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To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground

And sees them, when the rain is d
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,

With vision clear,

Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change

From birth to death, from death to b

From earth to heaven, from heaven to Till glimpses more sublime

Of things, unseen before,

Unto his wondering eyes reveal

The Universe, as an immeasurable wh

Turning for evermore

In the rapid and rushing river of Time

TO A CHILD.

DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles,

Thou gazest at the painted tiles,

Whose figures grace,

With many a grotesque form and face,

The ancient chimney of thy nursery!

The lady with the gay macaw,

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw

With bearded lip and chin ;

And, leaning idly o'er his gate,

Beneath the imperial fan of sta The Chinese mandarin.

With what a look of proud com Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver be Making a merry tune!

Thousands of years in Indian sea That coral grew, by slow degrees

Until some deadly and wild mons

Dashed it on Coromandel's sand!

Those silver bells

Reposed of yore,

As shapeless ore,

Far down in the deep-sunken wells

Of darksome mines,

In some obscure and sunless place, Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, Or steep Potosi's mountain pines!

And thus for thee, O little child,

Through many a danger and escape,
The tall ships passed the stormy cape;
For thee in foreign lands remote,

Beneath a burning, tropic clime,

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat,
Himself as swift and wild,

In falling, clutched the frail arbute,
The fibres of whose shallow root,

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed

The silver veins beneath it laid,

The buried treasures of the miser, Time.

But, lo! thy door is left ajar!

Thou hearest footsteps from afar !

And, at the sound,

Thou turnest round

With quick and questioning eyes,

Like one, who, in a foreign land,

Beholds on every hand

Some source of wonder and surpri

And, restlessly, impatiently,

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free
The four walls of thy nursery

Are now like prison walls to thee.
No more thy mother's smiles,
No more the painted tiles,

Delight thee, nor the playthings on t
That won thy little, beating heart bef
Thou strugglest for the open door.

Through these once solitary halls
Thy pattering footstep falls.
The sound of thy merry voice

Makes the old walls

Jubilant, and they rejoice

With the joy of thy young heart,

O'er the light of whose gladness

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