THE SERMON OF SPRING.
19
Stamp them, as melted wax, with high feeling and purpose.Who hath anointed the man who shall stand looking Godward,That he should pipe to the tune of their wanton wishes?Oh! what a heathen Church shall we have if men's passions,Traffic and greed, are to measure the text for the preacher.
V.
Finite is human help—many words are a hindrance.Words for the muses should bear the slow pressure of patience;Scarcely one leaves them content, after utmost endeavor.Visit me not with your anger, ye powers poetic,If, in my hotness and haste, I have jarred your sweet fetters.But, while your presence I feel, thrilling through and above me,Listen a, moment longer; suspend your high sentence,(Towards which I leap, when the daring is more than the danger,)While with the name that has grown to a presence ideal,
