Our great and glorious Earth, to only form The millionth atom of some grain of sand, That shines unnoticed on an ocean’s shore, Whose waves wash o’er our whirling stars and sun Too insignificant to feel their surge. Another step on either side, and mind, In flesh, shrinks from the giant grasp. Yet noble are its pinions, strong their flight; Thrice, only, do they droop their baffled strength, Before the Future, Infinite, Abstract! The first is locked, the second out of reach, The third a maze that none can penetrate. The first, alone to inspiration opes; The second dashed to Earth her boldest wing, Spinoza’s, who essayed the idea God, And grappling bravely with the grand concept, So far above the utmost strength of Man, Placed God’s existence in extent and thought; And filled all space with God. The Universe, A bud or bloom of the Eternal Mind, That opens like a flower into this form, And may retract Creation in Itself! Alas! that effort so sublime should end In mystery and doubt. A Universe, How vast so ever, has its bounds somewhere, But Space possesses none, and God in Space, Would be so far beyond Creation’s speck, He scarce would know it did exist. That part Of Mind, expressed in matter, would be lost Amid the Infinite domains of thought. Yet Man in flesh, the casket of the mind, Whose wondrous power I’ve told, is ever chained, A grovelling worm, to Earth, and never leaves The sod where he must lie. No time is his But present; not a mem’ry of the past. His very food, while in his mouth, alone, Tastes good. He stands a dummy in the world, That only acts when acted on. How great The mystery of union ’tween the two! A feather touches not the body, but the mind Perceives it; yet the mind may live through scenes The body never knew, nor can. Yet not With vivid life--the sense is lacking there. The memory of a banquet may be plain, So that the daintest dish could be described, As well as if the eye and tongue were there; The eye and tongue, alone the present know, And find no good in anything that’s past. All thought is folly, every path is dark; Truth gleaming fairly in the distant haze, On near approach becomes the blackest lie. Man and his soul may go, nor will I fret To learn their mystic bonds. A worm I am, And worm I must remain, till Death shall burst The chrysalis, and free the web-wound wings. Yet, oh! ’twere grand to spurn the clogging Earth And cleave the air towards yonder looming cloud; To stand upon its red-bound crest and dare The storm-king’s wildest wrath.