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As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
120 And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears,
125 We led the bending beggar on his way, (Bare were his feet, his tresses silver
He breathed his prayer, "Long may such goodness live!"
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropt our little store, 130 And sighed to think that little was no
I search the records of each mouldering
Guides of my life! Instructors of my
To learn the color of my future years!
Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed 155 Whose every word enlightened and my breast;
This truth once known-To bless is to
In age beloved, in poverty revered;
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day.
Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here alone
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit 160 When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes
What spells entrance my visionary mind
While, as the boat went merrily,
Tarbat, thy shore I climbed at last;
25 Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills That vast and awful depth of hills;) Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, 30 As Fingal spoke, and Ossian sung.
Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew; The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 35 And now the grampus, half-descried, Black and huge above the tide; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare; Each beyond each, with giant feet 40 Advancing as in haste to meet;
The shattered fortress, whence the Dane
When day springs upward from the deep
Kindling the waters in its flight,
50 Glad sign, and sure! for now we hail
Oh blest retreat, and sacred too! 55 Sacred as when the bell of prayer
Tolled duly on the desert air, And crosses decked thy summits blue. Oft, like some loved romantic tale, Oft shall my weary mind recall, 60 Amid the hum and stir of men,
Thy beechen grove and waterfall, Thy ferry with its gliding sail, And her-the Lady of the Glen!
AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA 1812
Shepherd, or huntsman, or worn mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst,
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone,
Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse, 5 This iron cup chained for the general
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping;
Of those who would not be consoled 40 When red with blood the river rolled.
From ITALY 1819-1834 1822-34 THE LAKE OF GENEVA
Day glimmered in the east, and the white
Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky, Yet visible, when on my way I went, Glad to be gone, a pilgrim from the North, 5 Now more and more attracted as I drew Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad,
To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth,
From his green sod upspringing as to heaven,
10 (His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song Old in the days of Homer, and his wings With transport quivering) on my way I went,
Is light with hope, all things are sure to please;
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by, Laden with peasant girls and fruits and flowers
So dead to all things in this visible world, 60 So wondrously profound, as to move on In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old2
(His name is justly in the Calendar3), Who through the day pursued this pleasant path
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty,
65 And, when at eve his fellow pilgrims sate, Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. They marvelled as they might; and so must all,
Seeing what now I saw : for now 'twas day, And the bright sun was in the firmament, 70 A thousand shadows of a thousand hues
1 cock and ben
2 Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux (1091-1153). list of saints
Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories,
That change their shapes forever as in sport;
75 Then travelled onward and went down behind
The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe
Borne homeward through the forest in his hand;
And, on the edge of some o'erhanging cliff, 80 That dungeon-fortress1 never to be named, Where, like a lion taken in the toils, Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit.
Little did he,2 who sent him there to die, Think, when he gave the word, that he himself,
85 Great as he was, the greatest among men, Should in like manner be so soon conveyed Athwart the deep,-and to a rock so small Amid the countless multitude of waves, That ships have gone and sought it, and returned,
Saying it was not!
Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set.
5 So light of heart, laughing she knew not
Sleep overcame her; on my arm she slept. From time to time I waked her; but the
Rocked her to sleep again. The moon