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XXVII.

FROM THE SAME.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew

bold:

Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;

Beyond the visible world She soars to seek

(For what delights the sense is false and weak)

Ideal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest

In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught, which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.

XXVIII.

FROM THE SAME.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,

That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
Unless thou shew to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.

XXIX.

SURPRISED by joy impatient as the Wind

-

I turned to share the transport Oh! with whom

But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind

But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

Το my most grievous loss? That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

XXX.

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud-
Nor view of who might, sit thereon allowed;

But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
I seemed to mount those steps; the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

XXXI.

"WEAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; "Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; Heavy is woe; and joy, for human-kind,

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"A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine Flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

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