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It partly is,
That our minds piece the vacant intervals
Or coals in the winter fire, idlers find
The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts:
Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts.
Come, I will sing to you; let us go try
Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy
HAMPDEN, PYM, CROMWELL, and the younger VANE.
England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle, Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave!
I held what I inherited in thee
As pawn for that inheritance of freedom
Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile :How can I call thee England, or my country? Does the wind hold?
The vanes sit steady
Upon the Abbey-towers. The silver lightnings Of the evening star, spite of the city's smoke, Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air. Mark too that flock of fleecy-winged clouds Sailing athwart St. Margaret's.
Hail, fleet herald
Of tempest! that wild pilot who shall guide
Bright as the path to a beloved home,
O light us to the isles of th' evening land!
Where power's poor dupes and victims yet have
Propitiated the savage fear of kings
With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew
These exiles from the old and sinful world!
Of pale-blue atmosphere; whose tears keep green
Of this wide prison, England, is a nest
Of cradled peace built on the mountain tops,
Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn
Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth,
Return to brood over the [
That cannot die, and may not be repelled.
SWIFT as a spirit hastening to his task
Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth— The smokeless altars of the mountain snows Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth
Of light, the Ocean's orison arose,
To which the birds tempered their matin lay.
Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day,
Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent
Isle, ocean, and all things that in them wear
Their portion of the toil, which he of old
Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem
Which an old chesnut flung athwart the steep
Was at my feet, and Heaven above my head, When a strange trance over my fancy grew Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread
Was so transparent that the scene came through
That I had felt the freshness of that dawn Bathe in the same cold dew my brow and hair, And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn