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Man is ever warring, rushing
Onward through life's stormy way,
Knows he neither rest nor stay :
Urged by paffion's fury brood,
Fall, to be for aye renewed.
But women, to sweet silent praises resigning
range, Than man, proudly soaring with fruitless endeavour,
Through the infinite circles of science and song.
Strong and proud, and self-commending,
Man's cold heart doth rarely move,
To the god-like power of love ;
Tears, by other's tears confessed ;
Harder his obdurate breast !
Oh, wakened like harp, and as gently resembling
Breathes woman's fond soul, and as feelingly too. Touched lightly, touched deeply, for ever she borrows Grief itself from the image of grief, and her sorrows
Ever gem her soft eyes with Heaven's holiest dew.
Man, of power despotic lord,
In power doth insolently trust;
Persia, crouching, bites the duft.
Combat spoilers wild and dread,
Where the charities have fled.
But gently intreating, and sweetly beguiling,
ing, Calming down the fierce discord of hatred and
pride; Teaching all whom the strife of wild passions would
sever, To unite in one bond, and with her, and for ever,
All hopes, each emotion, they else had denied.
TAIL to thee, blythe Spirit !
Bird thou never wert,
Pourest thy full heart
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
The blue deep thot wingest,
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
Thou doft float and run ;
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight,
In the broad daylight,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
In the white dawn clear,
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud ; As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud, The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is
What thou art we know not,
What is most like thee;
Drops so bright to see,
Like a poet
hidden In the light of thought ; Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought To fympathy with hopes and fears it heeded
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Its aërial hue Amid the flowers and grass that screen it from the view.
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Till the scent it gives
Sound of vernal showers
On the awakened grass,
All that ever was
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet notes are thine ;
Praise of love or wine,
Or triumphant chant,
But an empty vaunt,
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strains ;
What shapes of sky or plains ;