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That House with many a funeral-garland hung *
Of virgin-white-memorials of the young,
The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing,
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing;
That House, where Age led in by Filial Love,
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above,
The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven-
Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven?

Nor at the fragrant hour-at early dawn-
Under the elm-tree on his level lawn,
Or in his porch is he less duly found,
When they that cry for Justice gather round,
And in that cry her sacred voice is drowned;
His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate,
Like ALFRED judging at his palace-gate.
Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close;
And they return as friends, that came as foes.

Thus, while the world but claims its proper part,
Oft in the head but never in the heart,
His life steals on; within his quiet dwelling
That home-felt joy all other joys excelling.
Sick of the crowd, when enters he—nor then
Forgets the cold indifference of men?

Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in,
And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin.
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song,
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong

* A custom in some of our country-churches.

Blend as they rise; and (while without are seen,
Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green;
And in from far a school-boy's letter flies,
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise)
That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not?)
Born with the day and with the day forgot;
Its ample page various as human life,
The
pomp,

the
woe,

the bustle and the strife!
But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough
Met and solicited, behold him now
Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew,
The sphere that Wisdom loves, and Virtue too;
They who subsist not on the vain applause
Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws.

'Twas morn—the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung As from his lips the slow consent was wrung; As from the glebe his fathers tilled of old, The plough they guided in an age of gold, Down by the beech-wood side he turned away And now behold him in an evil day Serving the State again—not as before, Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door,But in the Senate; and (though round him fly The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry,) With honest dignity, with manly sense, And every charm of natural eloquence, Like HAMPDEN struggling in his Country's cause, The first, the foremost to obey the laws,

The last to brook oppression. On he moves,
Careless of blame while his own heart approves,
Careless of ruin—" For the general good
'Tis not the first time I shall shed my blood.")
On thro' that gate misnamed, thro’ which before
Went Sidney, Russell, Raleigh, Cranmer, More,

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