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Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy
Implement have blame,
A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?
Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,
Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had, And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?
Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore
No, no, this cannot be
Men thirst for power and
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than
One after One they take their turns, nor have I one
That doth not slacky go away, as if dissatisfied,
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.
THERE was a roaring in the wind all night;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;-on the moors
The Hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
In our dejection do we sink as low,
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;
Dim sadness, and blind thoughts I knew not nor could name.
I heard the Sky-lark singing in the sky;
But there may come another day to me-
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.
Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
When up and down my fancy thus was driven,
I saw a Man before me unawares :
The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.