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Nor without heavy grief of heart did He,
And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,
Ilad scarcely flowered: and at this early time,
That greatly cheered his Country: to his Kin lle promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts Ilis Friends had in their fondness entertained, 1 lle suffered not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
PAUSE, Courteous Spirit!-Balbi supplicates
As with a chosen Friend, nor did he leave
Composed at Grasmere, during a walk, one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr Fox was hourly expected.
LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is
Of all her Voices, One!
Loud is the Vale;-this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea;
In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original. e degli amici
Non lasciava languire i bei, easieri.
A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than the wind: « From regions where no evil thing has birth I come-thy stains to wash away,
Thy cherished fetters to unbind,
To open thy sad eyes upon a milder day.
The Heavens are thronged with martyrs that have risen
With tens of thousands rent from off the tree
« Unpitied havoc! Victims unlamented! But not on high, where madness is resented, And murder causes some sad tears to flow, Though, from the widely-sweeping blow, The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly augmented.
<< False Parent of Mankind!
I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews,
Of which the rivers in their secret springs,
And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and love,
The Spirit ended his mysterious rite, And the pure vision closed in darkness infinite.
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
The Child is Father of the Man;
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
To me did seem
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;-
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
The Youth, who daily farther from the East
At length the Man perceives it die away,
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Iumate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
See where mid work of his own hand he lies,
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his « humorous stage>>
As if his whole vocation
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
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
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
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;
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,