Would I might wake in you the whirl-wind soul
    Of Michelangelo, who hewed the stone
    And Night and Day revealed, whose arm alone
    Could draw the face of God, the titan high
    Whose genius smote like lightning from the sky -
    And shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave?
    Nay he is in us!    Let us dare and dare.
    God help us to be brave.

I've quench'd my lamp, I struck it in that start
Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall,
The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;
Over against my bed, there shone a gleam
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.

It sank, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;
How far is night advanced, and when will day
Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,
And fill this void with warm, creative ray?
Would I could sleep again till, clear and red,
Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread!

I'd call my women, but to break their sleep,
Because my own is broken, were unjust;
They've wrought all day, and well-earn'd slumbers steep
Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust;
Let me my feverish watch with patience be...

They who take courage from their own defeat
Are victors too, no matter how much beat.

Chanting the square deific, out of the One advancing, out of the sides;
Out of the old and new--out of the square entirely divine,
Solid, four-sided, (all the sides needed)... from this side Jehovah am I,
Old Brahm I, and I Saturnius am;
Not Time affects me--I am Time, old, modern as any;
Unpersuadable, relentless, executing righteous judgments;
As the Earth, the Father, the brown old Kronos, with laws,
Aged beyond computation--yet ever new--ever with those mighty laws rolling,
Relentless, I forgive no man--whoever sins, dies--I will have that man's life;
Therefore let none expect mercy--Have the seasons, gravitation, the appointed days, mercy?--No more have I;
But as the seasons, and gravitation--and as all the appointed days, that forgive not,
I dispense from this side judgments ine...

'The old gods pass,' the cry goes round;
'Lo! how their temples strew the ground';
Nor mark we where, on new-fledged wings,
Faith, like the phoenix, soars and sings.

At A Dinner Given Him On His Eightieth Birthday, December 12, 1885

With a bronze statuette of John of Bologna's Mercury, presented by a few friends.

Fit emblem for the altar's side,
And him who serves its daily need,
The stay, the solace, and the guide
Of mortal men, whate'er his creed!

Flamen or Auspex, Priest or Bonze,
He feeds the upward-climbing fire,
Still teaching, like the deathless bronze,
Man's noblest lesson, - to aspire.

Hermes lies prone by fallen Jove,
Crushed are the wheels of Krishna's car,
And o'er Dodona's silent grove
Streams the white, ray from Bethlehem's star.

Yet snatched from Time's relentless clutch,
A godlike shape, that human hands
Have fired with Art's electric touch,
The herald of Olympus stands.

Looking into his first-born with the love,
Which breathes from both eternal, the first Might
Ineffable, whence eye or mind
Can roam, hath in such order all dispos'd,
As none may see and fail to enjoy. Raise, then,
O reader! to the lofty wheels, with me,
Thy ken directed to the point, whereat
One motion strikes on th' other. There begin
Thy wonder of the mighty Architect,
Who loves his work so inwardly, his eye
Doth ever watch it. See, how thence oblique
Brancheth the circle, where the planets roll
To pour their wished influence on the world;
Whose path not bending thus, in heav'n above
Much virtue would be lost, and here on earth,
All power well nigh extinct: or, from direct
Were its departure distant more or less,
I' th' universal order, great defect

    We steal the brawn, we steal the brain;
    The man beneath us in the fight
    Soon learns how helpless and how vain
    To plead for justice or for right.
    We steal the youth, we steal the health,
    Hope, courage, aspiration high;
    We steal men's all to make for wealth -
    We will repent us by and by.

    Meantime, a gift will heaven appease -
    Great God, forgive our charities!

    We steal the children's laughter shrill,
    We steal their joys e'er they can taste,
    "Why skip like young lambs on a hill?
    Go, get ye to your task in haste."
    No matter that they droop and tire,
    That heaven cries out against the sin,
    The gold, red gold, that we desire
    Their dimpled hands must help to win.

    A c...

On a great cathedral window I have seen
A Summer sunset swoon and sink away,
Lost in the splendours of immortal art.
Angels and saints and all the heavenly hosts,
With smiles undimmed by half a thousand years,
From wall and niche have met my lifted gale.
Sculpture and carving and illumined page,
And the fair, lofty dreams of architects,
That speak of beauty to the centuries -
All these have fed me with divine repasts.
Yet in my mouth is left a bitter taste,
The taste of blood that stained that age of art.

Those glorious windows shine upon the black
And hideous structure of the guillotine;
Beside the haloed countenance of saints
There hangs the multiple and knotted lash.
The Christ of love, benign and beautiful,
Looks at the torture-rack, by hate con...

I long for diviner regions, -
The spirit would reach its goal;
Though, this world hath surpassing beauty,
It warreth against the soul.

There's a cloud in the eastern heaven;
Beyond it, a cold gray sky;
But I know that the sun's rare radiance
Will brighten it by and by.

In the fane of my soul is glowing
The joy of a hope to come,
That will touch with its Memnon finger
The lips that are cold and dumb:

Till illumed by the smile of heaven,
And blest with a purer life,
Will the gloom that o'ershades my spirit
Depart like a vanquished strife.

He sat by the dusty way-side,
    With weary, hopeless mien,
On his furrowed brow the traces
    Of care and want were seen;
With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head
He asked the passers-by for bread.

The palm-tree's feathery foliage
    Around him thickly grew,
And the smiling sky above him
    Wore Syria's sun-bright hue;
But dark alike to that helpless one
Was murky midnight or noon-tide sun.

But voices breaking the silence
    Are heard, fast drawing nigh,
And falls on his ear the clamor
    Of vast crowds moving by:
"What is it?" he asks, with panting breath;
They answer: "Jesus of Nazareth."

What a spell lay in that title,
    Linked with such mem'ries high
Of miracles of mercy,
    Wrought 'neath Judaea'...

High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand,
From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals - ruled the land.
For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell,
Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.

The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair
Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer
To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word,
And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see their Lord.

For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone,
And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone,
And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze,
And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.

And from the love of God that smiles...

'Tis not ev'ry day that I
Fitted am to prophesy:
No, but when the spirit fills
The fantastic pannicles,
Full of fire, then I write
As the Godhead doth indite.
Thus enraged, my lines are hurl'd,
Like the Sibyl's, through the world:
Look how next the holy fire
Either slakes, or doth retire;
So the fancy cools: till when
That brave spirit comes again.

The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
From thunder’s violence:

He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.

The year like a ship in the distance
    Comes over life's mystical sea.
We know not what change of existence
    'Tis bringing to you or to me.
But we wave out the ship that is leaving
    And we welcome the ship coming in,
Although it be loaded with grieving,
    With trouble, or losses, or sin.

Old year passing over the border, -
    And fading away from our view;
All idleness, sloth, and disorder,
    All hatred and spite go with you.
All bitterness, gloom, and repining
    Down into your stronghold are cast.
Sail out where the sunsets are shining,
    Sail out with them into the past.

Good reigns over all; and above us,
    As sure as the sun gives us light,
Great forces watch over and love us,
    And lead us along through the ...

It is death that consoles and allows us to live.
Alas! that life's end should be all of our hope;
It goes to our heads like a powerful drink,
And gives us the heart to walk into the dark;

Through storm and through snow, through the frost at our feet,
It's the pulsating beacon at limit of sight,
The illustrious inn* that's described in the book,
Where we'll sit ourselves down, and will eat and will sleep;

It's an Angel who holds in his magical grip
Our peace, and the gift of magnificent dreams,
And who makes up the bed of the poor and the bare;

It's the glory of gods, it's the mystical loft,
It's the purse of the poor and their true native land,
It's the porch looking out on mysterious skies!

Because I am by nature blind,
I wisely choose to walk behind;
However, to avoid disgrace,
I let no creature see my face.
My words are few, but spoke with sense;
And yet my speaking gives offence:
Or, if to whisper I presume,
The company will fly the room.
By all the world I am opprest:
And my oppression gives them rest.
    Through me, though sore against my will,
Instructors every art instil.
By thousands I am sold and bought,
Who neither get nor lose a groat;
For none, alas! by me can gain,
But those who give me greatest pain.
Shall man presume to be my master,
Who's but my caterer and taster?
Yet, though I always have my will,
I'm but a mere depender still:
An humble hanger-on at best;
Of whom all people make a jest.
    In me ...

Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send:
"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand...