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XXVII.

ACCUSE not gracious Nature of neglect,
Nor doubt the wise intent of Providence,
Because a human thing not quick of sense,
With scarce a twinkling spark of intellect,
With much of body's, more of mind's defect,
Hath hobbled upon earth for eighty years;
And now, unconscious of the hopes and fears
That the past life of wiser men dissect,

Is dozing deathward. Deep and dark immured
The corn-seed in the dead-throng'd catacomb,
From light shut out, was yet from blight secured
And Turk and Mam'luke, in oblivious tomb:
And thus, for eighty years, good man, in thee
The seed has slept, sepulchred in simplicity.

XXVIII.

MUSIC.

SWEET music steals along the yielding soul,
Like the brisk wind that sows autumnal seeds;
And it hath tones like vernal rain that feeds
The light green vale, ordain'd ere long to roll
In golden waves o'er many a wealthy rood;
And tones it hath, that make a lonely hour
The silent dwelling of some lovely flower,
Sweet Hermitess of Forest solitude.

I loved sweet Music when I was a child,
For then my mother used to sing to me:
I loved it better when a youth so wild,
With thoughts of love it did so well agree;
Fain would I love it to my latest day,

If it would teach me to believe and pray.

ΧΧΙΧ.

OH! that a tone were lasting as a thought,
A feeling joy, eternal as a truth!

Then were my spirits charm'd to endless youth,
All time enrich'd with what a moment brought.
That one sweet note, so sweet itself, and fraught
With all the warbled sweetness of the stream

Of rippling sound, continuous as a dream-
A dream of song, that waking turns to nought.
I cannot find it, I cannot resume

The thrilling calm, the gladness so intense,

So simple, perfect, neither soul nor sense

For hope had need, for hoarding thought had room:

Yet shall the moral heart for aye retain

The once-seen songstress, and the once-heard strain.

XXX.

I WOULD, my friend, indeed, thou hadst been here
Last night, beneath the shadowy sycamore,
To hear the lines, to me well known before,
Embalm'd in music so translucent clear.
Each word of thine came singly to the ear,
Yet all was blended in a flowing stream.
It had the rich repose of summer dream,
The light distinct of frosty atmosphere.
Still have I loved thy verse, yet never knew
How sweet it was, till woman's voice invested
The pencill'd outline with the living hue,
And every note of feeling proved and tested.
What might old Pindar be, if once again

The harp and voice were trembling with his strain.

XXXI.

DIANA AND ENDYMION.

Ir was a learned fancy, that bestowed

A living spirit and a human will

On those far lights that, whether fixt and still,
Or moving visibly along the road,

Were mighty to predestine, rule, forbode;
Yea, to disclose, to long observant skill,
Not season's course alone, but good and ill,
For aye appointed in no changeful code.
A freer, yet a gentler wit, devised

That quaint old Fable, that beheld the moon
Gazing for hours on her Endymion,

Till she turned pale, by jocund morn surprised;
While he, wrapped up in trance or vision dim,

Sleeps in her sight that ever wakes for him.

VOL. II.

D !

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