Amiel

Why, O Maker of all, madest thou man with affections Tender above thyself, scrupulous and passionate? Nay, if compassionate thou art, why, thou lover of men, Hidest thou thy face so pitilessly from us? If thou in priesthoods and altar-glory delitest, In torment and tears of trouble and suffering, Then wert thou displeas'd looking on soft human emotion, Thou must scorn the devout love of a sire to a son. 'Twas but vainly of old, Man, making Faith to approach thee, Held an imagin'd scheme of providence in honour; And, to redeem thy praise, judg'd himself cause, took upon him Humbly the impossible burden of all misery. Now casteth he away his books and logical idols Leaveth again his cell of terrified penitence; And that stony goddess, his first-born fancy, dethroning, Hath made after his own homelier art another; Made sweet Hope, the modest unportion'd daughter of anguish, Whose brimming eye sees but dimly what it looketh on; Dreaming a day when fully, without curse or horrible cross, Thou wilt deign to reveal her vision of happiness.

10

Ah, what a change! Thou, who didst emptily thy happiness seek In pleasure, art finding thy pleasure in happiness. Slave to the soul, whom thou heldest in slavery, art thou? Thou, that wert but a vain idol, adored a goddess?

11