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That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. PRINCE ATHANASE;

A FRAGMENT.

There was ayouth, who, as with toil and travel, Had grown quite weak and grey before his time; Nor any could the restless griefs unravel,

"Which burned within him, withering up his prime
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
Not his the load of any secret crime,

For nought of ill his heart could understand,
But pity and wild sorrow for the same;—
Not his the thirst for glory or comaud

Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame;
Nor evil joys which lire the vulgar breast
And quench in speedy smook its feeble flame,

Had left within his soul their dark unrest:
Nor what religion fables of the grave
Feared he.—Philosophy's accepted guest.

For none than he a purer heart could have,
Or that loved good more for itself alone;
Of nought in heaven or earth was ha the slave.

What sorrow deep, and shadowy, and unknown,
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind?
If with a human sadness he did groan,

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind;
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed,
And such a glorious consolation find

In others'joy, when all their own is dead:
He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief,
And yet, unlike all others, it is said,

That from such toil he never found relief;
Although a child of fortune and of power,
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief.

His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower
His love and justice, clothed in which he sate
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate-
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

Bnt like a steward iu honest dealings tried.

With those who toil'd and wept, the poor and wise

His riches and his cares he did divide.

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise,

What he dared do or think, though men might start,

He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes;

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,
And to his many friends all loved him well—
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart,

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell;
If not, ha smiled or wept; and his weak foes
He neither spurned nor hated, though with fell

And mortal hate their thousand voices rose.
They past like aimless arrows from his ear—
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close

To those, or them, or any whom life's Bphere
May comprehend within its wide array.
What Badness made that vernal spirit sere?

He know not. Though his life, day after day,
Was failing like and unreplenished stream,
Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay,

Through which his soul, like Vespers' serene beam

Piercing the chasms ever rising clonds,

Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods;
And though his sleep, and o'er each waking hour,
Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,

Were driven within him, by some secret power,
Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar,
Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower

O'er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war

Is levied by the night-contending winds,

And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear ;—i

Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends
Which wake and feed on everliving woe,—
What was this grief, which ne'er in other mi Oil
A mirror found,—he knew not— none could know
But on whoe'er might question him he turned
The light of his frank eyes, as if to shew,

He knew not of the grief within that burned,
But asked forbearance with a mournful look;
Or spoke in words from which none ever learnd

The cause of his disquietude ; or shook

With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale:

So that his friends soon rarely undertook

To stir his secret pain without avail;—

For all who knew and loved him then perceived

That there was drawn an adamantine veil

Between his heart and mind,—both unrelieved
Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife.
Some said that he was mad, others believed

That memories of an antenatal life

Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell $

And others said that such mysterious grief

From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell
On souls like his which owned no higher law
Than love; love calm, stedfast, invincible

By mortal fear or supernatural awe;

And others,—" 'Tis the shadow of a dream

Which the veiled eye of memory never saw

"But through the soul's abyss, like some dark stream Through shattered mines and caverns underground Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam

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