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The disappointments that did drape my youth,
And heavily upon my heart-strings lay;
The yellow fennel that entwined my way,
Breathing upon my soul the dews of ruth;
The many failings I have known of truth,
And love, and friendship—gnawing cares,
Toils, tears, hereavements—inward aches of years,
That teach me life's realities, in sooth;
All have not banished from my bosom hope,
Nor drank the freshness of its youthful bloom—
There are some feelings grief cannot entomb—
Joys that to common daybeams never ope—
My spirit feeds on inborn blessedness,
And still hath faith in truth, and love, and happiness. XIII.
The earth, the sea, the air, are full of thee—
All animated nature owns thy sway—
The Angels thy entrancing spells obey,
Inexplicable—Heaven-bor n Poesy!
Thou art the holiest gift of Deity—
The High-Priest of the heart, that soothing e'er
To its confessions lend'st a willing ear;
O'er its dark waters breath'st serenity,
And giv'st a voice to all its sacred feeling.
Thou dwellest with the humble, sad, and lone,
And broken-hearted, when love, hope have flown,
And death life's shallow current is congealing;
Thou bidd'st the soul look heavenward from this clod—
And art the heart's best refuge next to God.
How could I live without thee! Unto whom,
In melancholy moments, could I fly,
To breathe or thought, or wish, or hope, or sigh,
And claim, in turn, a smile to light the gloom
That hovers o'er my heart, as o'er a tomb!
Who could allure me from the embrace of Sorrow,
My spirit cheer with visions of to-morrow,
But thou? Who dwell with me mid bud and bloon;
By hill, and dale, and stream, and rustling grove,
Teaching me Nature's language—those great truths,
With which she elevates, instructs, and soothes?
Who lead me through those starry aisles above,
Unveiling to mine eyes Eternity,
If thou shouldst leave me—blest—inspiring Poesy?
Ye airy habitants of Fashion's mart!
Who, like the gayly-painted butterflies,
Seek but to dazzle by your gaudy dyes—
From all, that seem not gold and glitter, start
Appalled—as there could be nor soul, nor heart J
Who never felt ennobling sympathies
Quicken your breasts; nor heard Humanity's
Deep pleading voice; scorn not the Poet's art!
Look nor disdainfully, nor cold on him,
Though soiled his garb, and wanting many a stitch—
Pale, worn his brow—his eyes with weeping dim;
Though he charm not the stony-hearted rich,
His bosom throbs with higher—holier fire,
Than ever base, or common souls inspire.
TRANSLATED FBOM THE ITALIAN OF PETBABCH.
I Saw a form angelically bright,