What thou of God and of thyself dost know, So know that none can force thee to forego; For oh! his knowledge is a worthless art, Which, while it forms not of himself a part, The foremost man he meets with readier skill In sleight of words, can rob him of at will. Faith feels not of _her_ lore more sure nor less, If all the world deny it or confess: Did the whole world exclaim, “Like Solomon, Thou sittest high on Wisdom’s noblest throne,” She would not, than before, be surer then, Nor draw more courage from the assent of men. Or did the whole world cry, “Oh, fond and vain! What idle dream is this which haunts thy brain?” To the whole world Faith boldly would reply, “The whole world can, but I can never, lie.”
An hen, though such tame creatures mostly are, Yet once received a water-bird in care; Its mother-instinct drew the fledgling still To the wide ocean floods to roam at will; Its timid nurse, upon the other hand, Sought evermore to lead it back to land. O Man! thy mother, Heaven, thy nurse is Earth, And thou of both wert nurtured from thy birth; From thy true mother comes thine impulse free To launch forth boldly upon being’s sea; While aye thy nurse fears for thee, and would fain Thee to a narrow slip of dry restrain.
Who that might watch the moon in heaven, would look At its weak image in the water-brook? Who were content, that might in presence stand Of one beloved, with letters from his hand? When thou hast learned the name, hast thou the thing? What life to thee will definitions bring? Will the four letters, R, O, S, and E, The rose’s hues and fragrance bring to thee? Feed not on husks, but these strip off and feed On the rich kernel, which is food indeed. Say, who of choice would wash in arid sand, While limpid streams were bubbling close at hand? Bare Science is dry sand;—thy spirit’s wings Bathe thou in Love’s delicious water-springs. Be thou the bee, which ever to its cell Not wax alone, but honey brings as well: Good is the wax for light, but better still What will thine hive with storèd sweetness fill.
The business of the world is child’s play mere; Too many, ah! the children playing here: Their pleasure and their woe, their loss and gain, Alike mean nothing, and alike are vain; As children’s, who, to pass the time away, Build up their booths, and buy and sell in play; But homeward hungering must at eve repair, And standing leave their booths with all their ware: So the world’s children, when _their_ night is come, With empty satchels turn them sadly home.
