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It partly is, That our minds piece the vacant intervals Of his wild words with their own fashioning ; As in the imagery of summer clouds, Or coals in the winter fire, idlers find The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts: And partly, that the terrors of the time Are sown by wandering Rumour in all spirits ; And in the lightest and the least, may best Be seen the current of the coming wind.
Your brain is overwrought with these deep
thoughts. Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy,—and you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamped on the heart by never-erring love; Liker than any Vandyke ever made, A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow.
HAMPDEN, Pym, CROMWELL, and the younger V
England, farewell! thou, who hast been my c
The vanes sit steady Upon the Abbey-towers. The silver lightni Of the evening star, spite of the city's smok Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper Mark too that flock of fleecy-winged clouds Sailing athwart St. Margaret's.
Hail, fleet 1 Of tempest! that wild pilot who shall guide Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee Beyond the shot of tyranny! And thou, Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atla Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm,
Bright as the path to a beloved home,
regions, Where power's poor dupes and victims yet have
Propitiated the savage fear of kings
While the loathliest spot
Of this wide prison, England, is a nest
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE.
SWIFT as a spirit hastening to his task
Of darkness fell from the awakened EarthThe smokeless altars of the mountain snows Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth
Of light, the Ocean's orison arose,
Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day,
Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent
Isle, ocean, and all things that in th
Their portion of the toil, which he of old
Had kept as wakeful as the stars that gem
faint limbs beneath the hoary stem
Which an old chesnut flung athwart the steep
Was at my feet, and Heaven above my head, When a strange trance over my fancy grew Which was not slumber, for the shade it spread
Was so transparent that the scene came through
That I had felt the freshness of that dawn Bathe in the same cold dew my brow and hair, And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn