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Inhospitable appear and desolate,
In either hand the hastening angel caught
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate Of Him who all things can, I would not cease
Led them direct, and down the clits as fast To weary him with my assiduous cries.
To the subjected plain ; then disappeared. But prayer against his absolute decree
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them As from his face I shall be hid, deprived
soon ; His blesséd countenance, here I could frequent
The world was all before them, where to choose With worship place by place where he vouch- Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. safed
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and Presence divine, and to my sons relate,
Through Eden took their solitary way.
PATIENCE AND SORROW.
FROM "KING LEAR."
Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any
demonstration of grief? His bright appearances, or footstep trace?
GENTLEMAN. Ay, sir; she took them, read For though I fled him angry, yet, recalled
them in my presence ; To life prolonged and promised race,
And now and then an ample tear trilled down Glarlly behold though but his utmost skirts
Her delicate cheek, it seemed she was a queen
Over her passion ; who, most rebel-like,
0, then it moved her. And love with fear the only God, to walk
GENT. Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove As in his presence, ever to observe
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen His providence, and on him sole depend,
Sunshine and rain at once ; her smiles and tears Merciful over all his works, with good
Were like a better way : those happy smilets, Still overcoming evil, and by small
That played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know Accomplishing great things, by things deemed What guests were in hereyes; which parted thence, weak
As pearls from diamonds dropped. - In brief.
Could so become it.
By Nature's law designed,
A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little farther on ;
For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade:
There I am wont to sit, when any chance
Relieves me from my task of servile toil,
Daily in the common prison else enjoined me,
The air imprisoned also, close and damp,
Unwholesome draught; but here I feel amends,
The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and This partial view of human-kind
sweet, Is surely not the last !
With day-spring born : here leave me to respire.
This day a solemn feast the people hold
To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid
Laborious works : unwillingly this rest
Their superstition yields me; hence with leave
This unfrequented place to find some ease,
From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm
Of hornets armed, no sooner found alone,
But rush upon me thronging, and present
0, wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold But 0, a blest relief to those
Twice by an angel, who at last in sight
Of both my parents all in flames ascended
Or benefit revealed to Abraham's race?
Why was my breeding ordered and prescribed
Betrayed, captived, and both my eyes put out,
Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze;
With this Heaven-gifted strength? O glorious
Lower than bondslave! Promise was that I
Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves,
Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke !
O loss of sight, of thee I most complain!
Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains,
Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age !
Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct,
And all her various objects of delight
Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased
Inferior to the vilest now become
Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me:
They creep, yet see ; I dark in light exposed
GEORGE MONK LEWIS.
Within doors or without, still as a fool,
And must I never see thee more, In power of others, never in my own ;
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad !
I am not mad; I am not mud !
0, hark ! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks ; He comes,
- I see his glaring eyes ;
Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. THE MANIAC.
Help! Help! – He's gone !-0, fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe!
My brain, my brain, -- I know, I know
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon ; - for, lo yon ! -- while I speak, I'll rave no more in proud despair ;
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! My language shall be mild, though sad ;
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, But yet I firmly, truly swear,
He whirls a serpent high in air. I am not mad, I am not mad!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; My tyrant husband forged the tale
Ay, laugh, ye fiends ; - I feel the truth ; Which chains me in this dismal cell;
Your task is done, — I'M MAD! I'M MAD! My fate unknown my friends bewail,
O jailer, haste that fate to tell !
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
(Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical de
pression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.) He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ;
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains He quits the grate; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp still, still I see,
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk ; "T is gone! and all is gloom again.
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains Cold, bitter cold ! - No warmth ! no light!
One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk.
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, Life, all thy comforts once I had ;
But being too happy in thy happiness, Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, Although not mad; no, no, -- not mad!
In some melodious plot 'T is sure some dream, some vision vain ; Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
What! I, the child of rank and wealth, - Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage
Cooled a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburned
mirth! But 't is not mad; no, 't is not mad!
O for a beaker full of the warm South, Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, A mother's face, a mother's tongue ?
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
And purple-stainéd mouth, Nor round her neck how fast you clung ;
That I might drink, and leave the world unNor how with her you sued to stay ; Nor how that suit your sire forbade ;
And with thee fade away into the forest dim. Nor how -- I'll drive such thoughts away ; They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad !
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
known, His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ! The weariness, the fever, and the frit: None ever bore a lovelier child,
Here, where men sit and hear each other And art thou now forever gone ?
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs, Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and Past the near meadows, over the still stream, dies,
Up the hillside ; and now 't is buried deep
In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision or a waking dream ?
WHENAS the Palmer came in hall, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne,
No lord, nor knight, was there more tall, Clustered around by all her starry fays;
Or had a statelier step withal,
Or looked more high and keen;
For no saluting did he wait, blown
But strode across the hall of state, Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy
And fronted Marmion where he sate, ways.
As he his peer had been. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ; Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ;
His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! But, in embalméd darkness guess each sweet
And when he struggled at a smile, Wherewith the seasonable month endows
His eye looked haggard wild : The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild,
Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine ;
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face and sunburned hair
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe, The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves. Soon change the form that best we know,
For deadly fear can time outgo, Darkling I listen ; and for many a time
And blanch at once the hair ; I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Hard toil can roughen form and face, Called him soft names in many a muséd rhyme, And want can queạch the eye's bright grace, To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace, Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,
More deeply than despair. To cease upon the midnight, with no pain,
Happy whom none of these befall,
But this poor Palmer knew them all.
FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness! In ancient days by emperor and clown :
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : home,
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
And — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely The same that ofttimes hath
His greatness is a ripening – nips his root, Charmeg magic casements opening on the foam And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory ; Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell,
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Adieu ! the Fancy cannot cheat so well Weary and old with service, to the mercy A: she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.