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But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page Are writ o'er thine deeds of one more age, And thine are not remembered.—Greece, farewell!
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- Went to Mr Furlong's Church which was incredibly complete, and he gave us a most superb sermon for his Church which is supported completely by voluntary contributions and was formerly a Convent.
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- The Ravenscrofts Ramsays etc. were there.
- They collected about 700 francs - and I am certain he richly deserves to be supported for it is a great advantage to have the service so nicely performed in a foreign land, and I want we could transport him to Leamington.
- August 18th At 11 Kenelm and the boys and Emily hired a Pony carriage and went to the races Wimille, where they stayed till 5, pretty nicely amused.
But now— See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay! The sin is yours—with your accursed gold— Man's wealth is master—woman's soul the slave! Some purest water nonetheless the mire may hold. Is there no hope for her—no power to save? Yea, when again to draw up from the clay The fallen raindrop, till it shine above, Or save a fallen soul, wants but one particular ray Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human appreciate. the poet's song Has blameful left untold thy deeds as well extended!
peaceful, pure, and light Oh, satisfied worship! ever gay with smiles, Meet prelude to the harmonies of evening As birds beneath the wing enfold their head, Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed. The child comes toddling in, and young and old With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold, And artless, babyish joy A playful welcome greets it through the space, The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom, To greet the happy boy. If June with flowers has spangled all the ground, Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around Draws close the circling seat The kid still sheds a never-failing light We get in touch with Mamma with mingled joy and fright Watches its tottering feet. Maybe at eve as round the fire we draw, We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law, Or politics, or prayer The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play, Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay, Philosophy and care. Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue And little hands that evil in no way knew, Pure as the new-formed snow Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire, Thy golden locks like aureole of fire Circle thy cherub brow! Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes.
LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.—1840. Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, A single rose that none may well pluck, within my heart I hold. Your flying wings may well smite, but they can under no circumstances spill The cup fulfilled of adore, from which my lips are wet.
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Acquire,-poor present, 'tis correct, Which grief, not joy, endears,— My thoughts, that like a shower of dew, Reach thee in tears. My vows untold obtain, All pure before thee laid Get of all the days I reside The light or shade!
My hours with rapture fill'd, Which no suspicion wrongs And all the blandishments distill'd From all my songs. My spirit, whose essay Flies fearless, wild, and totally free, And hath, and seeks, to guide its way No star but thee. No pensive, dreamy Muse, Who, although all else should smile, Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would decide on, To weep the when. this gift Receive—'tis throe alone— My heart, of which there's practically nothing left When Like is gone! Above all earthly style, Above mere mundane rage, Your mind created it my passion To create for noblest stage. Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her—she Was sister of my soul immortal, absolutely free! My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, When green hoped not to gray to run its course She was enthronèd Virtue below heaven's dome, My idol in the shrine of curtained residence.
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