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Yet, glancing through our misty clime,
Some sparkles from that loftier sphere Make way to earth ;—then most what time
The annual spring-flowers reappear.
Amid the coarser needs of earth
All shapes of brightness, what are they But wanderers exiled from their birth,
Or pledges of a happier day?
Yea, what is Beauty, judged aright,
But some surpassing, transient gleam; Some smile from heaven, in waves of light,
Rippling o'er life's distempered dream?
Or broken memories of that bliss
Which rushed thro' first-born Nature's blood When He who ever was and is Looked down and saw that all was good ?
AUBREY DE VERE.
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
Along the margin of a bay :
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :
In such a jocund company !
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
Which is the bliss of solitude;
Beside the sunset's golden bars,
The twinkling shadows of the stars.
Upon the river's rippling face,
Flash after flash, the white
The rest was soft and bright.
By chance my eye fell on the stream:
-How many a marvellous power
This knew I in that hour.
For then my heart, so full of strife,
No more was in me stirred; My life was in the river's life,
And I nor saw nor heard.
I and the river, we were one :
The shade beneath the bank, I felt it cool ; the setting sun
Into my spirit sank.
A rushing thing in power serene
I was; the mystery
Was it a moment or an hour ?
I know not; but I mourned
THOMAS BURBIDGE. MAN.
Y God, I heard this day
What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is Man ? to whose creation
All things are in decay.
For Man is every thing, And more. He is a tree, yet bears no fruit;
A beast, yet is, or should be, more :
Reason and speech we only bring. Parrots may thank us if they are not mute,
They go upon the score.
Man is all symmetry,
And all to all the world besides :
Each part may call the farthest, brother ; For head with foot hath private amity,
And both with moons and tides.
Nothing hath got so far But man hath caught and kept it as his prey.
His eyes dismount the highest star;
He is in little all the sphere. Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.
For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see but means our good,
As our delight, or as our treasure. The whole is either our cupboard of food
Or cabinet of pleasure.
The stars have us to bed ;
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their ascent and cause.
Each thing is full of duty : Waters united are our navigation;
Distinguished, our habitation ;
Below, our drink ; above, our meat : Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty ?
Then how are all things neat!
More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of : in every path
He treads down that which doth befriend him
When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love ! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.
Since then, my God, Thou hast So brave a Palace built, oh dwell in it,
That it may dwell with Thee at last !