In beautiful motion The thrush plies his wings; Kind leaves of his covert, Your silence he sings. "The waves, unashamed, Firmly draw, firmly drive, "Sea, earth, air, sound, silence, Plant, quadruped, bird, By one music enchanted, One deity stirred,— Each the other adorning, Accompany still; Night veileth the morning, The vapor the hill. Shines the peace of all being, Without cloud, in its eyes; And the sum of the world "But man crouches and blushes, Absconds and conceals; He creepeth and peepeth, Jealous glancing around, "Out spoke the great mother, Beholding his fear; At the sound of her accents Cold shuddered the sphere: 'Who has drugged my boy's cup? Who has mixed my boy's bread? Who, with sadness and madness, Has turned my child's head?" " I heard a poet answer "Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirges Are pleasant songs to me. Deep love lieth under These pictures of time; They fade in the light of Their meaning sublime. "The fiend that man harries Lit by rays from the Blest. Can't trance him again, Whose soul sees the perfect, Which his eyes seek in vain. "To vision profounder, At no goal will arrive ; The heavens that now draw him With sweetness untold, Once found, for new heavens He spurneth the old. "Pride ruined the angels, Their shame them restores; Who is noble and free? I would he were nobler "Eterne alternation Now follows, now flies; "Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits; Thy sight is growing blear; Rue, myrrh and cummin for the Sphinx, Her muddy eyes to clear!" The old Sphinx bit her thick lip, Said, "Who taught thee me to name? I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow, "Thou art the unanswered question; Couldst see thy proper eye, Alway it asketh, asketh; And each answer is a lie. So take thy quest through nature, It through thousand natures ply : Ask on, thou clothed eternity; Time is the false reply." Uprose the merry Sphinx, And crouched no more in stone; She melted into purple cloud, She silvered in the moon ; She spired into a yellow flame; She flowered in blossoms red; She flowed into a foaming wave; She stood Monadnoc's head. Thorough a thousand voices EACH AND ALL. LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, I brought him home, in his nest, at even; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire |