TO THE SPIRIT OF UNREST. Thy hands are at my
throat, thy knee Knit firm upon my breast : I am spent ; I have no more strength to see— And thou—what wouldest thou more with me, 0 Spirit of Unrest ?
Time was, thou kuowest, I found in thee A master to my mind— Chafed beneath thy light tyranny No worse than some chid wave at sea That bridles to the wind.
0 days, when it was joy and pride, Waking, to hear thee sing "Up, up l"—or ever at thy side To sigh, or to be weary-eyed, Was an imagined thing !
Nay, thine own waves seemed laggard too, Thy lightnings slow to run, So swift the new-born wonder grew— Till sudden fell the wings-that flew, And Life's desire was done !
Then mad with loss, tho' lore of hope, Thou leddest me forth no less, Too weak to strive—with eyes wide ope Cast amid Life's charred ruins to grope For Childhood's palaces.
I saw thee still in cloud and grass, Short sunshine, shifting snow ; I heard thy voice bid Summer pass, And in my heart thy prayer, "Alas!
Would God that all might go !"
What didst thou lack? Dry land and deep, Stars, winds, and streams were thine ;
Thine, toot was Love—thouedst conquered Sleep- 0 pitiless what need to keep
In poet's heart a shrine ? Yet thus, while at thy feet I lie, My soul one secret knows ;
And better,' my faint lips would cry,
To toss in tempest agony Than stagnate in repose !'
Even I, who am grown so weary of thee, Shall not be all unblest : Who lacks not, lives not. It may be Thou wert the good Spirit to me, 0 Spirit of Unrest !
J. R.
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