thine may bear us.

Werner.

Then let us on:
Since we our search for knowledge have begun,
Wherever there is aught that Power has made,
Which Time has ruined, or which Fate has damned,
There let us go, that we may look on it,
And learn its history. What intense glooms
We now are passing through! I feel them part
Before, and close behind us, as we fly,
As plainly as the swimmer feels the waves
That lave his gliding limbs. This sure must be
The home of Death--no voice, no sound, no sigh,
Not ev'n so much of breath as would suffice
To make a lily tremble!

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 man