Part 10

O grace! unenvying of thy boon! that gav’st Boldness to fix so earnestly my ken On th’ everlasting splendour, that I look’d, While sight was unconsum’d, and, in that depth, Saw in one volume clasp’d of love, whatever The universe unfolds; all properties Of substance and of accident, beheld, Compounded, yet one individual light The whole. And of such bond methinks I saw The universal form: for that whenever I do but speak of it, my soul dilates Beyond her proper self; and, till I speak, One moment seems a longer lethargy, Than five-and-twenty ages had appear’d To that emprize, that first made Neptune wonder At Argo’s shadow darkening on his flood.

With fixed heed, suspense and motionless, Wond’ring I gaz’d; and admiration still Was kindled, as I gaz’d. It may not be, That one, who looks upon that light, can turn To other object, willingly, his view. For all the good, that will may covet, there Is summ’d; and all, elsewhere defective found, Complete. My tongue shall utter now, no more E’en what remembrance keeps, than could the babe’s That yet is moisten’d at his mother’s breast. Not that the semblance of the living light Was chang’d (that ever as at first remain’d) But that my vision quickening, in that sole Appearance, still new miracles descry’d, And toil’d me with the change. In that abyss Of radiance, clear and lofty, seem’d methought, Three orbs of triple hue clipt in one bound: And, from another, one reflected seem’d, As rainbow is from rainbow: and the third Seem’d fire, breath’d equally from both. Oh speech How feeble and how faint art thou, to give Conception birth! Yet this to what I saw Is less than little. Oh eternal light! Sole in thyself that dwellst; and of thyself Sole understood, past, present, or to come! Thou smiledst; on that circling, which in thee Seem’d as reflected splendour, while I mus’d; For I therein, methought, in its own hue Beheld our image painted: steadfastly I therefore por’d upon the view. As one Who vers’d in geometric lore, would fain Measure the circle; and, though pondering long And deeply, that beginning, which he needs, Finds not; e’en such was I, intent to scan The novel wonder, and trace out the form, How to the circle fitted, and therein How plac’d: but the flight was not for my wing; Had not a flash darted athwart my mind, And in the spleen unfolded what it sought.

Here vigour fail’d the tow’ring fantasy: But yet the will roll’d onward, like a wheel In even motion, by the Love impell’d, That moves the sun in heav’n and all the stars.