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Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
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
What was so fugitive!
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
Blank misgivings of a creature
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;
Nor man, nor boy,
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!
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Feel the gladness of the May!
Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
In the soothing thoughts that spring
In the faith that looks through death,
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,
THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT.
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,
That he, not too elate
With self-sufficing solitude,
Might in the universal bosom reign,
Five thousand warriors-0 the rapturous day!
In seemly order stand,
He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown;
In boundless prodigality;
Invoking Dion's tutelary care,
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,