Something of what is life, shake off | To this death; [breath dust and sense, and set at large the mind! Have thy soul feel the universal Then move in sympathy with God's With which all nature's quick, and learn to be [see; Sharer in all that thou dost touch or great whole, And be like man at first, a living soul. Permission first his heavenly feet to lave. Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Abounding from its sources like a river Which through the dim lawns streams eternally! Virtue might then uplift her crest or high, Spurning those myriad bonds that fret and grieve her: Then all the powers of hell would quake and quiver Before the ardors of her awful eye. for man with all his high de sires, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, mak-Alas ing free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. BEATITUDE. BLESSED is he who hath not trod the ways Of secular delights; nor learned the lore Which loftier minds are studious to abhor. Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise That perishes, the rapture that betrays: Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war His youth and found, a school-boy at fourscore, How fatal are those victories which raise Their iron trophies to a temple's height On trampled Justice: who desires not bliss, But peace; and yet when summoned to the fight, Combats as one who combats in the sight Of God and of His angels, seeking this Alone, how best to glorify the Right. THE MOOD OF EXALTATION. WHAT man can hear sweet sounds and dread to die? O for a music that might last forever! And inward promptings fading day by day! High-titled honor pants while it expires, And clay-born glory turns again to clay. Low instincts last: our great resolves pass by Like winds whose loftiest pæan ends but in a sigh. CHARLES DICKENS. And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's Creeping where no life is seen, Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, |