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“ This truth within thy mind rehearse,

That in a boundless universe

Is boundless better, boundless worse.

“ Think

you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres ? '

It spake, moreover, in my mind :
“ Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind,
Yet is there plenty of the kind.”

Then did my response clearer fall :
“No compound of this earthly ball
Is like another, all in all."

To which he answer'd scoffingly ;
“Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee,
Who'll weep for thy deficiency?

“ Or will one beam be less intense,

When thy peculiar difference

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ?

I would have said, “ Thou canst not know,”
But my full heart, that work'd below,
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow.

Again the voice spake unto me: “Thou art so steep'd in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be.

“ Thine anguish will not let thee sleep,
Nor
any

train of reason keep : Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.”

I said,

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The

years with change advance : If I make dark

my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.

“Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev’n yet.” But he: “What drug can make A wither'd palsy cease to shake ?"

I wept, “ Tho' I should die, I know
That all about the thorn will blow

In tufts of rosy-tinted snow;

“And men, thro' novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, Will learn new things when I am not.”

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Yet,” said the secret voice, some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime.

“ Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven's starry flight, Would sweep the tracts of day and night.

“ Not less the bee would range her cells, The furzy prickle fire the dells, The foxglove cluster dappled bells.”

I said that “all the years invent ;
Each month is various to present
The world with some development.

“ Were this not well, to bide mine hour, Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power ?”

“ The highest-mounted mind," he said,

Still sees the sacred morning spread

The silent summit overhead.

“ Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main ?

“ Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town?

“ Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let
Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set
In midst of knowlege, dream'd not yet.

“ Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light,

Because the scale is infinite.

“ 'Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek.

“ Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.”

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