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His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
Ah who, when fading of itself away,
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,
, 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 : *
arrived at Naples; and was preparing to visit Sicily and Greece, when, hearing of the troubles in England, he thought it proper to basten home.
And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name
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,
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer,
Two on his steps attend, in motley clad;
At length he goes--a Pilgrim to the Shrine,
« Absence from Thee as self from self it seems !"