  I. "Neural and hÆmal arch," you say, "Tell out man's history to-day, Brain and mechanics have their way." Is structure then sole test of kin? The ape from man, in form and skin, Is far as holiness from sin! Emotion swears with hand uplift, That beauty is no mere makeshift, Significance divine its drift. Beauty of sound, articulate speech, Lories and pyes might simians teach, These, therefore, nearer to man reach; While nightingale and mocking-bird, Approach, in music's heavenly word, Closer than mammal e'er conferred. II. Were structure and function parallel, The word might break the mystic spell, But function doth its test compel. Upward to man the beaver deft In structure gains of tail bereft— But if there were no house-skill left!— And if in structure beavers be In tooth and larynx nearer me Than flirting blackbird in ash-tree, His song beyond all such control Comes up in kindred echo-roll, With those that tremble in my soul. III. True, in mechanics there is seen A gross resemblance in the mien Of ape and man—thought nigh unclean! But grosser want of function's shewn Of human attribute and tone,— Sweet rhythmic utterance unknown; Beauty of form, proportion fair, And dignity—all wanting there, Though neural and hÆmal arch compare! IV. Of structure, all you find is that A function it performs, whereat A thus or thus of sight's come at. And yet you truly know far more— Feeling from out her open door Affirms, in speech of beauty's lore: "O, awesome!" "beauteous!" "pleasant too!" "Inspiriting!" "ennobling!" "true!" Or contrariwise—each as is due. But no account of this you take; Your thoughts are polarized, and make An open sea of a tiny lake. V. You don't believe the colors of birds And insects are God's painted words To please the master of His herds! "Mere marks ancestral, once of use, Now useless as an empty cruse— Derived, but not designed," your truce. Yet why such skilful pains bestow, That colors once had use, to shew? Vain zeal, since that you cannot know. Fruitless your words! Is it not plain, "Designed" or not, like April rain, The end achieved is man's high gain? VI. 'Tis folly to attempt truth's goal With logic got of half the soul,— Truth will not have the half, but whole. Beauty, God's gladness seen in time, Lights up Truth's calm white face sublime With radiance of the golden prime! Shall you and I look down for light? Nay, upward let us fix our sight, Downward's the awful gulf of night. |
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