It is a little ode, written _to be set on a
clock-case_.
ON TIME.
Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race.
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace,
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours--
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross:
So little is our loss!
So little is thy gain!
For whenas each thing bad thou hast entombed,
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss; _that cannot be divided--
And joy shall overtake us as a flood; [eternal._
When everything that is sincerely good,
And perfectly divine
With truth and peace and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of him to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthy grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit
Triumphing over Death and Chance and thee, O Time.
The next I give is likewise an ode--a more _beautiful_ one. Observe in
both the fine effect of the short lines, essential to the nature of the
ode, being that which gives its solemnity the character yet of a song, or
rather, perhaps, of a chant.
In this he calls upon Voice and Verse to rouse and raise our imagination
until we hear the choral song of heaven, and hearing become able to sing
in tuneful response.
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