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His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
letters sees his name arise!
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,
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.
And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name
Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold,
Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side;
He hears me not—Those sighs were from the heart.
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,
66 Absence from Thee-as self from self it seems !"