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XXIX.

ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THF FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON.

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horc stand

On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck;
Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand
Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck;
But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side
Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check
Is given to triumph and all human pride!
Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck
In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed
Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest,
As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed
Has shown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame
In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name,
Conqueror, 'mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest

XXX.

COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838.

LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun,
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide.
Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide.
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun
Pale twilight's lingering glooms, and in the sun
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied;

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Or gambol, each with his shadow at his side,
Varying its shape wherever he may run.
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the green,
Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen;
Why to God's goodness cannot We be true,
And so, His gifts and promises between,
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?

XXXI.

Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,
One upward hand, as if she needed rest

From rapture, lying softly on her breast!
Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance;
But not the less-nay, more· -that countenance,
While thus illumined, tells of painful strife
For a sick heart made weary of this life

By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance.

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- Would she were now as when she hoped to pass At God's appointed hour to them who tread Heaven's sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content,

Well pleased, her foot should print earth's common

grass,

Lived thankful for day's light, for daily bread,

For health, and time in obvious duty spent.

XXXII.

TO A PAINTER.

ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed;
But 't is a fruitless task to paint for me,
Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,
By the habitual light of memory see

Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birthplace ne'er shall flee

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be;
And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead.
Couldst thou go back into far-distant years,
Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye,
Then, and then only, Painter! could thy Art
The visual powers of Nature satisfy,

Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears,
Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.

XXXIII.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise
This Work, I now have gazed on it so long
I see its truth with unreluctant eyes;
O my Beloved! I have done thee wrong,
Conscious of blessedness, but whence it sprung
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive:

Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve,

And the old day was welcome as the young,
As welcome, and as beautiful, in sooth

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More beautiful, as being a thing more holy:
Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy;

To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast
Into one vision future, present, past.

XXXIV.

HARK! 't is the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest,
By twilight premature of cloud and rain;
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain
Who carols thinking of his Love and nest,
And seems, as more incited, still more blest.
Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside Prisoner's
chain,

Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain,

And in a moment charmed my cares to rest.
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! and front the blast,
That we may sing together, if thou wilt,
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day,
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built
Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past,
Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay.

Rydal Mount, 1838.

XXXV.

TIs He whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm, - but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude!

Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrain?
Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein

Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush attune
His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon
Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane?
Rise, tardy Sun! and let the songster prove
(The balance trembling between night and morn
No longer) with what ecstasy upborne

He can pour forth his spirit.

In heaven above,

And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

XXXVI.

O WHAT a Wreck! how changed in mien and

speech!

Yet though dread Powers, that work in mys

tery, spin

Entanglings of the brain, though shadows stretch O'er the chilled heart reflect; far, far within

-

Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin.

She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch,

But delegated Spirits comfort fetch

To her from heights that Reason may not win.

Like Children, she is privileged to hold

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