We rapidly approach a brink over which no enemy can follow us: "Let them rave : Thou art quiet in thy grave." In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy those who have seen safely to an end their manful endeavor? Who that sees the meanness of our politics but inly congratulates Washington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, and for ever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave who are no more to suffer from the tumults of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated sooner than treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being. THE OVER-SOUL. "BUT souls that of his own good life partake, Space is ample, east and west, But two cannot go abreast, Cannot travel in it two: Yonder masterful cuckoo Henry More. Crowds every egg out of the nest, A spell is laid on sod and stone, Surcharged and sultry with a power That works its will on age and hour. We rapidly approach a brink over which no enemy can follow us: "Let them rave : Thou art quiet in thy grave." In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to the higher voices, who does not envy those who have seen safely to an end their manful endeavor? Who that sees the meanness of our politics but inly congratulates Washington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, and for ever safe; that he was laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does not sometimes envy the good and brave who are no more to suffer from the tumults of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated sooner than treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being. THE OVER-SOUL. "BUT souls that of his own good life partake, Space is ample, east and west, But two cannot go abreast, Cannot travel in it two: Yonder masterful cuckoo Henry More. Crowds every egg out of the nest, A spell is laid on sod and stone, Night and Day 've been tampered with, Surcharged and sultry with a power That works its will on age and hour. |