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THE WORLD

I SAW Eternity the other night,

Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;

And round beneath it, Time in hours, days,

years,

Driv'n by the spheres

Like a vast shadow mov'd; in which the world

And all her train were hurl'd.

The doting lover in his quaintest strain

Did there complain;

Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his slights, Wit's sour delights;

With gloves, and knots the silly snares of

pleasure,

Yet his dear treasure,

All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour
Upon a flower.

The darksome statesman, hung with weights

and woe,

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Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so slow, He did nor stay, nor go;

Condemning thoughts-like sad eclipses-scowl Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.

Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be
found,

Work'd under ground,

Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policy:

Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies;

It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.

The fearful miser on a heap of rust

Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust,

Yet would not place one piece above, but lives In fear of thieves.

Thousands there were as frantic as himself,

And hugg'd each one his pelf;

The down-right epicure plac'd heav'n in sense, And scorn'd pretence;

While others, slip'd into a wide excess,

Said little less;

The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave;

And poor, despised Truth sate counting by
Their victory,

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Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing. And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring; But most would use no wing.

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O fools-said I-thus to prefer dark night
Before true light!

To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shows the way;

The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God;

A way where you might tread the sun, and be More bright than he!

But as I did their madness so discuss,

One whisper'd thus,

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TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

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1838.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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