en condensed from his
valuable work.

PART I.

THE IDEAL.

Stars are around thy head--under thy feet surges the sea--a rainbow
forever floats upon the waves before thee--painting the mists, or
melting them into light--whatsoever thou lookest upon is thine--the
shores, the cities, the men belong to thee--the heavens are thine--it
seems as if nothing ever equalled thy glory!

* * * * *

To alien ears thou chantest airs of inconceivable rapture--thou weavest
hearts into one with a single touch of thy fairy fingers, and with a
breath again dividest them--thou forcest tears--thou driest them with a
smile--alas! the next moment thou frightenest the wan smile from the
quivering lip for a time--too often, forever!

Tell me, what dost thou thyself feel? Of what dost thou think? What dost
thou create?

The living stream of Beauty flows on through thee, but thou thyself art
not Beauty!

Woe to thee! woe! the child crying on the lap of its nurse, the field
flower unconscious of its gift of perfume, have more merit before the
eyes of the Lord than thou!

* * * * *

What has been thy origin, thou empty shadow, bearing witness to the
Light, yet knowing not the Light, which thou seest not, and wilt not
see!

In anger, or in mockery, wert thou made? Who was thy creator? Who gave
thee thy short and mobile life, and taught thee such seductive magic,
that thou seemst to glitter for a moment like an angel before thou
sinkest into clay, to creep like a worm, and be stifled in thine own
corruption?

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman.

* * * * *

Yet, alas! thou sufferest, although thy agony brings nought to the
birth, and avails thee nothing.

The groans of the lowest beggar are counted in heaven, compensated amid
the music of angels' harps--but thy sighs, thy despair, fall into the
bottomless abyss, and Satan gathers them together, and joyfully adds
them to the pile of his own lies and delusions--and the Lord will deny
and disown them, as they have denied and disowned the Lord!

* * * * *

But not for this do I pity thee, spirit of Poetry, mother of Beauty and
Freedom! No. I mourn for the unhappy souls who are forced to remember or
divine thee upon chaotic worlds destined to destruction--alas! thou
ruinest only those who consecrate themselves to thee, who become the
liv