"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me! Wings have we, and as far as we can go Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo! Giving to thee Sound for Sound. Whence the Voice? from air or earth? This the Cuckoo cannot tell; But a startling sound had birth, As the Bird must know full well; Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent; Like her ordinary cry, Like-but oh how different! Hears not also mortal Life? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, Voices of two different Natures? Have not We too? Yes we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence? Such within ourselves we hear Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of God, of God they are! |