arms, he knows not where;
     Each several heart-beat, counted like the coin
     A miser reckons, is a special gift
     As from an unseen hand; if that withhold
     Its bounty for a moment, I am left
     A clod upon the earth to which I fall.

     Something I find in me that well might claim
     The love of beings in a sphere above
     This doubtful twilight world of right and wrong;
     Something that shows me of the self-same clay
     That creeps or swims or flies in humblest form. 
     Had I been asked, before I left my bed
     Of shapeless dust, what clothing I would wear,
     I would have said, More angel and less worm;
     But for their sake who are even such as I,
     Of the same mingled blood, I would not choose
     To hate that meaner portion of myself
     Which makes me brother to the least of men.

     I dare not be a coward with my lips
     Who dare to question all things in my soul;
     Some men may find their wisdom on their knees,
     Some prone and grovelling in the dust like slaves;
     Let the meek glow-worm glisten in the dew;
     I ask to lift my taper to the sky
     As they who hold their lamps above their heads,
     Trusting the larger currents up aloft,
     Rather than crossing eddies round their breast,
     Threatening with every puff the flickering blaze.

     My life shall be a challenge, not a truce! 
     This is my homage to the mightier powers,
     To ask my boldest question, undismayed
     By muttered threats that some hysteric sense
     Of wrong or insult will convulse the throne
     Where wisdom reigns supreme; and if I err,
     They all must err who have to feel their way
     As bats that fly at noon; for what are we
     But creatures of the night, dragged forth by day,
     Who needs must stumble, and with stammering steps
     Spell out their paths in syllables of pain?

     Thou wilt not hold in scorn the child who dares
     Look up to Thee, the Father,—­dares to ask
     More than Thy wisdom answers.  From Thy hand
     The worlds were cast; yet every leaflet claims
     From that same hand its little shining sphere
     Of star-lit dew; thine image, the great sun,
     Girt with his mantle of tempestuous flame,

     Glares in mid-heaven; but to his noontide blaze
     The slender violet lifts its lidless eye,
     And from his splendor steals its fairest hue,
     Its sweetest perfume from his scorching fire.

I may just as well stop here as anywhere, for there is more of the manuscript to come, and I can only give it in instalments.

The Young Astronomer had told me I might read any portions of his manuscript I saw fit to certain friends.  I tried this last extract on the old Master.