No rest for him, no peace is to be found;

He may have tamed wild beasts and made the ground

Yield corn and wine and every kind of food;

He may have turned the ocean to his steed,

Tutored the lightning's elemental speed

To flash his thought from Ætna to Atlantic;

He may have weighed the stars and spanned the stream,

And trained the fiery force of panting steam

To whirl him o'er vast steppes, and heights gigantic:

But the storm-lashed world of feeling—

Love, the fount of tears unsealing,

Choruses of passion pealing—

[48]

Lust, ambition, hatred, awe,

Clashing loudly with the law,

But the phantasms of the mind

Who shall master, yea, who bind!

What help is there without, what hope within

Of rescue from the immemorial strife?

What will redeem him from the spasm of life,

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