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Of Thee, proclaimed by every found,
Whom nature's all-mysterious round

Declares, yet not defines Thy light;
Of Thee, the abyss and source, whence all
Our fouls proceed, in which they fall,

Who haft but one name-INFINITE.

All men on earth may hear and treasure
This voice, refounding from all time;
Each one, according to his measure,
Interpreting its fenfe fublime.
But ah! the more our spirits weak
Within its holy depths would feek,

The more this vain world's pleasures cloy;
A weight, too great for earthly mind,
O'erwhelms its powers, until we find
In folitude our only joy.

So when the feeble eyeball fixes
Its fight upon the glorious fun,
Whofe gold-emblazoned chariot mixes

With rofy clouds that towards it run;
The dazzled gaze all powerlefs finks,
Blind with the radiance which it drinks,
And fees but gloomy fpecks float by;
And darkness indiftinct o'ershade

Wood, meadow, hill, and pleafant glade,

And the clear bosom of the sky.

LAMARTINE.

III.

OLD AGE.

I.

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AM old and blind!

Men point to me as fmitten by God's frown,

Afflicted and deferted of my mind,

Yet I am not caft down.

II.

I am weak, yet strong—

I murmur not that I no longer fee

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Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father fupreme! to Thee.

III.

O Merciful One,

When men are fartheft, then Thou art moft near;
When friends pafs by, my weakness fhun,
Thy chariot I hear.

IV.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me,-and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,
And there is no more night.

V.

On my bended knee

I recognise Thy purpose clearly fhown-
My vifion Thou haft dimmed that I may fee
Thyfelf, Thyfelf alone.

VI.

I have nought to fear;

My darkness is the fhadow of Thy wing-
Beneath it I am almost facred-here

Can come no evil thing.

VII.

Oh! I feem to ftand

Trembling where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapped in the radiance of Thy finless land Which eye hath never seen.

VIII,

Vifions come and go

Shapes of refplendent beauty round me throng—
From angel's lips I feem to hear the flow
Of foft and holy fong.

IX.

It is nothing now,

When heaven is opening on my fightless eyes,

When airs of Paradise refresh

my brow,

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My being fills with rapture-waves of thought
Roll in upon my fpirit-ftrains fublime
Break over me unfought.

XI.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the strivings of a gift divine;
Within my bofom glows unearthly fire

Lit by no skill of mine.

MILTON.*

*See Preface respecting the Authorship of this sublime ode.

IV.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

B

Y Nebo's lovely mountain,

On this fide Jordan's wave, In a vale of the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave. But no man dug that fepulchre,

And no one faw it e'er ;

For the Angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or faw the train go forth.
Noifeleffly as the daylight

Comes, when the night is done,

Or the crimson streak on Ocean's cheek
Fades in the setting fun

Noifeleffly as the spring time,

Her creft of verdure waves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves;

So, without found of mufic,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain's crown
That grand proceffion swept.

Perchance fome bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-Peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous fight;
Perchance fome lion, stalking,

Still fhuns the hallowed spot;

For beaft and bird have feen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drums,

Follow the funeral car; They fhow the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his matchless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the nobleft of the land
They lay the fage to reft;

And give the bard an honoured place,
With coftly marble dreft;

In the great minster's transept high,

Where lights like glories fall,

While the sweet choir fings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the braveft warrior
That ever buckled fword;

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philofopher Traced with his golden pen,

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