Spirt

Though say'st true, This is indeed the realm of Death,—at least It has no more of life than what though hast Brought here with thee,—I speak of mortal life: We now are near the Hades of past worlds, Whose spirits have a life which cannot die. You laugh! and show the haughty arrogance Which in your mortal brethren you cotemn. Think you that he who gave to man his mind, The undying spark that quickens his clay frame, Would fashion from the same material Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go Hymning around his everlasting throne! Giving to them a beauty which alone Could be conceived by him, which has great hand Alone could mould into reality, And yet deny them what he gave to thee, Intelligence! a thing that knows not death? Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves, Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides, Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub, With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours, A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf, And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns, To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came, With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits, Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow, And shake her yellow locks from every hill? Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace And plenty warbled from each vocal grove, And murmured by her myriads of streams? Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds, Which moan the requiem of the dying year, Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts As full of wisdom, and as free from blame? If not, then why deny to her the life And spirit you possess?