"FOR this true nobleness I seek in vain, In woman and in man I find it not; I almost weary of my earthly lot, My life-springs are dried up with burning pain." Thou find'st it not? I pray thee look again, Look inward through the depths of thine own soul. How is it with thee? Art thou sound and whole? Doth narrow search show thee no earthly stain ? BE NOBLE! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine V. TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS. GREAT soul, thou sittest with me in my room, Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes, On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies The twilight warmth of ruddy embergloom : Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries, Wrestling with the young poet's agonies, Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom: Yes! the few words which, like great thunder-drops, Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully, Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might, Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light, Shall track the eternal chords of Des For God's law, since the starry song began, Hath been, and still forevermore must be, That every deed which shall outlast Time's span Must goad the soul to be erect and free; Slave is no word of deathless lineage Too many noble souls have thought and died, Too many mighty poets lived and sung, And our good Saxon, from lips purified shaken And a heart-tremble quivers through the deep; Give me that growth which some perchance deem sleep, Wherewith the steadfast coral-stems uprise, Which, by the toil of gathering energies, Their upward way into clear sunshine keep, Until, by Heaven's sweetest influences, Slowly and slowly spreads a speck of green Into a pleasant island in the seas, Where, 'mid tall palms, the cane-roofed home is seen, And wearied men shall sit at sunset's hour, Hearing the leaves and loving God's dear power. 1841. VIII. TO M. W., ON HER BIRTHDAY. MAIDEN, when such a soul as thine is born, The morning-stars their ancient music make, And, joyful, once again theirsong awake, Long silent now with melancholy scorn; And thou, not mindless of so blest a morn, By no least deed its harmony shalt break, But shalt to that high chime thy footsteps take, Through life's most darksome passes unforlorn ; Therefore from thy pure faith thou shalt not fall, Therefore shalt thou be ever fair and free, And in thine every motion musical 1841. IX. Free from all of thee that was fugitive, The debt of Love I will more fully pay, Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, But rather raised to be a nobler man, And more divine in my humanity, As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan My life are lighted by a purer being, And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it agreeing. 1841. XI. THERE never yet was flower fair in vain, Let classic poets rhyme it as they will; The seasons toil that it may blow again, And summer's heart doth feel its every ill; Nor is a true soul ever born for naught; Wherever any such hath lived and died, There hath been something for true freedom wrought, Some bulwark levelled on the evil side: Toil on, then, Greatness! thou art in the right, However narrow souls may call thee wrong; Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight, And so thou wilt in all the world's erelong: For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may, From man's great soul one great thought hide away. 1841. XII. SUB PONDERE CRESCIT. THE hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day; I hear the soul of Man around me waking, Like a great sea, its frozen fetters breaking, And flinging up to heaven its sunlit spray, XIV. ON READING WORDSWORTH'S SON. NETS IN DEFENCE OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth, With the majestic beating of his heart, The mighty tides, whereof its rightful part |