Oswald could live in the poet's lofty inspiration, with
full recognition, and not be forced to think of himself
and his own estrangement from every thing divine. It
seemed as if his fancy bore him aloft with the poet, but
he saw in this flight only the course of a balloon which
descends from its lofty heights, bringing to earth no
news of heavenly things. But they have eyes and see
not, ears have they and hear not.
For the sake of the reader, we insert the poem, some
verses of which, have been introduced above.
Beginning, unending ;
No picture, yet vailed ;
A dreaming, and longing
That never is stilled.
A blooming and scenting,
A song of sweet lies ;
Yet naught but illusion
That charms and yet flies.
A willing and doing,
Yet nothing complete ;
A learning and knowing,
No wiser a whit.
A rushing and pushing
O'er valley and hill :
A caring and toiling,
The grave waiting still.
A wonderful play for
Both master and slave ;
For earnest, too trifling,
For jesting, too grave.
