XII.

Last, I began in unbelief to say: "No angel this! a snowdrop—nothing more! A trifle which God's hands drew forth in play From the tangled pond of chaos, dank and frore, Threw on the bank, and left blindly to breed! A wilful fancy would have gathered store Of evanescence from the pretty weed, White, shapely—then divine! Conclusion lame O'erdriven into the shelter of a creed! Not out of God, but nothingness it came: Colourless, feeble, flying from life's heat, It has no honour, hardly shunning shame!" When, see, another shadow at my feet! Hopeless I lifted now my weary head: Why mock me with another heavenly cheat?— A primrose fair, from its rough-blanketed bed Laughed, lo, my unbelief to heavenly scorn! A sun-child, just awake, no prayer yet said, Half rising from the couch where it was born, And smiling to the world! I breathed again; Out of the midnight once more dawned the morn, And fled the phantom Doubt with all his train.