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To touch the heart, and make its pulses thrill,
To raise and purify the grovelling soul,
To warm with generous heat the selfish will,
To conquer passion with a mild control,
And the whole man with nobler thoughts to fill,

These are thine aims, O pure unearthly power! These are thine influences; and therefore those Whose wings are clogged with evil, are thy foes; And therefore these, who have thee for their dower, The widowed spirits with no portion here,

Eat angels' food, the manna thou dost shower: For thine are pleasures, deep, and tried, and true, Whether to read, or write, or think, or hear, By the gross million spurned, and fed on by the few.


THAT the fine edge of intellect is dulled,

And mortal ken with cloudy films obscure, And the numbed heart so deep in stupor lulled That virtue's self is weak its love to lure, But pride and lust keep all the gates secure, This is thy fall, O man; and therefore those Whose aims are earthly, like pedestrian prose,

The selfish, useful, money-making plan,
Cold language of the desk, or quibbling bar,
Where in hard matter sinks ideal man:
Still, worldly teacher, be it from me far

Thy darkness to confound with yon bright band,
Poetic all, though not so named by men,
Who have swayed royally the mighty pen,

And now as kings in prose on fame's clear summit stand.


GENTLE, but generous, modest, pure, and learned, Ready to hear the fool, or teach the wise, With gracious heart that all within him burned To wipe the tears from virtue's blessed eyes, And help again the struggling right to rise; Such an one, like a god, have I discerned

Walking in goodness this polluted earth, And cannot choose but love him: to my soul, Swayed irresistibly with sweet control,

So rare and noble seems thy precious worth, That the young fibres of my happier heart, Like tendrils to the sun, are stretching forth To twine around thy fragrant excellence, O child of love; so dear to me thou art, So coveted by me thy good influence!

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COARSE, vain and vulgar, ignorant and mean,
Sensual and sordid in each hope and aim,
Selfish in appetite, and basely keen

In tracking out gross pleasure's guilty game
With eager eye, and bad heart all on flame,
Such an one, like an Afreet, have I seen,

Shedding o'er this fair world his baleful light, And can I love him? - far be from my thought To show not such the charities I ought,

But from his converse should I reap delight, Nor bid the tender sproutings of my mind

Shrink from his evil, as from bane and blight,

Nor back upon themselves my feelings roll? O moral monster, loveless and unkind,

Thou art as wormwood to my secret soul!


COME near me, friends and brothers; hem me round
With the dear faces of my fellow-men;
The music of your tongues with magic sound
Shall cheer my heart and make me happiest then,
My soul yearns over you; the setting hen

Cowers not more fondly o'er her callow brood
Than in most kind excuse of all your ill,

My heart is warm and patient for your good; O that my power were measured by my will; Then would I bless you as I love you still,'

Forgiving, as I trust to be forgiven:
Here, vilest of my kind, take hand and heart,
I also am a man-'tis all thou art,

An erring, needy pensioner of heaven.


How long am I to smell this tainted air,
And in a pest house draw my daily breath,
Where nothing but the sordid fear of death
Restrains from grander guilt than cowards dare?

O loathsome, despicable, petty race,

Low counterfeits of devils, villanous men,
Sooner than learn to love a human face,

I'll make my home in the hyæna's den,

Or live with newts and bull-frogs on the fen:
These at least are honest; - but for man,
The best will cheat and use you if he can;

The best is only varnished o'er with good;
Subtle for self, for damning mammon keen,
Cruel, luxurious, treacherous, proud, and mean,
Great Justice, haste to crush the viper's brood:
And I too am a man! O wretched fate
To be the thing I scorn

more than I hate.

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Most tranquil, innocent, and happy life,

Full of the holy joy chaste nature yields, Redeemed from care, and sin, and the hot strife That rings around the smoked unwholesome dome


Where mighty Mammon his black sceptre wields, Here let me rest in humble cottage home,

Here let me labor in the enamelled fields:
How pleasant in these ancient woods to roam,
With kind-eyed friend, or kindly-teaching book:
Or the fresh gallop on the dew-dropt heath,
Or at fair eventide, with feathered hook,
To strike the swift trout in the shallow brook,

Or in the bower to twine the jasmin wreath,
Or at the earliest blush of summer morn

To trim the bed, or turn the new-mown hay, Or pick the perfumed hop, or reap the golden corn! So should my peaceful life all smoothly glide away.


ENOUGH of lanes, and trees, and valleys green,
Enough of briery wood, and hot chalk-down,
I hate the startling quiet of the scene,

And long to hear the gay glad hum of town:
My garden be the garden of the Graces,
Flowers full of smiles, with fashion for their queen,
My pleasant fields be crowds of joyous faces,
The brilliant rout, the concert, and the ball,
These be my joys in endless carnival!

For I do loathe that sickening solitude,
That childish hunting up of flies and weeds,
Or worse, the company of rustics rude,
Whose only hopes are bound in clods and seeds;
Out on it! let me live in town delight,

And for your tedious country-mornings bright, Give me gay London with its noon and night.


IDOLATOR of gold, I love thee not,

The orbits of our hearts are sphered afar, In lieu of tuneful sympathies, I wot;

My thoughts and thine are all at utter jar, Because thou judgest by what men have got, Heeding but lightly what they do, or are: Alas, for thee! this lust of gold shall mar, Like leprous stains, the tissue of thy lot,

And drain the natural moisture from thy heart; Alas! thou reckest not how poor thou art, Weighed in the balances of truth, how vain;

O wrecking mariner, fling out thy freight,
Or founder with the heavily sinking weight;
No longer dote upon thy treasured gain,

Or quick, and sure to come, the hour shall be,
When MENE TEKEL shall be sentenced thee.


RATHER be thou my counsellor and friend,

Good man, though poor, whose treasure with thy heart Is stored and set upon that better part, Choice of thy wisdom, without waste or end, And full of profits that to pleasures tend:

How cheerful is thy face, how glad thou art! Using the world with all its bounteous store

Of richest blessings, comforts, loves, and joys, Which thine all-healthy hunger prizeth more

Than the gorged fool whom sinful surfeit cloys; Still, not forgetful of thy nobler self,

The breath divine within thee, but with care Cherishing the faint spark that glimmereth there Nor, by Brazilian slavery to pelf,

Plunging thy taper into poisoned air

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