The Human Soul; as when, pushed off the shore, Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep, Itself the while so bright! For oft we seemed TO WORDSWORTH. THERE have been poets that in verse display And many are the smooth, elaborate tribe 'Tis thine to celebrate the thoughts that make The life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake We to ourselves and to our God are dear. Of Nature's inner shrine thou art the priest, Where most she works when we perceive her least. HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796-1849). MILTON. He left the upland lawns and serene air -). TO THE MEMORY OF SYDNEY DOBELL. AND thou, too, gone! one more bright soul away To swell the mighty sleepers 'neath the sod; One less to honor and to love, and say, Who lives with thee doth live half-way to God! My chaste-souled Sydney! thou wast carved too fine Oh! if we owe warm thanks to Heaven, 'tis when SHAKESPEARE, SHAKESPEARE! to such name sounding what succeeds Fitly as silence! Falter forth the spellAct follows word, the speaker knows full well, Nor tampers with its magic more than needs, Two names there are: That which the Hebrew reads With his soul only if from lips it fell, Echo, back thundered by earth, heaven, and hell, Would own, "Thou didst create us!" Naught impedes. We voice the other name, man's most of might, THOMAS CARLYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT. Two souls diverse out of our human sight Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder: The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder, Clothed with loud words and mantled with the might Of darkness and magnificence of night; And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder, Searching if light or no light were thereunder, And found in love of loving-kindness light. Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire Still following Righteousness with deep desire Shone sole and stern before her and above, Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more sweet BAYARD, awaken not this music strong, While round thy home the indolent sweet breeze Floats lightly as the summer breath of seas O'er which Ulysses heard the Siren's song. Dreams of low-lying isles to June belong, And Circe holds us in her haunts of ease; And mark the Trojan arrows make reply! |