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There rose no day, there roll'd no hour
Of pleasure unembitter'd;
And not a trapping deck'd my power,
That gall'd not while it glitter'd.
There should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric; and pure invention is but the talent of a deceiver.
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,
Which changeless rolls eternally;
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood,
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood;
And the powerless moon beholds them flow,
Heedless if she come or go.
There was a general whisper, toss, and wiggle,
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.
There's nothing in the world like etiquette
In kingly chambers, or imperial halls,
As also at the race and county balls.
There's nothing makes me so much grieve,
As that abominable tittle-tattle,
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle.
There's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
'Tis so becoming to the soul and face--
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
These blasted pines, wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, a blighted trunk upon a cursed root.
They did not know how hate can burn
In hearts once changed from soft to stern
Nor all the false and fatal zeal
The convert of revenge can feel.
They kindly leave us, but not quite alone,
But in good company, the gout or stone.
They truly mourn that mourn without a witness.
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering
Think you if Laura had been Petrarch's wife
He would have written sonnets all his life?
Think'st thou that I could bear to part
With thee, and learn to halve my heart?
* * * * *
Years have not seen, time shall not see
The hour that tears my soul from thee.
Thou material God!
And representative of the Unknown,
Who chose thee for His shadow! Thou chief star!
Centre of many stars!--which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects,--thou dost rise,
And shine and set in glory!
Thou more than stone of the Philosopher!
Thou need'st not answer; thy confession speaks,
Already redd'ning in thy guilty cheeks.
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose.
This is true criticism, and you may kiss,
Exactly as you please, or not, the rod.
Thou true magnetic pole, to which all hearts point duly north, like trembling needles!
Though fame is smoke,
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought.
Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure,
There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace;
Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share.
Though thy slumber may be deep.
Yet thy spirit will not sleep;
There are shades that will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst not banish.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic;
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills!
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills,
Past, present, and to come; but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field.
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