 Of earth proclaim, that every chain is broken. 
 
 And every spirit free. The time draws nigh, 
 
 When the glad shout shall ring. It will not come 
 
 At the loud summons of impatient pride, 
 
 But in the silent going on of things 
 
 All shall be finished. Let us then await 
 
 Calmly the close. 
 
 Another sat with eye, 
 Scowling in sickly hate of human things, 
 And now with loftiest aspirations breathing 
 After sublimer worlds, then pouring out 
 Reproach and scorn, and with indignant wrath, 
 Cursing the meanness of the baser crowd, 
 Whose touch he felt was bane then with a sneer, 
 Laughing at folly like a gay buffoon, 
 Seemingly, but a bitterness withal 
 Curled on his lip, and gave a hollow sound 
 Even to his merriest gibes. A fallen spirit 
 Had better filled his place, for so he seemed, 
 Pandering the baser passions, with a voice, 
 That might have borne itself among the highest, 
 And long been hailed, for its redeeming power, 
 By all the wise and good. 
 
 Between the two 
 
 Sat one, who seemed to rule. His deep sunk eye 
 Burnt with an ominous glare, and on his brow 
 
( 38 ) 
 
 Strong passion worked ; and yet at times he raised 
 
 His look aloft, and then a moment s calmness 
 
 Stilled it, but soon prevailing nature took 
 
 Her wonted way. This man had suffered wrong, 
 
 Foully and cruelly had suffered wrong, 
 
 And this he had resented, till his mind 
 
 Lost the kind balance, which had lifted him 
 
 To the calm regions of unruffled thought, 
 
 And holy musing. His resentment gained 
 
 Such mastery o er him, he contrived a web 
 
 Of most unearthly dreams visions of hell 
 
 And all its horrors, that he thus might vent 
 
 His hatred, and deal out a deep damnation 
 
 On all his foes. Methought he yet looked down 
 
 Into his gulfs, and saw them writhing there, 
 
 With a delighted scorn. 
 
 While thus 1 gazed, 
 
 Silent and wondering, from his cloudy seat 
 He moved to meet me, like a messenger 
 Deputed from the spirits there assembled 
 To hold communion with me. He advanced, 
 Till he bent over me, and then, meseemed, 
 He stretched his ghostly hand, and with a sign 
 Of mute attention thus addressed me. " Hear 
 Carefully what I utter, and retain it 
 Deep in thy heart of hearts. We are a band, 
 Who gave ourselves in life, to the high art 
 Of song. For this we left the flowery walks 
 Of pleasure, and forewent the better aims 
 Of wealth and power and some of us were doomed 
 
( 39 ) 
 
 To bear the burden of consuming care, 
 
 And wrestle onward to a welcome grave 
 
 Through poverty and scorn and yet we bore 
 
 Manfully all our wrongs, and never broke 
 
 The allegiance we had vowed, but rather chose 
 
 To leave all the world covets most, and keep 
 
 The honorable service of the lyre, 
 
 Whose rich reward is fame. And we have gained it. 
 
 And thus far we are happy. If thy heart 
 
 Feel aught of longing to be one of us, 
 
 Be cautious and considerate, ere thou take 
 
 The last resolve. If thou canst bear alone 
 
 Penury arid all its evils, and yet worse 
 
 Malevolence, and all its foul-mouthed brood 
 
 Of slanderers, and if thou canst brook the scorn 
 
 And insolence of wealth, the pride of power, 
 
 The falsehood of the envious, and the coldness 
 
 Of an ungrateful country then go on 
 
 And conquer. Long and arduous is the way 
 
 To climb the heights we hold, and thou must bide 
 
 Many a pitiless storm, and nerve thyself 
 
 To many a painful struggle, If thy purpose 
 
 Is fixed, then welcome. We will hover o er thee. 
 
 Thy guardian spirits, and thy careful ear 
 
 May often listen to our friendly voice, 
 
 After thy earnest toils. We now are with thee 
 
 Thou hast the records we have left behind, 
 
 And thou canst read them, as we wrote them down. 
 
 Fresh from the heart and this it is to hold 
 
 Communion with us. Let it not depress thee. 
 
 That few will bid thee welcome on thy way. 
 
( 40 ) 
 
 For tis the common lot of all, who choose 
 
 The higher path, and with a generous pride 
 
 Scorn to consult the popular ear. This land 
 
 Is freedom s chosen seat, and all may here 
 
 Live in content and bodily comfort, yet 
 
 Tis not the nourishing soil of higher arts, 
 
 And loftier wisdom. Wherefore else should He. 
 
 Who, had he lived in Leo s brighter age, 
 
 Might have commanded princes, by the touch 
 
 Of a magician s wand, for such it is 
 
 That gives a living semblance to a sheet 
 
 Of pictured canvass wherefore should he wast,c 
 
 His precious time in painting valentines, 
 
 Or idle shepherds sitting on a bank 
 
 Beside a glassy pool, and worst of all 
 
 Bringing conceptions, only not divine, 
 
 To the scant compass of a parlor piece 
 
 And this to furnish out his daily store, 
 
 While he is toiling at the mighty task, 
 
 To which he has devoted all his soul 
 
 And all his riper years which, when it comes 
 
 To the broad light, shall vindicate his fame 
 
 In front of every foe, and send to ages 
 
 His name and power else wherefore lives he not 
 
 Rich in the generous gifts of a glad people, 
 
 As he is rich in thought ? There is no feeling 
 
 Above the common wants and common pleasures 
 
 Of calm contented life. So be assured, 
 
 If thou hast chosen our companionship, 
 
 Thou shalt have solitude enough to please 
 
 A hermit, and thy cell may show like his." 
 
Persival 
 
 yered before 
 3rcuu Alpha c. 
 betja kappa" soc5< 
 
 14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 
 5|g 
 
 
 
 wTo-^ c 
 
 n 
 
 
 1 
 
 f to recall after - 
 
 
 
 
 RK7D CIRC Dfc 
 
 *r ten ni b !> 
 
 !fiKl 
 
 1H^ 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 ^^ ]MI^^ S vfi r 
 
 - p^r^^ 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 General Library 
 LD 2lA-60m-3, 65 University of California 
 (F2336slO)476B Berkeley 
 
 flA LIBRARY