CLVI. Thou movest-but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Vastness which grows-but grows to harmonize- Rich marbles-richer painting-shrines where flame CLVII. Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make, That ask the eye-so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, CLVIII. Not by its fault-but thine: Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp—and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate CLIX. Then pause, and be enlighten'd; there is more Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore Of art and its great masters, who could raise Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see With an immortal's patience blending :-Vain The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench; the long envenom'd chain Rivets the living links,—the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light— The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot-the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity. CLXII. But in his delicate form-a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast The mind with in its most unearthly mood, Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! CLXIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, |