Ah! facts are good, and reason's good, But fancy's stronger far; In weal or woe we only know We know not what we are.

The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, afraid; The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd.

V.

But these, ye urge, are outward signs.

Such signs are not for you.

The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd By diamonds of the dew.

The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete; He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his feet!

VI.

The sage can kill a thousand things, And tell the names of all; And wrench away the wearied wings Of eagles when they fall; And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree, And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea.

VII.

But can he set, by day or night, The clock-work of the skies?

Or bring the dead man back to sight With soul-invested eyes?

Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death, And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath?

VIII.

If he could do such deeds as these, He might, though poor and low, Explain the cause of Nature's laws, Which none shall ever know; He might recall the vanish'd years by lifting of his hand, And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd.

IX.

But G.o.d is just. He burdens not The shoulders of the sage; He pities him whose sight is dim; He turns no second page.

There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one; The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun.

X.

The other needs a poet's eye, Like that of Milton blind; The light of Faith which cannot die, Though doubts perplex the mind; The eyesight of a little child; a martyr's eye in dole, Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul!

A PRAYER FOR LIGHT.

I.

Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die,-- The light of love, the love-light of the sky,-- That I, at length, may see my darling's face One minute's s.p.a.ce.

II.

Have I not wept to know myself so weak That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek, The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold Her locks of gold?

III.

Have I not sworn that I will not be wed, But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed?

The soul can see,--for souls are seraphim,-- When eyes are dim.

IV.

Oh, hush! she comes. I know her. She is nigh.

She brings me death, true heart, and I will die.

She brings me love, for love and life are one Beyond the sun.

V.

This is the measure, this, of all my joys: Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise.

Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know Which path I go.

VI.

I cannot die if thou be not a-near, To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere.

O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath Kiss me to death!

MIRAGE.

I.

'Tis a legend of a lover, 'Tis a ballad to be sung, In the gloaming,--under cover,-- By a minstrel who is young; By a singer who has pa.s.sion, and who sways us with his tongue.

II.

I, who know it, think upon it, Not unhappy, tho' in tears, And I gather in a sonnet All the glory of the years; And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears.

III.

Ah! I see her as she faced me, In the sinless summer days, When her little hands embraced me, And I saddened at her gaze, Thinking, Sweet One! will she love me when we walk in other ways?