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Groaned inly while he taught you peace, And died while ye were smiling.

And now, what time ye all may read
Through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell

And darkness on the glory,

And how, when one by one, sweet sounds And wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face

Because so broken-hearted;

He shall be strong to sanctify
The poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down

In meeker adoration;

Nor ever shall he be, in praise,
By wise or good forsaken ;

Named softly, as the household name
Of one whom God hath taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom,
I learn to think upon him,
With meekness that is gratefulness
To God whose heaven has won him
Who suffered once the madness-cloud,
To His own love to blind him;

But gently led the blind along

Where breath and bird could find him;

And wrought within his shattered brain,
Such quick poetic senses,

As hills have language for, and stars,
Harmonious influences!

The pulse of dew upon the grass

Kept his within its number; And silent shadows from the trees Refreshed him like a slumber.

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods

To share his home-caresses, Uplooking to his human eyes

With sylvan tendernesses:

The very world, by God's constraint,
From falsehood's ways removing,

Its women and its men became
Beside him, true and loving.

But while in blindness he remained
Unconscious of the guiding,

And things provided came without
The sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth,
Though frenzy desolated-
Nor man, nor nature satisfy,
Whom only God created!

Like a sick child that knoweth not
His mother while she blesses

And drops upon his burning brow

The coolness of her kisses,

That turns his fevered eyes around

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My mother! where's my mother?" As if such tender words and looks Could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart,
He sees her bending o'er him;
Her face all pale from watchful love,
The unweary love she bore him! –
Thus, woke the poet from the dream,
His life's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes,

Which closed in death, to save him!

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth Could image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant Of seraphs, round him breaking, Or felt the new immortal throb

Of soul from body parted;

But felt those eyes alone, and knew
My Saviour! not deserted!

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when

The Cross in darkness rested, Upon the Victim's hidden face, No love was manifested?

What frantic hands outstretched have e'er

The atoning drops averted,

What tears have washed them from the soul, That one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate

From His own essence rather:
And Adam's sins have swept between
The righteous Son and Father;
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry,
His universe hath shaken -
It went up single, echoless,
"My God, I am forsaken!"

It went up from the Holy's lips.

Amid His lost creation,

That, of the lost, no son should use

Those words of desolation;

That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope,
Should mar not hope's fruition,
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see
His rapture, in a vision!

CHEERFULNESS.

I THINK We are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope
Indeed beyond the zenith and the cope

Of yon gray blank of sky, we might be fain
To muse upon eternity's constraint

Round our

aspirant souls. But since the scope Must widen early, is it well to droop For a few days consumed in loss and faint? O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted; And like a cheerful traveller, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints? At least it may be said, "Because the way is short, I thank Thee, God!"

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