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Evil, like a rolling stone upon a mountain-top,
He knew, who healed our wounds, we quickly should be fain
When will the din of earth grate harshly on our ears? When we have once heard plain the music of the spheres.
Why win we not at once what we in prayer require? That we may learn great things as greatly to desire.
The tasks, the joys of earth, the same in heaven will
be; Only the little brook has widened to a sea.
Who hunt this world's delight too late their hunting
rue, When it a lion proves, the hunter to pursue.
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.— Wordsworth.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
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The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Waters on a starry night
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*
Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound, As to the tabour's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ;— Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd boy!
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
0 evil day! if I were sullen,
This sweet May-morning,
On every side,
1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! —
A single field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Upon the growing boy;
He sees it in his joy;
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
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And by the vision splendid
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 inmate man,
Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the child among his new-born blisses,
And this hath now his heart,
Filling from time to time his " humorous stage"
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
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 for ever 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!
0, joy! that in our embers