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omes Ever from self-love's martyrdoms! Yet, not to lie for God, 'tis true That 'twas another joy I knew When freighted was my heart with fire Of fond, irrational desire For fascinating, female charms, And hopeless heaven in Her mild arms. Nor wrong I any, if I profess That care for heaven with me were less But that I'm utterly imbued With faith of all Earth's hope renew'd In realms where no short-coming pains Expectance, and dear love disdains Time's treason, and the gathering dross, And lasts for ever in the gloss Of newness. All the bright past seems, Now, but a splendour in my dreams, Which shows, albeit the dreamer wakes, The standard of right life. Life aches To be therewith conform'd; but, oh, The world's so stolid, dark, and low! That and the mortal element Forbid the beautiful intent, And, like the unborn butterfly, It feels the wings, and wants the sky. But perilous is the lofty mood Which cannot yoke with lowly good. Right life, for me, is life that wends By lowly ways to lofty ends. I will perceive, at length, that haste T'ward heaven itself is only waste; And thus I dread the impatient spur Of aught that speaks too plain of Her. There's little here that story tells; But music talks of nothing else. Therefore, when music breathes, I say, (And urge my task,) Away, away! Thou art the voice of one I knew, But what thou say'st is not yet true; Thou art the voice of her I loved, And I would not be vainly moved. So that which did from death set free All things, now dons death's mockery, And takes its place with tunings that are But little noted. Do not mar For me your peace! My health is high. The proud possession of mine eye Departed, I am much like one Who had by haughty custom grown To think gilt rooms, and spacious grounds, Horses, and carriages, and hounds. Fine linen, and an eider bed As much his need as daily bread, And honour of men as much or more. Till, strange misfortune smiting sore, His pride all goes to pay his debts, A lodging anywhere he gets, And takes his family thereto Weeping, and other relics few, Allow'd, by them that seize his pelf, As precious only to himself. Yet the sun shines; the country green Has many riches, poorly seen From blazon'd coaches; grace at meat Goes well with thrift in what they eat; And there's amends for much bereft In better thanks for much that's left! Jane is not fair, yet pleases well The eye in which no others dwe
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