I always am present, Yet nothing can bind me; Like thought evanescent, They lose me who find me. 8. I consider a poem of this kind (and I regret that there are very few such in any language) to stand at the very summit of poetic aspiration. For not only is it perfect in form, and is thus a thing of beauty made by the hands of man, but its subject is of the very highest, since it is a hymn, a praise of God, even though the name of the Most High be not there. For what is heaven? Heaven is a state where the fellowship of man with man is such as to leave no room for want to the one while there is abundance to the other. Heaven is a state where the wants of the individual are so cared for that he needs the help of none. But if there be no longer any need of toiling, neither for neighbor nor for self, what is there left for the soul to do but to praise God and glorify creation? A hymn like the above, then, is the outflow of a spirit which hath a heavenly peace. And this is precisely the occupation with which the imagination endows the angels; the highest flight of the soul is therefore that in which it is so divested of the interests of the earth as to be filled only with reverence and worship. And this hymn to Force seems to me to have come from a spirit which, at the time of its writing at least, attained such freedom from the earthly. 9. Such a poem being then at one end of the scale, the highest because it gratifies the soul's highest need, on the opposite end, on the lowest, is found that which gratifies the soul's lowest need, its need for novelty, its curiosity. And this is done by purely narrative writing, of which the following is a good example:-- THE BLACK SHAWL. I gaze demented on the black shawl, And my cold soul is torn by grief. When young I was and full of trust I passionately loved a young Greek girl. The charming maid, she fondled me, But soon I lived the black day to see. Once as were gathered my jolly guests, A detested Jew knocked at my door. Thou art feasting, he whispered, with friends, But betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid. Moneys I gave him and curses, And called my servant, the faithful. We went; I flew on the wings of my steed, And tender mercy was silent in me. Her threshold no sooner I espied, Dark grew my eyes, and my strength departed. The distant chamber I enter alone-- An Armenian embraces my faithless maid. Darkness around me: flashed the dagger; To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time. And long I trampled the headless corpse,-- And silent and pale at the maid I stared. I remember her prayers, her flowing blood, But perished the girl, and with her my love. The shawl I took from the head now dead, And wiped in silence the bleeding steel. When came the darkness of eve, my serf Threw their bodies into the billows of the Danube.