Excess or languor--oftenest death's approach, Peril, deep joy or woe. One man shall crawl Through life surrounded with all stirring things, Unmoved; and he goes mad: and from the wreck Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, You first collect how great a spirit he hid. Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, Discovering the true laws by which the flesh Accloys the spirit! We may not be doomed To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God, But elevate the race at once! We ask To put forth just our strength, our human strength, All starting fairly, all equipped alike, Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted-- See if we cannot beat thine angels yet! Such is my task. I go to gather this The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed About the world, long lost or never found. And why should I be sad or lorn of hope? Why ever make man's good distinct from God's, Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? Who shall succeed if not one pledged like me? Mine is no mad attempt to build a world Apart from his, like those who set themselves To find the nature of the spirit they bore, And, taught betimes that all their gorgeous dreams Were only born to vanish in this life, Refused to fit them to its narrow sphere, But chose to figure forth another world And other frames meet for their vast desires,-- And all a dream! Thus was life scorned; but life Shall yet be crowned: twine amaranth! I am priest! And all for yielding with a lively spirit A poor existence, parting with a youth Like those who squander every energy Convertible to good, on painted toys, Breath-bubbles, gilded dust! And though I spurn All adventitious aims, from empty praise To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps Important, and concerns himself for me, May know even these will follow with the rest-- As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore. My own affections, laid to rest awhile, Will waken purified, subdued alone By all I have achieved. Till then--till then ... Ah, the time-wiling loitering of a page Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring The stately lady's presence whom he loves-- The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat Enwraps the queenly pearl--these are faint types! See, see, they look on me: I triumph now! But one thing, Festus, Michal! I have told All I shall e'er disclose to mortal: say-- Do you believe I shall accomplish this? _Fest._ I do believe! _Mich._ I ever did believe!