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Untitled Article
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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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Untitled Article
And left us , never to return : and all Rush in to peer and praise when all in vain . The air seems bright with thy past presence yet , But them art still for me , as thou hast been When I have stood with thee , as on a throne With all thy dim creations gathered round
Like mountains , —and I felt of mould like them , And creatures of my own were mixed with them , Lake things half-lived , catching and giving life . But thou art still for me , who have adored , Though single , panting but to hear thy name , Which I believed a spell to me alone ,
Scarce deeming thou wert as a star to men—As one should worship Jong a sacred spring Scarce worth a moth ' s flitting , which long grasses cross , And one small tree embowers droopingly , Joying- to see some wandering insect won , To live in its few rushes—or some locust
To pasture on its boughs—or some wild bird Stoop for its freshness from the trackless air , And then should find it but the fountain-head , Long lost , of some great river—washing towns And towers , and seeing old woods which will live But by its banks , untrod of human foot , Which , when the great sun sinks , lie quivering
In light as some thing lieth half of life Before God ' s foot—waiting a wondrous change —Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay Its course in vain , for it does ever spread Like a sea's arm as it goes rolling on , Being the pulse of some great country—so Wert thou to me—and art thou to the world .
And I , perchance , half feel a strange regret , That I am not what I have been to thee / Painful , and yet one of the few pains which are lovely , is ( he change described in the lines which follow , and the feeling with which it is combined . And then know that this curse will come on us , To see our idols perish—we may wither ,
Nor marvel—we are clay ; but our low fate Should not extend to them , whom trustingly We sent before into Time ' s yawning gulf . To face whate v er may lurk in darkness there—To see the painters' glory pass , and feel
Sweet music move us not as once , or worst , To see decaying wits ere the frail body Decays . Naught makes me trust in love so really , As the delight of the contented lowness With which 1 gaze on souls I'd keep for ever Id beauty—I'd be sad to equal them ;
Untitled Article
260 Paiilint .
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Citation
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Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), April 2, 1833, page 260, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2612/page/44/
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