The Genius of the Race
WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be,
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defense,
How oft in spirit have I turned to Thee,
Amidst the soundless solitudes immense,
O only source of all our light and life!
Lean close to me, for now the sinking sun,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
Hath made us worshipers; O claim thine own!
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
Grant us Thy peace and purity of mind;
And rivet faster round Thyself the chain,
The heart, which love of Thee alone can bind.
So shall I live like one not born to die,
Holding so fast by Thine Infinity!
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defense,
How oft in spirit have I turned to Thee,
Amidst the soundless solitudes immense,
O only source of all our light and life!
Lean close to me, for now the sinking sun,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
Hath made us worshipers; O claim thine own!
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
Grant us Thy peace and purity of mind;
And rivet faster round Thyself the chain,
The heart, which love of Thee alone can bind.
So shall I live like one not born to die,
Holding so fast by Thine Infinity!
[Lest the newer poets be too harsh in their criticism of this sonnet, the Atlantic hastens to break the anonymity of the Club and award the credit where it belongs, to the following poetaste rs: — Keats, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Thomson, Clough, Rossetti, Byron, Keble, Shelley, Rogers, Southey, Byron again, Coleridge, and E. Brontëe. — THE EDITORS.]