is earthly--it is hurried back by storms; but that which was
hallowed by the breath of love, freely streams it forth, through
hidden paths, into that realm beyond the mountain chain, and there,
exhaled as incense, becomes mixed with loves that have slept.
Still, cheerful light, dost thou waken the weary to his toil, still
pourest thou glad life into my breast; but from the mossy monument
that memory has raised, thence canst thou not allure me. Willingly
will I employ my hands in industry and toil; I will look around me
at thy bidding; I will celebrate the full glory of thy splendour;
trace out, untired, the beauteous consistency of thy wondrous work;
willingly will I mark the marvellous course of thy mighty, glowing
timepiece; observe the balance of gigantic powers, and the laws of
the wondrous play of countless spaces and their periods. But true
to the Night remains my heart of hearts, and to creative Love, her
daughter. Canst thou show me a heart for ever faithful? Hath thy
sun fond eyes that know me? Do thy stars clasp my proffered hand?
Do they return the tender pressure, the caressing word? Hast thou
clothed her with fair hues and pleasing outline? Or was it she who
gave thine ornament a higher, dearer meaning? What pleasure, what
enjoyment, can thy life afford, that shall overweigh the ecstasies
of death? Bears not everything that inspires us the colours of the
Night? Thee she cherishes with a mother's care; to her thou owest
all thy majesty. Thou hadst melted in thyself, hadst been dissolved
in endless space, had she not restrained and encircled thee, so that
thou wert warm, and gavest life to the world. Verily I was, before
thou wert: the mother sent me with my sisters to inhabit thy world,
to hallow it with love, so that it might be gazed on as a memorial
for ever, to plant it with unfading flowers. As yet they have borne
no fruit, these godlike thoughts; but few as yet are the traces of
our revelation. The day shall come when thy timepiece pointeth to