Hierophant, and lyrist of the soul! Clear insight thine of universal mind; While from its crypts the nascent Powers unrol, And represent to consciousness the Whole. Each in its order seeks its natural kind, These latent or apparent, stir or sleep, Watchful o’er widening fields of airy space, Or slumbering sightless in the briny deep;-- Thou, far above their shows, servant of Grace, Tread’st the bright way from SPIRIT down to Sense, Interpreting all symbols to thy race,-- Commanding vistas of the fair Immense, And glimpses upward far, where, sons of Heaven, Sit in Pantheon throned the Sacred Seven. “_The princely mind, that can Teach man to keep a God in man,-- And when wise poets would search out to see Good men, behold them all in thee!_” VIII. Pleased, I recall those hours, so fair and free, When all the long forenoons we two did toss From lip to lip, in lively colloquy, Plato, Plotinus, or famed schoolman’s gloss, Disporting in rapt thought and ecstasy. Then by the tilting rail Millbrook we cross, And sally through the fields to Walden wave, Plunging within the cove, or swimming o’er; Through woodpaths wending, he with gesture quick Rhymes deftly in mid-air with circling stick, Skims the smooth pebbles from the leafy shore, Or deeper ripples raises as we lave; Nor slumb’rous pillow touches at late night, Till converse with the stars his eyes invite. “_Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep; Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright._ “_Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever, Thou who mak’st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright._” BEN JONSON. IX. Dear Lady! oft I meditate on thee, Noblest companion and fit peer of him Whom envious years, in high prosperity, Could blemish least, nor aught the lustre dim Of that fair-fashioned native piety Embosomed in the soul that smiles on Fate, And held by him and thee inviolate,-- Fountain of youth, still sparkling o’er the brim. Then I recall thy salient quick wit, Its arrowy quiver and its supple bow,-- Huntress of wrong! right well thy arrows hit, Though from the wound thou see’st the red drops flow: I much admire that dexterous archery, And pray that sinners may thy target be. “_Upon the nineteenth day of the first month, they keep a solemn festival to Hermes, wherein they eat honey and figs, and withal, say these words_, ‘Truth is a sweet thing;’ _and that amulet or charm which they fable to hang about her is, when interpreted in our language_, ‘A true voice’”.