酷兔英语

章节正文
文章总共2页
for his private reading, -

Call him not old, whose visionary brain



Holds o'er the past its undivided reign.

For him in vain the envious seasons roll



Who bears eternal summer in his soul.

If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay,



Spring with her birds, or children with their play,

Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art



Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart, -

Turn to the record where his years are told, -



Count his gray hairs, - they cannot make him old!

END OF THE PROFESSOR'S PAPER.



[The above essay was not read at one time, but in several

instalments, and accompanied by various comments from different



persons at the table. The company were in the main attentive, with

the exception of a little somnolence on the part of the old



gentleman opposite at times, and a few sly, malicious questions

about the "old boys" on the part of that forward young fellow who



has figured occasionally, not always to his advantage, in these

reports.



On Sunday mornings, in obedience to a feeling I am not ashamed of,

I have always tried to give a more appropriatecharacter to our



conversation. I have never read them my sermon yet, and I don't

know that I shall, as some of them might take my convictions as a



personal indignity to themselves. But having read our company so

much of the Professor's talk about age and other subjects connected



with physical life, I took the next Sunday morning to repeat to

them the following poem of his, which I have had by me some time.



He calls it - I suppose, for his professional friends - THE

ANATOMIST'S HYMN, but I shall name it - ]



THE LIVING TEMPLE.

Not in the world of light alone,



Where God has built his blazing throne,

Nor yet alone in earth below,



With belted seas that come and go,

And endless isles of sunlit green,



Is all thy Maker's glory seen:

Look in upon thy wondrous frame, -



Eternal wisdom still the same!

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves



Flows murmuring through its hidden caves

Whose streams of brightening purple rush



Fired with a new and livelier blush,

While all their burden of decay



The ebbing current steals away,

And red with Nature's flame they start



From the warm fountains of the heart.

No rest that throbbing slave may ask,



Forever quivering o'er his task,

While far and wide a crimson jet



Leaps forth to fill the woven net

Which in unnumbered crossing tides



The flood of burning life divides,

Then kindling each decaying part



Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.

But warmed with that uchanging flame



Behold the outward moving frame,

Its living marbles jointed strong



With glistening band and silvery thong,

And linked to reason's guiding reins



By myriad rings in trembling chains,

Each graven with the threaded zone



Which claims it as the master's own.

See how yon beam of seeming white



Is braided out of seven-hued light,

Yet in those lucid globes no ray



By any chance shall break astray.

Hark how the rolling surge of sound,



Arches and spirals circling round,

Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear



With music it is heaven to hear.




文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文