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TO A FRIEND (1849)

Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind?

He much, the old man, who, clearestsouled of men,

Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,

Didst tread on earth unguessed at.

Better so!

All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,

Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.

And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848

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Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,

Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foiled searching of mortality;
And thou, who didst the stars and sun-
beams know,

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Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, When, bursting through the network

self-secure,

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Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round;
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us and we had ease; 50
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth returned; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,

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STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF “OBERMANN”

Spirits dried up and closely furled,
The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force;
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel;
Others will strengthen us to bear-
But who, ah! who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny -
Others will front it fearlessly:
But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

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·STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE
AUTHOR OF “OBERMANN"
(1852)

In front the awful Alpine track
Crawls up its rocky stair;

The autumn storm-winds drive the rack,
Close o'er it, in the air.

Behind are the abandoned baths
Mute in their meadows lone;

The leaves are on the valley-paths,

A fever in these pages burns Beneath the calm they feign; A wounded human spirit turr Here, on its bed of pain.

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The mists are on the Rhone —

I know but two, who have attained Save thee, to see their way.

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