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* The children romp within the graveyard's pale; The lark sings o'er a madhouse, or a gaol;-- Such nice antitheses of perfect poise Chance in her curious rhetoric employs. * * * * * Our lithe thoughts gambol close to God's abyss, Children whose home is by the precipice. Fear not thy little ones shall o'er it fall: Solid, though viewless, is the girdling wall. * * * * * Lives there whom pain hath evermore pass'd by And Sorrow shunn'd with an averted eye? Him do thou pity, him above the rest, Him of all hapless mortals most unbless'd. * * * * * Say what thou wilt, the young are happy never. Give me bless'd Age, beyond the fire and fever,-- Past the delight that shatters, hope that stings, And eager flutt'ring of life's ignorant wings. * * * * * Onward the chariot of the Untarrying moves; Nor day divulges him nor night conceals; Thou hear'st the echo of unreturning hooves And thunder of irrevocable wheels. * * * * * A deft musician does the breeze become Whenever an AEolian harp it finds: Hornpipe and hurdygurdy both are dumb Unto the most musicianly of winds. * * * * * I follow Beauty; of her train am I: Beauty whose voice is earth and sea and air; Who serveth, and her hands for all things ply; Who reigneth, and her throne is everywhere. * * * * * Toiling and yearning, 'tis man's doom to see No perfect creature fashion'd of his hands. Insulted by a flower's immaculacy, And mock'd at by the flawless stars he stands. * * * * * For metaphors of man we search the skies, And find our allegory in all the air. We gaze on Nature with Narcissus-eyes, Enamour'd of our shadow everywhere. * * * * * One music maketh its occult abode In all things scatter'd from great Beauty's hand; And evermore the deepest words of God Are yet the easiest to understand. * * * * * Enough of mournful melodies, my lute! Be henceforth joyous, or be henceforth mute. Song's breath is wasted when it does but fan The smouldering infelicity of man. * * * * * I pluck'd this flower, O brighter flower, for thee, There where the river dies in
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