But give me, Lord, a wiser heart; These seasons come, and they depart, These seasons, and those higher still, When we are given to have our fill Of strength and life and joy with thee, And brightness of thy face to see. They come, or we could never guess Of heaven’s sublimer blessedness; They come, to be our strength and cheer In other times, in doubt or fear, Or should our solitary way Lie through the desert many a day. They go, they leave us blank and dead, That we may learn, when they are fled, We are but vapours which have won A moment’s brightness from the sun, And which it may at pleasure fill With splendour, or unclothe at will. Well for us they do not abide, Or we should lose ourselves in pride, And be as angels--but as they Who on the battlements of day Walked, gazing on their power and might, Till they grew giddy in their height.
Then welcome every nobler time, When, out of reach of earth’s dull chime, ’Tis ours to drink with purgèd ears The music of the solemn spheres, Or in the desert to have sight Of those enchanted cities bright, Which sensual eye can never see: Thrice welcome may such seasons be. But welcome too the common way, The lowly duties of the day, And all which makes and keeps us low, Which teaches us ourselves to know, That we, who do our lineage high Draw from beyond the starry sky, Are yet upon the other side To earth and to its dust allied.
ON A PICTURE OF THE ASSUMPTION BY MURILLO.
With what calm power thou risest on the wind-- Mak’st thou a pinion of those locks unshorn? Or of that dark blue robe which floats behind In ample fold? or art thou cloud-upborne?
A crescent moon is bent beneath thy feet, Above the heavens expand, and tier o’er tier With heavenly garlands thy advance to greet, The cloudy throng of cherubim appear.
There is a glory round thee, and mine eyes Are dazzled, for I know not whence it came, Since never in the light of western skies The island clouds burned with so pure a flame:
Nor were those flowers of our dull common mould, But nurtured on some amaranthine bed, Nearer the sun, remote from storms and cold, By purer dews and warmer breezes fed.
Well may we be perplexed and sadly wrought, That we can guess so ill what dreams were thine, Ere from the chambers of thy silent thought That face looked out on thee, Painter divine.