The slumbering night begin to move, and catch
The beams of morning, as like spears of light
They leaped the summit of the mountain's height,
And through the sullen night-cloud smote their way,
Turning the sable darkness into grey,
As on its axis leaning, the great world
Its huge bulk round its fiery centre hurled;
While up the azure slope Hyperion clomb,
Flooding with his effulgence vast the dome,
And bathing half the globe in light, while glum
The nether half in seas of darkness swum.

Waking with soft embrace the pulse of earth,
While like to distant music drawing near,
The hum of life still louder smote mine ear,
Till o'er earth's bosom broad the living lay
Proclaimed the advent of bright busy day.

See in the meadow green, the drops of dew
Glitter, like suns in miniature; and see
How through each thicket, bush, and spreading tree,
The lord of day, like face of seraph, smiles
Through tears on man's abode of cares and toils.
And hark, forth from the throat of all the host
Of feathered fowl, convenient perched, or lost
In the ethereal blue, or in the range
And circle of our vision, o'er the grange
Darting, and wheeling round in airy rings,
Beating the heavenly waste with outstretched wings,
And making all the woodlands echo, songs
Rise unto Him to whom all praise belongs.
And hark, from yonder distant meadow broad
The whistle of the ploughman! as the sod
He turns, and pausing oft to contemplate
His furrows, well turned, regular, and straight;
While clouds of screaming sea-birds circle round,
Gathering their breakfasts from the upturned ground.
And from the right behind us through the wood
Voices of children rise in merry mood
From off the village green, mixed with the noise,
Which from the mill with harsh discordant voice
Draws our attention to the powerful saw
Which takes the forest giant in its jaw,
And with its teeth of iron, trunk and limb
Asunder rends, as it seems good to him
Who guides its power.

Smooth as a mill-pond, mirroring the blue.
And let the eye the wide bay wander o'er,
The mountain lying on the farther shore
Seems like a huge beast recumbant, asleep
Upon the very margin of the deep,
Under the drooping eave of the great vault,
Which, of serenest blue, and without fault
Of gloomy cloud, spans the circumference
Of the wide world. And in the distance hence,
Far to the north, around yon jutting rock
That rudely lifts its rugged sides to block
Our further gaze, the locomotive winds
Its serpent way, and like a blind thing finds
Its iron road. There scarcely visible,
Save for the line of smoke against the hill,
White as a crest of foam, in clamour great
It creepeth forward with its living freight
Along the margin of the placid bay,
Toward the busy city on its way,
Its journey finished then. Thus you and I
Shall soon our terminus of life descry.
And what remains when the unerring dart
Of death transfixeth the warm bounding heart?
When in the narrow house laid low, and when
Forgotten by the careless world, what then?

We grope amid the darkness like the blind,
Or with the torch of science lifted high
Seek for the angel Truth in earth and sky.
Though not yet found, still ever and anon
We trace her footsteps, and we follow on.
What we have not discovered, by and by,
The coming generation may descry.
'Tis wisdom to pretend no more to know
Than one by proofs can demonstrate and show.
Not in the bigot and presumptive mind
May we be confident great light to find.
Not those who boast most of the larger light,
And not the arrogant are always right.
Not those who dogmatise, but those forsooth
Whose dogmatism is the naked truth
Laid bare beyond dispute to every soul
Whose mind is without bias, sane and whole.
With such I walk, I safer feel with those
Than with the dreamer, though he thinks he knows.

Of sin, of guilt, of shame? What of the mask
Put on by all, the secrets black to hide
Within the bosom? What of lust and pride?
What of the soul bereaved by death — its cure?
The balm for broken hearts? and where the poor
May find a friend, one who for them shall care,
And prove more faithful than a brother? Where
The conscience smitten with a sense of guilt
May find relief? Where tears that have been spilt
In teeming torrents may at length be dried?
Where, and to what — to whom would science guide?
What of the great Creator's claims on man,
Unanswered since his history began?
If man has in his obligations failed,
And consequently miseries entailed
Which make his cup of sorrow overflow,
And fill his heart at times with speechless woe,
Is God indifferent to his estate?
Cares He not if man's miseries be great?
If his dark deeds flame red up to the sky
And truth his right to longer life deny,
So that the sinner must the sinner slay,
And guilt must headlong guilt drive hence away —
How feels the Judge of all about it? How
Can He in His dominion crime allow
Which human laws must punish? Can it be
The erring creature is more just than He?
Nay, more than this my soul and spirit crave,
Nor ye who know the truth my question waive,
Not only would I contemplate the might
Of the Omnipotent who day and night
Moves those vast worlds which first He did create,
And gave each one its path of glory great,
But I would know the feelings of His heart
Toward His creature who erst did depart
From Him, and all His kindnesses forgot,
Nor gave His claims more than a passing thought.
Is He austere, and hard, compassionless,
Indifferent to my sick soul's distress?
Have I to meet Him? Whom have I to meet?
Where shall I find Him? How approach His seat?
Is there forgiveness with Him? Is the fear
That makes the stout heart tremble to appear
Before Him, false, unreasonable, vain,
Fictitious, baseless? Is the crimson stain
Of which awakened conscience takes account
A sick-bed horror? What is the amount
I owe His throne? Do I owe anything?
What is that secret adder, that with sting
Sharp and envenomed punctures deep my breast —
That inward horror that disturbs my rest,
Telling me I am guilty? Is it true?
A friend, or fiend, or faithful witness? Who
Hath placed it there? companion of my life
Yet with my soul at everlasting strife.
Yes, tell me also, for my soul must know,
If peace into my spirit is to flow,
Does God regard His creature? If He does
Can He remove of all my ills the cause?
And can He have me back with Him? and how
In justice to Himself could He allow
Should He desire it, such a sinner near
To Him, and in His presence to appear?
If thy philosophers have found the way
Tell me, and I shall ponder what you say.

A lodging in my mind that man is not
As his Creator made him. All that lies
Concealed beyond death's boundary defies
The penetration of the mightiest mind;
To this we are as ever dark and blind.
That land we cannot at our will explore,
And none return who have passed heretofore.
The secret lies beyond our vision far
And what our Maker made us, that we are.

With faith in the existence of a God,
And view the grief, the anguish, and the woe,
The want, the misery, the ceaseless flow
Of scalding tears, the trespass done the weak,
The crime, the strife, the death that many seek
To ease them of their sorrows, or behold
By violence defenceless thousands rolled
Into the mire unwept, friendless as far
As arm of flesh goes, crushed beneath the car
Of barbarous oppression, and believe
That man is as God made him, nor did leave
His first estate? Upon the rapid wing
Of fancy, from the palace of the king
Down to the peasant's hut, move at thy will,
And with the spectacle presented fill
Thy soul, and publish what exists; or fly
To Afric's centre, where beneath the sky
Which like an oven's roof circles the earth,
The sable son of Ham is brought to birth,
And cradled in an ignorance as black
As the scorched skin upon his naked back;
Or visit China with her countless sons,
Or th' isles round which the broad Pacific runs —
North, south, east, west, this way and that way look
On freeman, bondman, monarch, peasant, duke,
From land to land, from ocean shore to shore,
Behold man's moral state the wide world o'er,
And then declare to me that lust and pride
Are not the brace of autocrats that ride
Mad-gallop on the bare neck of the world
With violence, their banner black, unfurled.
You dare not tell me this. Full well you know
That as I have described, man's state is so.
If fabulous the story of his fall,
And man remains as made — alas for all.
If I could think that this unhappy scene
Was as God willed it, and that He had been
From the beginning viewing with delight
Man groaning under death's unhallowed blight,
This theatre of woes, this savage den
Full of the groans and the laments of men,
If it be just as He would have it, then
Hope never would light up my life again.

In my soul hope shall never cease to bloom.
Thou art on dangerous ground, and thou wouldst drag
Me down with thee into the treacherous slag
Thrown from the vortex of a vain belief,
Than which, believe me, I had just as lief
Be smothered by the fumes that upward float
From restless crater's open horrid throat.
Forgive me if I rather choose to stay
Where I can feel beneath my feet the way
Solid and firm. Whatever I may learn,
This side the veil, which helps me to discern,
Or rather to infer what lies beyond,
I treasure, but in truth I am not fond
Of superstitious speculations, built
On fancied notions about human guilt.
I am content that reason should direct;
Should I condemn the world's great Architect
Who hath enthroned her? Let her bear the rule
While I do graduate in Nature's school.
A little we have learned, things have appealed
Unto our reason out of nature's field,
Though all that is yet known is but a grain
Compared with what the earth and heaven contain.
But from whatever quarter truth appears
We give her welcome who our vision cheers,
While longing to behold her stepping forth
From her obscurity to swathe the earth,
And like the sun with overpowering ray
Turn the world's night into eternal day.

O'er human minds, as on the mighty deep
The sullen darkness lay, ere God's voice broke
The primal silence, and in power spoke:
"Let there be light," and light arose, so now
A moral mist encircles every brow,
God is as little known to-day as when
The unknown God was worshipped by the men
Of Athens. You have made no way. The prize
Is still in secret hidden from your eyes;
And muffled in this ignorance of God
This earth, through space, revolveth with her load
Of raving rebels, like a spectre lone
Among the heavenly bodies, cry and groan
Trembling upon her circumfluent air,
While from her ribs the flaming sun doth tear,
With hands of light, the sullen gloom away,
Rolled back by night upon the heels of day.
Thus ceaseless war 'twixt light and shade are waged,
As in the spiritual are engaged
Fell hosts with heavenly. The world arrayed
In panoply of mail infernal, made
In depths of nether gloom, its stubborn night
Defiance hurls at power of gospel light.
God is unknown, nor can her leaders show
Him whom it is eternal life to know.
The tidings glad of grace and love divine,
Speaking to thirsty souls of milk and wine,
Sets in its holy, living, gracious word
Before us God in Jesus seen and heard;
Lifts up the veil of everlasting gloom
And bids us look beyond the darksome tomb
To heaven, where life, the sweetest blessing sought,
And incorruptibility are brought
To light. The gospel man discards in pride,
And turns his eye from living light aside;
That mercy scorning, which his soul would save,
Feels his dark way down to his darker grave.

Among the rude barbarians, the priest
May force upon the unenlightened mind,
Till the dim future seems so well defined,
The fires of fiercest persecution burn
In vain the zealot from the faith to turn.
Mere superstition! You and I agree.
To him 'tis truth in spite of you and me.
But I contend, your purer christian creed
No more the hungry mind with truth can feed,
Nor show the secret clearer unto man,
Than the wild vagaries of the heathen can.
God, for I cannot doubt that He exists,
Hath girded with impenetrable mists
This little world of ours, yet hath He given
Minds to explore earth's depths and heights of heaven,
The secret hides at present from the wise,
Yet doubt not I the longed-for precious prize
Is close at hand, if we could only lay
The foot upon her bright and shining way.
That progress has been made none can deny,
This day is brighter than the days gone by.
To solve the riddle of the universe
Man's mind is set, the darkness must disperse.
This fact is witnessed in a thousand ways,
Look but abroad, and give to man the praise
Of rising upward from the beast, to stand
A very God, with power in his hand
To make the wayward lightning seek his rod,
And dance attendance, at his beck and nod.
Forth from the fogs of a chaotic night
The world emerges into kindly light,
And a bright cloudless day is close at hand
When wisdom shall enlighten every land;
When ignorance and superstitious dreams,
Like owls and bats before Hyperion's beams,
Shall fly for ever from the glorious rays
Of truth triumphant, to man's lasting praise.

Bright with God's glory from the heavens high.
Not in the light of philosophic lore,
Not by the means the minds of men adore,
Shall it be introduced, but in a way
Which shall in dust all creature glory lay.
The Sun of righteousness — the Son of God
Shall spread the brightness of that day abroad.
A man is wanted, men a man have sought,
That order out of chaos may be brought.
Man trusts in mind, the masses must be taught;
Brains must be heated, hammered out, and wrought.
What has it served? Does he respect the laws?
Or is he more unruly than he was?
What is the fact? Do not your princes feel
That schools have turned the claystone into steel?
But yet a man is coming, such a man
As men delight to honour, one who can
Compel the masses to bow down the knee
Before his footstool and submissive be.
A fiend incarnate, to whom all who live
The worship due to God alone must give.
This is the man men look for; woe and pain,
And death shall flourish underneath his reign.
But this is not God's man, the Christ is He,
Rejected though by all the world He be.
At God's right hand He sits until the day
When every soul shall own His rightful sway.
Then men shall glad them in His heavenly light,
And boast themselves in His eternal might.
He is God's wisdom. That which men applaud
Is at its best, but foolishness with God,
Who hath revealed true wisdom from above,
In Him, whose death declares that God is love.
The cross, which proves man's folly, guilt and shame,
God's power and wisdom is. Its endless fame
Goes out as tidings glad. This man esteems
Weakness and folly great, and vainly dreams
That human confidence can well be placed
In the vain drivellings of a mind debased.
Wisdom comes down from heaven; who seeks it there
In true humility and faith shall ne'er
Be disappointed; God delights to give,
Where men have but the fitness to receive.
The meek He guides in wisdom, to the meek
He shows His way, and unto all who seek
He doth reveal Himself. He draweth nigh
To all that call upon Him, who rely
Alone upon His goodness, they shall find
Support amid the ills that vex mankind.
The world is far from God, yet is He nigh
To every one of us. The feeblest cry
He hears. And not the weighty things alone
Engage the kind attentions of His throne.
As not in all those shining orbs of heaven
Which by His word exist, and fleet are driven
Around in trackless circuits, to fulfil
The wise behests of their Creator's will;
As not in lightning flash, nor thunder tone,
Nor raving tempest's desolating moan,
Nor earthquake shock, nor ocean's roaring dread,
We see His wisdom, tho' we hear the tread
Of His great power, but in lesser things
The painting of a flower, the gorgeous wings
Spread by the butterfly, insects that fly
Like particles of dust before the eye,
Of delicate construction, perfect all,
Formed by His hand who made the sun a ball.
Look heavenward, earthward, in which way you will,
Nature proclaims His Godhead, power and skill,
With trumpet tongue, heard from the milky way,
And echoed from the animalculae.
So in the odds and ends of daily life,
The things we think but trifles, yet so rife
With griefs that make the worn out spirit reel,
In these He draws so near with balm to heal.

And though imagination, comfort seems
Through it to ease thy dole: so let it be,
I would not for the world discourage thee.
What ruthless hand in land of famine would
The famished dreamer wake with clamour rude,
To bring him back from fancy's land of bread,
To stern reality and want instead?
Dream on thy dreams, they will not injure thee,
But life is downright earnestness for me.
I am not minded thee to undeceive;
Man's mind a kingdom is, this I believe.
I've drunk from cisterns of unvarnished fact
Which all the sweets of poetry have lacked.
They suit me well. I've said I am not one
To quarrel o'er a superstitious bone.
'Tis all thine own; I neither wish a share
Nor to deprive thee of thy portion care.
There's too much misery in life to bring
Thee down with me to touch the real thing.
I look abroad, and sicken at the sound
Of sorrow's groans which o'er the earth resound.
I understand it not, nor doth thy creed
With honest face for favour interceed,
But like a brazen shrew she rules the bur,
And pours abuse on all that would demur.
Nor doth the frightful fiend of evil fly
From the fierce fire that sparkles in her eye,
For still each pleasure hath its pain, each day
Its night, each spring its winter and decay,
Each birth its death, each merry marriage bell
Must ring its mournful separating knell,
And every rose has got its prickly thorn,
And I — 'twere better had I not been born.

Mantled with clouds of mournful drapery;
A vapour on the bosom of the wind,
Gone while we look, leaving no trace behind;
An arrow's flight, winging its rapid way
Into the shadows of eternity;
A rocket shot into the dreamy night,
Bright for the moment in its airy flight,
Till in full view of human woe and pain
Breaking its heart it sinks to earth again.
Or like a gallant bark lost in a fog
With neither helm nor compass, chart nor log,
The sport of wind and wave, on distant shore
She strikes the rock, and sinks to rise no more.
Thus man's career is short, and life's few charms
Are whelmed and drowned amid its dread alarms.
Learning with sorrow in his earliest day
His endless house must be a pit of clay.
Fain would he scape his miserable lot
But fate his feelings has consulted not.
He seems as born to make the furies sport,
Wretched the voyage, full of fear the port.
Forth from a dim chaotic night he crawls
A slave within the wide arena's walls,
A gladiator born, with foremost breath
In earnest conflict with the monster death.
That hot encounter ceaseless he maintains
As long as strength to draw a breath remains;
Till backward borne upon the sand he lies
Lifting for sympathy his tearful eyes;
But reeks not the grim victor, with his dart
Poised at a level with his victim's heart,
Whether of golden pate, or hoary crown,
Or king, or subject, thumbs are up or down:
The dart is thrown, — a shudder, and the frame
Sinks into night obscure as whence it came.

Thus numbered with the past forgotten dead,
Thus comes, thus goes, the little while between
O'ergrown with miseries for him to glean.
From womb of woman unto womb of earth,
Death treading hard upon the heels of birth;
Caught in the rapids of time's flowing river,
In that brief moment ere he sinks for ever,
Seeking to penetrate with eager mind
The fearful vortex that engulfs mankind.
But all as yet in vain, man still we see
Th' unwilling slave of dread mortality.
Still is Death's greedy maw indulgent fed,
And still with throat agape it asks for bread.


You yield to blank despair, I struggle still
Like many with indomitable will
To wrest the secret from the bowels deep
Of modest nature, that the world may leap
Out of the black night wake with sorrow's wail,
To laugh at death before whose face we quail.

From toil and grief and hopeless misery?
Why should he cling to life? Inform me why
He should so shrink from death, so fear to die?
If there has been no sin, no wilfulness,
No wayward wandering from the state and place,
His by his Maker's will, no gross defect
In his obedience, no lawless act
That stamps him rebel, alienating him
From God in heart; let death be ne'er so grim,
Why should he fear it? Why should it be called
The King of terrors — holding man appalled
Under his sway, anticipating still
The day when he shall hurl his dart and kill?

Are not thus tortured with forebodings dire.
No lingering fear of dissolution crawls
With noisome feet across their heart's red walls;
No spectral visions crowd a heated brain,
No dread of something after gnaws with pain.
But in the bosom hid, with bated breath,
E'en babes will prattle of the ogre death.
And why is it that wretched man has been
The only living creature in this scene
Who down the rough uneven lane of life,
Which is as you admit, with sorrow rife,
Who should be made to bear this horror blind
Astride upon the shoulders of his mind?

Be weal or woe, be good or ill their lot;
Their life is in the present moment, they
Have no ability or sense to weigh
The luxury of life against the blank
Of desolate oblivion. Thick and rank
The tangle of their griefs about their feet!
Doomed to be used by man as he thinks meet,
While in the ear of heaven cry and groan
Are uttered in eternal monotone.
But as to man, his way of pondering o'er
The coming dire calamity before
The thing is present, is oft worse to bear
Than death itself, and not unoft despair
Climbs up into the brain, and takes the throne,
To rule in madness, when had one but known
The real truth, the whole affair had not
Cost for a moment one unquiet thought.
And might not death be such an one whose form
And aspect wakes upon the nerves a storm
Of fear, but on acquaintance doth assume
A countenance more amiable; the tomb,
Where dust returns to dust, another sphere,
Ethereal, spiritual, cloudless, clear,
Might open out to the unfettered man,
The higher and immortal part. Who can
Deny it might be?

That this is so? What prudent man would dare
To build his hopes of happiness upon
What might be? Vain conclusions rashly drawn
From his own dreaming, spite of witness clear,
Spoken by nature into reason's ear.
If death be but the passage of the soul
From every human misery and dole,
Why is it fenced about with speechless dread?
And why from every contact with the dead
Do all the living shrink? 'Tis sin alone
Is cause of all, if man the truth would own.
"Conscience makes cowards of us all" more near
The truth is than your theories. The fear
Of meeting God, whom sinful men despise,
Clothes the dark grave with terrors in their eyes.
Death brings man forth out of his hiding place
To have to do with God, his life-long race
Brings to a termination, shuts the door
Of hope behind him; nothing can restore
To him his chances madly thrown away.
As falls the tree so lies it till the day
Of resurrection, when what has been done
Shall all come out before the great white throne;
Then woe betide the Christless soul. Besides,
Death who abroad thus mercilessly strides,
Stern, callous, cold, insensible
To tears of grief, as that bleak barren hill,
Which, high above the ambrosial, peaceful wold
Lifts up among the clouds its summit bold,
Is the grim executioner who pays
Sin's wages to the sinner whom he slays.
Yet not unmindful of man's lost estate
God hath looked down from heaven in goodness great,
And sent His Son to creatures lost, to show
A highway out of misery and woe.
Will man accept it? No, though shines the light
Of heavenly grace, man better loves the night.
God's wisdom scorned is, men to darkness cling,
So sorrow keeps her teeth and death his sting;

Man's great achievements, if thou let thine eyes
Look out upon the mighty wonders wrought,
The glorious things to light by knowledge brought;
Things commonplace to-day, few years agone
Had they been spoken of as yet to dawn,
That seer a knave or fool had branded been;
And who can tell what shortly may be seen?
Distance is mocked at, countless leagues of land
And watery waste are girt with fiery band.
Space is annulled, the east and west draw near,
And, as it were, the red lips touch the ear
Of him who dwells in the antipodes;
And though we may not on each other gaze
We can converse together. Need I stand
As advocate of science? Sea and land
Bear witness to the wealth of mighty minds,
And every grain of truth the seeker finds
Goes to make up that glorious perfect whole,
A pyramid of light within the soul.

To man oppressed? How bettered is his lot?
Are men less avaricious? Are they more
By pure love actuated than before
These great discoveries? Are they more true?
More upright in the business they pursue?
Have fathers wiser grown? Do children give
To parents greater veneration? Live
Wives and their husbands more in sweet accord?
Are men more easily governed? Is the word
They utter more to be relied on? Do
They love themselves less selfishly, and view
Their neighbour's losses with more pitying eye?
Men live in greater comfort none deny
But pride and plenty was the primary cause
That made the sin of Sodom what it was.

A few vain glittering trinkets at the most
Found in the field of nature as by chance;
Yet must he at God's wisdom look askance.
Too wise for revelation, scorning light,
Proud of the sparks he kindles in the night.
God and the Scriptures are behind the age,
The sage a god is, and the fool a sage.
The dusky brave, with superstitious fear,
Dressed up in war paint and fantastic gear,
Before the viper worshipping will fall;
You pity him, who have no God at all.
I censure not the man born in the gloom
Of darkness drear and dismal as the tomb,
But in a land where truth's resplendent beams
Reveal the source of all such empty dreams,
Sure doubly guilty must that creature be
Who in the light refuses light to see.

I earnestly desire it, I invite
Each kindly ray. The hatred of the truth
Is surely not my sin, who from my youth
With all my might have knocked at wisdom's door,
Seeking the secret of her hidden lore.
The sin is rather thine, for thou hast not,
E'en in the smallest matter, ever sought
To put in exercise the reason God
Hath given thee, but down the steep blind road
Of superstition, with thine eyes fast closed
To facts investigation hath disclosed,
Thou hast gone headlong. Hadst thou not refused
To labour with thy fellow men, but used
The reason given thee, the world had been
The better of thy birth and brains I ween.

Whom do they bid my weary spirit seek?
Wouldst thou of Him to helpless mortals tell,
Who for His creatures keeps a burning hell?
Sir, I would rather be the brave and bow
Down to the dust a painted warrior brow
Before the serpent