Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.

I hear strange music in the trees;
I see the mild melodious stir
Of clouds and corn; can almost feel the breeze
That waves the long bright films of gossamer,
Running in tissue-strands from tree to tree;
And the wild joy of living and expanding
     Comes from the outer-world to me;
And all the radiance and the melody
          Upon me lying,
Moveth my spirit (as a summer wind
     Troubleth a weeping willow tress)
          Unto a soft strange kind
Of sadness, gladness, pain, and silentness,
          Vague, mingled, undefined.
For here I lie amid the stranding
Of my life-hope; must leave behind
          All that I see
Of beautiful and grand; no more to be
A portion of their life and poesy —
          I am dying!
O wonderful Light! O Music marvellous!
          My soul hath dwelt with you.
O Beauty, heavenly Beauty! is it thus
That I must fade and pass away,
          While thou art ever new,
          Fresh-born, and sparkling as the dew?
O, I have felt a kinship with the grand,
     The tender, the magnificent;
          Is 't possible the hand
That once hath swept the mystic under-keys
          Of this vast instrument,
          Can perish utterly?
          Is 't possible the night
          On which I enter now
          Will know no day?
Can that, that feels and utters all decay?
          O spirit, bend thy brow!
          O soul, sink on thy knees!
          Wait calmly till the light
Break on thy trembling, deep anxiety.
          Far, hid eternity!
What is thy shadow? what thy mystery?
          Most holy Book!
To which great earnest men have come
                    Through the long ages with their agonies
          Of dark implorings, doubts, uncertainties,
And fierce upreachings of the spirit dumb,
          I cling to thee.
          O Spirit! dawn on me;
Unseal my inward seeing while I look!
My hands are clasped before me, and my eyes
          Are dim with prayer.
          Thou Man of Calvary!
          Thou of the fairest fair!
With the atoning blood on brow and side,
          Come near, and let me kiss Thy feet,
          Receive Thy holy chrism, and rise complete
          Serene of soul, and pure, and pacified.
          Smile on me till these achings feel Thy balm,
          And my rocked soul is strong to wait
          Amid the darkness, and
                    Be calm.

Last modified 3 September 2002