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Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,
Nor lessen of his life the little span.

Borne on the swift though silent wings of time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

And be it so. Let those deplore their doom
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn;
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

"Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,

When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive

With disappointment, penury, and pain?"

No Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive,


And man's majestic beauty bloom again,


Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant




THE spring is here the delicate-footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours—
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods.
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meet— Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.



ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead!


peace, there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it fly through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as does a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height! On, on, you noble English!



O MAN! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force give nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right :

But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, O ill-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap caress'd;

Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest;

But, oh! what crowds in every land

Are wretched and forlorn.

Through weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.


Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !

More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn.

Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last.

The poor, oppresséd, honest man

Had never sure been born,

Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn!



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