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'Here and here did England help me: how can I
help England?'-say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to
praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung
to, So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Mcet for love's regal dalmatić.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went onLove to be saved for it, proffered to, spcat on!
A WOMAN'S LAST WORD
Strive nor weep:
- Only sleep!
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
Hawk on bough!
RABBI BEN EZRA
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
Our times are in His hand
Who saith ‘A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be
Not that, amassing flowers,
Youth sighed ‘Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall ?"
Not that, admiring stars,
It yearned 'Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!'
Annulling youth's brief years,
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Were man bút formed to feed
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?
And not partake, effect and not receive !
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.
6 Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but gol
Be our joys three-parts pain !
Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge
7 For thence, –a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail :
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.
8 What is he but a brute
Whose flesh hath soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
To man, propose this test
Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?
I own the Past profuse
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once 'How good to live
I see the whole design,
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Thou
For pleasant is this flesh;
Our soul in its rose-mesh
Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold Possessions of the brute, -gain most, as we did
Let us not always say
‘Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the
Let us cry ‘All good things
helps soul !
Therefore I summon age
To grant youth's heritage,
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for ay removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.
Take rest, ere I be gone