THAT precious, priceless gift, a soul Unto thyself surrendered whole, BLEST is the man whose heart and hands are pure! Withdrawn from all but thy control, | He hath no sickness that he shall not Thou hast foregone. The throne where none might sit but thou, The crown of love to bind thy brow, Glad homage paid with praise and vow, Thou hast foregone. I do not blame thee utterly, It was thy folly, not thy crime, Thou hast foregone. cure, No sorrow that he may not well endure: His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure. Oh, blest is he who ne'er hath sold his soul, Whose will is perfect, and whose word is whole, Who hath not paid to common sense the toll Of self-disgrace, nor owned the world's control! Through clouds and shadows of the darkest night He will not lose a glimmering of the light, To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juice To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near, and feels. ON THE RECEPTION OF WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD. Renews the life of joy in happiest | Fram the full heart of England's youth, to hail Her once neglected bard within the pale Of Learning's fairest citadel! That voice, In which the future thunders, bids rejoice Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail To bless with love as deep as life, the name Thus welcomed; who in happy silence share The triumph; while their fondest musings claim Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air, That to their long-loved poet's spirit bear. A nation's promise of undying fame. |