In commenting farther my respected relative observed, with his usual discrimination and acuteness, that it was a very nice point to decide. That there certainly was strong corroborative evidence of the truth of the story; and that although it was out of the usual course of things, yet that Matinecock was an unusual kind of place, and events might transpire there which would not happen elsewhere. Under these circumstances, and after fully weighing the evidence, he thought that Wanzer's statement was worthy of full credence from all persons of strong faith.
PATTER, patter comes the rain, Aslant against the window-pane: I can see the large drops fall-- Mystic globules, perfect all: See them speed their downward way, Fall, then weep themselves away. So, against my weary brain Thoughts come tapping like the rain: Radiant thoughts, from far-off spheres, Strike, then spend themselves in tears. O ye rain-drops clear and bright! O ye thoughts on wings of light! Will ye never, never tell Of the regions whence ye fell? Tell us whence ye come, and why When ye reach us then ye die? Are ye voiceless evermore, Only moaning, moaning ever, When your beauteous forms are driven 'Gainst the cold and glassy pane-- 'Gainst this hardened, earth-worn brain, In your fruitless, vain endeavor To convey to mortal ears The language of the far-off spheres?
EVEN as BEATRICE appeared to him Who passed through scenes of unimagined woe, Nor feared hell's gloomy sentry, nor the flow Of dismal Acheron; so I, through dim Uncertain paths like his--albeit my fame Pales 'neath his own, a taper to the sun-- Have here been led, and this my work begun, If ended, must be ended in thy name. No idle faith is this, by whose clear light, And the strong effort of Love's conquering will, From out life's mingling mass of good and ill I have ascended to the Infinite: Beholding thee whose beauty, cold and pale, Beams like the Cherubim within the veil.
O THOU! who dwell'st in memory ever blest, (By whatsoever name in heaven thou'rt known, Thyself on earth, the last and loveliest one, An angel in my bosom art confessed:) If thou inspire my song as thou know'st best, And aid my fond endeavor now begun, No fabled muse need I for guidance own The fair inhabitant of my cold breast. Yet whether this my song may stand the test, Or challenge the full sure advance of time, I little know; but if the hidden force Of Love, and its strong faith, in which I rest, Assist my heart to build the tuneful rhyme, Thou only canst be named the primal source.