II. THOU, who didst grasp the mighty universe The triumphs of thy proud philosophy? With wonder, love, and awe I follow thee. Infused by thine, my winged thoughts aspire, Fluttering, yet free, my longing spirit mounts, And finds the springs of truth's eternal founts, Touched by a spark of thy ethereal fire: Yet thou wert mortal-and the dull sod cries, (Oh! dark and narrow house!) "Here HAZLITT lies!" III. TWICE HAZLITT came to our domestic hearth: He came and went-a few brief days was seen, And now the pathos of that deep, low tone Comes o'er us like a dirge :-that voice of thine, In gentlest bosoms hath a living shrine: From the world's strife, now thy proud spirit's flown, IV. He spake of early friends whom once he loved, Until his inmost breast his troubled spirit moved- And, for their sakes, the world seemed dull and rude: Whose single aim was Virtue's highest goal, Had made a sanctuary in green solitude While from their burning lips those high truths passed. The oracles he kept which sundered them at last : V. THROUGH good and ill report, honour and blame, To his first creed, nor slight nor censure feared. The Patriot, Philosopher, and Sage, High in the annals of his native land! Oh! say not then that HAZLITT died too soon Since he had fought and conquered-though the strife Cost him his health-his happiness-his life Freely he yielded up the noble boon! He saw the mists of error roll away, And closed his eyes-but on the rising day. VI. SOUL-SICK of the dull world, when thou didst turn. With all the sweet humanities of life, Pure and intense thy generous breast did burn: Midst love and prayers that reached thy inmost breast, Thou heldst thy faith, all fear and doubt above, Yet o'er thy soul's dim path immortal halos shone ! |