There are highways in the soul,
Heights like pyramids that rise
Far beyond earth-veiled eyes,
Sweeping through the barless skies
O'er the line where daylight dies —
There are highways in the soul!

Trailing night's sand-sifted stars,
Rainbows sweep, as day unbars,
Fragrant essences of morn,
Bathe humanity—new-born!

Lord, art Thou here? far from the citied zones,
Brooding in melancholy solitude;
Hushing Thy breath to awful undertones,
Darkening Thy face, if mortal foot intrude.
Father, how shall I meet Thee in this mood?
How shall I ask Thee why Thou dwell'st with stones,
While far away the world, like Lazarus, groans,
Sick for Thy healing. Father, if Thou be'st good,
And wise, and gentle, oh come down, come down!
Come like an Angel with a human face,
Pass through the gates into the hungry Town,
Comfort the weary, send the afflicted grace,

In a sheltered, cool, green place
You and I once stood together
Where the quickens interlace.

Then it was our love declared
(Thro' a throstle's silver chiming)
All the passion that it dared.

Then you called me by my name,
And the answering eyes I lifted
Flashed a flame unto a flame.

Hushed, we watched the eve descend
The rose-flecked stair of day, to see
Our heart's probation fitly end.

Stars and mist and dew-wet flowers
Scented, shielded, and made holy,
That sweet hour of the hours.

But ye, — ye Hills that gather round this day,
Ye Mountains, and ye Vapours, and ye Waves,
Ye will attest the wrongs of men of clay,
When, in a World all hush'd, sits on our graves
The melancholy Maker. From your caves
Strange echoes of our old lost life shall come;
With still eyes fixed on your vast architraves,
Nature shall speak, though mortal lips be dumb.
Then God will cry: " Sadly the Waters fall,
Sadly the Mountains keep their snowy state,
The Clouds pass on, the Winds and Echoes call,
The World is sweet, yet wearily I wait.

If I can help another bear an ill
By bearing mine with somewhat of good grace —
Can take Fate's thrusts with not too long a face
And help him through his trials, then I WILL!
For do not braver men than I decline
To bow to troubles graver, far, than mine?

Pain twists this body? Yes, but it shall not
Distort my soul, by all the gods that be!
And when it's done its worst, Pain's victory
Shall be an empty one! Whate'er my lot,
My banner, ragged, but nailed to the mast,
Shall fly triumphant to the very last!

I found Thee not by the starved widow's bed,
Nor in the sick-rooms where my dear ones died;
In Cities vast I hearken'd for Thy tread,
And heard a thousand call Thee, wretched-eyed,
Worn out, and bitter. But the Heavens denied
Their melancholy Maker. From the Dead!
Assurance came. nor answer. Then I fled
Into these wastes, and raised my hands, and cried:
‘The seasons pass—the sky is as a pall—
Thin wasted hands on withering hearts we press—
There is no God—in vain we plead and call,
In vain with weary eyes we search and guess—

Exert thy power, thy rights maintain,
Insulted, everlasting King!
The influence of thy law increase,
And strangers to thy footstool bring.

In one vast symphony of praise,
Let every race and clime unite;
And infidelity, ashamed,
Sink in the abyss of endless night.

Afric's emancipated sons
Shall shout to Asia's rapt'rous throng;
Europe resound her savior's fame,
And western climes the notes prolong.

From east to west, from north to south,
The savior's kingdom must extend;
And every man, in every face,

The war-pies blow, and with joy I go from Aileach's Halls to the hosting-field,
I have roused my men from each Ulster glen in the glitter of rustless spear and shield.

They are yours for life, O'Cearbhall's wife, or yours for death in the battle's blare —
When our blue-sharp swords through Leinster's hordes shall cut a pathway for vengeance there.

Shall cleave and kill with a mighty will, shall hack and hew for your woe or weal,
Till one who is best on his foeman's breast shall press in triumph the victor heel.

Fathoms deep the ship doth lie,
Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell,
Still and deep the shadows lie,
Dusky as a forest dell:
Tangled in the twisted sail,
With the breathing of the Sea,
Stirs the Man who told this tale,
Staring upward dreamilie.

I laid him here, and scarcely wept; but look!
His grave is green and wild and like a wave,
And strewn with ocean-shells instead of flowers.