The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 22, Pages 555-556
THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.
"The Beings of the Mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray,
And more beloved existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied
First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died,
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void."
Childe Harold.
Come to me with your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms to life by glorious poets brought!
I sit alone with flowers and vernal boughs,
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought;
Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone.
Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow'd
With life and love, and many a burning word,
That bursts from grief, like lightning from a cloud,
