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So must it be; the weaker, wiser race,

That wields the tempest and that rides the sea, Even in the stillness of thy solitude

Must teach the lesson of its power to thee; And thou, the terror of the trembling wild,

Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child!


MINE ancient Chair! thy wide-embracing arms Have clasped around me even from a boy; Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by,

Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy,

Of fevered hopes and ill-foreboding fears,
And smiles unseen, and unrecorded tears.

And thou, my Table! though unwearied Time.
Hath set his signet on thine altered brow,
Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime,

And in my memory thou art living now;
Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things,
The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings.

Thou melancholy Mug! thy sober brown

Hath something pensive in its evening hue, Not like the things that please the tasteless clown, With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue; And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, Pressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone.

My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved,

Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all, Oft do I leave thee, oft again return,

I scorn the siren, but obey the call;

I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth,
But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth.

Primeval Carpet! every well-worn thread

Has slowly parted with its virgin dye; I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread, Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye; So flies the color from the brightest flower, And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour.

I love

all! there radiates from our own
A soul that lives in every shape we see;
There is a voice, to other ears unknown,

Like echoed music answering to its key.
The dungeoned captive hath a tale to tell,
Of every insect in his lonely cell;

And these poor frailties have a simple tone,
That breathes in accents sweet to me alone.


I SAW him once before,

As he passed by the door,

And again

The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time

Cut him down,

Not a better man was found

By the Crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,

And he looks at all he meets

Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,

That it seems as if he said,

"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

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