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Formed of two mighty tribes, the bores and bored.
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eye
We late saw streaming o'er.
Gaming gains a loss.
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a tear.
Glory long has made the sages smile; 'tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind.
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit to sink or soar.
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides;
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
Have not all past human beings parted,
And must not all the present, one day part?
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.
He had then the grace, too rare in every clime,
Of being, without alloy of fop or beau,
A finish'd gentleman from top to toe.
He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
And how to scale a fortress or--a nunnery.
He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.
He sighed;--the next resource is the full moon,
Where all sighs are deposited; and now
It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone.
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
Their loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds of snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Tho' high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head.
He who first met the Highland's swelling blue,
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue:
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled--
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers,
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers)--
And mark'd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose that's there.
He who is only just is cruel.
Heaven in sunshine will requite the kind.
Her eye (I am very fond of handsome eyes),
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise,
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul,
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole.
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest.
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.
Here and there some stern high patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.
Hide thy tears,--I do not bid thee not to shed them,--it were easier to stop Euphrates at its source than one tear of a true and tender heart.
His bold brow bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, not their decrepitude.
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth,
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth.
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