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1. I know a heart, wherein the world
Sees little else than vanityWhose silken sail, if once unfurled,
Flaps weakly, to a stranger's eye.
With no one by-
Oh world! you know not how you wrong
That indolent adventurer-
While you're away, the breeze will stir As with the loud Sun's matin-songWith voice of Nature's harbinger
With rush and whirrThe white wings of that mariner?
Trust me, it will; that friend of mine
Is no mere random weather-drift, No gaudy cock-boat, shaped too fine
For voyages of thought and thrift; For high aloft he bears a sign, Which marks him for the winds to lift,
And by the gift Of freshening love, he's strong and swift.
That wilful heart is set about
With mimicries of scorn and sloth, Yet, by my word, I will not doubt
That he's at war alway with both ;
I. Phænician by birth, as reported by Fame, I often have changed both my
that it will be the same with men. Nay, the consolations of faith are, if we rightly think of them, still higher. In trees and ftowers new leaves and new blooms succeed to old ones; but with us we shall ourselves live again; it will be the same souls and the same bodies, only immortal and incorruptible, that will rise at the last day. So should faith console us, and oftentimes we speak as though she did, but we are only braggarts, and feel all the while as though she did not.