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While o'er our frozen minds they pass, Like shadows from the mirror'd glass. Wayward, fickle is our mood, Hovering betwixt bad and good, Happier than brief-dated man, Living twenty times his span; Far less happy, for we have Help nor hope beyond the grave! Man awakes to joy or sorrow; Ours the sleep that knows no morrow. This is all that I can show This is all that thou mayest know."
Truly, when she had taken her place under the palm by the waters of the lake, that was no exaggeration of the poet, where he says: Snows of the mountain-peaks were mirror'd there Beneath her feet, not whiter than they were; Not rosier in the white, that falling flush Broad on the wave, than in her cheek the blush.
The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others' eyes; nor doth the eye itself, That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed, Salutes each other with each other's form, For speculation turns not to itself Till it hath travelled and is mirror'd there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
"Prophet spirit! rise and say, What in Fancy's glass you see A city crown this lonely bay? No dream a bright reality. Ere half a century has roll'd Its waves of light away, The beauteous vision I behold Shall greet the rosy day; And Belleville view with civic pride Her greatness mirror'd in the tide." The town of Belleville, in 1840, contained a population of 1,500 souls, or thereabouts.
Truly, when she had taken her place under the palm by the waters of the lake, that was no exaggeration of the poet, where he says: Snows of the mountain-peaks were mirror'd there Beneath her feet, not whiter than they were; Not rosier in the white, that falling flush Broad on the wave, than in her cheek the blush.
The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshen'd fields, The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam.
Dress'd in robes of gorgeous hue Brown and gold with crimson blent, The forest to the waters blue Its own enchanting tints has lent. In their dark depths, life-like glowing, We see a second forest growing, Each pictur'd leaf and branch bestowing A fairy grace on that twin wood, Mirror'd within the crystal flood.
The selection is large enough: all sentient beings may find subjects of meditation to their taste, for there lies a universal behind every particular of thought, however concrete it may appear, and within the most rational propositions the meditative eye may glimpse a dream. "Reason has moons, but moons not hers! Lie mirror'd on her sea, Confounding her astronomers But, O delighting me."
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