O FLESH and blood, comrade to tragic pain And clownish merriment; whose sense could wake Sermons in stones, and count death but an ache, All things as vanity, yet nothing vain: The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strain Reveal'd anew; but thou for man didst make Nature twice natural, only to shake Her kingdom with the creatures of thy brain. Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is loth To yield to art her fair supremacy; In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both. What shall I say? for God--whose wise decree Confirmeth all He did by all He doth-- Doubled His whole creation making thee. 22 I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise, And carry purpose up to the ends of the air: In calm and storm my sails I feather, and where By freezing cliffs the unransom'd wreckage lies: Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surprise The silence: over plains in the moonlight bare I chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dare In treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies. Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry, Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir'd By the only joy of knowing that ye fly; Ye are nót what ye are, but rather, sum'd in a word, The alphabet of a god's idea, and I Who master it, I am the only bird. 23 O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe, That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine, Hailing in each the citadel divine The which ye thought to have enter'd long ago; Until at length your feeble steps and slow Falter upon the threshold of the shrine, And your hearts overburden'd doubt in fine Whether it be Jerusalem or no: Dishearten'd pilgrims, I am one of you; For, having worshipp'd many a barren face, I scarce now greet the goal I journey'd to: I stand a pagan in the holy place; Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue, And question with the God that I embrace. 24 Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace; Her melting air, at every breath we draw, Floods heart with love to praise God's gracious law: But suddenly--so short is pleasure's lease-- The cold returns, the buds from growing cease, And nature's conquer'd face is full of awe; As now the trait'rous north with icy flaw Freezes the dew upon the sick lamb's fleece, And 'neath the mock sun searching everywhere Rattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din: So that the birds are silent with despair Within the thickets; nor their armour thin Will gaudy flies adventure in the air, Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin. 25