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Then can I hear the earth rejoice,

Happier than man may ever be,
Every fountain hath then a voice

That sings of its glad festivity;
For it hath burst the chains, that bound

Its currents dead in the frozen ground,
And flashing away in the sun has gone,
Singing, and singing, and singing on.

Autumn hath sunset hours, and then

Many a musing mood I cherish,
Many a hue of fancy, when

The hues of earth are about to perish;
Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween,
Hath real sunset never seen,
Sad as the faces of friends that die,
And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep,

Visions the mind may not control,
Waking as fancy does in sleep

The secret transports of the soul,
Faces and forms are strangely mingled,
Till one by one they're slowly singled,
To the voice and lip, and eye of her
I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I,

When from my sweet and roaming track, From the green earth and misty sky,

And spring and love I hurry back ;
Then what a dismal, dreary gloom
Settles upon my loathed room,
Darker to every thought and sense
Than if they had never travelled thence.

Yet I have other thoughts that cheer

The toilsome day, and lonely night, And many a scene and hope appear,

And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.

And though I may sometimes sigh to think

Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink

Shall never be brimmed by me;
That many a joy must be untasted,
And many a glorious breeze be wasted,
Yet would not, if I dared, repine,
That toil and study and care are mine.



Give me the boon of Love!

I ask no more for Fame ;
Far better one unpurchased heart

Than Glory's proudest name.
Why wake a fever in the blood,

Or damp the spirit now, To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave

Above a withered brow?

Give me the boon of Love!

Ambition's meed is vain; Dearer Affection's earnest smile

T'han Honour's richest train.
I'd rather lean upon a breast

Responsive to my own,
Than sit pavilioned gorgeously
Upon a kingly throne.

Like the Chaldean sage,

Fame's worshippers adore,
The brilliant orbs that scatter light

O’er heaven's azure floor;
But in their very hearts enshrined

The votaries of Love
Keep e'er the holy flame, which once

Illumed the courts above.

Give me the boon of Love!

Renown is but a breath, Whose loudest echo ever floats

From out the halls of death. A loving eye beguiles me more

Than Fame's emblazoned seal, And one sweet tone of tenderness

Than Triumph's wildest peal.

Give me the boon of Love!

The path of Fame is drear, And Glory's arch doth ever span

A hill-side cold and sere.
One wild flower from the path of Love,

All lowly though it lie,
Is dearer than the wreath that waves

To stern Ambition's eye.



Give me the boon of Love !

The lamp of Fame shines far,
But Love's soft light glows near and warm-

A pure and household star.
One tender glance can fill the soul

With a perennial fire;
But Glory's flame burns fitfully-

A lone, funereal pyre.

Give me the boon of Love !

Fame's trumpet-strains depart,
But Love's sweet lute breathes melody

That lingers in the heart;
And the scroll of Fame will burn

When sea and earth consume,
But the rose of Love in a happier sphere,

Will live in deathless bloom!

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