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Of human thought or form, where art thou
Ask why the sunlight not for ever
Cast on the daylight of this earth
No voice from some sublimer world hath ever
Remain the records of their vain endeavorFrail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail to sever
From all we hear and all we see
Doubt, chance, and mutability.
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven,
Or music by the night wind sent
Through strings of some still instrument, Or moonlight on a midnight stream, Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.
Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds depart
And come, for some uncertain moments lent.
Man were immortal and omnipotent
Thou messenger of sympathies
That wax and wane in lover's eyes!
Spirit of beauty, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pur-
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I was not heard; I saw them not.
Why aught should fail and fade that once is Of life, at that sweet time when winds are
What is social company
Only when the sun of love
What the dim-eyed world hath taught,
Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth,
We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH
THE TABLES TURNED.
Up! up, my friend! and quit your books,
The sun, above the mountain's head,
Books! 't is a dull and endless strife;
Come, hear the woodland linnet-How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it!
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless,Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things→ We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
WE talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true
A pair of friends, though I was young And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
And from the turf a fountain broke,
"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match
"Or of the church-clock and the chimes
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-haired man of glee:
"No check, no stay, this streamlet fears; How merrily it goes!
'T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.