appointed end. It is this vital tide on 

 which the universe gleams and floats like 

 a mirage of immutability ; never the same 

 for a single moment to the soul that con- 

 templates it : a new creation each hour and 

 to every eye that rests upon it. No dead 

 mechanism moves the stars, or lifts the 

 tides, or calls the flowers from their sleep ; 

 truly this is the garment of Deity, and here 

 is the awful splendour of the Perpetual 

 Presence. It is the old story of the Greek 

 Proteus translated into universal speech. 

 It is the song of the Persian poet: 



The sullen mountain, and the bee that hums, 



A flying joy, about its flowery base, 

 Each from the same immediate fountain comes, 



And both compose one evanescent race. 



There is no difference in the texture fine 



That 's woven through organic rock and grass, 



And that which thrills man's heart in every line, 

 As o'er its web God's weaving fingers pass. 



The timid flower that decks the fragrant field, 

 The daring star that tints the solemn dome, 



From one propulsive force to being reeled; 

 Both keep one law and have a single home. 



57 





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