Pitiful delusion!--in no nomenclature-- Maugre its profusion--O ambiguous nature! Can man find expression of his own relation To the great procession of facts in creation? Fruitless speculating! none may lift the curtain From the antedating ages and uncertain When what is was not, and tides of pristine being Beat on shores forgot, and all, as now, unseeing. Whence impelled or whither, or by what volition; Borne now here, now thither, in blind inanition. Out of this abysmal, nebulous dim distance, Haunted by a dismal, phantomic existence, Issued man?--a creature without inspiration, Gross of form and feature, dull of inclination? Or was his primordial self a something higher? Fresh from test and ordeal of elemental fire. Were these ages golden while the world was younger, When the giants olden knew not toil nor hunger? When no pain nor malice marred joy's full completeness, And life's honeyed chalice rapt the soul with sweetness? When the restless river of time loved to linger; Ere flesh felt the quiver of death's dissolving finger; When man's intuition led without deflection, To a sure fruition, and a full perfection. Individual man is ever new created: What his being's plan is, loosely predicated On the circumstances of his sole condition, Colored by the fancies borrowed from tradition. His creation gives him clue to nothing older: Naked, life receives him--wondering beholder Of the world about him--and ere aught is certain, Time and mystery flout him; and death drops the curtain. Man, the dreamer, groping after what he should be, Cheers himself with hoping to be what he would be: When he hopes no longer, with self-adulation, Fancies he was stronger at his first creation: Else--in him inhering powers of intellection-- Death, by interfering with his mind's perfection, Itself gives security to restore life's treasure, Freed from all impurity and in endless measure. Thou, O Nature, knowest, yet no word is spoken. Time, that ever flowest, presses on unbroken: All in vain the sages toil with proof and question-- The immemorial ages give no least suggestion. PASSING BY HELICON. My steps are turned away; Yet my eyes linger still, On their beloved hill, In one long, last survey: Gazing through tears that multiply the view, Their passionate adieu! O, joy-empurpled height, Down whose enchanted sides The rosy mist now glides, How can I loose thy sight? How can my eyes turn where my feet must go, Trailing their way in woe? Gone is my strength of heart; The roses that I brought From thy dear bowers, and thought To keep, since we must part-- Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now, Than round Hymettus' brow.