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"HERE let us live and spend away our lives,"

Said once Fortunio, "while below, absorbed,

The riotous careering race of man, Intent on gain or war, pour out their news.

Let us bring in a chosen company, Like that the noblest of our beauteous maids Might lead, herself

unequalled Margaret,

The summary of good for all our state; Composedly thoughtful, genial, yet reserved,

Pure as the wells that dot the ravine's bed,

And lofty as the stars that pierce her skies.

Here shall she reign triumphant, and preside

With gentle prudence o'er the camp's wild mood, Summoning forth much order from what else Surely must prove unsound."

CHANNING.

MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.

O THEN What soul was his, when, on the tops Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun

Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked —

Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay

In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, And in their silent faces did he read

Unutterable love. Sound needed none,

Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form

All melted into him; they swallowed

up

His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life.

In such access of mind, in such high hour

Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.

No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;

Rapt into still communion that transcends

The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,

His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love.

WORDSWORTH.

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