H .
O. Meredith .
IV.
Then
in my heart it
seemed
that God
Stooped
from
his
heaven
and smiled
on
me
,
A
patron
with
a
kingly
nod
To
greet
his
slaves
aspirancy
!
And
the
dim
waves
of
surging
thought
Seemed
to
take
substance
by his
grace
,
As when
a
sculptor who
has
wrought
His
passion
into
a
marble face
,
All
his
imagination
feeds
From
contours
moulded
by
his skill
,
And
the
reflected
glow
exceeds
The parent spark
of
mind
and will
.
Once more
all
earth
and
heaven
were
strange
,
Strange
to
the
sea
the river
flowed
;
But not
as
on
that
primal change
,
When
panic
launched
a
quivering
goad
,
And
pricked
each
naked
newborn
sense
,
And
drove me with
the flail
of
fear
Out
of
the wastes
of
impotence
To
build
foul temples
of
despair
.
116