And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which nought can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus?—'tis mystery all!
Darkly we move—we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think,
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made—
Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd!
Humbly for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay’d—for do they not reveal
Th' immortal being with our dust entwin’d?—
So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake.
