Chapter IX: Part II: British Poetry

FROM “INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.”

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness
And not in utter nakedness
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy;
Shades of the prison house begin to close
Upon the growing boy;
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows
He sees it in his joy.
The youth who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended.
At length the man perceives it die away
And fade into the light of common day.

Edmund W. Gosse treats the idea of Wordsworth’s “Intimations” in a way directly opposite to the older poet, acknowledging the previous life, but rejoicing in the speedy forgetting of it, in these verses:—

TO MY DAUGHTER.

BY EDMUND W. GOSSE.

Thou hast the colors of the Spring,
The gold of king cups triumphing,
The blue of wood-bells wild;
But winter thoughts thy spirit fill,
And thou art wandering from us still,
Too young to be our child.

Yet have thy fleeting smiles confessed,
Thou dear and much desired guest,
That home is near at hand.
Long lost in high mysterious lands,
Close by our door thy spirit stands,
In journey wellnigh past.

Oh, sweet bewildered soul, I watch
The fountains of thine eyes, to catch
New fancies bubbling there;
To feel one common light, and lose
The flood of strange ethereal hues
Too dire for us to share!

Fade, cold immortal lights, and make
This creature human for my sake,
Since I am nought but clay;
An angel is too fine a thing
To sit behind my chair and sing
And cheer my passing day.

I smile, who could not smile, unless
The air of rapt unconsciousness
Passed with the fading hours;
I joy in every childish sign
That proves the stranger less divine
And much more meekly ours.

A REMEMBRANCE.

BY DEAN ALFORD.

Methinks I can remember when a shade
All soft and flowery was my couch, and I
A little naked child, with fair white flesh
And wings all gold bedropt, and o’er my head
Bright fruits were hanging and tall balmy shrines
Shed odorous gums around me, and I lay
Sleeping and waking in that wondrous air
Which seemed infused with glory, and each breeze
Bore as it wandered by, sweet melodies;
But whence, I knew not. One delight was there,
Whether of feeling or of sight or touch
I know not now—which is not in this earth,
Something all-glorious and all-beautiful,
Of which our language speaketh not, and which
Flies from the eager grasping of my thought
As doth the shade of a forgotten dream.
All knowledge had I, but I cared not then
To search into my soul and draw it thence.
The blessed creatures that around me played
I knew them all, and where their resting was,
And all their hidden symmetry I knew,
And how the form is linked into the soul,—
I knew it all, but thought not on it then,
I was so happy.

And once upon a time
I saw an army of bright beaming shapes
Fair-faced and rosy-cinctured and gold-winged
Approach upon the air. They came to me
And from a crystal chalice silver brimmed
Put sparkling potion to my lips and stood
All around me, in the many blooming shades,
Shedding into the centre where I lay
A mingling of soft light; and then they sang
Songs of the land they dwelt in; and the last
Lingereth even till now upon mine ear:

Holy and blest
Be the calm of thy rest,
For thy chamber of sleep
Shall be dark and deep;
They shall dig thee a tomb
In the dark deep womb,
In the warm dark womb.
Spread ye, spread the dewy mist around him,
Spread ye, spread till the thick dark night surround him,
Till the dark long night has bound him
Which bindeth all before their birth
Down upon the nether earth.
The first cloud is beaming and bright,
The next cloud is mellowed in light,
The third cloud is dim to sight,
And it stretches away into gloomy night.
Twine ye, twine the mystic threads around him,
Twine ye, twine, till the fast firm fate surround him,
Till the firm cold fate hath bound him
Which bindeth all before their birth
Down upon the nether earth.
The first thread is beaming and bright,
The next thread is mellowed in light,
The third thread is dim to sight,
And it stretches away into gloomy night.
Sing ye, sing the fairy songs around him,
Sing ye, sing, till the dull warm sleep surround him,
Till the warm damp sleep hath bound him
Which bindeth all before their birth
Down upon the nether earth.
The first dream is beaming and bright,
The next dream is mellowed in light,
The third dream is dim to sight,
And it stretches away into gloomy night.

Then dimness passed upon me, and that song
Was sounding o’er me when I woke
To be a pilgrim on the nether earth.

RETURNING DREAMS.

BY R. M. MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON).

As in that world of Dream whose mystic shades
Are cast by still more mystic substances,
We ofttimes have an unreflecting sense,
A silent consciousness of some things past,
So clear that we can wholly comprehend
Others of which they are a part, and even
Continue them in action, though no stress
Of after memory can recognize
That we have had experience of those things
Or sleeping or awake:
Thus in the dream,
Our universal Dream, of Mortal Life,
The incidents of an anterior dream,
Or it may be, Existence, noiselessly intrude
Into the daily flow of earthly things,
Instincts of good—immediate sympathies,
Places come at by chance, that claim at once
An old acquaintance—single random looks
That bare a stranger’s bosom to our eyes;
We _know_ these things are so, we ask not why,
But act and follow as the Dream goes on.

FROM “DE PROFUNDIS.”
BIRTH.

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
Where all that was to be, in all that was,
Whirled for a million æons thro’ the vast
Waste dawn of multitudinous eddying light—
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
Thro’ all this changing world of changeless law,
And every phase of ever heightening life,
And nine long months of ante-natal gloom,
Thou comest.

Tennyson also writes in “The Two Voices”:—

For how should I for certain hold
Because my memory is so cold,
That I _first_ was in human mould?

It may be that no life is found
Which only to one engine bound
Falls off, but cycles always round.

But, if I lapsed from nobler place,
Some legend of a fallen race
Alone might hint of my disgrace.

Or, if through lower lives I came came—
Tho’ all experience past became
Consolidate in mind and frame—

I might forget my weaker lot;
For is not our first year forgot?
The haunts of memory echo not.

Some draughts of Lethe doth await,
As old mythologies relate,
The slipping through from state to state.

Moreover, something is or seems,
That touches me with mystic gleams,
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams—

Of something felt, like something here;
Of something done, I know not where;
Such as no language may declare.

More interesting still, from Tennyson, is an early sonnet which has been omitted from the later editions of his collected poetry:—

As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood
And ebb into a former life, or seem
To lapse far back in a confused dream
To states of mystical similitude,
If one but speaks or hems or stirs a chair
Ever the wonder waxeth more and more,
So that we say, all this hath been before,
All this _hath_ been, I know not when or where;
So, friend, when first I looked upon your face
Our thoughts gave answer each to each, so true,
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each—
Although I knew not in what time or place,
Methought that I had often met with you,
And each had lived in other’s mind and speech.

SUDDEN LIGHT.

BY D. G. ROSSETTI.

‘I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell;
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

Then, now, perchance again!
O round mine eyes your tresses shake!
Shall we not lie as we have lain
Thus for Love’s sake,
And sleep, and wake, yet never break the chain?’

FROM “CATO’S SOLILOQUY ON THE SOUL.”

BY JOSEPH ADDISON.

Eternity—thou pleasing, dreadful thought,
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and dangers must we pass?
The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

FROM “THE MYSTIC.”

BY PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

Who dreams not life more yearful than the hours
Since first into this world he wept his way
Erreth much, may be. Called of God, man’s soul
In patriarchal periods, comet-like,
Ranges, perchance, all spheres successive, and in each
With nobler powers endowed and senses new
Set season bideth.

FROM “A RECORD.”

BY WILLIAM SHARP.

None sees the slow and upward sweep
By which the soul from life-depths deep
Ascends,—unless, mayhap, when free,
With each new death we backward see
The long perspective of our race
Our multitudinous past lives trace.

The following occurs in Tupper’s “Proverbial Philosophy”:—

OF MEMORY.

Be ye my judges, imaginative minds, full-fledged to soar into the sun, Whose grosser natural thoughts the chemistry of wisdom hath sublimed, Have ye not confessed to a feeling, a consciousness strange and vague, That ye have gone this way before, and walk again your daily life, Tracking an old routine, and on some foreign strand, Where bodily ye have never stood, finding your own footsteps? Hath not at times some recent friend looked out an old familiar, Some newest circumstance or place teemed as with ancient memories? A startling sudden flash lighteth up all for an instant, And then it is quenched, as in darkness, and leaveth the cold spirit trembling.

Throughout Browning the truth of reincarnation finds frequent utterance, though not always so distinctly as in these three extracts.

FROM “PARACELSUS.”

At times I almost dream
I too have spent a life the sages’ way,
And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance
I perished in an arrogant self-reliance
An age ago; and in that act, a prayer
For one more chance went up so earnest, so
Instinct with better light let in by Death,
That life was blotted out—not so completely
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain,
Dim memories; as now, when seems once more
The goal in sight again.

FROM “ONE WORD MORE.”

I shall never, in the years remaining,
Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues.
This of verse alone one life allows me;
Other heights in other lives, God willing.

FROM “CHRISTINA.”

There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fireflames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honors perish, whereby swollen ambitions dwindle; While just this or that poor impulse which for once had play unstifled, Seems the sole work of a lifetime that away the rest have trifled.

Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly, Ages past the soul existed, here an age ’tis resting merely, And hence fleets again for ages; while the true end, sole and single, It stops here for is, this lone way, with some other soul to mingle.

In Dr. Leyden’s beautiful “Ode to Scottish Music” is this stanza:—

Ah, sure, as Hindoo legends tell,
When music’s tones the bosom swell
The scenes of former life return,
Ere sunk beneath the morning star,
We left our parent climes afar,
Immured in mortal forms to mourn.

Coleridge confesses his fondness for the same idea in the sonnet which he composed “On a homeward journey upon hearing of the birth of a son”:—

Oft in my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash does last)
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
Mixed with such feelings as perplex the soul
Self-questioned in her sleep: and some have said
We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.
O my sweet baby! when I reach my door
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead
(As sometimes through excess of hope I fear),
I think that I should struggle to believe
Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve;
Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven’s quick reprieve,
While we wept idly o’er thy little bier.

The following poem has a peculiar history. Though one of the most beautiful of the entire group, it is the work of a seventeen-year-old girl. In 1846 this child, Emma Tatham, attracted the attention of a London clergyman as a poetic genius, and she read to him, at his frequent visits, her phenomenal compositions, with playful frankness devoid of all affectation or consciousness of brilliancy. She was very delicate, but of ruddy countenance, and her bright winning simplicity carried no suggestion of a sickly prodigy. But she was an intimate friend of the best poets through their books, and her critical judgment of their works was surprisingly mature and keen. From the age of sixteen to that of seventeen and a half, she rapidly wrote an abundance of exquisite poems. Her extreme modesty would not permit their publication until 1854—seven years later. Issued in the quietest way by a provincial publisher, they met with a singular unanimity of applause, though the extreme youth of their author was unknown. Her rich religious experience directed most of them into the vein of lofty piety, but the general press, and even “The Athenæum,” that severest censor of new writers, spoke commendingly of them. The first edition sold in a few weeks. An exceptionally brilliant career was predicted for the young poet, but in less than a year from the announcement of her book, she died.

“The Dream of Pythagoras,” the initial poem of the volume, from which the collection is named, is given here entire (from the fifth edition, 1872), as it is familiar to few Americans.

THE DREAM OF PYTHAGORAS.

BY EMMA TATHAM.

“The soul was not then imprisoned in a gross mortal body, as it is
now: it was united to a luminous, heavenly, ethereal body, which
served it as a vehicle to fly through the air, rise to the stars, and
wander over all the regions of immensity.”

PYTHAGORAS, in _Travels of Cyrus_.

Pythagoras, amidst Crotona’s groves,
One summer eve, sat; whilst the sacred few
And favour’d at his feet reclin’d, entranc’d,
List’ning to his great teachings. O’er their heads
A lofty oak spread out his hundred hands
Umbrageous, and a thousand slant sunbeams
Play’d o’er them; but beneath all was obscure
And solemn, save that, as the sun went down,
One pale and tremulous sunbeam, stealing in
Through the unconscious leaves her silent way,
Fell on the forehead of Pythagoras
Like spiritual radiance; all else wrapt
In gloom delicious; while the murmuring wind,
Oft moving through the forest as in dreams,
Made melancholy music. Then the sage
Thus spoke: “My children, listen; let the soul
Hear her mysterious origin, and trace
Her backward path to heaven. ’Twas but a dream;
And yet from shadows may we learn the shape
And substance of undying truth. Methought
In vision I beheld the first beginning
And after-changes of my soul. O joy!
She is of no mean origin, but sprang
From loftier source than stars or sunbeams know.
Yea, like a small and feeble rill that bursts
From everlasting mountain’s coronet,
And, winding through a thousand labyrinths
Of darkness, deserts, and drear solitudes,
Yet never dies, but, gaining depth and power,
Leaps forth at last with uncontrollable might
Into immortal sunshine and the breast
Of boundless ocean,—so is this my soul.
I felt myself spring like a sunbeam out
From the Eternal, and my first abode
Was a pure particle of light, wherein,
Shrined like a beam in crystal, I did ride
Gloriously through the firmament on wings
Of floating flowers, ethereal gems, and wreaths
Of vernal rainbows. I did paint a rose
With blush of day-dawn, and a lily-bell
With mine own essence; every morn I dipt
My robe in the full sun, then all day long
Shook out its dew on earth, and was content
To be unmark’d, unworshipp’d, and unknown,
And only lov’d of heaven. Thus did my soul
Live spotless like her Source. ’Twas mine to illume
The palaces of nature, and explore
Her hidden cabinets, and, raptur’d, read
Her joyous secrets. O return, thou life
Of purity! I flew from mountain-top
To mountain, building rainbow-bridges up—
From hill to hill, and over boundless seas:
Ecstasy was such life, and on the verge
Of ripe perfection. But, alas! I saw
And envied the bold lightning, who could blind
And startle nations, and I long’d to be
A conqueror and destroyer, like to him.
Methought it was a glorious joy, indeed,
To shut and open heaven as he did,
And have the thunders for my retinue,
And tear the clouds, and blacken palaces,
And in a moment whiten sky, and sea,
And earth: therefore I murmur’d at my lot,
Beautiful as it was, and that one murmur
Despoil’d me of my glory. I became
A dark and tyrant cloud driven by the storm,
Too earthly to be bright, too hard of heart
To drop in mercy on the thirsty land;
And so no creature lov’d me. I was felt
A blot where’er I came. Fair Summer scorn’d
And spurn’d me from her blueness, for, she said,
I would not wear her golden fringe, and so
She could not rank me in her sparkling train.
Soft spring refused me, for she could not paint
Her rainbows on a nature cold as mine,
Incapable of tears. Autumn despised
One who could do no good. Dark Winter frown’d,
And number’d me among his ruffian host
Of racers. Then unceasingly I fled
Despairing through the murky firmament,
Like a lone wreck athwart a midnight sea,
Chased by the howling spirits of the storm,
And without rest. At last, one day I saw
In my continual flight, a desert blank
And broad beneath me, where no water was;
And there I mark’d a weary antelope,
Dying for thirst, all stretched out on the sand,
With her poor trembling lips in agony
Press’d to a scorch’d-up spring; then, then, at last
My hard heart broke, and I could weep. At once
My terrible race was stopp’d, and I did melt
Into the desert’s heart, and with my tears
I quench’d the thirst of the poor antelope.
So having pour’d myself into the dry
And desolate waste, I sprang up a wild flower
In solitary beauty. There I grew
Alone and feverish, for the hot sun burn’d
And parch’d my tender leaves, and not a sigh
Came from the winds. I seem’d to breathe an air
Of fire, and had resign’d myself to death,
When lo! a solitary dewdrop fell
Into my burning bosom; then, for joy,
My spirit rush’d into my lovely guest,
And I became a dewdrop. Then, once more,
My life was joyous, for the kingly sun
Carried me up into the firmament,
And hung me in a rainbow, and my soul
Was robed in seven bright colors, and became
A jewel in the sky. So did I learn
The first great lessons; mark ye them, my sons.
Obedience is nobility; and meek
Humility is glory; self alone
Is base; and pride is pain; patience is power;
Beneficence is bliss. And now first brought
To know myself and feel my littleness,
I was to learn what greatness is prepar’d
For virtuous souls, what mighty war they wage,
What vast impossibilities o’ercome,
What kingdoms, and infinitude of love,
And harmony, and never-ending joy,
And converse, and communion with the great
And glorious Mind unknown,—are given to high
And godlike souls.

“Therefore the winds arose,
And shook me from the rainbow where I hung,
Into the depths of ocean; then I dived
Down to the coral citadels, and roved
Through crystal mazes, among pearls and gems,
And lovely buried creatures, who had sunk
To find the jewel of eternal life.
Sweet babes I saw clasp’d in their mothers’ arms;
Kings of the north, each with his oozy crown;
Pale maidens, with their golden streaming hair
Floating in solemn beauty, calm and still,
In the deep, silent, tideless wave; I saw
Young beauteous boys wash’d down from reeling masts
By sudden storm; and brothers sleeping soft,
Lock’d in each other’s arms; and countless wealth,
And curling weed, and treasur’d knots of hair,
And mouldering masts, and giant hulls that sank
With thunder sobbing; and blue palaces
Where moonbeams, hand in hand, did dance with me
To the soft music of the surging shells,
Where all else was at rest. Calm, calm, and hush’d,
And stormless, were those hidden deeps, and clear
And pure as crystal. There I wander’d long
In speechless dreamings, and wellnigh forgot
My corporal nature, for it seem’d
Melting into the silent infinite
Around me, and I peacefully began
To feel the mighty universe commune
And converse with me; and my soul became
One note in nature’s harmony. So sweet
And soothing was that dream-like ecstasy,
I could have slept into a wave, and roll’d
Away through the blue mysteries forever,
Dreaming my soul to nothing; I could well
Have drown’d my spark of immortality
In drunkenness of peace; I knew not yet
The warrior life of virtue, and the high
And honourable strife and storm that cleanse
And exercise her pinions. I was now
To learn the rapture of the struggle made
For immortality and truth; therefore
The ocean toss’d me to his mountain chains,
Bidding me front the tempest; fires of heaven
Were dancing o’er his cataracts, and scared
His sounding billows; glorious thunders roll’d
Beneath, above, around; the strong winds fought,
Lifting up pyramids of tortur’d waves,
Then dashing them to foam. I saw great ships
As feathers on the opening sepulchres
And starting monuments,
And the gaunt waves leap’d up like fountains fierce,
And snatch’d down frighten’d clouds, then shouting—fell,
And rose again. I, whirling on their tops,
Dizzy flew over masts of staggering ships,
Then plunged into black night. My soul grew mad
Ravish’d with the intense magnificence
Of the harmonious chaos, for I heard
Music amidst the thunders, and I saw
Measure in all the madness of the waves
And whirlpools; yea, I lifted up my voice
In praise of the Eternal, for I felt
Rock’d in His hand, as in a cradling couch;
Rejoicing in His strength; yea, I found rest
In the unbounded roar, and fearless sang
Glad echo to the thunder, and flash’d back
The bright look of the lightning, and did fly
On the dark pinions of the hurricane spirit
In rapturous repose; till suddenly
My soul expanded, and I sprang aloft
Into the lightning flame, leaping for joy
From cloud to cloud. Then, first I felt my wings
Wave into immortality, and flew
Across the ocean with a shouting host
Of thunders at my heels, and lit up heaven,
And earth and sea, with one quick lamp, and crown’d
The mountains with a momentary gold,
Then cover’d them with blackness. Then I glanced
Upon the mighty city in her sleep,
Pierced all her mysteries with one swift look,
Then bade my thunders shout. The city trembled;
And charm’d with the sublime outcry, I paus’d
And listen’d. Yet had I to rise and learn
A loftier lesson. I was lifted high
Into the heavens, and there became a star,
And on my new-form’d orb two angels sat.
The one thus spoke: ‘O spirit, young and pure!
Say, wilt thou be my shrine? I am of old,
The first of all things, and of all the greatest;
I am the Sovereign Majesty, to whom
The universe is given, though for a while
I war with rebels strong; my name is Truth.
I am the Spirit of wisdom, love, and power,
And come to claim thee; and if thou obey
My guiding, I will give thee thy desire,
Even eternal life.’ He ceas’d, and then
The second angel spoke. ‘Ask not, O soul!
My name; I bid thee free thyself, and know
Thou hast the fount of life in thy own breast,
And need’st no guiding: be a child no longer;
Throw off thy fetters, and with me enjoy
Thy native independence, and assert
Thy innate majesty; Truth binds not me,
And yet I am immortal; be thou, too,
A god unto thyself.’
“But I had learn’d
My own deep insufficiency, and gazed
Indignant on th’ unholy angel’s face,
And pierced its false refulgence, knowing well
Obedience only is true liberty
For spirits form’d to obey; so best they reign.
Straight the base rebel fled, and, ruled by Truth,
I roll’d unerring on my shining road
Around a glorious centre; free, though bound,
Because love bound me, and my law became
My life and nature; and my lustrous orb
Pure spirits visited: I wore a light
That shone across infinitude, and serv’d
To guide returning wanderers. I sang
With all my starry sisters, and we danced
Around the throne of Time, and wash’d the base
Of high Eternity like golden sands.
There first my soul drank music, and was taught
That melody is part of heaven, and lives
In every heaven-born spirit like her breath;
There did I learn, that music without end
Breathes, murmurs, swells, echoes, and floats, and peals,
And thunders through creation, and in truth
Is the celestial language, and the voice
Of love; and now my soul began to speak
The speech of immortality. But yet
I was to learn a lesson more severe—
To shine alone in darkness, and the deeps
Of sordid earth. So did I fall from heaven
Far into night, beneath the mountains’ roots,
There, as a diamond burning amidst things
Too base for utterance. Then, alas! I felt
The stirrings of impatience, pining sore
For freedom, and communion with the fires
And majesties of heaven, with whom erewhile
I walk’d, their equal. I had not yet learn’d
That our appointed place is loftiest,
However lowly. I was made to feel
The dignity of suffering. O, my sons!
Sorrow and joy are but the spirit’s life;
Without these she is scarcely animate;
Anguish and bliss ennoble: either proves
The greatness of its subject, and expands
Her nature into power; her every pulse
Beats into new-born force, urging her on
To conquering energy.—Then was I cast
Into hot fires and flaming furnaces,
Deep in the hollow globe; there did I burn
Deathless in agony, without murmur,
Longing to die, until my patient soul
Fainted into perfection: at that hour,
Being victorious, I was snatch’d away
To yet another lesson. I became
A date-tree in the desert, to pour out
My life in dumb benevolence, and full
Obedience to each wind of heaven that blew.
The traveller came—I gave him all my shade,
Asking for no reward; the lost bird flew
For shelter to my branches, and I hid
Her nest among my leaves; the sunbeams ask’d
To rest their hot and weary feet awhile
On me, and I spread out my every arm
T’ embrace them, fanning them with all my plumes.
Beneath my shade the dying pilgrim fell
Praying for water; I cool dewdrops caught
And shook them on his lip; I gave my fruit
To strengthen the faint stranger, and I sang
Soft echoes to the winds, living in nought
For self; but in all things for others’ good.
The storm arose, and patiently I bore
And yielded to his tyranny; I bow’d
My tenderest foliage to his angry blast,
And suffer’d him to tear it without sigh,
And scatter on the waste my all of wealth.
The billowing sands o’erwhelm’d me, yet I stood
Silent beneath them; so they roll’d away,
And rending up my roots, left me a wreck
Upon the wilderness.
“’Twas thus, my sons,
I dream’d my spirit wander’d, till at length,
As desolate I mourn’d my helpless woe,
My guardian angel took me to his heart,
And thus he said: ‘Spirit, well tried and true!
Conqueror I have made thee, and prepar’d
For human life; behold! I wave the palm
Of immortality before thine eyes:
’Tis thine; it shall be thine, if thou aright
Acquit thee of the part which yet remains,
And teach what thou hast learn’d.’
“This said, he smil’d,
And gently laid me in my mother’s arms.
Thus far the vision brought me—then it fled,
And all was silence. Ah! ’twas but a dream;
This soul in vain struggles for purity;
This self-tormenting essence may exist
For ever; but what joy can being give
Without perfection! vainly do I seek
That bliss for which I languish. Surely yet
The Day-spring of our nature is to come;
Mournful we wait that dawning; until then
We grovel in the dust—in midnight grope,
For ever seeking, never satisfied.”

Thus spake the solemn seer, then pausing, sigh’d,
For all was darkness.

Dr. Donne, in a long poem called “The Progress of the Soul,” traces the Pythagorean course of an immortal being through an apple (by which Eve was tempted), a plant, a sparrow, a fish, a mouse (which climbed an elephant’s proboscis to the brain,

“the soul’s bedchamber,
And gnawed the life-cords there like a whole town
Till, undermined, the slain beast tumbled down;
With him the murderer dies, whom envy sent to kill.”

Then the soul enters a wolf, an ape, and at last a woman—Themech, the sister and wife of Cain.

Mortimer Collins’s poem, “The Inn of Strange Meetings,” is an interesting expression of reincarnation, but it is too long to reprint here. Similar glimpses of this thought occur in Byron, Pope, Southey, Swinburne, and others, but it is difficult to select from them a distinct and continuous wording of it.

* * * * *

Though not necessarily meaning reincarnation, the following poem upon the great Rugby educator, by his son, so aptly fits the idea that it may well conclude this section:—

DR. ARNOLD.

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

O strong soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left in vain;
Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labor-house vast
Of being, is practised that strength,
Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the word
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live,
Prompt, unwearied, as here!
Still thou upraisest with zeal
The humble good from the ground.