VIII. Help me, God-help me, man! I am low, I am weak-- And I feel the externe and insensate creep in I sob not, nor shriek, I am strong in the spirit,—deep-thoughted, clear-eyed,— But the body faints sore, it is tired in the race,- The rein drops from its hold It sinks back, with the death in its face. On, chariot-on, soul, Ye are all the more fleet Be alone at the goal Of the strange and the sweet! IX. Love us, God; love us, man! we believe, we achieve--- For the acts correspond We are glorious-and DIE! And again on the knee of a mild Mystery That smiles with a change, Her pretty gestes did win South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness, All the fairer for that oneness. "For if I wait," said she, "Till times for roses be,For the musk-rose and the mossrose, Royal red and maiden - blush rose, "What glory then for me In such a company?— Roses plenty, roses plenty, And one nightingale for twenty? "Nay, let me in," said she, "Before the rest are free,In my loneness, in my loneness, All the fairer for that oneness. "For I would lonely stand, Uplifting my white hand,— On a mission, on a mission, To declare the coming vision. "Upon which lifted sign, What worship will be mine? What addressing, what caressing! And what thank, and praise, and blessing! "A windlike joy will rush Through every tree and bush, Bending softly in affection And spontaneous benediction. "Insects, that only may Live in a sunbright ray, To my whiteness, to my whiteness, Shall be drawn, as to a bright ness, "And every moth and bee, Approach me reverently; Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me, Coronals of motioned glory. "Three larks shall leave a cloud; To my whiter beauty vowedSinging gladly all the moontide,--Never waiting for the suntide. "Ten nightingales shall flee Their woods for love of me,— Singing sadly all the suntide, Never waiting for the moontide. "I ween the very skies Will look down with surprise, When low on earth they see me, With my starry aspect dreamy! "And earth will call her flowers To hasten out of doors,By their curtsies and sweetsmelling, To give grace to my foretelling." So praying, did she win South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness, And the fairer for that oneness. But ah !-alas for her! No thing did minister To her praises, to her praises, More than might unto a daisy's. No tree nor bush was seen To boast a perfect green; Scarcely having, scarcely having, One leaf broad enough for waving. The little flies did crawl Along the southern wall,— Faintly shifting, faintly shifting Wings scarce strong enough for lifting. The lark, too high or low, I ween, did miss her so; With his nest down in the gorses, And his song in the star-courses. “In faith—that still perceives No rose can shed her leaves, Far less, poet fall from missionWith an unfulfilled fruition! "In hope-that apprehends An end beyond these ends; And great uses rendered duly "Though none us deign to bless, By the meanest song sung truly! Blessed are we, nathless : Blessed still, and consecrated, In that, rose, we were created. "Oh, shame to poet's lays Sung for the dole of praise, Hoarsely sung upon the highway With that obolum da mihi. "Shame, shame to poet's soul, "Sit still upon your thrones, And if, sooth, the world decry "In thanks for all the good, By poets understoodFor the sounds of seraphs moving Down the hidden depths of loving, "For sights of things away, Through fissures of the clay, Promised things which shall be given And sung over, up in heaven,— "For life, so lovely-vain,— For death which breaks the chain,[ness,For the sense of present sweetAnd this yearning to completeness!" THE POET AND THE BIRD. A FABLE. SAID a people to a poet-"Go out from among us straightway! While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine. There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway, Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!" II. The poet went out weeping--the nightingale ceased chanting; "Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?" "I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting, Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun." III. The poet went out weeping,—and died abroad, bereft there— The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails :— And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's. THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. I. "THERE is no God," the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow;" And nature oft, the cry of faith, In bitter need will borrow : Eyes, which the preacher could not school, And lips say, "God be pitiful," Who ne'er said, "God be praised." II. Be pitiful, O God! The tempest stretches from the steep The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind, The hills have echoes, but we find No answer for the thunder. III. Be pitiful, O God! The battle hurtles on the plains— |