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With beauty, which is varying every hour;
No mortal object did these eyes behold
TO THE SUPREME BEING.
FROM THE SAME.
The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
Unless thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it. Father! thou must lead.
Do thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my inirvi
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
Surprised by joy—impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But thee deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find.
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
DEATH. Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud— Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed; Hut all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on ; a miserable crowd, Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, '' Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan!" I seem to mount those steps; the vapours gave Smooth way ; and I beheld the face of one Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; A lovely beauty in a summer grave!
"weak is the will of man, his judgment blind;
Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays;
Heavy is woe ;—and joy, for humankind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more than reasoning mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays,
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined;
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranlhine flower
Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
AN EVENING THOUGHT.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastmgly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
Wheee lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a lark at break of day:
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry? Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!
With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she strode, "Her tackling rich, and of apparel high." This ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a lover's look; This ship to all the rest did I prefer: When will she turn, and whither? She will broo!l No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: On went she,—and due north her journey took.
"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US."
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
A Volant tribe of bards on earth are found,
How sweet it is, when mother fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood I
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in Hocks;