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My nerves from no such murmur shrink, though
near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, ' When twilight shades darken the mountain's head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear To household virtues. Venerable Art, Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, Trusting to crowded factory and mart And proud discoveries of the intellect, Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND,
ON EASTER SUNDAY.
WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
DECAY OF PIETY.
OFT have I seen,ere Time had ploughed my cheek,
COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND
IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.
What need of clamorous bells, or ribbons gay,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep
pace With gentleness, in that becoming way Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear; No disproportion in her soul, no strife : But when the closer view of wedded life Hath shown that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the Wife To her indulgent lord become more dear.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
1. YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; For if of our affections none finds grace In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour; But in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.
FROM TIIE SAME.
And my Soul felt her destiny divine, * And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward 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 that doth on time depend. 'T is sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.
FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.
The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
SURPRISED share the train the
SURPRISED by joy, impatient as the Wind