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With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower.
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born, the soul a heavenward course must hold:
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal form, the universal mould.
1'he wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.



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,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.


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.


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; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon I
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune:
It moves us not. Great God' I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.


A Volant tribe of bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play,
On 'coignes of vantage' hang their nests of clay;
How quickly from that aery hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground
Of Nature trusts the mind that builds for aye;
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round,
Apart she toils within the chosen ring:;
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
Where even the motion of an angel's wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.


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;

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