Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,— Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory? V. And is not War a youthful king, Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail VI. “Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, VII. "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won; Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. VIII. "Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease: I'm poor and of a low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn: Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born." HUMAN LIFE, ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. IF dead, we cease to be; if total gloom Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare As summer-guests, of sudden birth and doom, Whose sound and motion not alone declare, But are their whole of being! If the breath Be life itself, and not its task and tent, If even a soul like Milton's can know death; O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! Surplus of nature's dread activity, Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase, Retreating slow, with meditative pause, She formed with restless hands unconsciously! Blank accident! nothing's anomaly ! If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, The counter-weights !—Thy laughter and thy tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, And to repay the other! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold? MOLES. -THEY shrink in, as Moles (Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the ground) Creep back from Light-then listen for its sound:See but to dread, and dread they know not why— The natural alien of their negative eye. Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, How shall I yield you Due entertainment, [buoyance, Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upBear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre! Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my O give me the nectar! O fill me the bowl! Give him the nectar! [soul! Pour out for the poet, Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, That Styx the detested no more he may view, ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANKVERSE INSCRIPTIONS. TEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, N Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bedO humbly press that consecrated ground! For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! And there his spirit most delights to rove: Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossomed: till the faithless pride Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue! P With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: A SEPARATION. SWORDED man whose trade is blood, The dazzling charm of outward form, The power of gold, the pride of birth, Is not true Love of higher price O! Asra, Asra! couldst thou see (This separation is, alas! Too great a punishment to bear; |