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His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in

letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight!

Ah who, when fading of itself away, Would cloud the sunshine of his little day! Now is the May of Life. Careering round, Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the ground ! Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, When the rich casket shone in bright array, " These are my Jewels !" Well of such as he, When Jesus spake, well might his language be, “ Suffer these little ones to come to me!”

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years; Close by her side his silent homage given As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven; His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame, His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame, At once lit up as with a holy flame! He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire; And soon with tears relinquished to the Sire, Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led, Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead; Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire, Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire!

Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate,
Crowned but to die—who in her chamber sate
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown,
And every ear and every heart was won,
And all in green array were chasing down the sun!


Then is the Age of Admiration—Then Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men; Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round, Whose very shadows consecrate the ground ! Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire, And high imagining and thought of fire ! Then from within a voice exclaims “ Aspire !" Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass, As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass; They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed, Of every Age—the living and the dead! Thou, all-accomplished SURREY, thou art known; The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown! Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone! And, with his beaver up, discovering there One who loved less to conquer than to spare, Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent, Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent! Young B— in the groves of Academe, Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream ; Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum, Dreaming old dreams-a joy for years to come; Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane;Scenes such as MILTON sought, but sought in vain : *

* He had arrived at Naples; and was preparing to visit Sicily and Greece, when, hearing of the troubles in England, he thought

to hasten home.

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And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name
Well may we glow-as men, we share his fame)
And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye,
Planning he knows not what—that shall not die!

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Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold,
Beware the poison in the cup of gold,
The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high,
As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky!
But every step is on enchanted ground.
Danger thou lov'st, and Danger haunts thee round.

Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side;
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ?
Draws, and cries ho; and, where the sun-beams fall,
At his own shadow thrusts along the wall ?
Who dances without music; and anon
Sings like the lark—then sighs as woe begone,
And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave,
Glides in the moon-shine by a maiden's grave?
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow.
Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou.

He hears me not—Those sighs were from the heart.
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part.
He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere,
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear,
Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear
That none were half so faultless, half so fair,

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Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer,
A banished man, flying when none are near;
And writes on every tree, and lingers long
Where most the nightingale repeats her song;
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove,
Delights to syllable the names we love.

Two on his steps attend, in motley clad;
One woeful-wan, one merrier yet as mad;
Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells, ,
And flowers spring up among the woodland dells.
To Hope he listens, wandering without measure
Thro’ sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure;
And, if to Fear but for a weary mile,
Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile.

At length he goes--a Pilgrim to the Shrine,
And for a relic would a world resign!
A glove, a shoe-tye, or a flower let fall —
What though the least, Love consecrates them all!
And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse;
Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse
At early matins ('twas at matin-time
That first he saw and sickened in his prime)
And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold,
Plays with young hearts that will not be controlled.

66 Absence from Thee-as self from self it seems !"
Scaled is the garden-wall; and lo, her beams
Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing
His well-known form along the terrace stealing.

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