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Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st th' eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by th' eternal mind,

Mighty prophet! seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy Being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring th’ inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being


Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor man, nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither ;

Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound,

As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight;

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Think not of any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.


And shall,” the pontiff asks, “profaneness flow From Nazareth- -source of Christian piety, From Bethlehem—from the mounts of agony And glorified ascension ? Warriors go, With prayers and blessings we your path will sow; Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye Have chased far off by righteous victory These sons of Amalec, or laid them low!" “God willeth it,” the whole assembly cry; Shout which th’enraptured multitude astounds! The council-roof and Clermont's towers reply ;“God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds, And in awe-stricken countries far and nigh Through “Nature's hollow arch," the voice resounds.


So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turn'd, a natural grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
Nor less the homage that was seen to wait
On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere;-

That he, not too elate

With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,

Might in the universal bosom reign,
And from affectionate observance gain
Help, under every change of adverse fate.

Five thousand warriors-0 the rapturous day!
Each crown'd with flowers, and arm’d with spear and

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,
To Syracuse advance in bright array.
Who leads them on?—the anxious people see
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crown'd with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad!
Pure transport undisturb’d by doubt or fear
The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are enter'd, on each hand,
Down the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine

In seemly order stand,
On tables set, as if for rites divine ;-
And, as the great Deliverer marches by,

He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown;
And flowers are on his person thrown

In boundless prodigality;
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer,

Invoking Dion's tutelary care,
As if a very deity he were !


2 Larted


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Domestic bliss (Or call it comfort, by an humbler name), How art thou blighted for the poor man's heart! Lo! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, The habitations empty! or perchance The mother left alone,-no helping hand To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, Or in dispatch of each day's little growth Of household occupation; no nice arts Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, Where once the dinner was prepared with pride; Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind; Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command ! -The father, if perchance he still retain His old employments, goes to field or wood, No longer led or follow'd by the sons; Idlers perchance they were, --but in his sight; Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, Ne'er to return! That birthright now is lost. Economists will tell you that the State Thrives by the forfeitureunfeeling thought, And false as monstrous! Can the mother thrive By the destruction of her innocent sons ? In whom a premature necessity Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up The infant being in itself, and makes Its very spring a season of decay ! The lot is wretched, the condition sad, Whether a pining discontent survive, And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued The soul depress'd, dejected-even to love Of her dull tasks, and close captivity. -Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns A native Briton to these inward chains, Fix'd in his soul, so early and so deep, Without his own consent, or knowledge, fix'd ! He is a slave to whom release comes not, And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns, Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up Among the clouds and in the ancient woods; Or when the sun is shining in the east,

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