14.  Quite analogous to the deceits in life, there is, as might be expected, a similar effect on the eye from the face of external nature.  There is in woods and waters a certain enticement and flattery, together with a failure to yield a present satisfaction.  This disappointment is felt in every landscape.  I have seen the softness and beauty of the summer clouds floating feathery overhead, enjoying, as it seemed, their height and privilege of motion, whilst yet they appeared not so much the drapery of this place and hour, as fore-looking to such pavilions and gardens of festivity beyond.  It is an odd jealousy; but the poet finds himself not near enough to this object.  The pine tree, the river, the bank of flowers before him, does not seem to be nature.  Nature is still elsewhere.  This or this is but outskirt and far-off reflection[522] and echo of the triumph that has passed by, and is now at its glancing splendor and heyday, perchance in the neighboring fields, or, if you stand in the field, then in the adjacent woods.  The present object shall give you this sense of stillness that follows a pageant which has just gone by.  What splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp and loveliness in the sunset!  But who can go where they are, or lay his hand or plant his foot thereon?  Off they fall from the round world forever and ever.  It is the same among men and women as among the silent trees; always a referred existence, an absence, never a presence and satisfaction.  Is it, that beauty can never be grasped? in persons and in landscapes is equally inaccessible?  The accepted and betrothed lover has lost the wildest charm of his maiden in her acceptance of him.  She was heaven whilst he pursued her as a star:  she cannot be heaven, if she stoops to such a one as he.

15.  What shall we say of this omnipresent appearance of that first projectile impulse, of this flattery and balking of so many well-meaning creatures?  Must we not suppose somewhere in the universe a slight treachery and derision?  Are we not engaged to a serious resentment of this use that is made of us?  Are we tickled trout, and fools of nature?  One looks at the face of heaven and earth lays all petulance at rest, and soothes us to wiser convictions.  To the intelligent, nature converts itself into a vast promise, and will not be rashly explained.  Her secret is untold.  Many and many an Oedipus[523] arrives:  he has the whole mystery teeming in his brain.  Alas! the same sorcery has spoiled his skill; no syllable can he shape on his lips.  Her mighty orbit vaults like the fresh rainbow into the deep, but no archangel’s wing was yet strong enough to follow it, and report of the return of the curve.  But it also appears, that our actions are seconded and disposed to greater conclusions than we designed.  We are escorted on every hand through life by spiritual agents, and a beneficent purpose lies in wait for us.  We cannot bandy words with nature, or deal with her as we deal with persons.  If we measure our individual forces against hers, we may easily feel as if we were the sport of an insuperable destiny.  But if, instead of identifying ourselves with the work, we feel that the soul of the workman streams through us, we shall find the peace of the morning dwelling first in our hearts, and the fathomless powers of gravity and chemistry, and, over them, of life preexisting within us in their highest form.