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But not for this do I aspire
When this in modest guise was said,
the rivers backward ran
Fire raged, - and when the spangled floor
This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
open Waking at morn he murmured not; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS
FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.
“ Who but hails the sight with pleasure
With great enterprise ;
The stormy skies !
Mark him, how his
power Lays it by, at will resumes ! Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
Clouds and utter glooms ! There, he wheels in downward mazes ; Sunward now his flight he raises, Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
With uninjured plumes !"
“ Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
Mid the tempest stern;
TUFT OF FERN;
Such it is ; – the aspiring Creature
A dull helpless Thing,
how hollow Its endeavouring!"
Pleasure is spread through the earth
By their floating Mill,
That lies dead and still, Behold
Prisoners three, The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames ! The Platform is small, but gives room for them all ; And they're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their Mill where it floats,