Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 11, No. 23, February, 1873. Various

      It's the best place, fair youth. I see your smile—

      The scornful smile of that ambitious age

      That thinks it all things knows, and all the while

      It nothing knows. And yet those smiles presage

      Some future fame, because your aim is high;

      As when one tries to shoot into the sky,

      If his rash arrow at the moon he aims, a bolder flight we see,

      Though vain, than if with level poise it safely reached the nearest tree.

      A common proverb that! Does it disjoint

      Your graceful terms? One more you'll understand:

      Cut down a pencil to too fine a point,

      Lo, it breaks off, all useless, in your hand!

      The child is fitted for her present sphere:

      Let her live out her life, without the fear

      That comes when souls, daring the heights of dread infinity, are tost,

      Now up, now down, by the great winds, their little home for ever lost.

      My little girl seems to you commonplace

      Because she loves the daisies, common flowers;

      Because she finds in common pictures grace,

      And nothing knows of classic music's powers:

      She reads her romance, but the mystic's creed

      Is something far beyond her simple need.

      She goes to church, but the mixed doubts and theories that thinkers find

      In all religious truth can never enter her undoubting mind.

      A daisy's earth's own blossom—better far

      Than city gardener's costly hybrid prize:

      When you're found worthy of a higher star,

      'Twill then be time earth's daisies to despise;

      But not till then. And if the child can sing

      Sweet songs like "Robin Gray," why should I fling

      A cloud over her music's joy, and set for her the heavy task

      Of learning what Bach knew, or finding sense under mad Chopin's mask?

      Then as to pictures: if her taste prefers

      That common picture of the "Huguenots,"

      Where the girl's heart—a tender heart like hers—

      Strives to defeat earth's greatest powers' great plots

      With her poor little kerchief, shall I change

      The print for Turner's riddles wild and strange?

      Or take her stories—simple tales which her few leisure hours beguile—

      And give her Browning's _Sordello_, a Herbert Spencer, a Carlyle?

      Her creed, too, in your eyes is commonplace,

      Because she does not doubt the Bible's truth

      Because she does not doubt the saving grace

      Of fervent prayer, but from her rosy youth,

      So full of life, to gray old age's time,

      Prays on with faith half ignorant, half sublime.

      Yes, commonplace! But if I spoil this common faith, when all is done

      Can deist, pantheist or atheist invent a better one?

      Climb to the highest mountain's highest verge,

      Step off: you've lost the petty height you had;

      Up to the highest point poor reason urge,

      Step off: the sense is gone, the mind is mad.

      "Thus far, and yet no farther, shalt thou go,"

      Was said of old, and I have found it so:

      This planet's ours, 'tis all we have; here we belong, and those are wise

      Who make the best of it, nor vainly try above its plane to rise.

      Nay, nay: I know already your reply;

      I have been through the whole long years ago;

      I have soared up as far as soul can fly,

      I have dug down as far as mind can go;

      But always found, at certain depth or height,

      The bar that separates the infinite

      From finite powers, against whose strength immutable we beat in vain,

      Or circle round only to find ourselves at starting-point again.

      If you must for yourself find out this truth,

      I bid you go, proud heart, with blessings free:

      'Tis the old fruitless quest of ardent youth,

      And soon or late you will come back to me.

      You'll learn there's naught so common as the breath

      Of life, unless it be the calm of death:

      You'll learn that with the Lord Omnipotent there's nothing commonplace,

      And with such souls as that poor child's, humbled, abashed, you'll hide your face.