The day of truth is dawning. I behold
O'er darksome hills the trailing robes of gold
And silent footsteps of the gladsome dawn.
The morning breaks by sages long foretold;
Truth comes to set upon the world her throne.
Men lift their foreheads to the rising sun,
And lo the reign of Reason is begun.
Fantastic phantasms fly before the light
Pale, gibbering ghosts and ghouls and goblin fears:
Man who hath walked in sleep what thousands years?
Groping among the shadows of the night,
Moon-struck and in a weird somnambulism,
Mumbling some cunning cant or catechism,
Thrilled by the electric magic of the skies
Sun-touched by Truth awakes and rubs his eyes.

Old Superstition, mother of cruel creeds,
O'er all the earth hath sown her dragon-teeth.
Lo centuries on...

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

[More Ways Than One.]

        I was present, one day
            Where both layman and priest
        Worshipped God in a way
            That was startling, at least:
        Over thirty in place
            On the stage, in a row,
        As is often the case
            At a minstrelsy show;
        In a uniform clad
            Was each one of them seen,
        And a banjo they had,
            And a loud tambourine.
        And they sung and they shouted
            Their spasmodic joys,
        Just as if they ne'er doubted
            That God loved a noise.

        And their phrases, though all
            Not deficient in points,
        A grammarian would call
      ...

To tell the Saviour all my wants,
How pleasing is the task!
Nor less to praise him when he grants
Beyond what I can ask.


My labouring spirit vainly seeks
To tell but half the joy;
With how much tenderness he speaks,
And helps me to reply.


Nor were it wise, nor should I choose,
Such secrets to declare;
Like precious wines, their tastes they lose,
Exposed to open air.


But this with boldness I proclaim,
Nor care if thousands hear,
Sweet is the ointment of his name,
Not life is half so dear.


And can you frown, my former friends,
Who knew what once I was;
And blame the song that thus commends
The Man who bore the cross?


Trust me, I draw the likeness true,
And not as fancy paints;

Three memories hold us ever
With longing and with pain;
Three memories Time has never
Been able to restrain;
That in each life remain
A part of heart and brain.

The first 's of that which taught us
To follow, Beauty still;
Who to the Fountain brought us
Of ancient good and ill,
And bade us drink our fill
At Life's wild-running rill.

The second one, that 's driven
Of anguish and delight,
Holds that which showed us Heaven,
Through Love's triumphant might;
And, deep beneath its height,
Hell, sighing in the night.

The third none follows after:
Its form is veiled and dim;
Its eyes are tears and laughter,
That look beyond the rim
Of earth and point to Him,
Who rules the Seraphim.

    I dreamt (no "dream" awake-a dream indeed)
    A wrathful man was talking in the park:
    "Where are the Higher Powers, who know our need
                        And leave us in the dark?

    "There are no Higher Powers; there is no heart
    In God, no love"-his oratory here,
    Taking the paupers’ and the cripples’ part,
                        Was broken by a tear.

    And then it seemed that One who did create
    Compassion, who alone invented pity,
    Walked, as though called, in at that north-east gate,
                        Out from the muttering city;

    Threaded the little crowd, trod the brown grass,
    Bent o’er the speaker close, saw the tear rise,
    And saw Himself, as one looks in a glass,
                        In tho...

While in my simple gospel creed
That "God is Love" so plain I read,
Shall dreams of heathen birth affright
My pathway through the coming night?
Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale
Fill with their threats the shadowy vale,
With Thee my faltering steps to aid,
How can I dare to be afraid?

Shall mouldering page or fading scroll
Outface the charter of the soul?
Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect
The wrong our human hearts reject,
And smite the lips whose shuddering cry
Proclaims a cruel creed a lie?
The wizard's rope we disallow
Was justice once, - is murder now!

Is there a world of blank despair,
And dwells the Omnipresent there?
Does He behold with smile serene
The shows of that unending scene,
Where sleepless, hopeless ang...

First-born of the creating Voice!
Minister of God's spirit, who wast sent
To wait upon Him first, what time He went
Moving about 'mid the tumultuous noise
Of each unpiloted element
Upon the face of the void formless deep!
Thou who didst come unbodied and alone,
Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep,
Or ever the moon shone,
Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven!
Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt
Falleth on all things from the lofty heaven!
Thou Comforter, be with me as thou wert
When first I longed for words, to be
A radiant garment for my thought, like thee.

We lay us down in sorrow,
Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night;
In vexing dreams we 'strive until the morrow;
Grief lifts our eyelids up--and lo, the light!...

'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought
To turn men's yearning to the great and true,
Yet first take heed to what your own hands do;
By deeds not words the souls of men are taught;
Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caught
Into the fountain of all life (wherethrough
Men's souls that drink are broken or made new)
Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraught
With the clear essence of eternal youth.
Even one little deed of weak untruth
Is like a drop of quenchless venom cast,
A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream,
Woven forever with its crystal gleam,
Bearing the seed of death and woe at last.

Spake the Lord Christ - "I will arise."
    It seemed a saying void and vain -
    How shall a dead man rise again! -
Vain as our tears, vain as our cries.
    Not one of all the little band
    That loved Him this might understand.

"I will arise" - Lord Jesus said.
    Hearken, amid the morning dew,
    Mary, a voice that calleth you, -
Then Mary turned her golden head,
    And lo! all shining at her side
    Her Master they had crucified.

At dawn to his dim sepulchre,
    Mary, remembering that far day,
    When at his feet the spikenard lay,
Came, bringing balm and spice and myrrh;
    To her the grave had made reply:
    "He is not here - He cannot die."

Praetor and priest in vain conspire,
    Jerusalem and Rome in vain

I see his Shape who should have led these ranks -
GARFIELD I see whose presence had evoked
The stormy rapture of a Nation's thanks -
His chariot stands unyoked!

Unyoked and empty, and the Charioteer
To Fame's expanded arms has headlong rushed
Ending the glories of a grand career,
While all the world stood hushed.

The thunder of his wheels is done, but he
Sustained by patience, fortitude, and grace -
A Christian Hero - from the struggle free -
Has won the Christian's race!

His wheel-tracks stop not in the Valley cold
But upward lead, and on, and up, and higher,
Till Hope can realize and Faith behold
His chariot mount in fire!

Therefore, my Countrymen, lift up your hearts!
Therefore, my Countrymen, be not cast down!
He lives wit...

By many a dream of God and man my thoughts in shining flocks were led:
But as I went through Patrick Street the hopes and prophecies were dead.
The hopes and prophecies were dead: they could not blossom where the feet
Walked amid rottenness, or where the brawling shouters stamped the street.
Where was the beauty that the Lord gave man when first he towered in pride?
But one came by me at whose word the bitter condemnation died.
His brows were crowned with thorns of light: his eyes were bright as one who sees
The starry palaces shine o'er the sparkle of the heavenly seas.
'Is it not beautiful?' he cried. Our Faery Land of Hearts' Desire
Is mingled through the mire and mist, yet stainless keeps its lovely fire.
The pearly phantoms with blown hair are dancing where the drunkards reel:
Th...

Many a flower hath perfume for its dower,
And many a bird a song,
And harmless lambs milkwhite beside their dams
Frolic along, -
Perfume and song and whiteness offering praise
In humble, peaceful ways.

Man's high degree hath will and memory,
Affection and desire;
By loftier ways he mounts of prayer and praise,
Fire unto fire,
Deep unto deep responsive, height to height,
Until he walk in white.

(DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)

[Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.]


Woe unto him! the child of this sad earth,
    Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind,
Bears Genius - treasure of celestial birth,
    Within his solitary soul enshrined.
Woe unto him! for Envy's pangs impure,
    Like the undying vultures', will be driven
Into his noble heart, that must endure
Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,
Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.

Still though his destiny on earth may be
    Grief and injustice; who would not endure
With joyful calm, each proffered agony;
    Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?
What mortal feeling kindled in his soul
    That clear celestial flame, so pure and high,
O'er which nor tim...

The leaf is faded, and decayed the flower,
The birds have ceased to sing in wayside bower,
The babbling brook is silenced by the cold,
And hill and vale the frost and snow enfold.
The life we see seems hasting to the tomb
Nor sun, nor star, relieves the dismal gloom;
The good man suffers with the base and vile,
And honesty and truth give place to guile.


Things are not always as they seem to be;
The outer surface only man may see.
The summer sleeps beneath the quilt of snow,
Behind the clouds is hid the solar glow,
The babbling brook will burst its icy bands,
And birds will sing, and trees will clap their hands.
The fallen leaf has left a bud behind,
And flowers will bloom of brightest hue and kind;
For when we look beneath the outward crust
Wi...

There are some natures purely contemplative and antipathetic to action, who nevertheless, under a mysterious and inexplicable impulse, sometimes act with a rapidity of which they would have believed themselves incapable. Such a one is he who, fearing to find some new vexation awaiting him at his lodgings, prowls about in a cowardly fashion before the door without daring to enter; such a one is he who keeps a letter fifteen days without opening it, or only makes up his mind at the end of six months to undertake a journey that has been a necessity for a year past. Such beings sometimes feel themselves precipitately thrust towards action, like an arrow from a bow.
The novelist and the physician, who profess to know all things, yet cannot explain whence comes this sudden and delirious energy to indolent and voluptuous souls; nor how, inc...

FIRST SPEAKER, as David

I.
On the first of the Feast of Feasts,
The Dedication Day,
When the Levites joined the Priests
At the Altar in robed array,
Gave signal to sound and say,

II.
When the thousands, rear and van,
Swarming with one accord
Became as a single man
(Look, gesture, thought and word)
In praising and thanking the Lord,

III.
When the singers lift up their voice,
And the trumpets made endeavour,
Sounding, “In God rejoice!”
Saying, “In Him rejoice
“Whose mercy endureth for ever!”

IV.
Then the Temple filled with a cloud,
Even the House of the Lord;
Porch bent and pillar bowed:
For the presence of the Lord,
In the glory of His cloud,
Had filled the House of the Lord.

Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave
Shines a broad Mirror thro' the shadowy Cave;
Where ling'ring drops from min'ral Roofs distill,
And pointed Crystals break the sparkling Rill,
Unpolish'd Gems no ray on Pride bestow,
And latent Metals innocently glow.
Approach! Great Nature studiously behold;
And eye the Mine without a wish for Gold.
Approach; but awful! Lo! th' Egerian Grot,
Where, nobly-pensive, St. John sate and thought;
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot thro' Marchmont's Soul.
Let such, such only tread this sacred Floor,
Who dare to love their Country, and be poor.

        1.

        REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good.
        Or if thou didst, it was so long ago
        I have forgotten--and never understood,
        I humbly think. At best it was a crude,
        A rough-hewn goodness, that did need this woe,
        This sin, these harms of all kinds fierce and rude,
        To shape it out, making it live and grow.

        2.

        But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire.
        What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well,
        And I will help thee:--gently in thy fire
        I will lie burning; on thy potter's-wheel
        I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel;
        Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,
        And growing strength perfect through weakness d...