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The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane,
Dividing darkness from the dawning main.
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man:
London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan,
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
The coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
The ship from Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads for him the fragrant produce of each trip.
The silver light, which, hallowing tree and tower,
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws
A loving languor which is not repose.
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light
So wildly, spiritually bright.
Whoever gaz'd upon them shining,
And turn'd to earth without repining,
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The starlight dews all silently their tears of love instill.
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell!
The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
The truth in masquerade.
The very first
Of human life must spring from woman's breast:
Your first small words are taught you from her lips;
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs
Too often breath'd out in a woman's hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.
The wish, which ages have not yet subdued
In man, to have no master save his mood.
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind,
The wreck by passion left behind,
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf,
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief!
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But time may teach me to forget thee.
There are things
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection,
And not an impulse of mere anger; though
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injur'd souls
Oft do a public right with private wrong.
There comes forever something between us and what we deem our happiness.
There is a fire
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evemore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
There is a very life in our despair.
There is an order
Of mortals on the earth, who do become
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age.
There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement;
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
There is music in all things, if men had ears.
There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast which trusted to his truth.
There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
There is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speed--no matter where its
Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry,
And merely for the sake of its own merits;
For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
The greater is the pleasure in arriving
At the great end of travel--which is driving.
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