Each several heart-beat, counted like the coin
A miser reckons, is a special gift
As from an unseen hand; if that withhold
Its bounty for a moment, I am left
A clod upon the earth to which I fall.
Something I find in
me that well might claim
The love of beings in
a sphere above
This doubtful twilight
world of right and wrong;
Something that shows
me of the self-same clay
That creeps or swims
or flies in humblest form.
Had I been asked, before
I left my bed
Of shapeless dust, what
clothing I would wear,
I would have said, More
angel and less worm;
But for their sake who
are even such as I,
Of the same mingled
blood, I would not choose
To hate that meaner
portion of myself
Which makes me brother
to the least of men.
I dare not be a coward
with my lips
Who dare to question
all things in my soul;
Some men may find their
wisdom on their knees,
Some prone and grovelling
in the dust like slaves;
Let the meek glow-worm
glisten in the dew;
I ask to lift my taper
to the sky
As they who hold their
lamps above their heads,
Trusting the larger
currents up aloft,
Rather than crossing
eddies round their breast,
Threatening with every
puff the flickering blaze.
My life shall be a challenge,
not a truce!
This is my homage to
the mightier powers,
To ask my boldest question,
undismayed
By muttered threats
that some hysteric sense
Of wrong or insult will
convulse the throne
Where wisdom reigns
supreme; and if I err,
They all must err who
have to feel their way
As bats that fly at
noon; for what are we
But creatures of the
night, dragged forth by day,
Who needs must stumble,
and with stammering steps
Spell out their paths
in syllables of pain?
Thou wilt not hold in
scorn the child who dares
Look up to Thee, the
Father,—dares to ask
More than Thy wisdom
answers. From Thy hand
The worlds were cast;
yet every leaflet claims
From that same hand
its little shining sphere
Of star-lit dew; thine
image, the great sun,
Girt with his mantle
of tempestuous flame,
Glares in mid-heaven;
but to his noontide blaze
The slender violet lifts
its lidless eye,
And from his splendor
steals its fairest hue,
Its sweetest perfume
from his scorching fire.
I may just as well stop here as anywhere, for there is more of the manuscript to come, and I can only give it in instalments.
The Young Astronomer had told me I might read any portions of his manuscript I saw fit to certain friends. I tried this last extract on the old Master.