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Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, Or quietly self-buried in earth's mold, Is that embattled House, whose massy Keep Flung from yon cliff a shadow large and cold. — There dwelt the gay, the bountiful, the bold, 'Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep Of winds — when winds were silent, struck a deep And lasting terror through that ancient Hold. Its line of Warriors fled; — they shrunk when tried By ghostly power: — but Time's unsparing hand Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from out the land;And now, if men with men in peace abide,
All other strength the weakest may withstand,
All worse assaults may safely be defied.

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud — Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
I seemed to mount those steps; the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

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Surprized by joy — impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind — But how could I forget thee? — Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.


November 1, 1815.

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow as smooth as heaven can

shed, Shines like another Sun — on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head — Terrestrial — but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty — destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes — till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

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High is our calling, Friend! — Creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with etherial hues,)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned — to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert:
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay, —
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness:
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

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