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Then, not the spirit's strife,
Nor sickening pangs at sight of conquering crime,
Had worn his chords of life :
Nor here, nor thus with tears
Untimely shed, but there whence o'er the sea
No! Different hearts are bribed;
And therefore, in his cause's sad eclipse,
Here died he, with 'Palermo' on his lips,
Wrecked all thy hopes, O friend,—
Hopes for thyself, thine Italy, thine own,—
The end? not ours to scan:
Yet grieve not, children, for your father's worth;
He lay, a baser man.
What to the dead avail
The chance success, the blundering praise of fame?
Oh! rather trust, somewhere the noble aim
Is crowned, though here it fail.
Kind, generous, true wert thou :
This meed at least to goodness must belong,
That such it was. Farewell; the world's great wrong
Is righted for thee now.
Rest in thy foreign grave,
Sicilian! whom our English hearts have loved,
Italian! such as Dante had approved,—
An exile-not a slave!
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15 I worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy,
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing—there,
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink:
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45
And who commanded (and the silence came,)
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements,
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou,
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me-rise, oh, ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
THE DANISH BOY.
Between two sister moorland rills
And in this smooth and open dell
In clouds above the lark is heard,
Within this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home;
The Danish boy walks here alone :
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;