Hast thou hated, and not learned that thy silent scorn Doth deeper aggravate thy foe than loud-cursing malice ?— A wise wise man prevaileth in power, for he screeneth his battering engine, But a fool tilteth headlong, and his adversary is aware. Behold those broken arches, that oriel all unglazed, The delicate shaft stricken midway, and the flying buttress Idly stretching forth to hold up tufted ivy: Thinkest thou the thousand eyes that shine with rapture on a ruin, And wherefore not—but that light hints, suggesting unseen beauties, And so, the rapid sketch winneth more praise to the painter, Than the consummate work elaborated on his easel: And so, the Helvetic lion caverned in the living rock Hath more of majesty and force, than if upon a marble pedestal. Tell me, daughter of taste, what hath charmed thine ear in music? Is it the laboured theme, the curious fugue or cento, Nor rather the sparkles of intelligence flashing from some strange note, Tell me, thou son of science, what hath filled thy mind in reading? And they that read may run, nor need to stop and think; The book carefully accurate, that counteth thee no better than a fool, Nor rather the half-suggested thoughts, the riddles thou mayest solve, The confidence implied in thy skill to unravel meaning mysteries? For ideas are ofttimes shy of the close furniture of words, And thought, wherein only is power, may be best conveyed by a suggestion; The flash that lighteth up a valley, amid the dark midnight of a storm, Coineth the mind with that scene sharper than fifty summers. A worldly man boasteth in his pride that there is no power but of money : And he judgeth the characters of men by the differing measures of their means: He stealeth all goodly names, as worth, and value, and substance, Wealth: He spurneth the needy sage, whose wisdom hath enriched nations, And the sons of poverty and learning, without whom earth were a desert: Music, the soother of cares, the tuner of the dank discordant heart-strings, It is nought unto such an one but sounds, whereby some earn their living: The poem, and the picture, and the statue, to him seem idle baubles, Which wealth condescendeth to favour, to gain him the name of patron. But little wotteth he the might of the means his folly despiseth; He considereth not that these be the wires which move the puppets of the world. A sentence hath formed a character, (7) and a character subdued a kingdom; A picture hath ruined souls, or raised them to commerce with the skies: Man liveth from hour to hour, and knoweth not what may happen; As thou directest the power, harm or advantage will follow; May by the ductile wire give ease to an ailing child. For outward matter or event, fashion not the character within, Some have said, What is in a name?-most potent plastic influence; A low name is a thorn in the side, that hindereth the footman in his run ning; But a name of ancestral renown shall often put the racer to his speed. Few men have grown unto greatness whose names are allied to ridicule, And many would never have been profligate, but for the splendour of a name. A wise man scorneth nothing, be it never so small or homely, For he knoweth not the secret laws that may bind it to great effects, the stars, The world in its dotage is not wiser, fearing not the influence of smal things: Planets govern not the soul, nor guide the destinies of man, But trifles, lighter than straws, are levers in the building up of character. A man hath the tiller in his hand, and may steer against the current, Or may glide down idly with the stream, till his vessel founder in the whirlpool. OF MEMORY. WHERE art thou, storehouse of the mind, garner of facts and fancies,— In what strange firmament are laid the beams of thine airy chambers? Or art thou that small cavern, (3) the centre of the rolling brain, Where still one sandy morsel testifieth man's original ? Or hast thou some grand globe, some common hall of intellect, Some spacious market-place for thought, where all do bring their wares, A momentary self-desertion, an absence in spirit from the now, An actual coursing hither and thither, by the mind, slipped from its leash, A life, as in the mystery of dreams, spent within the limits of a moment. A brutish man knoweth not this, neither can a fool comprehend it, While wandering in the grove with Plato, and listening to Zeno in the porch? Paul have I seen, and Pythagoras, and the Stagyrite hath spoken me friendly, And His meek eye looked also upon me, standing with Peter in the palace. Where bodily ye have never stood, finding your own footsteps? Some newest circumstance or place teemed as with ancient memories? And then it is quenched, as in darkness, and leaveth the cold spirit trembling. Memory is not wisdom; idiots can rote volumes: Yet, what is wisdom without memory? a babe that is strangled in its birth; The path of the swallow in the air; the path of the dolphin in the waters; A cask running out; a bottomless chasm: such is wisdom without memory. There be many wise, who cannot store their knowledge; Yet from themselves are they satisfied, for the fountain is within : There be many who store, but have no wisdom of their own, Reap the ideas, and house them well; but leave the words high stubble, For the mind is a spirit, and drinketh in ideas, as flame melteth into flame; But for words, it must pack them as on floors, cumbrous and perishable merchandise. To be pained for a minute, to fear for an hour, to hope for a week-how long and weary! But to remember fourscore years, is to look back upon a day. An avenue seemeth to lengthen in the eyes of the wayfaring man, But let him turn, those stationed elms crowd up within a yard; Pace the lamp-lit streets of some sleeping city, The multitude of cressets shall seem one, in the false picture of per spective; Even so, in sweet treachery, dealeth the aged with himself, He gazeth on the green hill-tops, while the marshes beneath are hidden; And the partial telescope of memory pierceth the blank between, To look with lingering love at the fair star of childhood. Life is as the current spark on the miner's wheel of flints : Life is as a morsel of frankincense burning in the hall of Eternity; For its memories of sanctity or sin pervade all the firmament of being, But in the calendar of memory, that moment is all time. |