into her face s conflict will wax wanton and betray their in their grace boys and girls would feel a forward spring and youth to old thou back bring all sexes ages orders occupations would listen to thee with attentive ear and moved with sweet thy pipe would follow with full merry while thou thy voice loud advance their for joy would dance but now alas poor man in desert thou dost wander wide to seek and serve thy disappearing pan whom no man living in the world hath sir pan is dead but i am still alive and live in men who honor to me give honour also those that honour me sacred songs but thou now sing to trees to rocks to hills to that be and quite of thy hid mysteries in the void air thy idle voice is spread thy muse is to the deaf or dead now out alas and well away the tale thou i confess too true fond man so on this living clay his dear and doth its joys pursue that of his precious soul he takes no keep heaven s love and reason s light lie fast asleep this bodies life vain shadow of the soul with full desire they closely do embrace in mud like swine they and roll the mind is proud but of the face or outward person if men but that walking cares for no more this is the measure of man s industry to somebody and gather grace for outward presence though true crown d with that heavenly light and lively of holy and love from his soul he remove slight knowledge and lease virtue serves his turn for this if he hath trod the ring of arts in pack horse form keeping the rode o then t s a learned thing of the if any to write or speak what he not t were a foul to the soul from and still whether our reason s eye be clear enough to true light that fain would glide into d hearts this way s too harsh and therefore the truths may well seem dark when men have eyes so and these be our times but if my minds bear any moment they can ne re last long a three branch d flame will soon sweep clear the stage of this old dirty and all young my words into this frozen air i throw will then grow at that nay now thou rt perfect mad said he with scorn and full of foul derision quit the place the did rattle with his wings like to rent silk but i in the mean space sent him this message by the wind be t so i m mad yet sure i am thou rt blind by this the d shadows of the trees pointed me homeward and with one consent foretold the s descent so straight i rise my limbs from off the green pavement behind me leaving the sloping light � and now let s up brings in the night lives op the great the of the are imperfectly written for this obvious reason the soul of the great can only be expressed in music this language is so much more ready full and rapid than any other that we can never expect the minds of those accustomed to its use to be expressed by act or word with even that degree of which we find in those of other men they are accustomed to a higher a more existence we must read them in their works this true of of the great in every department is especially so of the of sound yet the eye which has followed with rapture the flight of the bird till it is quite vanished in the blue serene with pleasure to the nest which it finds of materials and architecture that if wisely examined correspond entirely with all previously imagined of the s history and habits the biography of the artist is a scanty upon the grand text of his works but we examine it with a deliberate tenderness and could not spare those half pencil marks of daily life in vain the healthy of nature have so boldly in our own day the love of greatness and bid us turn from to read the record of the village clerk these obscure men you say have hearts also busy lives souls study the simple annals of the poor and you find there only and stifled by accident milton or precisely for that precisely because we might be such as these if temperament and position had the soul s must we seek with eagerness this spectacle of the occasional of that degree of development which we call hero poet artist martyr a sense of the depths of love and pity in our obscure and private breasts bids us demand to see their sources burst up somewhere through the of circumstance and peter bell has no sooner felt his first throb of and piety than he to read the lives of the saints of all those forms of life which in their greater achievement shadow forth what the accomplishment of our life in the ages must be the artist s life is the fairest in this that it its web most soft and full because of the material most at command like the hero the the the artist from other men only in this that the voice of the demon within the breast speaks louder or is more early and steadily obeyed than by men in general but colors and marble and paper scores are more easily found to use and more under command than the occasions of life or the wills of other men so that we see in the poet s work if not a higher sentiment or a deeper meaning a more frequent and more perfect fulfilment than in him who his temple from the world day by day or 