Or again, lines like these, which have become the watch-word of a Gordon:—­

                “I go to prove my soul! 
      I see my way as birds their trackless way. 
      I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,
      I ask not:  but unless God send his hail
      Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
      In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: 
      He guides me and the bird.  In his good time!”

At times the brooding splendour bursts forth in a kind of vast ecstasy, and we have such magnificence as this:—­

      “The centre fire heaves underneath the earth,
      And the earth changes like a human face;
      The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,
      Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright
      In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,
      Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask—­
      God joys therein.  The wroth sea’s waves are edged
      With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,
      When, in the solitary waste, strange groups
      Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,
      Staring together with their eyes on flame—­
      God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. 
      Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: 
      But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes
      Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure
      Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between
      The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,
      Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;
      The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms
      Like chrysalids impatient for the air,
      The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run
      Along the furrows, ants make their ado;
      Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark
      Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
      Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls
      Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
      Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
      Their loves in wood and plain—­and God renews
      His ancient rapture.”

The blank verse of Paracelsus is varied by four lyrics, themselves various in style, and full of rare music:  the spirit song of the unfaithful poets—­

      “The sad rhyme of the men who sadly clung
      To their first fault, and withered in their pride,”

the gentle song of the Mayne river, and that strange song of old spices which haunts the brain like a perfume:—­

      “Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
        Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
      Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
        From out her hair:  such balsam falls
        Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
      From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,
      Spent with the vast and howling main,
      To treasure half their island gain.