Chapter I (3)

I answer: this act is in its nature objective. I am for myself; this is a fact. Now I could have thus come to be for myself only through an act, for I am free; and only through this thus determined act, for only through it do I become for myself every moment, and through every other act something quite different is produced. That acting, indeed, is the very conception of the Ego; and the conception of the Ego is the conception of that acting; both conceptions are quite the same; and that conception of the Ego can mean and can not be made to mean anything, but what has been stated. _It is so_, because _I make it so_. The philosopher only makes clear to himself what he really thinks and has ever thought, when he thinks or thought _himself_; but that he does think himself is to him immediate fact of consciousness. That question, concerning the objectivity is grounded on the very curious presupposition that the Ego is something else than its own thought of itself, and that something else than this thought and outside of it—God may know what they do mean!—is again the ground of it, concerning the actual nature of which outside something they are very much troubled. Hence if they ask for such an objective validity of the thought, or for a connection between this object and the subject, I cheerfully confess that the Science of Knowledge can give them no instruction concerning it. If they choose to, they may themselves enter, in this or any other case, upon the discovery of such a connection, until they, perhaps, will recollect that this Unknown which they are hunting, is, after all, again their thought, and that whatsoever they may invent as its ground, will also be their thought, and thus _ad infinitum_; and that, indeed, they cannot speak of or question about anything without at the same time thinking it.

Now, in this act, which is arbitrary and in time, for the philosopher as such, but which is for the Ego—which he constructs, by virtue of his just deduced right, for the sake of subsequent observations and conclusions—necessarily and originally; in this act, I say, the philosopher looks at himself, and immediately contemplates his own acting; he knows what he does, because _he does it_. Does a consciousness thereof arise in him? Without doubt; for he not only contemplates, but _comprehends_ also. He comprehends his act, as an _acting generally_, of which he has already a conception by virtue of his previous experience; and as this _determined_, into itself _returning_ acting, as which he contemplates it in himself. By this characteristic determination he elevates it above the sphere of _general acting_.

_What_ acting may be, can only be _contemplated_, not developed from and through conceptions; but that which this contemplation contains is _comprehended_ by the mere opposition of pure _being_. Acting is not being, and being is not acting. Mere conception affords no other determination for each link; their real essence is only discovered in contemplation.

Now this whole procedure of the philosopher appears to _me_, at least, very possible, very easy, and even natural; and I can scarcely conceive how it can appear otherwise to my readers, and how they can see in it anything mysterious and marvellous. Every one, let us hope, can think _himself_. He will also, let us hope, learn that by being required to thus think himself he is required to perform an act, dependent upon his own activity, an internal act; and that if he realizes this demand, if he really affects himself through self-activity, he also most surely _acts_ thus. Let us further hope that he will be able to distinguish this kind of acting from its _opposite_, the acting whereby he thinks external objects, and that he will find in the latter sort of thinking the thinking and the thought to be opposites, (the activity, therefore, tending upon something distinct from itself,) while in the former thinking both were one and the same, (and hence the activity a return into itself.) He will comprehend, it is to be hoped, that—since the thought of himself arises _only_ in this manner, (an opposite thinking producing a quite different thought)—the thought of himself is nothing but the thought of this act, and the word Ego nothing but the designation of this act—that Ego and an _into itself returning activity_ are completely identical conceptions. He will understand, let us hope, that if he but for the present problematically presupposes with transcendental Idealism that all consciousness rests upon and is dependent upon self-consciousness, he must also _think_ that return into itself as preceding and conditioning all other acts of consciousness; indeed as the primary act of the subject; and, since there is nothing for him which is not in his consciousness, and since everything else in his consciousness is conditioned by this act, and therefore cannot condition the act in the same respect,—as an act, utterly unconditioned and hence absolute _for him_; and he will thus further understand, that the _above problematical presupposition_ and this _thinking of the Ego as originally posited through itself_, are again quite identical; and that hence transcendental Idealism, if it proceeds systematically, can proceed in no other manner than it does in the Science of Knowledge.

This contemplation of himself, which is required of the philosopher, in his realization of the act, through which the Ego arises for him, I call _intellectual contemplation_. It is the immediate consciousness that I act and what I act; it is that through which I know something, because I do it. That there is such a power of intellectual contemplation cannot be demonstrated by conceptions, nor can conception show what it is. Every one must find it immediately in himself, or he will never learn to know it. The requirement that we ought to show _it_ what it is by argumentation, is more marvellous than would be the requirement of a blind person, to explain to him, without his needing to use sight, what colors are.

But it can be certainly proven to everyone in his own confessed experience, that this intellectual contemplation does occur in every moment of his consciousness. I can take no step, cannot move hand or foot, without the intellectual contemplation of my self-consciousness in these acts; only through this contemplation do I know that _I_ do it, only through it do I distinguish my acting and in it myself from the given object of my acting. Everyone who ascribes an activity to himself appeals to this contemplation. In it is the source of life, and without it is death.

But this contemplation never occurs alone, as a complete act of consciousness, as indeed sensuous contemplation also never occurs alone nor completes consciousness; both contemplations must be _comprehended_. Not only this, but the intellectual contemplation is also always connected with a _sensuous_ contemplation. I cannot find myself acting without finding an object upon which I act, and this object in a sensuous contemplation which I comprehend; nor without sketching an image of what I intend to produce by my act, which image I also comprehend. Now, then, how do I know and how can I know what I intend to produce, if I do not immediately contemplate myself in this sketching of the image which I intend to produce, i. e. in this sketching of the conception of my _purpose_, which sketching is certainly an act. Only the totality of this condition in uniting a given manifold completes consciousness. I become conscious only of the conceptions, both of the object upon which I act, and of the purpose I intend to accomplish; but I do not become conscious of the contemplations which are at the bottom of both conceptions.

Perhaps it is only this which the zealous opponents of intellectual contemplation wish to insist upon; namely, that that contemplation is only possible in connection with a sensuous contemplation; and surely the Science of Knowledge is not going to deny it. But this is no reason why they should deny intellectual contemplation. For with the same right we might deny sensuous contemplation, since it also is possible only in connection with intellectual contemplation; for whatsoever is to become _my_ representation must be related to me, and the consciousness (I) occurs only through intellectual contemplation. (It is a remarkable fact of our modern history of philosophy, that it has not been noticed as yet how all that may be objected to intellectual contemplation can also be objected to sensuous contemplation, and that thus the arguments of its opponents turn against themselves.)

But if it must be admitted that there is no immediate, isolated consciousness of intellectual contemplation, how does the philosopher arrive at a knowledge and isolated representation thereof? I answer, doubtless in the same manner in which he arrives at the isolated representation of sensuous contemplation, by drawing a conclusion from the evident facts of consciousness. This conclusion runs as follows: I propose to myself, to think this or that, and the required thought arises; I propose to myself, to do this or that, and the representation that it is being done arises. This is a fact of consciousness. If I look at it by the light of the laws of mere sensuous consciousness, it involves no more than has just been stated, i. e. a sequence of certain representations. I become conscious only of this _sequence_, in a series of time movements, and only such a time sequence can I assert. I can merely state—I know that if I propose to myself a certain thought, with the characteristic that it is to have existence, the representation of this thought, with the characteristic that it really has existence, follows; or, that the representation of a certain manifestation, as one which ought to occur, is immediately followed in time by the representation of the same manifestation as one which really did occur. But I can, on no account, state that the first representation contains the _real_ ground of the second one which followed; or, that by thinking the first one the second one _became real_ for me. I merely remain passive, the placid scene upon which representations follow representations, and am, on no account, the active principle which produces them. Still I constantly assume the latter, and cannot relinquish that assumption without relinquishing my self. What justifies me in it? In the sensuous ingredients I have mentioned, there is no ground to justify such an assumption; hence it is a peculiar and immediate consciousness, that is to say, a contemplation, and not a sensuous contemplation, which views a material and permanent being, but a contemplation of a pure activity, which is not permanent but progressive, not a being but a life.

The philosopher, therefore, discovers this intellectual contemplation as fact of consciousness, (for him it is a fact; for the original Ego a fact and act both together—a deed-act,) and he thus discovers it not immediately, as an isolated part of his consciousness, but by distinguishing and separating what in common consciousness occurs in unseparated union.

Quite a different problem it is to explain this intellectual contemplation, which is here presupposed as fact, in its _possibility_, and by means of this explanation to defend it against the charge of deception and deceptiveness, which is raised by dogmatism; or, in other words, to prove the _faith_ in the reality of this intellectual contemplation, from which faith transcendental idealism confessedly starts—by a something still higher; and to show up the interest which leads us to place faith in its reality, or in the system of Reason. This is accomplished by showing up the _Moral Law_ in us, in which the Ego is characterized as elevated through it above all the original modifications, as impelled by an absolute, or in itself, (in the Ego,) grounded activity; and by which the Ego is thus discovered to be an absolute Active. In the consciousness of this law, which doubtless is an immediate consciousness, and not derived from something else, the contemplation of self-activity and freedom is grounded. _I am given to myself through myself as something, which is to be active in a certain manner; hence, I am given to myself through myself as something active generally; I have the life in myself, and take it from out of myself. Only through this medium of the Moral Law do I see_ MYSELF; _and if I see myself through that law, I necessarily see myself as self-active_; and it is thus that there arises in a consciousness—which otherwise would only be the consciousness of a sequence of my representations—the utterly foreign ingredient of an _activity of myself_.

This intellectual contemplation is the only stand-point for all Philosophy. From it all that occurs in consciousness may be explained, but only from it. Without self-consciousness there is no consciousness at all; but self-consciousness is only possible in the way we have shown, i. e. I am only active. Beyond it I cannot be driven; my philosophy then becomes altogether independent of all arbitrariness, and a product of stern necessity; i. e. in so far as necessity exists for free Reason; it becomes a product of _practical_ necessity. I _can_ not go beyond this stand-point, because conscience says I _shall_ not go beyond it; and thus transcendental idealism shows itself up to be the only moral philosophy—the philosophy wherein speculation and moral law are intimately united. Conscience says: I _shall_ start in my thinking from the pure Ego, and shall think it absolutely self-active; not as determined by the things, but as determining the things.

The conception of activity which becomes possible only through this intellectual contemplation of the self-active Ego, is the only one which unites both the worlds that exist for us—the sensuous and the intelligible world. Whatsoever is opposed to my activity—and I must oppose something to it, for I am finite—is the sensuous, and whatsoever is to arise through my activity is the intelligible (moral) world.

I should like to know how those who smile so contemptuously whenever the words “intellectual contemplation” is mentioned, think the consciousness of the moral law; or how they are enabled to entertain such conceptions as those of Virtue, of Right, &c., which they doubtless do entertain. According to them there are only two contemplations _a priori_—Time and Space. They surely form these conceptions of Virtue, &c., in Time, (the form of the inner sense,) but they certainly do not hold them to be time itself, but merely a certain filling up of time. What is it, then, wherewith they fill up time, and get a basis for the construction of those conceptions? There is nothing left to them but Space; and hence their conceptions of Virtue, Right, &c., are perhaps quadrangular and circular; just as all the other conceptions which they construct, (for instance, that of a tree or of an animal,) are nothing but limitations of Space. But they do not conceive their Virtue and their Right in this manner. What, then, is the basis of their construction? If they attend properly, they will discover that this basis is activity in general, or freedom. Both of these conceptions of virtue and right are to them certain limitations of their general activity, exactly as their sensuous conceptions are limitations of space. How, then, do they arrive at this basis of their construction? We will hope that they have not derived activity from the dead permanency of matter, nor freedom from the mechanism of nature. They have obtained it, therefore, from immediate contemplation, and thus they confess a third contemplation besides their own two.

It is, therefore, by no means so unimportant, as it appears to be to some, whether philosophy starts from a fact or from a deed-act, (i. e. from an activity, which presupposes no object, but produces it itself, and in which, therefore, the _acting_ is immediately _deed_.) If philosophy starts from a fact, it places itself in the midst of being and finity, and will find it difficult to discover therefrom a road to the infinite and super-sensuous; but if it starts from a deed-act, it places itself at once in the point which unites both worlds and from which both can be overlooked at one glance.

[Translators frequently use the term “intuition” for what I have here called “contemplation;” “Deed-Act” is my rendering of “That-Handlung.” A. E. K.]

Footnote 1:

NOTE. The same mistaking of one series of thinking in transcendental
idealism for the other series, lies at the basis of the assertion,
that besides the system of idealism, another realistic system is also
possible as a logical and thorough system. The realism, which forces
itself upon all, even the most decided idealist, namely, the
assumption that things exist independently and outside of us, is
involved in the idealistic system itself; and is moreover explained
and deduced in that system. Indeed, the deduction of an objective
truth, as well in the world of appearances as in the world of
intellect, is the only purpose of all philosophy.

It is the philosopher who says in _his own_ name: everything that is
_for_ the Ego is also _through_ the Ego. But the Ego itself, in that
philosopher’s philosophy says: as sure as I am I, there exists outside
of me a something, which exists _not_ through me. The philosopher’s
idealistic assertion is therefore met by the realistic assertion of
the Ego in the same one system; and it is the philosopher’s business
to show from the fundamental principle of his philosophy how the Ego
comes to make such an assertion. The philosopher’s stand-point is the
purely speculative; the Ego’s stand-point in his system is the
realistic stand-point of life and science; the philosopher’s system is
Science of Knowledge, whilst the Ego’s system is common Science. But
common Science is comprehensible only through the Science of
Knowledge, the realistic system comprehensible only through the
idealistic system. Realism forces itself upon us; but it has in itself
no known and comprehensible ground. Idealism furnishes this ground,
and is only to make realism comprehensible. Speculation has no other
purpose than to furnish this comprehensibility of all reality, which
in itself would otherwise remain incomprehensible. Hence, also,
Idealism can never be a mode of thinking, but can only be
_speculation_.

NOTES ON MILTON’S LYCIDAS.
BY ANNA C. BRACKETT.

Every work of art, whether in sculpture, painting, or music, must have a definite content; and only in having such has it any claim to be so called. This content must be spiritual; that is, it must come from the inner spirit of the artist, and translate itself by means of the work into spirit in the spectator or listener. Only in the recognition of this inner meaning which lives behind the outside and shimmers through it, can consist the difference between the impression made on me by the sight of a beautiful painting, and that produced on an inferior animal, as the retina of his eye paints with equal accuracy the same object. For what is this sense of beauty which thrills through me, while the dog at my side looks at the same thing and sees nothing in seeing all which the eye can grasp? Is it not the response in me to the informing spirit behind all the outward appearance?

But if this sense of beauty stops in passive enjoyment, if the sense of sight or of hearing is simply to be intoxicated with the feast spread before it, we must confess that our appreciation of beauty is a very sensuous thing. Content though some may be, simply to enjoy, in the minds of others the fascination of the senses only provokes unrest. We say with Goethe: “I would fain understand that which interests me in so extraordinary a manner;” for this work of art, the product of mind, touches me in a wonderful way, and must be of universal essence. Let me seek the reason, and if I find it, it will be another step towards “the solvent word.”

Again, in a true work of art this content must be essentially _one_; that is, one profound thought to which all others, though they may be visible, must be gracefully subordinate; otherwise we are lost in a multiplicity of details, and miss the unity which is the sole sign of the creative mind.

Nor need we always be anxious as to whether the artist consciously meant to say thus and so. Has there ever lived a true artist who has not “builded better than he knew”? If this were not so, all works of art would lose their significance in the course of time. Are the half-uttered meanings of the statues of the Egyptian gods behind or before us to-day? Do they not perplex us with prophecies rather than remembrances as we wander amazed among them through the halls of the British Museum? A whole nation striving to say the one word, and dying before it was uttered! Have we heard it clearly yet?

The world goes on translating as it gains new words with which to carry on the work. It is not so much the artist that is before his age as the divine afflatus guiding his hand which leads not only the age but him. Through that divine inspiration he speaks, and he says mysterious words which perhaps must wait for centuries to be understood. In that fact lies his right to his title; in that, alone, lies the right of his production to be called a work of art.

Doubtless all readers are familiar with Dr. Johnson’s criticisms on Milton’s Lycidas, and these we might pass by without comment, for it would evidently be as impossible for Dr. Johnson’s mind to comprehend or be touched by the poetry of Lycidas as for a ponderous sledge-hammer to be conscious of the soft, perfume-laden air through which it might move. The monody is censured by him because of its irregularly recurring rhymes, and in the same breath we are told that it is so full of art that the author could not have felt sorrow while writing it. We know how intricately the rhymes are woven in Milton’s sonnets, where he seems to have taken all pains to select the most difficult arrangements, and to carry them through without deviation, and we say only that the first criticism contradicts the last. But some more appreciative critics, while touched by the beauty, repeat the same, and say there is “more poetry than sorrow” in the poem. More poetry than sorrow! Sorrow is the grand key note, and strikes in always over and through all the beauty and poetry like a wailing chord in a symphony, that is never absent long, and ever and anon drowns out all the rest. Sorrow, pure and simple, is the thread on which all the beautiful fancies are strung. It runs through and connects them all, and there is not a paragraph in the whole poem that is not pierced by it. It is the occasion, the motive, the inner inspiration, and the mastery over it is the conclusion of all. Around it, the constant centre, group themselves all the lovely pictures, and they all face it and are subordinate to it.

The soul of the poet is so tossed by the immediate sorrow that it surrenders itself entirely to it, and so, losing its will, is taken possession of by whatever thought, evoked by the spell of association, rises in his mind; as when he speaks of Camus and St. Peter. Ever and anon the will makes an effort to free itself and to determine its own course, but again and again the wave of sorrow sweeps up, and the vainly struggling will goes down before it.

Nothing lay closer to Milton’s heart than the interests of what he believed the true church; and nothing touched him more than the abuses which were then prevalent in the church of England. In the safe harbor of his father’s country home, resting on his oars before the appointed time for the race in which he was to give away all his strength and joy, surrounded and inspired by the fresh, pure air from the granite rocks of Puritanism, all his growing strength was gathering its energies for the struggle. This just indignation and honest protest must find its way in the poem through the grief that sweeps over him, and which, because so deep, touches and vivifies all his deepest thoughts. But even that strong under current of conviction has no power long to steady him against the wave of sorrow which breaks above his head, none the less powerful because it breaks in a line of white and shivers itself into drops which flash diamond colors in the warm and pure sunlight of his cultured imagination. More poetry than sorrow? Then there is more poetry in Lycidas than in any other poem of the same length in our language.

It would be impossible here to go through the poem with the close care to all little points which is necessary to enable one fully to comprehend its exquisite beauty and finish. It is like one of Beethoven’s symphonies, where at first we are so occupied with the one grand thought that we surrender ourselves entirely to it, and think ourselves completely satisfied. But as we appropriate that more and more fully, within and around it wonderful melodies start and twine, and this experience is repeated again and again till the music seems almost infinite in its content. Let us, then, briefly go over the burden of the monody, our chief effort being to show how perfectly at one it is throughout, how natural the seemingly abrupt changes,—only pausing now and then to speak of some special beauty which is so marked that one cannot pass it by in silence. If we succeed in showing a continued and natural thought in the whole and a satisfactory solution for the collision which gives rise to the poem, our end will have been accomplished.

Milton begins in due order by giving, as prelude, his reason for singing. But he has written only seven full lines before, in the eighth, the key-note is struck by the force of sorrow, which, after saying “Lycidas is dead,” lingers on the strain and repeats, to heighten the grief, “dead ere his prime.” The next line, the ninth, is still more pathetic in its echoing repetition and its added cause for mourning. (In passing, let us say that the effect is greatly increased in reading this line if the first word be strongly emphasized.) Because he hath not left his peer, all should sing for him. No more excuse is needed. Sorrow pleases itself in calling up the neglected form, and then passionately turns to the only solace that it can have—“Some melodious tear.”

This, of course, brings the image of the Muses, and as that thought comes, once more we have a new attempt at a formal beginning in the second paragraph (line 15). First, is the invocation, and then, recurring to the first thought, Milton says it is peculiarly appropriate for _him_ to sing of Lycidas. Why? Because they had been so long together, and as the thought of happier things arises, the sweet memories, linked by the chain of association, come thronging so tumultuously that he forgets himself in reverie. The music, at first slow and sweet, grows more and more strong and rapid till even the rustic dance-measure comes in merrily. Most naturally here the key-note is again struck by the force of contrast, and the despair of the sorrow that wakes from the forgetfulness of pleasant dreams to the consciousness of loss, strikes as rapidly its minor chords till it seems as if hope were entirely lost.

Nothing is more unreasonable than this despair of sorrow. Tossed in its own wild passion, it sees nothing clearly, and seeking for some adequate cause, heaps blindly unmerited reproaches on anything, on all things. So, recoiling before its power, stung with its pain, the poet turns reproachfully to the nymphs, blaming them for their negligence. But before the words are fairly uttered he realizes his folly. Lycidas was beloved by them, but if Calliope could not save even her own son, how powerless are they against the step of inevitable fate! This strikes deep down in the thunder of the bass notes, and the thought comes which perhaps cannot be more powerfully expressed than by the old Hebrew refrain, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” After all, why seek for anything, even for fame? Man’s destiny is ruled by irresponsible necessity. Life is worth nothing, and would it not be better, instead of “scorning delights and living laborious days,” to yield one’s self to the pleasures of the passing moment? “All is vanity and vexation of spirit.” When any soul reaches this point, it seems as if help must come from outside of itself or it will go irrevocably down. Sorrow, despair, are always represented by darkness. Is it an accident that the celestial notes which first strike through the descending bass, come from the god of light, Phœbus Apollo? Clear, and sweet, and sudden, they cleave the closing shadows, the sunlight comes in again, and the music climbs up and grows serenely steady.

Relieved from this Inferno the soul comes once more to self-consciousness, and in its effort to guide itself, what more natural than that it should recur to the idea expressed in the fiftieth line, and attempt to make something like order by carrying out that idea. Reason takes command, and the strain flows smoothly, till, by the exercise of her power, the true cause of the misfortune is recognized and a just indignation (line 100) takes its place. But in yielding to this, the immediate feeling regains possession, reason resigns her sway, and the soul is set afloat again on the uncertain sea of association. See how sudden and sweet the transition from fiery reproach and invective to the gentlest tenderness, in line 102. It begins with a thunder peal and dies out in a wail of affection, expressed by the one word “sacred.” This forms the connection between this paragraph and the next, a delicate yet perfect link, for as all his love overflows in that one word, the old happier days come up again; and where should these memories carry him but to the university where they had found so much common pleasure and inspiration. Here the sorrow, before entirely personal, becomes wider as the singer feels that others grieve with him for lost talent and power.

Were they not both destined for the church for which their university studies were only a preparation? Most naturally the subtle chain of association brings up the thought of the great apostle with the keys of heaven and hell. How sorely the church needed true teachers! The earnest spirit that was ready to assail every form of wrong, eagerly followed out the thought which was in the future to burn into its very life. From line 113 to line 131 notice the succession of feelings. A sense of irreparable loss—indignation—mark the _three_ words, “creep,” “intrude,” and “climb,” no one of which could be spared. Then comes disgust, expressed by “Blind mouths.” Ruskin, in his “Kings’ Treasures,” very happily observes that no epithet could be more sweeping than this, for as the office of a bishop is to oversee the flock, and that of a pastor to feed it, the utter want of all qualification for the sacred office is here most forcibly expressed. Contempt follows; then pity for those who, desiring food, are fed only with wind; detestation of the secret and corrupt practices of the Romish church; and finally hope, coming through the possible execution of Archbishop Laud, whose death, it seemed to the young Puritan, was the only thing needed to bring back truth, simplicity and safety. Drifting with these emotions the singer has followed the lead of his fancies, and just as before, when light came with healing for his despair, Hope recalls him to himself, till he returns again in line 132, as in line 85, to the regular style of his poem. He is as one who, waking from wildering dreams, collects his fugitive thoughts, and tries to settle them down for the necessary routine of the day. A more regular and plainly accented strain, recognized as heard before, comes into the music, as he pleases himself in fancying that the sad consolation is still left him of ornamenting the hearse. It is useless to speak of the exquisite finish of these lines, or of how often one word, as “fresh” for instance, in line 138, calls up before the mind such pictures that one lingers and lingers over the passage, as the poet’s fancy in vain effort lingered, striving to forget his sorrow. This strain comes in like some of the repeating melodies in the second part of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, where it seems as if the soul had found a new, sweet thought, and was turning it over and over as loth to pause, and as in sudden hope of some relief through its potency. But the heavy key-note strikes again through it all, in line 154, with a crash that drowns all the sweetness and beauty. We hear the rush of the cruel, insatiate sea, as its waves dash against the shore of the stormy Hebrides, and the conflict of wave and wind takes possession of us. What thought is more desolate than that of a solitary human form, tossed hither and thither in the vast immensity of ocean! Perhaps, even now, it floats by “the great vision of the guarded mount.” It seems to the poet that all should turn toward England in her sorrow, and it pains him to think of St. Michael’s steadfast eyes gazing across the waves of the bay toward “Namancos and Bayona’s hold.” “Rather turn hither and let even your heavenly face relax with human grief, and ye, unheeding monsters of the deep, have pity and bear him gently over the roughening waves.” This he says because he feels his own impotence. All the love he bears Lycidas cannot serve him now; he is lost, and helpless, and alone, and uncared for. By opposition here, the light strikes in once more, and now with a clearer, fuller glow than at either previous time. At first (line 76) it came in the form of trust in “all-judging Jove”; then (line 130) in hope, through belief in impersonal justice; now it takes the form of Christian faith. The music mounts higher and higher into celestial harmonies, losing entirely its original character, and sounds like a majestic choral of triumph and peace.

This properly ends the poem with line 185. There is nothing more to be said. The tendency is all upward, and the collisions are overcome. One knows that here, and here for the first time, have we reached a movement that is self-sustained. There is no more danger of being carried off our basis by any wave of despairing sorrow. The soul has found a solution at last, and it knows that it is a trustworthy one.

The music is finished; but now, that nothing may be wanting for perfect effect, we have the scenery added, and this in such word-painting as has never been surpassed. Who could ever weary of line 187—“While the still morn went out with sandals gray,”—either for its melody or for its subtle appeal to our senses of hearing and sight? And the slowly growing and dying day! Who else has ever so “touched the tender stops” of imagination?

But these woods and pastures are too full of haunting memories; we seek for newer ones, where the soul, relieved from the associations which perpetually call up the loss of the human and now lifeless embodiment of spirit, shall be free to think only of the eternal holding and possessing which can be sundered by no accident of time or space.

ANALYSIS OF HEGEL’S ÆSTHETICS.
[Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard, by J. A. Martling.]