36 HENUY KIRKE WHITE^d POEMS, 



Up the vague stream of probability : 



To wind the mighty secrets of the past, 



And turn the key of time ! — Oh who can strive 



To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, 



Of the etemitif that hath gone hy. 



And not recoil from the dismaying sense 



Of human impotence ? The life of man 



Is summ'd in birth-days and in sepulchres ; 



But the Eternal God had no beginning ; 



He hath no end. Time had been with him 



For everlasting^ ere the dsedal world 



Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 



It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 



What is it then ? The past Eternity ! 



We comprehend Si future without end ; 



We feel it possible that even yon sun 



May roll for ever ; but we shrink amazed — 



W^e stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 



Knew no commencement. — That, heap age on age, 



And million upon million, without end. 



And we shall never span the void of days 



That were, and are not but in retrospect. 



The Past is an unfathomable depth, 



Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse 



Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 



For ever and for ever. 



Change of days 

 To us is sensible ; and each revolve 

 Of the recording sun conducts us on 

 Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 

 Not so with Time, — mysterious chronicler, 

 He knoweth not mutation ; — centuries 

 Are to his being as a day, and days 

 As centuries. — Time past, and Time to come, 

 Are always equal ; when the world began 

 God had existed from eternity. 



Now look on man 

 Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed ! 



