When Goethe's death was told, we said Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. Physician of the Iron Age Goethe has done his pilgrimage. He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear And said Thou ailest here, and here. He look'd on Europe's dying hour Of fitful dream and feverish power; His eye plung'd down the weltering strife, He said The end is everywhere: Art still has truth, take refuge there. - And Wordsworth! Ah, pale Ghosts, rejoice! For never has such soothing voice Been to your shadowy world convey'd, Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade Had fallen on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. On the cool flowery lap of earth; Ah, since dark days still bring to light Man's prudence and man's fiery might, Time may restore us in his course Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force: But where will Europe's latter hour Again find Wordsworth's healing power? Others will teach us how to dare, And against fear our breast to steel: But who, ah who, will make us feel? But who, like him, will put it by? Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, O Rotha! with thy living wave. REVOLUTIONS. BEFORE Man parted for this earthly strand, While yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, God put a heap of letters in his hand, And bade him make with them what word he could. And Man has turn'd them many times: made Greece, Rome, England, France: — - yes, nor in vain essay'd Way after way, changes that never cease. The letters have combin'd: something was made. But ah, an inextinguishable sense Haunts him that he has not made what he should. And Empire after Empire, at their height |