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Of future, present, past; combining things
Unseemly, things unsociable in nature,
In most absurd communion, laughable,

Though sometimes vexing sore the slumbering soul.
Sporting at will, she, through her airy halls-
With moonbeams paved, and canopied with stars,
And tapestried with marvellous imagery,
And shapes of glory, infinitely fair,

Moving and mixing in most wondrous dance-
Fantastically walked ; but pleased so well,
That ill she liked the judgment's voice severe,
Which called her home when noisy morn awoke.
And oft she sprang beyond the bounds of Time,
On her swift pinion lifting up the souls
Of righteous men on high to God and heaven,
Where they beheld unutterable things;
And heard the glorious music of the blest,
Circling the throne of the Eternal Three;
And with the spirits unincarnate took
Celestial pastime on the hills of God,
Forgetful of the gloomy pass between.

Some dreams were useless, moved by turbid course Of animal disorder; not so all.

Deep moral lessons some impressed, that nought
Could afterwards deface: and oft in dreams,
The master passion of the soul displayed
His huge deformity, concealed by day,
Warning the sleeper to beware, awake:
And oft in dreams, the reprobate and vile,
Unpardonable sinner, as he seemed
Toppling upon the perilous verge of hell,—
In dreadful apparition, saw before

His vision, pass the shadows of the damned;

And saw the glare of hollow, cursed eyes,
Spring from the skirts of the infernal night;
And saw the souls of wicked men, new dead,
By devils hearsed into the fiery gulf;

And heard the burning of the endless flames;
And heard the weltering of the waves of wrath;
And sometimes, too, before his fancy, passed
The Worm that never dies, writhing its folds
In hideous sort, and with eternal Death
Held horrid colloquy, giving the wretch
Unwelcome earnest of the woe to come.
But these we leave, as unbefitting song,
That promised happy narrative of joy.

But what of all the joys of earth was most Of native growth, most proper to the soil, Not elsewhere known, in worlds that never fell, Was joy that sprang from disappointed woe, The joy in grief, the pleasure after pain, Fears turned to hopes, meetings expected not, Deliverances from dangerous attitudes. Better for worse, and best sometimes for worst, And all the seeming ill, ending in good,A sort of happiness composed, which none Has had experience of but mortal man; Yet not to be despised. Look back, and one Behold, who would not give her tear for all The smiles that dance about the cheek of Mirth.

Among the tombs she walks at noon of night In miserable garb of widowhood. Observe her yonder, sickly, pale, and sad, Bending her wasted body o'er the grave Of him who was the husband of her youth.

[graphic]

p. 132.

"Among the tombs she walks at noon of night
In miserable garb of widowhood.

Observe her yonder, sickly, pale, and sad,
Bending her wasted body o'er the grave

Of him who was the husband of her youth."

The moonbeams, trembling through these ancient yews,

That stand like ranks of mourners round the bed

Of death, fall dismally upon her face,
Her little, hollow, withered face, almost
Invisible, so worn away with woe.

The tread of hasty foot, passing so late,

Disturbs her not; nor yet the roar of mirth,

From neighbouring revelry ascending loud.

She hears, sees nought, fears nought. One thought alone

Fills all her heart and soul: half hoping, half

Remembering, sad unutterable thought!

Uttered by silence and by tears alone.

Sweet tears! the awful language, eloquent
Of infinite affection, far too big

For words. She sheds not many now.

That grass

Which springs so rankly o'er the dead has drunk
Already many showers of grief: a drop

Or two are all that now remain behind,

And from her eye, that darts strange fiery beams,
At dreary intervals, drip down her cheek,
Falling most mournfully from bone to bone.
But yet she wants not tears. That babe that hangs
Upon her breast, that babe that never saw
Its father-he was dead before its birth-
Helps her to weep, weeping before its time,
Taught sorrow by the mother's melting voice,
Repeating oft the father's sacred name.
Be not surprised at this expense of woe!
The man she mourns was all she called her own,
The music of her ear, light of her eye,
Desire of all her heart, her hope, her fear,
The element in which her passions lived,
Dead now, or dying all: nor long shall she

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