I, God's own image that already seemed To gaze where Truth's eternal mirror gleamed, And, clean divested of this cumbering clay, Basked in the bliss of heaven's vivific ray; I, more than cherub, with fresh pulses glowing, Who well nigh seemed through Nature's deep veins flowing Like a pure god, creative virtue knowing, What sharp reproof my hot presumption found! One word of thunder smote me to the ground. Alas! 'tis true! not I with thee and thine May dare to cope! the strength indeed was mine To make thee own my call, but not To chain thee to the charmèd spot. When that blest rapture thrilled my frame, I felt myself so small, so great; But thou didst spurn me back with shame, Into this crazy human state. Where find I aid? what follow? what eschew? Shall I that impulse of my soul obey? Alas! alas! but I must feel it true, The pains we suffer and the deeds we do, Are clogs alike in the free spirit's way. The godlike essence of our heaven-born powers Must yield to strange and still more strange intrusion; Soon as the good things of this world are ours, We deem our nobler self a vain illusion, And heaven-born instincts--very life of life-- Are strangled in the low terrestrial strife. Young fancy, that once soared with flight sublime, On venturous vans, ev'n to th' Eternal's throne, Now schools her down a little space to own, When in the dark engulfing stream of time, Our fair-faced pleasures perish one by one. Care nestles deep in every heart, And, cradling there the secret smart, Rocks to and fro, and peace and joy are gone. What though new masks she still may wear, Wealth, house and hall, with acres rich and rare, As wife or child appear she, water, flame, Dagger, or poison, she is still the same; And still we fear the ill which happens never, And what we lose not are bewailing ever. Alas! alas! too deep 'tis felt! too deep! With gods may vie no son of mortal clay; More am I like to worms that crawl and creep, And dig, and dig through earth their lightless way, Which, while they feed on dust in narrow room, Find from the wanderer's foot their death-blow and their tomb. Is it not dust that this old wall From all its musty benches shows me? And dust the trifling trumperies all That in this world of moths enclose me? Here is it that I hope to find Wherewith to sate my craving mind? Need I spell out page after page, To know that men in every age And every clime, have spurred in vain The jaded muscle and the tortured brain, And here and there, with centuries between, One happy man belike hath been?