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Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity !

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage! thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep
Haunted forever by the eternal mind !--
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 the 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

Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not, indeed,

For that which is most worthy to be blest

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;


But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised-
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—

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy !

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!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!


What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower-
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind:
In the primal sympathy

Which, having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.


And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,.
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring 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,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears-
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.



The Hermit.

T the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,

While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war,

He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man :

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay-

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn!
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away!
Full quickly they pass—but they never return.

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays;

But lately I marked when majestic on high

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue

The path that conducts thee to splendor again!
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more.
I mourn-but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;

But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?
O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave ?"


"'T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,


'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.'

"And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn :

So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."


The First Voices of Paradise.


HAT was 't awakened first the untuned ear
Of that sole man who was all human kind?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sear?
The four mellifluous streams which flowed so near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combined?
The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind
Bursting the brake in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet?
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,
Making sweet music out of air as sweet?
Or his own voice awake him with its sound?

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