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They have a king, and officers of sorts,—
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad;
Others, like soldiers, armèd in their stings,
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent royal of their emperor ;
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing masons building roofs of gold;
The civil citizens kneading up the honey;
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate;
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy yawning drone.



THOUGH many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And bards who hail'd thee may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful, and rejoice.

Delicious odours; music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away;


In the far isles of the main ;
In the desert's lone domain;
In the savage mountain-glen,
Mid the tribes of swarthy men ;
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone;
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone
On a league of peopled ground,
Little children may be found!
Blessings on them! they in me
Move a kind of sympathy

With their wishes, hopes, and fears;
With their laughter and their tears;
With their wonder, so intense,
And their small experience!

Little children, not alone

On the wide earth are ye known;
Mid its labours, and its cares,
Mid its sufferings, and its snares.
Free from sorrow, free from strife,
In the world of love and life,
Where no sinful thing hath trod,
In the presence of your God,
Spotless, blameless, glorified,
Little children, ye abide!




THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And, as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleased



With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village-bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear


In cadence sweet; now dying all
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where mem'ry slept! Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

And, with it, all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That, in a few short moments, I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The winding of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,
It seem'd not always short: the rugged path,
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,
Mov'd many a sigh at its disheartening length :
Yet feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revok'd,
That we may try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)
We miss'd that happiness we might have found!
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend,
A father, whose authority, in shew

When most severe, and must'ring all its force,
Was but the graver countenance of love :

Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lour,


This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,


Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.



FAREWELL, a long farewell to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now hath left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!



There is betwixt that smile that we aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs
and fears than wars or women have:
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.



THESE are Thy glorious works, Parent of good! Almighty, Thine this universal frame,

Thus wond'rous fair,-Thyself how wond'rous, then!

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these Thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold Him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle His throne rejoicing. Ye in heaven,
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol

Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling


With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul,

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