_Par._ Yes, it was in me; I was born for it-- I, Paracelsus: it was mine by right. Doubtless a searching and impetuous soul Might learn from its own motions that some task Like this awaited it about the world; Might seek somewhere in this blank life of ours For fit delights to stay its longings vast; And, grappling Nature, so prevail on her To fill the creature full she dared thus frame Hungry for joy; and, bravely tyrannous, Grow in demand, still craving more and more, And make each joy conceded prove a pledge Of other joy to follow--bating naught Of its desires, still seizing fresh pretence To turn the knowledge and the rapture wrung As an extreme, last boon, from destiny, Into occasion for new covetings, New strifes, new triumphs:--doubtless a strong soul, Alone, unaided might attain to this, So glorious is our nature, so august Man's inborn uninstructed impulses, His naked spirit so majestical! But this was born in me; I was made so; Thus much time saved: the feverish appetites, The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind, Distrust, mistake, and all that ends in tears Were saved me; thus I entered on my course. You may be sure I was not all exempt From human trouble; just so much of doubt As bade me plant a surer foot upon The sun-road, kept my eye unruined 'mid The fierce and flashing splendor, set my heart Trembling so much as warned me I stood there On sufferance--not to idly gaze, but cast Light on a darkling race; save for that doubt, I stood at first where all aspire at last To stand: the secret of the world was mine. I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, But somehow felt and known in every shift And change in the spirit,--nay, in every pore Of the body, even,)--what God is, what we are, What life is--how God tastes an infinite joy In infinite ways--one everlasting bliss, From whom all being emanates, all power Proceeds; in whom is life forevermore, Yet whom existence in its lowest form Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he; With still a flying point of bliss remote, A happiness in store afar, a sphere Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs Pleasure its heights forever and forever. The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, And the earth changes like a human face; The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask-- God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, When, in the solitary waste, strange groups Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, Staring together with their eyes on flame--