But the spell fails--and of the many here, Who have been won to brief forgetfulness Of all that would degrade them and oppress, Who have been carried out of their dim sphere Of being, to realms brighter and more clear, How few to-morrow will retain a trace, Which the world’s business shall not soon efface, Of this high mood, this time of reverent fear. In these high raptures there is nothing sure, Nothing that we can rest on, to sustain The spirit long, or arm it to endure Against temptation weariness or pain, And if they promise to preserve it pure From earthly taint, the promise is in vain.
Yet proof is here of men’s unquenched desire That the procession of their life might be More equable majestic pure and free; That there are times when all would fain aspire, And gladly use the helps, to lift them higher, Which music, poesy, or Nature brings, And think to mount upon these waxen wings, Not deeming that their strength shall ever tire. But who indeed shall his high flights sustain, Who soar aloft and sink not? He alone Who has laid hold upon that golden chain Of love, fast linked to God’s eternal throne,-- The golden chain from heav’n to earth let down, That we might rise by it, nor fear to sink again.
A counsellor well fitted to advise In daily life and at whose lips no less Men may inquire or nations, when distress Of sudden doubtful danger may arise, Who, though his head be hidden in the skies, Plants his firm foot upon our common earth, Dealing with thoughts which everywhere have birth,-- This is the poet, true of heart and wise: No dweller in a baseless world of dream, Which is not earth nor heav’n: his words have past Into man’s common thought and week-day phrase; This is the poet, and his verse will last. Such was our Shakspeare once, and such doth seem One who redeems our later gloomier days.
Me rather may to tears unbidden move The meanest print that on a cottage wall Some ancient deed heroic doth recal, Or loving act of His, whose life was love, Than that my heart should be too proud to prove Emotions and sweet sympathies, until The magic of some mighty master’s skill Called hues and shapes of wonder from above: Since if we do no idle homage pay To what in art most beautiful is found, We shall have learned to feel in that same hour With man’s most rude and most unskilled essay To win the beauty that is floating round Into abiding forms of grace and power.