LITMIR.BIZ

        If, in the woes of Actual Human Life—

        If thou could'st see the serpent strife

          Which the Greek Art has made divine in stone—

        Could'st see the writhing limbs, the livid cheek,

        Note every pang, and hearken every shriek

          Of some despairing lost Laocoon,

        The human nature would thyself subdue

          To share the human woe before thine eye—

        Thy cheek would pale, and all thy soul be true

          To Man's great Sympathy.

        But in the Ideal Realm, aloof and far,

        Where the calm Art's pure dwellers are,

          Lo, the Laocoon writhes, but does not groan.

        Here, no sharp grief the high emotion knows—

        Here, suffering's self is made divine, and shows

          The brave resolve of the firm soul alone:

        Here, lovely as the rainbow on the dew

          Of the spent thunder-cloud, to Art is given,

        Gleaming through Grief's dark veil, the peaceful blue

          Of the sweet Moral Heaven.

        So, in the glorious parable, behold

        How, bow'd to mortal bonds, of old

          Life's dreary path divine Alcides trod:

        The hydra and the lion were his prey,

        And to restore the friend he loved today,

          He went undaunted to the black-brow'd God;

        And all the torments and the labors sore

          Wroth Juno sent—the meek majestic One,

        With patient spirit and unquailing, bore,

          Until the course was run—

        Until the God cast down his garb of clay,

        And rent in hallowing flame away

          The mortal part from the divine—to soar

        To the empyreal air! Behold him spring

        Blithe in the pride of the unwonted wing,

          And the dull matter that confined before

        Sinks downward, downward, downward as a dream!

          Olympian hymns receive the escaping soul,

        And smiling Hebe, from the ambrosial stream,

          Fills for a God the bowl!

        Do I believe, thou ask'st, the Master's word,

        The Schoolman's shibboleth that binds the herd?

        To the soul's haven is there but one chart?

        Its peace a problem to be learned by art?

        On system rest the happy and the good?

        To base the temple must the props be wood?

        Must I distrust the gentle law, imprest,

        To guide and warn, by Nature on the breast,

        Till, squared to rule the instinct of the soul,—

        Till the School's signet stamp the eternal scroll,

        Till in one mold some dogma hath confined

        The ebb and flow—the light waves—of the mind?

        Say thou, familiar to these depths of gloom,

        Thou, safe ascended from the dusty tomb,

        Thou, who hast trod these weird Egyptian cells—

        Say—if Life's comfort with yon mummies dwells!—

        Say—and I grope—with saddened steps indeed—

        But on, thro' darkness, if to Truth it lead!

          Nay, Friend, thou know'st the golden time—the age

        Whose legends live in many a poet's page?

        When heavenlier shapes with Man walked side by side,

        And the chaste Feeling was itself a guide;

        Then the great law, alike divine amid

        Suns bright in Heaven, or germs in darkness hid—

        That silent law—(call'd whether by the name

        Of Nature or Necessity, the same),

        To that deep sea, the heart, its movement gave—

        Sway'd the full tide, and freshened the free wave.

        Then sense unerring—because unreproved—

        True as the finger on the dial moved,

        Half-guide, half-playmate, of Earth's age of youth,

        The sportive instinct of Eternal Truth.

        Then, nor Initiate nor Profane were known;

        Where the Heart felt—there Reason found a throne:

        Not from the dust below, but life around

        Warm Genius shaped what quick Emotion found.

        One rule, like light, for every bosom glowed,

        Yet hid from all the fountain whence it flowed.

        But, gone that blessed Age!—our wilful pride

        Has lost, with Nature, the old peaceful Guide.

        Feeling, no more to raise us and rejoice,

        Is heard and honored as a Godhead's voice;

        And, disenhallowed in its eldest cell

        The Human Heart—lies mute the Oracle,

        Save where the low and mystic whispers thrill

        Some listening spirit more divinely still.

        There, in the chambers of the inmost heart,

        There, must the Sage explore the Magian's art;

        There, seek the long-lost Nature's steps to track,

        Till, found once more, she gives him Wisdom back!

        Hast thou—(O Blest, if so, whate'er betide!)—

        Still kept the Guardian Angel by thy side?

        Can thy Heart's guileless childhood yet rejoice

        In the sweet instinct with its warning voice?

        Does Truth yet limn upon untroubled eyes,

        Pure and serene, her world of Iris-dies?

        Rings clear the echo which her accent calls

        Back from the breast, on which the music falls?

        In the calm mind is doubt yet hush'd—and will

        That

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