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As roves from gaudier tints the aching eye
Woos the pure green, and dwells delighted there,
So loves the soul the world has worn, to fly
Languid and weak the glitter and the glare,
And on the fresh tints of its verdant days
To turn and drink deep quiet in the gaze.
The visions of the Minstrel, which in vain
Had woo'd his noon-day--brightly roll'd again
Like sun-lit waters o'er his mind, and gave
The waste the welcome freshness of the wave.


There, as a river in its hidden course,
Mighty and secret thro' his spirit flow'd

The inspirations none but God might see,
The cave their channel, and the rock their source,
But rolling on to Immortality.-
Old--blind-deserted-lone amid the crowd,-

No hopes--save those of heaven--upon the earth,--
Amid the wrecks of Freedom only free,
Cold-rapt-estrang'd amid that courtly mirth
Where Pleasure lent the veil to Tyranny,---
He stood-like some grey Column far away
From life-and crumbling in its proud decay---
There wildest flowerets bloom-and nightly there
Wails with mysterious voice the wandering Air--
Amid the stars-the dews-the eternal hills-
And the far voices of the dashing rills-

Amid the haunted darkness of the night,

When earth and heaven are mingled in their might,
It stands begirt with each-and looks on high
Thro' Shade and Cloud to commune with the Sky.--

Beneath a church's chancel there were laid

A great Man's bones,--and when the crowd was gone,
An aged woman, in black robes arrayed,
Lingered and wept beside the holy stone.

None knew her name, or land; her voice was sweet,
With the strange music of a foreign tongue :---
Thrice on that spot her bending form they meet,
Thrice on that stone are freshest garlands hung.
On the fourth day she came not; and the wreath,
Look'd dim and withered from its odorous breath;
And if I err not wholly, on that day,

A soul that loved till death, had passed away!





And ever with each pause, that lonely light
Flares hot and scathing on his aching sight.,


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Alas! no more by golden palaces,
By star-lit founts and Dryad-haunted trees,
Shall Fancy waft her Votary's willing soul.
But on he journey'd through a rugged plain,
Lur'd by the glory of the distant goal,
And in that midnight solitude, though pain
And fever wore his heart-and he could feel
O'er his dim eye the dull film darkly steal,
Yet did he shrink not-though the lip grew palet
And the frame feeble-though the sight might fail
And the lone Night his sad companion be;

Yet on exulting soul !—thy path is clear,
On-on for England and for Liberty !

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Yes! though the fierceness of that fiery time
Might sear the holiest spirit into crime,
Though the stern thought of ages, where the drear

And starless Night of bondage dwelt in fear,

Where all her gloomiest spirits were combin'd

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To cramp the powers, and check the march of mind,r

The grinding priest, the noble's linked thrall,

And the one despot darkening over all;

Tho' the harsh memory of such days might well
Sour the stern souls of men who made their path
Thro' blood to freedom;-and the jealous wrath
Of those who girt with snares and foemen feel
They hold their hard-won treasure by the steel
A breath will waken-victory scarce can quell,
And virtue, turn'd to passion, serves to swell,
So that the storms of justice blindly break
And leave the guilty while they wreck the weak :---
Yet were there men and minds in those wild years
More worthy than the Roman's vaunted name
Of the heart's homage due to freedom's fame,
And the sweet tribute of that People's tears,
Who but for their rude worth were crouching now
With Slavery's Cain-like brand upon each brow!


And thou of whom I sing, whose name hath been
Polluted by the Schoolman's bigot breath,
The dull wise fool-the oracle of boys,

Decking lean nothings with the pomp of noise-
Thou who hast twin'd thy laurels ever-green
With those which mingled with wild flowerets bloom
Round sweetest Shakspeare's fairy-haunted tomb-
Thine are the holier honors yet to twine

Proud wreaths with Hampden for thy country's shrine

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