Where is the man who has been tried and found strong and sound? Where is the friend of reason and of knowledge? I see only skeptics and weaklings. I see only the prisoners in the durance of the senses. And every fool and every spendthrift Thinks himself as great a master as Aristotle. Think'st thou that they have written poems, Call'st thou that a Song? I call it the cackling of the ravens. The zeal of the prophet must free poesy From the embrace of wanton youths. My song I have inscribed on the forehead of Time, They know it and hate it--for it is lofty. TO THE WEST WIND. Oh, West, how fragrant breathes thy gentle air, Spikenard and aloes on thy pinions glide. Thou blow'st from spicy chambers, not from there Where angry winds and tempests fierce abide. As on a bird's wings thou dost waft me home, Sweet as a bundle of rich myrrh to me. And after thee yearn all the throngs that roam And furrow with light keel the rolling sea. Desert her not--our ship--bide with her oft, When the day sinks and in the morning light. Smooth thou the deeps and make the billows soft, Nor rest save at our goal, the sacred height. Chide thou the East that chafes the raging flood, And swells the towering surges wild and rude. What can I do, the elements' poor slave? Now do they hold me fast, now leave me free; Cling to the Lord, my soul, for He will save, Who caused the mountains and the winds to be. (Extracts from the Book of Tarshish, or "Necklace of Pearls.") Thou who art clothed in silk, who drawest on Proudly thy raiment of fine linen spun, Bethink thee of the day when thou alone Shalt dwell at last beneath the marble stone. Anigh the nest of adders thine abode, With the earth-crawling serpent and the toad, Trust in the Lord, He will sustain thee there, And without fear thy soul shall rest with God. If the world flatter thee with soft-voiced art, Know 'tis a cunning witch who charms thy heart, Whose habit is to wed man's soul with grief, And those who are close-bound in love to part. He who bestows his wealth upon the poor, Has only lent it to the Lord, be sure-- Of what avail to clasp it with clenched hand? It goes not with us to the grave obscure. The voice of those who dwell within the tomb, Who in corruption's house have made their home; "Oh ye who wander o'er us still to-day, When will ye come to share with us the gloom?" How can'st thou ever of the world complain, And murmuring, burden it with all thy pain? Silence! thou art a traveler at inn, A guest, who may but over night remain.