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God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
Thus seek Thy presence, Being wise and good!
'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

JOHN BOWRING (From the Russian of Derzhavén).

THE ETERNAL

THE One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,

Until Death tramples it to fragments.- Die,

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If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
Follow where all is fled! - Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music- words are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart?
Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here
They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!
A light is passed from the revolving year,
And man, and woman; and what still is dear
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.
The soft sky smiles,- the low wind whispers near:
'T is Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,

No more let Life divide what Death can join together.

That Light whose smile kindles the universe,
That beauty in which all things work and move,
That benediction which the eclipsing curse
Of birth can quench not that sustaining Love
Which through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast, and earth and air and sea,
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me,
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.

The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given ;
The massy earth and spherèd skies are riven:
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ;

While, burning through the inmost veil of heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (Adonais).

MUTABILITY

WHEN I bethink me on that speech whyleare
Of Mutability, and well it way,

Me seemes, that though she all unworthy were
Of the heav'ns rule, yet, very sooth to say,
In all things else she bears the greatest sway;
Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle,
And love of things so vaine to cast away;

Whose flow'ring pride, so fading and so fickle,
Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle!

Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd,
Of that same time when no more change shall be,
But steadfast rest of all things, firmely stayd
Upon the pillours of Eternity,

That is contrayr to Mutabilitie;

For all that moveth doth in change delight,
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally

With him that is the God of Sabaoth hight;

O thou great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabbath's sight!

EDMUND SPENSER (The Faerie Queene).

CROSSING THE BAR

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

PART XI

Scattered Leaves

"More poets yet!".

I hear him say,

Arming his heavy hand to slay ;-
"Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,'
They seem to sprout where'er I go ;—
I killed a host but yesterday !"

Slash on, O Hercules!

You may:

Your task 's at best a Hydra-fray;
And though you cut, not less will grow
More Poets yet!

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?
Who shall out-blot the morning glow,-
Or stem the full heart's overflow?
Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
More Poets yet!

PART XI

SCATTERED LEAVES

MUSIC IN CAMP

Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;

And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its high embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made
No forest leaf to quiver;

And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.

And now where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,
O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted.

When on the fervid air there came
A strain, now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame

With day's departing splendor.
A Federal band, which eve and morn
Played measures brave and nimble,
Had just struck up with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks;
Till, margined by its pebbles,

One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was gray with "Rebels."

Then all was still; and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with "Dixie."

The conscious stream, with burnished glow,
Went proudly o'er its pebbles,

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