Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld
In thine, I listen'd to thy vows,
For me outpour'd in holiest prayer-
For me unworthy!—and beheld

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew

The beauty and repose of faith,

And the clear spirit shining thro'.

Oh! wherefore do we grow awry

From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desert? Could not I

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt,

To the earth—until the ice would melt
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?

What Devil had the heart to scathe

Flowers thou hadst rear’d—to brush the dew

From thine own lily, when thy grave

Was deep, my mother, in the clay?

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I

So little love for thee? But why
Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray
To one who heeds not, who can save
But will not? Great in faith, and strong
Against the grief of circumstance

Wert thou, and yet unheard.

What if

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive

Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff,

Unpiloted i' the echoing dance

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low
Unto the death, not sunk! I know
At matins and at evensong,

That thou, if thou wert yet alive,

In deep and daily prayers would'st strive
To reconcile me with thy God.

Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still-
'Bring this lamb back into Thy fold,
My Lord, if so it be Thy will.'
Would'st tell me I must brook the rod
And chastisement of human pride;
That pride, the sin of devils, stood
Betwixt me and the light of God!
That hitherto I had defied

And had rejected God-that grace
Would drop from his o'er-brimming love,
As manna on my wilderness,

If I would pray that God would move

And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence,

Sweet in their utmost bitterness,

Would issue tears of penitence

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas!
I think that pride hath now no place
Nor sojourn in me. I am void,

Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

Why not believe then? Why not yet
Anchor thy frailty there, where man
Hath moor'd and rested? Ask the sea
At midnight, when the crisp slope waves
After a tempest, rib and fret

The broad-imbased beach, why he
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?
Wherefore his ridges are not curls
And ripples of an inland mere?
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can

Draw down into his vexed pools

All that blue heaven which hues and paves

The other? I am too forlorn,

Too shaken my own weakness fools

My judgment, and my spirit whirls,

Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

'Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth,
The unsunn'd freshness of my strength,
When I went forth in quest of truth,
'It is man's privilege to doubt,

If so be that from doubt at length,

Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,

An image with profulgent brows,

And perfect limbs, as from the storm

Of running fires and fluid range

Of lawless airs, at last stood out

This excellence and solid form

Of constant beauty. For the Ox
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills
The horned valleys all about,
And hollows of the fringed hills
In summer heats, with placid lows
Unfearing, till his own blood flows
About his hoof. And in the flocks
The lamb rejoiceth in the year,
And raceth freely with his fere,
And answers to his mother's calls
From the flower'd furrow. In a time,
Of which he wots not, run short pains
Thro' his warm heart; and then, from whence
He knows not, on his light there falls
A shadow; and his native slope,

Where he was wont to leap and climb,
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,
And something in the darkness draws
His forehead earthward, and he dies.
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope
As a young lamb, who cannot dream,
Living, but that he shall live on?
Shall we not look into the laws
Of life and death, and things that seem,

And things that be, and analyse
Our double nature, and compare

VOL. I.

All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be?' Ay me! I fear

All may not doubt, but everywhere

Some must clasp Idols.

Yet, my God,

Whom call I Idol? Let Thy dove

Shadow me over, and my sins

Be unremember'd, and Thy love
Oh teach me yet

Enlighten me.

Somewhat before the heavy clod
Weighs on me, and the busy fret
Of that sharp-headed worm begins
In the gross blackness underneath.

O weary life! O weary death !
O spirit and heart made desolate !
O damned vacillating state!