Best by remembering God, say some,
We keep our high imperial lot.
Fortune, I fear, hath oftenest come
When we forgot-when we forgot!
A lovelier faith their happier crown,
But history laughs and weeps it down!
Know they not well, how seven times seven,
Wronging our mighty arms with rust,
We dared not do the work of heaven
Lest heaven should hurl us in the dust? The work of heaven! 'Tis waiting still The sanction of the heavenly will.
Unmeet to be profaned by praise
Is he whose coils the world enfold;
The God on whom I ever gaze,
The God I never once behold:
Above the cloud, beneath the clod:
The Unknown God, the Unknown God.
"The Things that are more Excellent."
As we wax older on this earth,
Till many a toy that charmed us seems Emptied of beauty, stripped of worth,
And mean as dust and dead as dreams,—
For gauds that perished, shows that passed,
Some recompense the Fates have sent:
Thrice lovelier shine the things that last,
The things that are more excellent.
Tired of the Senate's barren brawl,
An hour with silence we prefer,
Where statelier rise the woods than all
Yon towers of talk at Westminster.
Let this man prate and that man plot,
On fame or place or title bent:
The votes of veering crowds are not
The things that are more excellent.
Shall we perturb and vex our soul
For "wrongs" which no true freedom mar,
Which no man's upright walk control,
And from no guiltless deed debar?
What odds though tonguesters heal, or leave
Unhealed, the grievance they invent?
To things, not phantoms, let us cleave-
The things that are more excellent,
Nought nobler is, than to be free:
The stars of heaven are free because In amplitude of liberty
Their joy is to obey the laws. From servitude to freedom's name
Free thou thy mind in bondage pent; Depose the fetich, and proclaim
The things that are more excellent.
And in appropriate dust be hurled
That dull, punctilious god, whom they
That call their tiny clan the world,
Serve and obsequiously obey:
Who con their ritual of Routine,
With minds to one dead likeness blent, And never ev'n in dreams have seen The things that are more excellent.
To dress, to call, to dine, to break
No canon of the social code,
The little laws that lacqueys make,
The futile decalogue of Mode,
How many a soul for these things lives,
With pious passion, grave intent!
While Nature careless-handed gives
The things that are more excellent.
To hug the wealth ye cannot use,
And lack the riches all may gain,-
O blind and wanting wit to choose,
Who house the chaff and burn the grain!
And still doth life with starry towers
Lure to the bright, divine ascent !—
Be yours the things ye would be ours
The things that are more excellent.
The grace of friendship-mind and heart
Linked with their fellow heart and mind;
The gains of science, gifts of art;
The sense of oneness with our kind;
The thirst to know and understand—
A large and liberal discontent:
These are the goods in life's rich hand,
The things that are more excellent.
In faultless rhythm the ocean rolls,
A rapturous silence thrills the skies;
And on this earth are lovely souls,
That softly look with aidful eyes.
Though dark, O God, Thy course and track,
I think Thou must at least have meant
That nought which lives should wholly lack
The things that are more excellent.
A Grave by the Sea.
ON THE DEATH OF ROSSETTI.
YON sightless poet1 whom thou leav'st behind,
Sightless and trembling like a storm-struck tree,
Above the grave he feels but cannot see,
Save with the vision Sorrow lends the mind,
Is he indeed the loneliest of mankind?
Ah no!-For all his sobs, he seems to me
Less lonely standing there, and nearer thee,
Than I-less lonely, nearer-standing blind!
Free from the day, and piercing Life's disguise
That needs must partly enveil true heart from heart,
His inner eyes may see thee as thou art
In Memory's land-see thee beneath the skies
Lit by thy brow-by those beloved eyes,
While I stand by him in a world apart.
I stand like her who on the glittering Rhine
Saw that strange swan which drew a faëry boat
Where shone a knight whose radiant forehead smote
Her soul with light and made her blue eyes shine
For many a day with sights that seemed divine,
Till that false swan returned and arched his throat
In pride, and called him, and she saw him float
Adown the stream: I stand like her and pine.
1 Philip Bourke Marston.
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