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He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak

A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought. He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy, what the old man hardly feels.

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My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While the earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning;

And the children are pulling,

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
-But there's a tree, of many one,

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:
The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;

The youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.


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,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral ;

And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride

The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;

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!


Ojoy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his
Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,


High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised!

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither,-
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.


Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.


And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live;
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.



How beautiful is night!

A dewy freshness fills the silent air,

No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!

Who at this untimely hour
Wanders o'er the desert sands?

No station is in view,

Nor palm-grove islanded amid the waste.
The mother and her child,

The widowed mother and the fatherless boy,
They at this untimely hour
Wander o'er the desert sands.

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Singing a love-song to his brooding mate, Did Thracian shepherd by the grave Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody, Though there the Spirit of the Sepulchre All his own power infuse, to swell The incense that he loves.

And oh! what odours the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,

From yon rose wilderness,

From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves,
That with such perfumes fill the breeze,
As Peris to their Sister bear,
When from the summit of some lofty tree
She hangs encaged, the captive of the Dives.
They from their pinions shake
The sweetness of celestial flowers,
And, as her enemies impure
From that impervious poison far away
Fly groaning with the torment, she the while
Inhales her fragrant food.

Such odours flow'd upon the world,
When at Mohammed's nuptials, word
Went forth in Heaven, to roll
The everlasting gates of Paradise
Back on their living hinges, that its gales
Might visit all below; the general bliss

Thrill'd every bosom, and the family
Of man, for once, partook one common joy.

He tarried not,-he past

The threshold, over which was no return.
All earthly thoughts, all human hopes
And passions now put off,

He cast no backward glance
Towards the gleam of day.

There was a light within,

A yellow light, as when the autumnal Sun, Through travelling rain and mist Shines on the evening hills. Whether from central fires effus'd, Or if the sun-beams, day by day, From earliest generations, there absorb'd, Were gathering for the wrath-flame. Shade was In those portentous vaults;

Crag overhanging, nor columnal rock


Cast its dark outline there; For, with the hot and heavy atmosphere, The light incorporate, permeating all, Spread over all its equal yellowness. There was no motion in the lifeless air, He felt no stirring as he past Adown the long descent,

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It was a living Image, by the art
Of magic hands, of flesh and bones compos'd,
And human blood, through veins and arteries
'That flow'd with vital action. In the shape
Of Eblis it was made;

Its stature such, and such its strength,
As when among the Sons of God
Pre-eminent, he rais'd his radiant head,
Prince of the Morning. On his brow
A coronet of meteor flames,
Flowing in points of light.
Self-pois'd in air before him,

Hung the Round Altar, rolling like the world
On its diurnal axis; like the world
Chequer'd with sea and shore,

The work of demon art.

For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand Touch'd the Round Altar, in its answering realm, Earth felt the stroke, and ocean rose in storms, And ruining cities, shaken from their seat, Crush'd all their inhabitants.

His other arm was rais'd, and its spread palm Up-bore the ocean-weight,

Whose naked waters arch'd the sanctuary.

AN EASTERN EVENING. Evening comes on: arising from the stream, Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight; And where he sails athwart the setting beam, His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night, Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day, To scare the winged plunderers from their prey, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height, Hath borne the sultry ray. Hark! at the Golden Palaces,

The Bramin strikes the hour.

For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound Rolls through the stillness of departing day, Like thunder far away.

O happy sire, and happy daughter!
Ye on the banks of that celestial water
Your resting place and sanctuary have found.
What! hath not then their mortal taint defil'd
The sacred solitary ground?

Vain thought! the Holy Valley smil'd
Receiving such a sire and child;
Ganges, who seem'd asleep to lie,
Beheld them with benignant eye,
And rippled round melodiously,
And roll'd her little waves to meet
And welcome their beloved feet.
The gales of Swerga thither fled,
And heavenly odours there were shed

About, below, and overhead;
And Earth rejoicing in their tread,
Hath built them up a blooming bower,
Where every amaranthine flower
Its deathless blossom interweaves
With bright and undecaying leaves.

Three happy beings are there here,
The sire, the maid, the Glendoveer;
A fourth approaches, who is this
That enters in the Bower of Bliss?
No form so fair might painter find
Among the daughters of mankind;
For death her beauties hath refin'd,
And unto her a form hath given
Framed of the elements of Heaven;
Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind.
She stood and gaz'd on sire and child;
Her tongue not yet hath power to speak,
The tears were streaming down her cheek;
And when those tears her sight beguil'd,
And still her faultering accents fail'd,

The Spirit, mute and motionless,
Spread out her arms for the caress,
Made still and silent with excess
Of love and painful happiness.

The maid that lovely form survey'd; Wistful she gaz'd, and knew her not; But nature to her heart convey'd A sudden thrill, a startling thought, A feeling many a year forgot, Now like a dream anew recurring, As if again in every vein Her mother's milk was stirring. With straining neck and earnest eye She stretch'd her hands imploringly, As if she fain would have her nigh, Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, At once with love and awe opprest.

Not so Ladurlad; he could trace, Though brighten'd with angelic grace,

His own Yedillian's earthly face; He ran and held her to his breast! Oh joy above all joys of Heaven, By death alone to others given, This moment hath to him restor'd The early-lost, the long-deplor'd.

They sin who tell us Love can die.
With life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But Love is indestructible.

Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceiv'd, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high

The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,

An over-payment of delight!


THE SUBMARINE CITY. Such was the talk they held upon their Of him to whose old city they were bound; And now, upon their journey, many a day Had risen and clos'd, and many a week gone round, And many a realm and region had they past, When now the ancient towers appear'd at last. Their golden summits, in the noon-day light, Shone o'er the dark green deep that roll'd between; For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen Peering above the sea,-a mournful sight! Well might the sad beholder ween from thence What works of wonder the devouring wave Had swallowed there, when monuments so brave Bore record of their old magnificence. And on the sandy shore, beside the verge Of ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane Resisted in its strength the surf and surge That on their deep foundations beat in vain. In solitude the ancient temples stood, Once resonant with instrument and song, And solemn dance of festive multitude; Now as the weary ages pass along, Hearing no voice save of the ocean flood, Which roars for ever on the restless shores; Or, visiting their solitary caves, The lonely sound of winds, that moan around

Accordant to the melancholy waves.
Wondering, he stood awhile to gaze

Upon the works of elder days.
The brazen portals open stood,
Even as the fearful multitude
Had left them, when they fled
Before the rising flood.
High over-head, sublime,

The mighty gateway's storied roof was spread,
Dwarfing the puny piles of younger time.
With the deeds of days of yore

That ample roof was sculptur'd o'er, And many a godlike form there met his eye, And many an emblem dark of mystery. Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode Triumphant from his proud abode, When, in his greatness, he bestrode The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind, The Aullay-horse, that in his force, With elephantine trunk, could bind And lift the elephant, and on the wind Whirl him away, with sway and swing, Even like a pebble from the practis'd sling.

Those streets which never, since the days of yore,
By human footstep had been visited;
Those streets which never more
A human foot shall tread,
Ladurlad trod. In sun-light, and sea-green,
The thousand palaces were seen
Of that proud city, whose superb abodes
Seem'd rear'd by giants for the immortal gods.
How silent and how beautiful they stand,
Like things of Nature! the eternal rocks
Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the sand
Drifted within their gates, and choak'd their doors,
Nor slime defil'd their pavements and their floors.
Did then the ocean wage

His war for love and envy, not in rage,
O thou fair city, that he spares thee thus?
Art thou Varounin's capital and court,
Where all the sea-gods for delight resort,
A place too godlike to be held by us,
The poor degenerate children of the earth?
So thought Ladurlad, as he look'd around,
Weening to hear the sound

Of Mermaid's shell, and song
Of choral throng from some imperial hall,
Wherein the immortal powers, at festival,
Their high carousals keep.

But all is silence dread,
Silence profound and dead,
The everlasting stillness of the deep.

Through many a solitary street, And silent market-place, and lonely square, Arm'd with the mighty curse, behold him fare. And now his feet attain that royal fane Where Baly held of old his awful reign. What once had been the garden spread around, Fair garden, once which wore perpetual green,

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