XXXIII. I GRIEVE not that ripe Knowledge takes away To win the secret of a weed's plain heart And stumbling guess becomes firm-footed art: XXXIV. YE who behold the body of my thought, The painter's colors and the sculptor's stone: Each day therefrom the soul may drink its fill, 'And straight a clearer truth to being springs, The self-renewing fount o'errunneth still; For the unconscious poet can but write What is foretold him by the Infinite. XXXV. O, HAPPY childhood! dear, unthoughtful years My strength and weakness, and my right to be Driven back to darkness from the world's proud door! XXXVI. ON MY TWENTY-FOURTH BIRTH-DAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1843. Now have I quite passed by that cloudy If And Longing into Certainty doth tower: The love of beauty knoweth no despair; XXXVII. TO J. R. GIDDINGS. GIDDINGS, far rougher names than thine have grown Smoother than honey on the lips of men; And thou shalt aye be honorably known, As one who bravely used his tongue and pen, To whom our Law's unblushing front denies A right to plead against the life-long woes Alone may do securely; every hour The thrones of Ignorance and ancient Night Lose somewhat of their long-usurped power, And Freedom's lightest word can make them shiver With a base dread that clings to them forever. |