LVII. TRUE LOVE BINDS SOUL AND BODY.
True love's-th' gift-th't God hath given- T' man-alone-beneath th' heavens.
It is th' secret sympathy,—
Th' silver chord,-the silken tie
Which-(heart—t' heart—and mind—t' mind)— In body-and in soul-can bind.
No; let the eagle-change his plume,
Th' leaf-its hue,-th' flower-its bloom;
But ties around th' heart-were spun
That could not,-would not-be undone.
A BARK- —(at midnight)—sent—alone— T' drift-upon a moonless sea,— A LUTE-whose leading chord—is gone,— A wounded BIRD-th't has but one- Imperfect wing—t' soar upon,—
Is like-what I am-without THEE.
LVIII. THE VARIOUS ROADS TO FAME. POLLOK.
Many-the roads-men took, the plans-they tried. The man of science-to the shade retired, And laid his head-upon his hand,-in mood- Of awful thoughtfulness,—and dived—and dived Again,-deeper-and deeper still,—to sound The cause remote; resolved-(before he died) To make some grand discovery by which- He should be known-to all posterity. And (in the silent vigils—of the night, When un-inspired men-reposed,)—the bard, (Ghastly of countenance,—and from his eye- Oft streaming wild,-unearthly fire,)—sat up And sent his imagination forth,—and searched The far-and near,—heaven,-earth,—and gloomy hell, For fiction new,-for thought-un-thought-before; And when some curious,-rare idea-peered
Upon his mind-he dipped his hasty pen,—
And (by the glimmering lamp-or moonlight beam
Th't through his lattice peeped)-wrote fondly down What seemed-in truth-imperishable song.
And sometimes too-the reverend divine,
(In meditation deep-of holy things
And vanities-of time,)—heard Fame's sweet voiceApproach his ear,-and hung another flower
(Of earthly sort) about the sacred truth,
And ventured-(whiles) to mix—the bitter text With relish-suited to the sinner's taste.
And ofttimes-too-the simple hind,—(who seemed Ambitionless,-arrayed in humble garb,
While round him—spreading-fed his harmless flock,) Sitting-was seen-by some wild-warbling brook, Carving his name upon his favorite staff, Or in ill-favored letters-tracing it— Upon the aged thorn,—or on the face- Of some conspicuous-oft-frequented stone, With persevering,-wondrous industry; And hoping-as he toiled amain, and saw The characters-taking form-some other wight,- Long after he was dead-and in his grave, Should loiter there-at noon and read his name.
LIX.-EARTHLY REPUTATION. POLLOK.
In purple—some,—and some—in rags,-stood forth For reputation. Some-displayed a limb- Well-fashioned; some,—(of lowlier mind,)—a cane— Of curious workmanship—and marvelous twist. In strength-some-sought it, and in beauty—more. Long, long, the fair one-labored at the glass, And (being tired,) called in auxiliar skill,
To have her sails (before she went abroad)
Full spread, and nicely set-to catch the gale
Of praise; and much—she caught,—and much-deserved, When outward loveliness-was index fair
Of purity-within. But oft,-alas!
The bloom-was on the skin-alone; and when She saw,-(sad sight!) the roses-on her cheek- Wither, and heard the voice of Fame retire- And die away,—she heaved most piteous sighs, And wept-most lamentable tears; and while In wild delirium made rash attempt, (Unholy mimicry-of nature's work!)
To re-create-(with frail—and mortal things) Her withered face. Attempt-how fond—and vain! Her frame-itself soon mouldered-down to dust; And in the land-of deep forgetfulness- Her beauty and her name-were laid-beside Eternal silence-and the loathsome worm, Into whose darkness-FLATTERY-ventured not,
Where none-had ears-to hear the voice--of Fame.
LX.-THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. LONGFELLOW.
Somewhat back-from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees-their shadows throw; And (from its station-in the hall) An ancient time-piece-says-to all,- "Forever-never! Never-forever!"
Half-way-up-stairs-it stands,
And points and beckons-with its hands From its case-of massive oak, Like a monk who, (under his cloak,) Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,— Forever-never! Never-forever!
By day-its voice-is low and light; But-in the silent dead-of night, Distinct-as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes-along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling,-along the floor,
And seems to say—(at each chamber door,)— "Forever-never! Never-forever!"
Through days of sorrow-and of mirth, Through days of death-and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged-it has stood; And as if, (like God,)—it all things saw, It calmly repeats-those words of awe,- Forever-never! Never-forever!
In that mansion-used to be Free-hearted-Hospitality:
His great fires-up the chimney roared; The stranger-feasted at his board; But, (like the skeleton-at the feast,) That warning time-piece-never ceased,— "Forever-never! Never-forever !"
There-groups-of merry children played,— There-youths and maidens-dreaming-strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime!
And affluence-of love-and time
Even as a miser-counts his gold
Those hours the ancient time-piece told,— "Forever-never! Never-forever!"
From that chamber,-(clothed in white,)
The bride-came forth-on her wedding-night;
There,-(in that silent room-below,) The dead lay-in his shroud of snow, And (in the hush-th't followed the prayer) Was heard the old clock-on the stair,- “Forever—never! Never-forever!"
All are scattered-now and fled; Some-are married,—some—are dead! And when I ask, (with throbs of pain,) "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days-long since gone by, The ancient time-piece-makes reply,— "Forever—never! Never-forever!”
Never-here,-forever—there! Where all parting, pain, and care, And death-and time-shall disappear;- Forever-there,-but never-here!
The horologue-of eternity—
Sayeth this incessantly,—
"Forever—never! Never-forever!”
LXI.-EARTHLY AMBITION VAIN. POLLOK.
Many-the roads-men took,-the plans-they tried, And awful—oft the wickedness-they wrought. To be observed,-some-scrambled up to thrones, And sat in vestures-dripping wet-with gore.
The WARRIOR-dipped his words—in BLOOD,—and wrote His name on lands-and cities-desolate.
The RICH-bought fields,—and houses built,—and raised The monumental piles-up to the clouds,
And called them-by their names; and,-(strange-to tell,) Rather than be unknown,—and pass away-
Obscurely to the grave,―SOME-(small of soul, That else had perished-unobserved,) acquired Considerable renown— -by oaths profane; By jesting boldly-with sacred things, And uttering-fearlessly, whate'er occurred, Wild, blasphemous,perditionable thoughts Th't Satan-in them moved; by wiser men- Suppressed-and quickly banished—from the mind. Many the roads they took,-the plans they tried; But all-in vain. Who grasped-at earthly fame- Grasped wind; nay worse,—a serpent grasped, th❜t through His hand-slid smoothly,—and was gone; but left
A sting behind,-which wrought him-endless pain.
For oft-her voice-was old Abaddon's lure, By which-he charmed the foolish soul—to death!
LXII.-INTERVIEW BETWEEN YOUTH AND SORROW. MACKAY.
"Get thee back,-Sorrow, get thee back!
My brow-is smooth,-mine eyes—are bright, My limbs are full of health and strength,— My cheeks-are fresh,-my heart—is light;- So get thee back! Oh! get thee back! Consort with age,-but not with me; Why should'st thou follow on my track? I am too young-t' live with thee."
"O foolish youth!-t' scorn thy friend! T'harm thee-wherefore-should I seek? I would not dim-thy sparkling eyes,— Nor blight-th' roses-on thy cheek: I would but teach thee-to be true; And-should I press thee-overmuch,— Ever-th' flowers--that I bedew-
Yield sweetest fragrance-t' th' touch."
"Get thee back,-Sorrow,-get thee back! I like thee not; thy looks-are chill; Th' sunshine-lies upon my heart,— Thou showest me th' shadow-still. So get thee back! Oh, get thee back! Nor touch my golden locks-with gray. Why should'st thou follow-on my track? Let me be happy-while I may."
"Good friend,-thou needest-sage advice; I'll keep thy heart-from growing proud;- I'll fill thy mind-with kindly thoughts,— And link thy pity-t' the crowd. Would'st have a heart-of pulseless stone? Would'st be too happy-to be good? Nor make a human woe-thine own,— For sake of human brotherhood?"
"Get thee back,-Sorrow,-get thee back! Why should I weep-while I am young? I have not piped,-I have not danced,— My morning songs-I have not sung: Th' world is beautiful t' me,-
Why tarnish it-to soul-and sense? Prithee-begone! I'll think of thee-
Some half a hundred winters-hence."
"O-foolish youth!--thou know'st me not; I-am th' mistress-of the earth;— 'Tis I-give tenderness-t' love; Enhance-th' privilege—of mirth,—
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