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That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know, ...
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
TAERE was a youth, who, as with toil and travel,
Had grown quite weak and grey before his time ;
Nor any could the restless griefs unravel,
Which burned within him, withering up his prime
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
Not his the load of any secret crime,
For nought of ill his heart could understand,
But pity and wild sorrow for the same ;-
Not his the thirst for glory or comand
Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame;
Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast
And quench in speedy smook its feeble flame,
Had left within his soul their dark unrest:
Nor what religion fables of the grave
Feared he.-Philosophy's accepted guest.
For none than he a purer heart could have,
Or that loved good more for itself alone ;
Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave.
What sorrow deep, and shadowy, and unknown,
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind ?-
If with a human sadness he did groan,
He had a gentle yet aspiring mind;
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed,
And such a glorious consolation find
In others" joy, when all their own is dead :
He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief,
And yet, unlike all others, it is said,
That from such toil he never found relief;
Although a child of fortune and of power,
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief.
His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower
His love and justice, clothed in which he sate
A part from meu, as in a lonely tower,
Pitying the tumult of their dark estate
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate
Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,
Bnt like a steward iu honest dealings tried.
With those who toil'd and wept, the poor and wise
His riches and his cares he did divide.
Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise,
What he dared do or think, though men might start,
He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes ;
Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,
And to his many friends all loved him well
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart,
If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell ;
If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes
He neither spurned nor hated, though with fell
And mortal hate their thousand voices rose,
They past like aimless arrows from his ear-
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close
To those, or them, or any whom life's sphere
May comprehend within its wide array.
What sadness made that vernal spirit sere ?
He know not. Though his life, day after day,
Was failing like and unreplenished stream,
Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay,
Through which his soul, like Vespers' serene beam
Piercing the chasms ever rising clonds,
Shone, softly burning ; though his lips did seem
Like reeds which quiver in impetuous foods ;
And though his sleep, and o’er each waking hour,
Thonghts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,
Were driven within him, by some secret power,
Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar,
Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower
O’er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war
Is levied by the night-contending winds,
And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear;
Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends
Which wake and feed on everliving woe,-
What was this grief, which ne'er in other nigri
A mirror found,- he knew not-none could know But on whoe'er might question him he turned The light of his frank eyes, as if to shew, He knew not of the grief within that burned, But asked forbearance with a mournful look ; Or spoke in words from which noue ever learnd The cause of his disquietude ; or shook With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale : So that his friends soon rarely undertook To stir his secret pain without avail ;For all who knew, and loved him then perceived That there was drawn an adamantine veil Between his heart and mind,-both unrelieved Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. Some said that he was mad, others believed That memories of an antenatal life , Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell; And others said that such mysterious grief From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell On souls like his which owned no higher law Than love ; love calm, stedfast, invincible By mortal fear or supernatural awe; And others,—6. 'Tis the shadow of a dream Which the veiled eye of memory never saw 6 But throngh the soul's abyss, like some dark stream Through shattered mines and caverns underground Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam