Originally published in Leigh Hunt's Journal (Edward Moxon) vol.4 #13 (01 Mar 1851).
Rowers, rest! the night is come,
In the west the last light fades;
Either shore lies dark and dumb,
Changing fast to formless shades.
Dark the anchored vessels ride,
Dark against the sky the spars,
Giddily swung from side to side,
Oft the tall masts blot the stars.
But the river takes no shade
From the darkness closing round;
In its own great light arrayed,
Shining more, and more profound.
And the current, as though freed,
Doubly seems to increase and run,
One might almost dream its speed
To the Infinite hastening on.
Fair illusion;—but more fair,
And illusion none is this,
That in this dark world of care,
Buried hopes, and fleeting bliss,
Oft the immortal human soul,
When around her all things lower,
Most pursues her glorious goal,
In herself renewing power.