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When first our infant brows their lustre won;
So, like the Mountain, may we grow more bright
From unimpeded commerce with the Sun,
At the approach of all-involving night.

XLVII.

CONCLUSION.

WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored, Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold His drowsy rings. Look forth!—that Stream behold,

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THAT STREAM upon whose bosom we have passed Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold Long lines of mighty Kings-look forth, my

Soul!

(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust)
The living Waters, less and less by guilt
Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll,
Till they have reached the eternal City-built
For the perfécted Spirits of the just!

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EVENING VOLUNTARIES.

I.

CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling

dews.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are

none;

Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery

light,

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And wonder how they could elude the sight!
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers:
Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone 10
The time's and season's influence disown;
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound
In drowsy sequence-how unlike the sound
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,
Had closed his door before the day was done,
And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,
And joins his little children in their sleep.
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'er-
shade,

Flits and reflits along the close arcade;
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth

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With burring note, which Industry and Sloth Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.

A stream is heard-I see it not, but know 25 By its soft music whence the waters flow: Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no

more;

One boat there was, but it will touch the shore With the next dipping of its slackened oar ; Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, 30 Might give to serious thought a moment's sway, As a last token of man's toilsome day!

1832.

II.

ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND.

Easter Sunday, April 7.

THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY.

THE Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, Prelude of night's approach with soothing

dreams.

Look round;-of all the clouds not one is moving;

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"Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, The boundless plain of waters seems to lie: Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?

No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

ΙΟ

Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood Of Ocean roused into his fiercest mood, Whatever discipline thy Will ordain

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For the brief course that must for me remain ;
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy
grace,

Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,
Glad to expand; and, for a season, free
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

1833.

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III.

(BY THE SEA-SIDE.)

THE sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, And the wild storm hath somewhere found a

nest;

Air slumbers-wave with wave no longer strives, Only a heaving of the deep survives,

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A tell-tale motion! soon will it be laid,
And by the tide alone the water swayed.
Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild
Of light with shade in beauty reconciled—
Such is the prospect far as sight can range, 9
The soothing recompense, the welcome change.
Where now the ships that drove before the

blast,

Threatened by angry breakers as they passed;
And by a train of flying clouds bemocked;
Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked 14

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As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace,
Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease;
And some, too heedless of past danger, court
Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port;
But near, or hanging sea and sky between,
Not one of all those wingèd powers is seen,
Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard;
Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred
By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise,
Soft in its temper as those vesper lays
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars
Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;
A sea-born service through the mountains felt
Till into one loved vision all things melt:
Or like those hymns that soothe with graver
sound

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The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound;
And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies.
Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine,
Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine
On British waters with that look benign?
Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,
May silent thanks at least to God be given
With a full heart; our thoughts are heard in

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heaven!"

1833.

IV.

Nor in the lucid intervals of life

That come but as a curse to party-strife;
Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh
Of languor puts his rosy garland by;

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 5
Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave-

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