It is the Spirit that can fill
The mind with good, repelling ill,
That makes the features fair;
We know that look's peculiar grace
Which pain and woe cannot efface,
Or Time itself impair.

XXVIII

Not all the works in earth and sky
That through creation shine,

Attesting in their majesty

The strength of things divine

Show more the touch of God's right hand

In every epoch, every land

Than this unwasting dower;

Those sweet expressions oft-times grace

Alike the child's, the old man's face

With loveliness and power.

XXIX

Now resting 'neath the thoughtful mood

In musings lost awhile,

Those pondered cherished thoughts of good

Break forth in lovely smile:

'Mid anger's storm it still survives
Where Justice with sweet Mercy strives:
Checking the rush of righteous wrath,
Lest headlong rage should hurry forth.
It shines through wasting, wan disease
Like gold tints on the fading trees;
And like their foliage seems to bloom
Intenser as it nears the tomb,

Enhanced by woe and age;
Struck by that ill-expelling ray

The powers of darkness shrink away,
God's sons they strike not with dismay
Nor touch their heritage.

XXX

As diff'rent notes which soft and clear

The orchestra conveys,

Alike combine to reach the ear

In sound's perfécted phrase,

The various chords of strength and love

That can the mortal creature move,

Tinged with the wisdom from above,

The spirit's tones express,

Through the wide earth their strains arise In ever-changing harmonies,

From human brow and lips and eyes

To beautify and bless.

XXXI

It needs no long nor learn'd address,

No orator to plead,

The innate charm, the winningness,

Strangers may feel or read;

The little child of any race

Will upward turn in artless grace,
Its tiny hand will thrust

Toward the sympathising face
Wherein its dawning mind can trace

The alphabet of tenderness

Soon framed in words of fond caress;
The creatures nurtured by our hand

Human expressions understand;
Four-footed comrades do not own
Man's love-monopoly alone-

The wild unfettered bird of air,
The timid deer, the untam'd hare

Have seen that look to trust.

XXXII

Oft we have mark'd a passing face
Veiled as beneath a hood,

In which the gazer fails to trace

Workings of Ill or Good;

Perchance the feeble brain and heart

Have little knowledge to impart

Inner emotions that may start
No surface symbol bear;
Vacuity usurps the throne

That higher sentiments disown,
And on the impassive face alone
There dwells a soulless stare.

XXXIII

Another man is sometimes seen

Who tells by look and speech

That he has thought o'er objects seen

To distant things to reach.

A rigid self-imposed control

Conceals the movements of the soul

Till Will or Apathy has thrown

O'er the whole face a look of stone

That baffles scrutiny;

This man has been misjudged-deceived

Perchance oft bruised, or often grieved;

Rotations of the world's mill-wheel

Have ground away the edge to feel,

And blunted sympathy.

XXXIV

Like some dull brook whose muddy dye

Reflects not in its tide

The canopy of tree or sky

Whose murky ripples hide

The under surface of its bed;
Fine sand in velvet pillows spread

May cushion round a fisher's tread,

Or rough rocks bruise with pointed head Or cutting flinty blade;

Let strong Emotion like a churn

The heart-waves from their bed upturn,

Or the long steady drought of woe
Lessen the channel of their flow;
And all so well concealed below
Will clearly be displayed.