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The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil
For who can always act? but he,
To whom a thousand memories call, Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seemed to be,
Best seemed the thing he was, and joined Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind;
Nor ever narrowness or spite,
And thus he bore without abuse
The grand old name of gentleman,
And soiled with all ignoble use.
HIGH wisdom holds my wisdom less,
Set light by narrower perfectness.
But thou, that fillest all the room
For what wert thou? some novel power
And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour,
Large elements in order brought,
And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation swayed In vassal tides that followed thought.
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee
But served the seasons that may rise;
For can I doubt who knew thee keen
I doubt not what thou wouldst have been:
A life in civic action warm,
A soul on highest mission sent,
A pillar steadfast in the storm,
Should licensed boldness gather force,
And roll it in another course,
With thousand shocks that come and go,
With overthrowings, and with cries,
Wнo loves not Knowledge?
Who shall rail
Against her beauty? May she mix
Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
But on her forehead sits a fire:
She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire.
Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain,
She cannot fight the fear of death. What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain
Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst
All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place, She is the second, not the first.
A higher hand must make her mild,
For she is earthly of the mind,
But wisdom heavenly of the soul.
So early, leaving me behind,
I would the great world grew like thee
And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity.
Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
On winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
From land to land; and in my breast
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colors of the crescent prime ?
Not all; the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust,
Cry through the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret; the face will shine
And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine :
Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be.
O DAYS and hours, your work is this,
For fuller gain of after bliss:
That out of distance might ensue
Desire of nearness doubly sweet;
Delight a hundredfold accrue,
For every grain of sand that runs,
And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns.
CONTEMPLATE all this work of Time,
But trust that those we call the dead