What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and-by. And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know. Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,-yes, VOL. II. 33 D And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my restingplace is found, The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. G RABBI BEN EZRA ROW old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Who saith "A whole I planned, Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Not for such hopes and fears Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! For thence, a paradox Which comforts while it mocks, Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?" |