LETTERS. 271 



Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillinglj 



Must turn away ; — there are severer strains 



(And surely they are sweet as ever smote 



The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil 



Releas'd and disembodied), there are strains 



Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, 



Thro' the probation of revolving years, 



And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, 



Have purged and purified. — To these my soul 



Aspireth ; and to this sublimer end 



I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep 



With patient expectation. — Yea, sometimes 



Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; and sometimes 



Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, 



And minister strange music, which doth seem 



Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, 



Then swelling from all sides, with bHss complete. 



And full fruition filling all the soul. 



Surely such ministry, tho' rare, may soothe 



The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 



Of toil ; and but that my fond heart 



Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone. 



When by clear fountain, or embowered brake, 



I lay a listless muser, prizing far 



Above all other lore, the poet's theme ; 



But for such recollections I could brace 



My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 



Of science unregretting ; eye afar 



Philosophy upon her steepest height, 



And Avith bold step, and resolute attempt, 



Pursue her to the innermost recess, 



Where thron'd in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 



These verses form nearly the only poetical efirbrt of 

 this year. Pardon their imperfections. 



