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We cannot kindle when we will
The fire which in the heart resides,
But tasks in hours of insight willid
With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; We bear
the burden and the heat
Not till the hours of light return
Then, when the clouds are off the soul,
When thou dost bask in Nature's eye,
Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air,
And she, whose censure thou dost dread,
Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek,
Ah, child !' she cries, that strife divine,
There is no effort on my brow
I do not strive, I do not weep;
Yet that severe, that earnest air,
* I knew not yet the gauge of time,
Nor wore the manacles of space;
'Twas when the heavenly house I trod,
A wanderer is man from his birth.
He was born in a ship
He spreads out his arms to the light,
As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been.
Whether he wakes
Sluggishly winds through the plain ;
As is the world on the banks,
Vainly does each as he glides
23 Raised by the objects he passes, are his.
Who can see the green earth any more
Who thinks as they thought,
35 As Rebekah read, when she sate At eve by the palm-shaded well ?
Who guards in her breast
With a plainness as near, As flashing as Moses felt,
45 When he lay in the night by his flock On the starlit Arabian waste ?
Can rise and obey
50 Now flows through with us, is the plain. Gone is the calm of its earlier shore.
Border'd by cities, and hoarse
55 Are confused as the cries which we hear, Changing and shot as the sights which we see.
And we say that repose has fled
Flatter the plain where it flows,
65 That never will those on its breast
See an ennobling sight,
But what was before us we know not,
Of the grey expanse where he floats, Freshening its current and spotted with foam
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike
As the pale waste widens around him-
Brings up the stream
M. ARNOLD. 369
The tawny-throated !
What triumph! hark—what pain !
And can this fragrant lawn
Afford no balm ?
Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ?
Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes
Dost thou once more assay
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
Ah! would that I did too.
Her mirth the world required ;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
And now they let her be.