Grim skeletons and dead men's bones.
Up! Fly! Far out into the land!
And this mysterious volume, see!
By Nostradamus's[5] own hand,
Is it not guide enough for thee?
Then shalt thou thread the starry skies,
And, taught by nature in her walks,
The spirit's might shall o'er thee rise,
As ghost to ghost familiar talks.
Vain hope that mere dry sense should here
Explain the holy signs to thee.
I feel you, spirits, hovering near;
Oh, if you hear me, answer me!
[_He opens the book and beholds the sign of the Macrocosm.[_6]]
Ha! as I gaze, what ecstasy is this,
In one full tide through all my senses flowing!
I feel a new-born life, a holy bliss
Through nerves and veins mysteriously glowing.
Was it a God who wrote each sign?
Which, all my inner tumult stilling,
And this poor heart with rapture filling,
Reveals to me, by force divine,
Great Nature's energies around and through me thrilling?
Am I a God? It grows so bright to me!
Each character on which my eye reposes
Nature in act before my soul discloses.
The sage's word was truth, at last I see:
"The spirit-world, unbarred, is waiting;
Thy sense is locked, thy heart is dead!
Up, scholar, bathe, unhesitating,