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III.

The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing
Waving the thin locks from his forehead pale,
He felt above the laughing sun was glowing,
And heard the wild birds hymning in the gale,
And scented the awakening sweets which lay
Couch'd on the bosom of the virgin day-
And felt thro' all—and sigh'd not—that for him
The earth was joyless, and the heaven was din,
Creation was a blank—the light a gloom,
And life itself as changeless as the tomb.
High-pale-still—voiceless—motionless—alone —
He sate—like some wrought monumental stone
Raising his sightless balls to the blue sky;
Life's dreaming morning and its toiling day
Had sadden'd into evening and the deep
And all august repose—which broods on high
What time the wearied storms have died away,
Mighty in silence—like a Giant's sleep
Made calm the lifted grandeur of his brow.

And while he sate, nor saw; a timorous foot
Drew near—a pilgrim from a foreign land,
And of God's softer race ;—and hush'd and mute
She gazed upon that glorious brow; for this
This only gaze on One whose orb of Fame
Yet slowly laboured up from Time's abyss
To its unwaning noon—afar she came !

And as she gazed the hot unconscious tears Flowed fast and full—her heart was far away! Thro' change and care, and long and bitter years. How had lorn Memory sickened for this day! And now * * * * * * * *

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IV. Our life is as a circle—and our age Turns to the thoughts and feelings which engage In our young morn the vision and the vow, For manhood's years are restless, and we learn A bitter lesson--bitterer for the truthWhich suits not with the golden dreams of youth, And wearies us in age and so we yearn, Sated and pallid, for Boyhood's bliss once more. But ere the world forsakes us-on we flow Passive and reckless with its mingling tide Till night comes on—and passions which betray'd Our reason, quit the ruins they have madeThe winds are lull’d--the hurrying waves subside And leave upon the lone and sterile shore The baffled bark their wrath had wreck'd before.--

V.

Slight is our love in age to thoughts which bear Man's ruder lot of conflict and of care--

As roves from gaudier tints the aching eye
Woos the pure green, and dwells delighted there,
So loves the soul the world has worn, to fly
Languid and weak the glitter and the glare,
And on the fresh tints of its verdant days
To turn and drink deep quiet in the gaze.
The visions of the Minstrel, which in vain
Had woo'd his noon-day-brightly roll'd again
Like sun-lit waters o'er his mind, and gave
The waste the welcome freshness of the wave.

VI. There, as a river in its hidden course, Mighty and secret thro' his spirit flow'd The inspirations none but God might see, The cave their channel, and the rock their source, But rolling on to Immortality Old-blind-deserted--lone amid the crowd,No hopes---save those of heaven---upon the earth,-Amid the wrecks of Freedom only free, Cold-rapt-estrang’d amid that courtly mirth Where Pleasure lent the veil to Tyranny, He stood—like some grey Column far away From life—and crumbling in its proud decayThere wildest flowerets bloom—and nightly there Wails with mysterious voice the wandering Air-Amid the stars—the dews--the eternal hills--And the far voices of the dashing rills--

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Amid the haunted darkness of the night,
When earth and heaven are mingled in their might,
It stands begirt with each—and looks on high
Thro' Shade and Cloud to commune with the Sky.--

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* * * Beneath a church's chancel there were laid A great Man's bones,--and when the crowd was gone, An aged woman, in black robes arrayed, Lingered and wept beside the holy stone. None knew her name, or land; her voice was sweet, With the strange music of a foreign tongue:--Thrice on that spot her bending form they meet, Thrice on that stone are freshest garlands hung. On the fourth day she came not; and the wreath, Look'd dim and withered from its odorous breath; And if I err not wholly, on that day, A soul that loved till death, had passed away!

THE END OF MILTON.

363

ON THE VANITY OF SMALL SUCCESSES.

Ergo hominum genus incassum frustràque laborat
Semper, et in curis consumit inanibus ævum.

LUCRET. Lib. 5.1. 1429.

Sick, wearied, worn; the harsh Ixion wheel

Within the heart shall have a moment's rest; And thoughts---deep thoughts, I would but rarely feel,

Shall not be now represt.

Out on this curse of earth! we toil—we yearn,

We coil and shrivel the smooth heart with care ; We make each hour a task-And our return ?--

Go-ask our tombs-'tis there !

O God, that from this small and wizard ring

The pent but all-impatient soul could strain ! Lo! round the air-within the exulting wing--

Why this eternal chain ?

We see-we feel--we pant---and we aspire,

Ay; for one hour we dream we have arisen ; Earth fades below---we wake

- behold the mire, And grating of our prison !

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