Still rapturous in his struggle with life's blast—

Shall give a pitying side glance to me,

Who skirt the fog-fringe of eternity,

Straining mine eyes to catch what shadowy sign

Of good or evil omen there may be,

Yet no sure good nor evil can divine:

Only some hints of doubtful sound and light,

That lonelier leave the uncompanioned night.

VII.

She scanned the record of Beethoven's thought,

And made the dumb chords speak both clear and low,

And spread the dead man's voice till I was caught

Away, and now seemed long and long ago.

Methought in Tellus' bosom still I lay,

While centuries like steeds tramped overhead,

To the wild rhythms that, by night and day,

From nature and man's passions still are made.

The music of their motion as they pranced

Lulled me to flawless ease as of a God;

Never upon me pain or pleasure chanced;

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