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My Soul was grateful for delight
That wore a threatening brow;
A veil is lifted
The scene that opens now?
Though habitation none appear,
The greenness tells, man must be there; The shelter-that the perspective
Is of the clime in which we live;
can she slight
Where Toil pursues his daily round; Where Pity sheds sweet tears, and Love, In woodbine bower or birchen grove, Inflicts his tender wound.
Who comes not hither ne'er shall know How beautiful the world below; Nor can he guess how lightly leaps The brook adown the rocky steeps. Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! Hope, pointing to the cultured Plain, Carols like a shepherd boy;
And who is she?
Can that be Joy!
Who, with a sun-beam for her guide,
"Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O man, is good, thy portion fair!"
COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY.
HAD this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent,
But 'tis endued with power to stay,
While choirs of fervent Angels sang
Their vespers in the grove;
Or, ranged like stars along some sovereign height,
Than doth this silent spectacle - the gleam
No sound is uttered,
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
Herds range along the mountain side;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
but a deep
And, if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Wings at my shoulder seem to play ;
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad
Ye Genii! to his covert speed;
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour!