Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 329, March, 1843. Various

      What the God taught me—what, through life, my friend

      And aid hath been,

      With pious hand, and grateful, I suspend

      The temple walls within.

      Foster the Good, and thou shalt tend the Flower

      Already sown on earth;—

      Foster the Beautiful, and every hour

      Thou call'st new flowers to birth!

      Give me that which thou know'st—I'll receive and attend;—

      But thou giv'st me thyself—pri'thee spare me, my friend.

      That which hath been can INTELLECT declare,

      What Nature built—it imitates or gilds—

      And REASON builds o'er Nature—but in air—

       Genius alone in Nature—Nature builds.

      The calm correctness where no fault we see

      Attests Art's loftiest—or its least degree;

      Alike the smoothness of the surface shows

      The Pool's dull stagnor—the great Sea's repose!

      Good out of good—that art is known to all—

      But Genius from the bad the good can call—

      Thou, mimic, not from leading strings escaped,

      Work'st but the matter that's already shaped!

      The already shaped a nobler hand awaits—

      All matter asks a spirit that creates.

      The herd of Scribes by what they tell us

      Show all in which their wits excel us;

      But the true Master we behold

      In what his art leaves—just untold!

      That is the real mystery which around

      All life, is found;—

      Which still before all eyes for aye has been,

      Nor eye hath seen!

      All measureless, all infinite in awe,

      Heaven to great souls is given—

      And yet the sprite of littleness can draw

      Down to its inch—the Heaven!

      Yes, there's a patent of nobility

      Above the meanness of our common state;

      With what they do the vulgar natures buy

      Its titles—and with what they are, the great!

      When draw the Prosperous near me, I forget

      The gods of heaven; but where

      Sorrow and suffering in my sight are set,

      The gods, I feel, are there!

      What the chief end of Man?—Behold yon tree,

      And let it teach thee, Friend!

       Will what that will-less yearns for;—and for thee

      Is compass'd Man's chief end!

      To gain his home all oceans he explored—

      Here Scylla frown'd—and there Charybdis roar'd;

      Horror on sea—and horror on the land—

      In hell's dark boat he sought the spectre land,

      Till borne—a slumberer—to his native spot

      He woke—and sorrowing, knew his country not!

      'Twas not my nectar made thy strength divine,

      But 'twas thy strength which made my nectar thine!

      See, full of hope, thou trustest to the earth

      The golden seed, and waitest till the spring

      Summons the buried to a happier birth;

      But in Time's furrow duly scattering,

      Think'st thou, how deeds by wisdom sown may be,

      Silently ripen'd for Eternity?

      Where sails the ship?—It leads the Tyrian forth

      For the rich amber of the liberal North.

      Be kind ye seas—winds lend your gentlest wing,

      May in each creek, sweet wells restoring spring!—

      To you, ye gods, belong the Merchant!—o'er

      The waves, his sails the wide world's goods explore;

      And, all the while, wherever waft the gales,

      The