Oracle

Thou in thy ignorance must wait:
Tears, prayers, cannot alter Fate;
Behind the veil no eye may see —
Such is the will of destiny.
But on its folds behold a sign —
A crown, a cross, a face divine.
If thou from doubt and death wouldst flee,
Forget thy proud philosophy,
And climb the hill of Calvary.

Mortal

Like a shadow he has gone,
While the aisles these notes prolong.

First Voice

Not in Science, not in Art,
Hides the balm for wounded heart;
We are bound until made free
By the great Humility.

Knowledge is the tree of woe —
All your fathers found it so;
All Philosophy is vain,
Be a little child again.

Second Voice

Who would not exchange for the visions of youth
The wisdom we gather with years?
Oh, who has not learn'd, 'tis a sorrowful truth,
That knowledge is water'd in tears.

Third Voice

Without the great temple the nations await,
In wonder and awe, the decisions of fate: —
Admit the strange mortal that's next at the gate.

Hosts of shadows lead him on
To the footstool of the throne;
Some in mirth and mockery,
Some in sad sincerity.
There, as in a trance, he stands,
With rapt look and folded hands;
While voices round him, clear and cool,
Proclaim him but a dreamy fool.

Oracle

Mortal of the breathing air,
What is thy peculiar care? —
Is it hope, or doubt, or fear,
Or what passion, brings thee here?

Poet

I've sought thy great temple, for I am opprest;
A wish, a great longing, will not give me rest;
The great face of Nature is awful to me —
A woe and a wonder in all that I see.

The grey clouds that wander, the infinite blue,
The great silent visage that's aye looking through,
The leaves of the forest, the waves of the sea,
The hills and the valleys — are calling on me;
They beckon me to them, as if they would tell,
The secret they've guarded for ages so well.
The seen and the unseen, the wonderful whole,
Awake thoughts which trouble and torture my soul;
And, sleeping or waking, they will not depart —
They'll march forth to music, or tear out my heart.

I'd speak what the spirit had spoken to me,
For a priest, and a prophet, a poet, I'd be;
I'd emulate gladly the great that are gone —
Unveil to the world its soul in my song.

I'd be as the bards, the great minstrels of yore,
For big human hearts in their bosoms they bore;
They pour'd forth their numbers, unfetter'd by art,
And found a response in the great human heart.
I've never heard aught in our smooth, polish'd tongue
Like the rudely sublime strains my old mother sung.
Their awful simplicity I'd fain make my own,
Their great naked virtue revive in my song.
I'd question the past till its secret I'd wring,
And from the far future glad tidings I'd bring;
I'd summon the dead from their silent domain,
Sage, hero, should act o'er life's drama again;
The poor humble hero in song I'd enthrone;
The great hearts that struggled, yet perish'd unknown,
I'd conjure again from their unhonor'd graves
To shame our lax age and its time-serving slaves.
And yet in my song hate could scarce find a place —
Despite of its errors, I still love our race;
The lowly, the lofty, the lordly, the small,
Poor, rich, wise and foolish, I feel with them all.
I fain would do something for those gone astray,
Tho' 'twere but to sing of a happier day.
Confusion's around us, the time's out of tune;
The heart asks for concord, the only blest boon;
We've wander'd from nature, we worship cold art,
And, striving to fly from, we torture the heart;
And its silent sorrows appeal to my string —
How happy could I but a soothing tone bring!
Its mirth and its madness, its joy and its woe,
Its great gusts of sadness which will overflow;
Its deep aspirations for that blessed clime
Which lies 'yond the regions of death and of time;
Its infinite longings, its hopes and its fears,
Its doubts and its darkness, its smiles and its tears —
I'd treasure them all in my heart and my brain,
And brood, like the spirit, o'er chaos again.

Oracle

Poets are the pets of Nature:
Lovingly she forms each feature.
Well she knows men would revile her,
So she brings the reconciler, —
Yea, for the great love she bears him,
In her roughest mood she rears him;
Heavy burdens she lays on him,
Care and sorrow heaps upon him;
Fills him with celestial fires,
And with herds of low desires;
Now an angel she will start,
Now a naked human heart —
Lets a thing of flesh and sin,
Or a soaring seraph, in;
Now she lights his eye with gladness,
Now with melancholy madness;
Now through hell's confines he's driven,
Now he cleaves the vault of heaven;
Now shudders at the damneds' cries,
Now drinks the airs of Paradise;
Until his joys, his agonies,
Start into wizard-melodies;
Till his tones, his words of wonder,
Catch the spirit of the thunder,
And in melody sublime
Sweep adown the straits of time.

Canst thou for the muse's sake
Suffer wrong and scorn and hate?
Is to thee her meanest tone
Dearer than earth's proudest throne?
For her canst thou suffer want?
For her fight with sin and shame,
E'en without the hope of fame?
Canst thou bear, e'en by the good,
To be wrongly understood?
Canst thou hear, with judgment cool,
Wise men stamp thee but a fool;
Painted puppies of a day
Scorn thee for thy poverty?
Hear, then, 'mid the scorn and laughter
Of thy time, the " Hail hereafter. "