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Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
O joy! that in our embers
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy !
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Which having been must ever be ;
In the faith that looks through death,
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels.fret,
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.