after eleven years’ exile, with heart and mind full of Holland, it was old Holland he sought and did not find.  He did not understand young Holland.  In spite of this, his fame and powerful personality had an attraction for the young; but it was the attraction of a past time, the fascination of the glorious ruin.  Young Holland wanted freedom, individual independence, and this Bilderdijk considered a misfortune.  “One should not let children, women, and nations know that they possess other rights than those naturally theirs.  This matter must be a secret between the prince and his heart and reason,—­to the masses it ought always to be kept as hidden as possible.”  The new age which had made its entry with the cry of Liberty would not tolerate such sentiments, and he stood alone, a powerful, demonic, but incomprehensible spirit.

Aside from his fame as a poet, he deserves to be mentioned as Jacob Grimm’s correspondent, as philologist, philosopher, and theologian.

     ODE TO BEAUTY

     Child of the Unborn! dost thou bend
       From Him we in the day-beams see,
     Whose music with the breeze doth blend?—­
       To feel thy presence is to be. 
     Thou, our soul’s brightest effluence—­thou
     Who in heaven’s light to earth dost bow,
       A Spirit ’midst unspiritual clods—­
     Beauty! who bear’st the stamp profound
     Of Him with all perfection crowned,
       Thine image—­thine alone—­is God’s....

     How shall I catch a single ray
       Thy glowing hand from nature wakes—­
     Steal from the ether-waves of day
       One of the notes thy world-harp shakes—­
     Escape that miserable joy,
     Which dust and self with darkness cloy,
       Fleeting and false—­and, like a bird,
     Cleave the air-path, and follow thee
     Through thine own vast infinity,
       Where rolls the Almighty’s thunder-word?

     Perfect thy brightness in heaven’s sphere,
       Where thou dost vibrate in the bliss
     Of anthems ever echoing there! 
       That, that is life—­not this—­not this: 
     There in the holy, holy row—­
     And not on earth, so deep below—­
       Thy music unrepressed may speak;
     Stay, shrouded, in that holy place;—­
     Enough that we have seen thy face,
       And kissed the smiles upon thy cheek.

     We stretch our eager hands to thee,
       And for thine influence pray in vain;
     The burden of mortality
       Hath bent us ’neath its heavy chain;—­
     And there are fetters forged by art,
     And science cold hath chilled the heart,
       And wrapped thy god-like crown in night;
     On waxen wings they soar on high,
     And when most distant deem, thee nigh—­
       They quench thy torch, and dream of light.