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Whose self no end, nor yet beginning knows:
That hath no eyes to see nor ears to hear,
Yet sees and hears, and is all eye, all ear,
That nowhere is contained, and yet is everywhere.



With respect to the poem of Bernard, Mr. Trench says very well, after referring to the ode of Casimir's, Urit me Patriæ decor, that both "turn upon the same theme, the heavenly homesickness: but with all the classical beauty of the Ode, and it is great, who does not feel that the poor Cluniac monk's is the more real and deeper utterance? that, despite the strange form which he has chosen, he is the greater poet?"—The Ode, however, is well worthy of translation, and here is an attempt:

It kindles all my soul,
My Country's loveliness! Those starry choirs
That watch around the pole,
And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires
Through golden halls that roll.
O chorus of the night! O planets, sworn
The music of the spheres
To follow! Lovely watchers, that think scorn
To rest, till day appears!
Me, for celestial homes of glory born,
Why here, oh why so long
Do ye behold an exile from on high?
Here, O ye shining throng,
With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie:
Here let me drop my chain,
And dust to dust returning, cast away
The trammels that remain:
The rest of me shall spring to endless day!