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100. I saw young Harry with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury; And vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship. 101. True happiness hath no localities, No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. Where duty goes, she goes; with justice goes; And goes with meekness, charity, and love, Where'er a tear is dried; a wounded heart Bound up; a bruised spirit with the dew Of sympathy anointed; or a pang Of honest suffering soothed; or injury Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven; Where'er an evil passion is subdued, Or virtue's feeble embers found; where'er A sin is heartily abjured and leftThere is a high and holy place, a spot Of sacred light, a most religious fane, Where happiness, descending, sits and smiles.

102. A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watch'd the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul ! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of merey made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

103. Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain Of mountains stretching on from east to west,

So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,

As to belong rather to heaven than earth,
But instantly receives into his soul

A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

A something that informs him 'tis a moment Whence he may date henceforward and for ever? 104. Now gentle gales,

Fanning their odorif'rous wings dispense

Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole
Those balmy spoils; as when to them who sail
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past
Mozambique, off at sea north-east winds blow
Sabean odours, from the spicy shore

Of Araby the bless'd: with such delay

Well pleased, they slack their course, and many a league,
Cheer'd with the grateful smell Old Ocean smiles.
105. I care not, Fortune! what you me deny:

You cannot rob me of free nature's grace,
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face:
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living streams at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave.
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.

106. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you
From seasons such as these? Oh, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp ;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.

107. The sounds and seas, each creek and bay, With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals

Of fish that, with their fins and shining scales,
Glide under the green wave; and sculls that oft
Bank the mid sea: part single or with mate
Graze the sea-weed, their pasture, and through groves
Of coral stray, or sporting with quick glance
Show to the sun their waved coats dropp'd with gold;
Or, in their pearly shells at ease, attend

Moist nourishment, or under rocks their food
In jointed armour watch; part huge of bulk
Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait,
Tempest the ocean.

108. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact:

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman: the lover all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation, and a name.

109. You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,

Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,
He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry in vain,

The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,

Proud of the vast extent of flimsy lines!

110. For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks

Invisible, except to God alone,

By his permissive will, through heaven and earth;
And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps
At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity

Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill
Where no ill seems.

111. How poor! how rich! how abject! how august! How complicate! how wonderful is man!

How passing wonder He who made him such !

Who centred in our make such strange extremes !—
An heir of glory! a frail child of dust!
Helpless immortal! insect infinite!

A worm! a god! I tremble at myself;
And in myself am lost! at home a stranger,
Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd aghast,
And wond'ring at her own: how reason reels!
Oh, what a miracle to man is man.

112. The raven himself is hoarse,

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here;
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, topful
Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse;
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murd'ring ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell!
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry, Hold, hold!

113. The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss: to give it then a tongue,

Is wise in man.

As if an angel spoke,

I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,

It is the knell of my departed hours:

Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands despatch;

How much is to be done! My hopes and fears
Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down on what? a fathomless abyss!
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,

Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
114. Yet do I fear thy nature;

Thou wouldst be great;
but without

It is too full o' the milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way.
Art not without ambition;
The illness should attend it.
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,
And yet wouldst wrongly win,

What thou wouldst highly,

115. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

116. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the foul bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?

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