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Thou in the virgin morning of thy


Hast felt the bitter waters o*er thee roll.

Yet thou knowest, too, the terrible delight,

The still content, and solemn ecstasy;

Whatever sharp, sweet bliss thy kind may know. Thy spirit is deep for pleasure as for woe —

Deep as the rich, dark-caverned,

awful sea That the keen-winded, glimmering

dawn makes white.


Not from the whole wide world I choose thee — Sweetheart, light of the land and the sea!

The wide, wide world could not enclose thee, For thou art the whole wide world to me.

Years have flown since I knew thee first,

And I know thee as water is known of thirst:

Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight,

And thou art strange to me, love, tonight.


What would I save thee from, dear

heart, dear heart? Not from what heaven may send

thee of its pain; Not from fierce sunshine or the

scathing rain: The pang of pleasure; passion's

wound and smart; Not from the scorn and sorrow of

thine art;

Nor loss of faithful friends, nor any gain

Of growth by grief. I would not

thee restrain From needful death. But oh, thou

other part Of me! — through whom the whole

world I behold, As through the blue I see the stars


In whom the world I find, hid

fold on fold! Thee would I save from this — nay, do

not move! Fear not, it may not flash, the air

is cold;

Save thee from this—the lightning of my love.


I Count my time by times that I meet thee;

These are my yesterdays, my morrows, noons,

And nights; these my old moons and my new moons.

Slow fly the hours, or fast the hours do flee, i If thou art far from or art near to me:

If thou art far, the birds' tunes

are no tunes; If thou art near, the wintry days

are Junes,— Darkness is light, and sorrow can

not be.

Thou art my dream come true, and thou my dream, The air I breathe, the world wherein I dwell; My journey's end thou art, and thou the way; Thou art what I would be, yet only seem;

Thou art my heaven and thou art my hell;

Thou art my ever-living judgmentday.



Of other men I know no jealousy, Nor of the maid who holds thee

close, oh, close: But of the June-red, summerscented rose, And of the orange-streaked sunset sky

That wins the soul of thee through thy deep eye; And of the breeze by thee beloved, that goes O'er thy dear hair and brow; the song that flows Into thy heart of hearts, where it may die.

I would I were one moment that sweet show Of flower; or breeze beloved that

toucheth all; Or sky that through the summer eve doth burn. I would I were the song thou Iovestso, At sound of me to have thine eyelid fall:

But I would then to something human turn.


Once, looking from a window on a land

That lay in silence underneath the sun;

A land of broad, green meadows, through which poured

Two rivers, slowly winding to the sea,—

Thus, as I looked, I know not how or whence,

Was borne into my unexpectant soul

That thought, late learned by anxious-witted man.

The infinite patience of the Eternal Mind.


And were that best, Love, dreamless, endless sleep? Gone all the fury of the mortal


The daylight gone, and gone the starry ray!

And were that best, Love, rest serene and deep?

Gone labor and desire; no arduous steep

To climb, no songs to sing, no

prayers to pray, No help for those who perish by

the way.

No laughter 'midst our tears, no tears to weep! And were that best, Love, sleep with no dear dream,

Nor memory of any thing in life ?

Stark death that neither help nor hurt can know! Oh, rather, Love, the sorrow-bringing gleam.

The living day's long agony and strife!

Arm strong love in pain,— the waking woe!


Through love to light! Oh, wonderful the way

That leads from darkness to the perfect day!

From darkness and from sorrow of

the night To morning that comes singing o'er

the sea.

Through love to light! Through light, O God, to thee,

Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light!

Oliver Goldsmith.

[From The Deserted Village.]

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild.

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to

change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for


By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize —

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard, descending, swept his

aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no

longer proud. Claimed kindred there, and had his

claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to


Sate by his fire, and talked the night away —

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of

sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed

how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man

learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their


Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave, ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side:

But in his duty, prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring

to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull


Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man, [ran;

With ready zeal, each honest rustic

E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the

good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth


Their welfare pleased him, and their

cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his

griefs were given — But all his serious thoughts had rest

in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful


Swells from the vale, and midway

leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling

clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

[From The Deserted Village.] THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably


There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taught his little school.

A man severe he was, and stern to view —

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;

Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault.

The village all declared how much he knew;

'Twas certain he could write, and

cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and

tides presage,

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,

For, e'en though vanquished, he

could argue still; While words of learned length and

thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged


And still they gazed, and still the

wonder grew, That one small head could carry all

he knew.


In all my wanderings round this

world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given

my share — I still had hopes my latest hours to


Amidst these humble bowers to lay

me down; To husband out life's taper at the


And keep the flame from wasting by repose;

I still had hopes — for pride attends us still —

Amidst the swains to show my booklearned skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and

horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at

first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations


Here to return — and die at home at last.

O blest retirement! friend to life's decline!

Retreat from care, that never must be mine!

How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,

A youth of labor, with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since't is hard to combat, learns to fly!

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,

Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;

No surly porter stands in guilty state,

To spurn imploring famine from the gate;

But on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels around befriending virtue's friend;

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay.

While resignation gently slopes the


And, all his prospects brightening to the last,

His heaven commences, ere the world be past.

[From The Trateller.]

Gay sprightly land of mirth and

social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the

world can please, How often have I led thy sportive


With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire!

Where shading elms along the margin grew.

And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew;

And haply, though my harsh touch, faltering still,

But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill,

Yet would the village praise my wondrous power,

And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.

Alike all ages: dames of ancient days

Have led their children through the

mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skilled in

gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burden of

threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless

realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to

mind endear, For honor forms the social temper


Honor, that praise which real merit gains

Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand,

It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:

From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays,

And all are taught an avarice of praise;

They please, are pleased, they give

to get esteem. Till, seeming blest, they grow to

what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss


It gives their follies also room to rise;

For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought.

Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;

And the weak soul, within itself unblest,

Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.

Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art,

Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; lace,

Here Vanity assumes her pert grim

And trims her robe of frieze with copper lace;

Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer,

To boast one splendid banquet once a year;

The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws

Nor weighs the solid worth of selfapplause.

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