Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 328, February, 1843. Various

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      Three Words will I name thee—around and about,

      From the lip to the lip, full of meaning, they flee;

      But they had not their birth in the being without,

      And the heart, not the lip, must their oracle be!

      And all worth in the man shall for ever be o'er

      When in those Three Words he believes no more.

      Man is made FREE!—Man, by birthright, is free,

      Though the tyrant may deem him but born for his tool.

      Whatever the shout of the rabble may be—

      Whatever the ranting misuse of the fool—

      Still fear not the Slave, when he breaks from his chain,

      For the Man made a Freeman grows safe in his gain.

      And VIRTUE is more than a shade or a sound,

      And Man may her voice, in this being, obey;

      And though ever he slip on the stony ground,

      Yet ever again to the godlike way.

      Though her wisdom our wisdom may not perceive,

      Yet the childlike spirit can still believe.

      And a GOD there is!—over Space, over Time,

      While the Human Will rocks, like a reed, to and fro,

      Lives the Will of the Holy—A Purpose Sublime,

      A Thought woven over creation below;

      Changing and shifting the All we inherit,

      But changeless through all One Immutable Spirit!

      Hold fast the Three Words of Belief—though about

      From the lip to the lip, full of meaning they flee;

      Yet they take not their birth from the being without—

      But a voice from within must their oracle be;

      And never all worth in the Man can be o'er,

      Till in those Three Words he believes no more.

      A rain-flood from the mountain-riven,

      It leaps, in thunder, forth to Day,

      Before its rush the crags are driven—

      The oaks uprooted, whirl'd away—

      Aw'd, yet in awe all wildly glad'ning,

      The startled wanderer halts below;

      He hears the rock-born waters mad'ning,

      Nor wits the source from whence they go,—

      So, from their high, mysterious Founts along,

      Stream on the silenc'd world the Waves of Song!

      Knit with the threads of life, for ever,

      By those dread Powers that weave the woof,—

      Whose art the singer's spell can sever?

      Whose breast has mail to music proof?

      Lo, to the Bard, a wand of wonder

      The Herald8 of the Gods has given:

      He sinks the soul the death-realm under,

      Or lifts it breathless up to heaven—

      Half sport, half earnest, rocking its devotion

      Upon the tremulous ladder of emotion.

      As, when the halls of Mirth are crowded,

      Portentous, on the wanton scene—

      Some Fate, before from wisdom shrouded,

      Awakes and awes the souls of Men—

      Before that Stranger from ANOTHER,

      Behold how THIS world's great ones bow—

      Mean joys their idle clamour smother,

      The mask is vanish'd from the brow—

      And from Truth's sudden, solemn flag unfurl'd,

      Fly all the craven Falsehoods of the World!

      So, rapt from every care and folly,

      When spreads abroad the lofty lay,

      The Human kindles to the Holy,

      And into Spirit soars the Clay!

      One with the Gods the Bard: before him

      All things unclean and earthly fly—

      Hush'd are all meaner powers, and o'er him

      The dark fate swoops unharming by;

      And while the Soother's magic measures flow,