Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/322

 By all the race of Seth; and Jubal said:

"Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire,

Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire

Flames through deep waters; I will take my rest,

And feed anew from my great mother's breast,

The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me

As the flowers' sweetness doth the honey-bee."

He lingered wandering for many an age,

And, sowing music, made high heritage

For generations far beyond the Flood—

For the poor late-begotten human brood

Born to life's weary brevity and perilous good.

And ever as he travelled he would climb

The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime,

The mighty tolling of the far-off spheres

Beating their pathway, never touched his ears.

But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose,

And the far-gazing mountain could disclose

Naught but a wider earth; until one height

Showed him the ocean stretched in liquid light,

And he could hear its multitudinous roar,

Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore:

Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no more.

He thought, "The world is great, but I am weak,

And where the sky bends is no solid peak

To give me footing, but instead, this main —

Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the plain.

"New voices come to me where'er I roam,

My heart too widens with its widening home:

But song grows weaker, and the heart must break

For lack of voice, or fingers that can wake

The lyre's full answer; nay, its chords were all

Too few to meet the growing spirit's call.