POE M.

IF in the eyes that rest upon me now
I see the light of an immortal fire-
If in the awe of concentrated thought,
The solemn presence of a multitude
Breathing together, the instinctive mind
Acknowledges aright a type of God-
If every soul that from its chambers dim
Answers this summons, be a deathless spark
Lit to outburn the ever constant stars,-

Then is the ruling spirit of this hour

Compell'd from Heaven, and if the soaring minds
Usher'd this day upon an untried flight
Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer

Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way.

E

How strangely certain is the human mind, Godlike and gifted as it is, to err !

It wakes within a frame of various powers,
A stranger in a new and wondrous world.
It brings an instinct from some other sphere,
For its fine senses are familiar all,

And, with th' unconscious habit of a dream,
It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear
Learns strangely to detect the articulate air
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue
Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest,
And in the midst of an obedient throng
Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth
To search the secrets of a new-found home.

1

Its infancy is full of hope and joy.
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse
Gentle and holy; and the light and air,
And all things common, warm it like the sun,
And ripen the eternal seed within.

And so its youth glides on; and still it seems
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes,
But never widely; and if Death might come
And ravish it from earth as it is now,

We could almost believe that it would mount,

Spotless and radiant, from the very grave.
But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits
Another spirit. Stranger as it seems,

It is familiar there, for it has grown
In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen,-
Or if its shadow darkened the bright doors,
"Twas smiled upon and gently driven in;
And as the spider and the honey-bee

Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul
Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong,
Till now, in semblance of the soul itself,

With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice
Sweet as an angel's and as full of power,
It sits, a bold usurper on the throne.
What is its nature? "Tis a child of clay,
And born of human passions. In its train
Follow all things unholy-Love of Gold,
Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name,
All that we worship for itself alone,

All that we may not carry through the grave.
We have made idols of these perishing things
Till they have grown time-honored on their shrines,
And all men bow to them. Yet what are they?
What is AMBITION? "Tis a glorious cheat!

Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly

The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine'

2

Hath not such gems.

Have not such pomp

Earth's constellated thrones of purple and of gold.

It hath no features. In its face is set
A mirror, and the gazer sees his own.
It looks a god, but it is like himself!
It hath a mien of empery, and smiles
Majestically sweet-but how like him!
It follows not with Fortune. It is seen
Rarely or never in the rich man's hall.
It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy,
And lifts his humble window, and comes in.
The narrow walls expand, and spread away
Into a kingly palace, and the roof
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write
His name in burning letters over all.
And ever, as he shuts his wildered eyes,
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay.
He is its slave henceforth! His days are spent
In chaining down his heart, and watching where
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours.
His kindred are forgotten or estranged.