r Sternenkrone, Die Wahrheit in der Sonne Glanz. Schiller
What wert thou then?
A child most infantine, Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age, In all but its sweet looks and mien divine; Even then, methought, with the world's tyrant rage A patient warfare thy young heart did wage, When those soft eyes of scarcely conscious thought Some tale, or thine own fancies, would engage To overflow with tears, or converse fraught With passion o'er their depths its fleeting light had wrought. Shelley.
And I smiled, as one never smiles but once; Then first discovering my own aim's extent, Which sought to comprehend the works of God, And God himself, and all God's intercourse With the human mind. Browning
Tieck, who has embodied so many Runic secrets, explained to me what I have often felt toward myself, when he tells of the poor changeling, who, turned from the door of her adopted home, sat down on a stone and so pitied herself that she wept.
Yet me also, the wonderful bird, si
James Freeman Clarke.
Extraordinary, generous seeking. Goethe
Through, brothers, through,—this be Our watchword in danger or sorrow, Common clay to its mother dust, All nobleness heavenward! Theodore Koerner.
Thou friend whose presence on my youthful heart Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain; How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, And walk as free as light the clouds among! Shelley
There are not a few instances of that conflict, known also to the fathers, of the spirit with the flesh, the inner with the outer man, of the freedom of the will with the necessity of nature, the pleasure of the individual with the conventions of society, of the emergency of the case with the despotism of the rule.
It is this, which, while it makes the interest of life, makes the difficulty of living.
It is a struggle, indeed, between unequal powers,—between the man, who is a consc
lleled fairness of mind, should be in a great measure lost to the world, for want of earnestness of purpose, might impel us to attach to the latter attribute as much importance as does the wise uncle in Wilhelm Meister.
As to what you say of Shelley, it is true that the unhappy influences of early education prevented his ever attaining clear views of God, life, and the soul.
At thirty, he was still a seeker,—an experimentalist.
But then his should not be compared with such a mind as ——'s, which, having no such exuberant fancy to tame, nor various faculties to develop, naturally comes to maturity sooner.
Had Shelley lived twenty years longer, I have no doubt he would have become a fervent Christian, and thus have attained that mental harmony which was necessary to him. It is true, too, as you say, that we always feel a melancholy imperfection in what he writes.
But I love to think of those other spheres in which so pure and rich a being shall be perfected; and I cannot allow <