The seeds of godlike power are in us still; Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will!-- Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery? WRITTEN IN BUTLER’S SERMONS. Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control,-- So men, unravelling God’s harmonious whole, Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. Vain labor! Deep and broad, where none may see, Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne Where man’s one nature, queen-like, sits alone, Centred in a majestic unity; And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen Linking their coral arms under the sea, Or clustered peaks with plunging gulfs between, Spanned by aërial arches all of gold, Whereo’er the chariot-wheels of life are rolled In cloudy circles to eternity. TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED. Because thou hast believed, the wheels of life Stand never idle, but go always round; Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, Moved only; but by genius, in the strife Of all its chafing torrents after thaw, Urged; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand, The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand; And, in this vision of the general law, Hast labored, but with purpose; hast become Laborious, persevering, serious, firm,-- For this, thy track across the fretful foam Of vehement actions without scope or term, Called history, keeps a splendor; due to wit, Which saw one clew to life, and followed it. IN HARMONY WITH NATURE. TO A PREACHER. “In harmony with Nature?” Restless fool, Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee, When true, the last impossibility,-- To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool! Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more, And in that _more_ lie all his hopes of good. Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood; Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore; Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest; Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave; Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest. Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends; Nature and man can never be fast friends. Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave! TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. ON SEEING, IN THE COUNTRY, HIS PICTURE OF “THE BOTTLE.” Artist, whose hand, with horror winged, hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born, Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn,-- Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude Like comets on the heavenly solitude? Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn, Cold-bubbling springs, or caves? Not so! The soul Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says, “Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man