The minstrel singeth vainly then? Old faith, Old courage, only born because of harms, Were not, from highest to the lowest, charms? Flame may persist; but is not glare as stanch? Where the salt marshes stagnate, crystals branch; Blood dries to crimson; Evil's beautified In every shape. Thrust Beauty then aside And banish Evil! Wherefore? After all, Is Evil a result less natural Than Good? For overlook the seasons' strife With tree and flower,--the hideous animal life, (Of which who seeks shall find a grinning taunt [Sidenote: How much of man's ill may be removed?] For his solution, and endure the vaunt Of nature's angel, as a child that knows Himself befooled, unable to propose Aught better than the fooling)--and but care For men, for the mere People then and there,-- In these, could you but see that Good and Ill Claimed you alike! Whence rose their claim but still From Ill, as fruit of Ill? What else could knit You theirs but Sorrow? Any free from it Were also free from you! Whose happiness Could be distinguished in this morning's press Of miseries?--the fool's who passed a gibe 'On thee,' jeered he, so wedded to thy tribe, Thou carriest green and yellow tokens in Thy very face that thou art Ghibellin!' Much hold on you that fool obtained! Nay mount Yet higher--and upon men's own account [Sidenote: How much of ill ought to be removed?] Must evil stay: for, what is joy?--to heave Up one obstruction more, and common leave What was peculiar, by such act destroy Itself; a partial death is every joy; The sensible escape, enfranchisement Of a sphere's essence: once the vexed--content, The cramped--at large, the growing circle--round, All's to begin again--some novel bound To break, some new enlargement to entreat; The sphere though larger is not more complete. Now for Mankind's experience: who alone Might style the unobstructed world his own? Whom palled Goito with its perfect things? Sordello's self: whereas for Mankind springs Salvation by each hindrance interposed. They climb; life's view is not at once disclosed To creatures caught up, on the summit left, Heaven plain above them, yet of wings bereft: But lower laid, as at the mountain's foot. So, range on range, the girdling forests shoot Twixt your plain prospect and the throngs who scale Height after height, and pierce mists, veil by veil, Heartened with each discovery; in their soul, The Whole they seek by Parts--but, found that Whole, Could they revert, enjoy past gains? The space Of time you judge so meagre to embrace The Parts were more than plenty, once attained The Whole, to quite exhaust it: naught were gained But leave to look--not leave to do: Beneath Soon sates the looker--look above, and Death