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PROGRESS.

THE

'HE Master stood upon the mount, and taught.

He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes; • The old law,' they said, “is wholly come to nought !

Behold the new world rise!'

* Was it,' the Lord then said, with scorn ye saw The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees? I say unto you, see ye keep that law

More faithfully than these!

Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! Think not that I to annul the law have willid; No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass,

Till all hath been fulfill’d.'

So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago.
And what then shall be said to those to-day
Who cry aloud to lay the old world low

To clear the new world's way?

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Religious fervours! ardour misapplied ! Hence, hence,' they cry, 'ye do but keep man blind! But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied,

And lame the active mind.'

Ah! from the old world let some one answer give : 'Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares ? I say unto you, see that your souls live

A deeper life than theirs.

Say ye: “The spirit of man has found new roads, And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein ?'— Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods,

But guard the fire within!

Bright, else, and fast the stream of life may roll,
And no man may the other's hurt behold;
Yet each will have one anguish !—his own soul

Which perishes of cold.'

Here let that voice make end; then, let a strain
From a far lonelier distance, like the wind
Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again

These men's profoundest mind:

· Children of men! the unseen Power, whose eye For ever doth accompany mankind, Hath look'd on no religion scornfully

That men did ever find.

Which has not taught weak wills how much they can? Which has not fall’n on the dry heart like rain ? Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man:

Thou must be born again !

Children of men! not that your age excel
In pride of life the ages of your sires,
But that you think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well,

The Friend of man desires.'

STANZAS

IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF

OBERMANN.12

IN front the awful Alpine track

Crawls up its rocky stair ; The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, Close o'er it, in the air.

Behind are the abandon'd baths 13

Mute in their meadows lone;
The leaves are on the valley paths,
The mists are on the Rhone-

The white mists rolling like a sea !
I hear the torrents roar.
-Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee;
I feel thee near once more !

I turn thy leaves ! I feel their breath
Once more upon me roll;
That air of languor, cold, and death,
Which brooded o'er thy soul.

Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art,
Condemn’d to cast about,
All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,
For comfort from without !

A fever in these pages burns
Beneath the calm they feign;
A wounded human spirit turns,
Here, on its bed of pain.

Yes, though the virgin mountain air
Fresh through these pages blows,
Though to these leaves the glaciers spare
The soul of their white snows;

Though here a mountain-murmur swells
Of many a dark-bough'd pine,
Though, as you read, you hear the bells
Of the high-pasturing kine-

Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,
And brooding mountain-bee,
There sobs I know not what ground-tone
Of human agony !

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