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class="i2">And its fair tints appear
All blent in one dusk hue.

Why dwell on rich autumnal lights,
Spring-time, or winterā€™s social ring?
Long days are fire-side nights,
Brown autumn is fresh spring.

Then what this world to thee, my heart?
Its gifts nor feed thee nor can bless.
Thou hast no ownerā€™s part
In all its fleetingness.

The flame, the storm, the quaking ground,
Earthā€™s joy, earthā€™s terror, nought is thine,
Thou must but hear the sound
Of the still voice divine.

O priceless art! O princely state!
Eā€™en while by sense of change opprest,
Within to antedate
Heavenā€™s Age of fearless rest.

Highwood. October, 1827.

IX Consolations in Bereavement

Death was full urgent with thee, Sister dear,
And startling in his speed;ā ā€”
Brief pain, then languor till thy end came nearā ā€”
Such was the path decreed,
The hurried road
To lead thy soul from earth to thine own Godā€™s abode.

Death wrought with thee, sweet maid, impatiently:ā ā€”
Yet merciful the haste
That baffles sickness;ā ā€”dearest, thou didst die,
Thou wast not made to taste
Deathā€™s bitterness,
Declineā€™s slow-wasting charm, or feverā€™s fierce distress.

Death came unheralded:ā ā€”but it was well;
For so thy Saviour bore
Kind witness, thou wast meet at once to dwell
On His eternal shore;
All warning spared,
For none He gives where hearts are for prompt change prepared.

Death wrought in mystery; both complaint and cure
To human skill unknown:ā ā€”
God put aside all means, to make us sure
It was His deed alone;
Lest we should lay
Reproach on our poor selves, that thou wast caught away.

Death urged as scant of time:ā ā€”lest, Sister dear,
We many a lingering day
Had sickenā€™d with alternate hope and fear,
The ague of delay;
Watching each spark
Of promise quenchā€™d in turn, till all our sky was dark.

Death came and went:ā ā€”that so thy image might
Our yearning hearts possess,
Associate with all pleasant thoughts and bright,
With youth and loveliness;
Sorrow can claim,
Mary, nor lot nor part in thy soft soothing name.

Joy of sad hearts, and light of downcast eyes!
Dearest thou art enshrined
In all thy fragrance in our memories;
For we must ever find
Bare thought of thee
Freshen this weary life, while weary life shall be.

Oxford. April, 1828.

X A Picture

ā€œThe maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.ā€

She is not gone;ā ā€”still in our sight
That dearest maid shall live,
In form as true, in tints as bright,
As youth and health could give.

Still, still is ours the modest eye;
The smile unwrought by art;
The glance that shot so piercingly
Affectionā€™s keenest dart;

The thrilling voice, I neā€™er could hear
But felt a joy and pain;ā ā€”
A pride that she was ours, a fear
Ours she might not remain;

Whether the page divine callā€™d forth
Its clear sweet, tranquil tone,
Or cheerful hymn, or seemly mirth
In sprightlier measure shown;

The meek inquiry of that face,
Musing on wonders found,
As ā€™mid dim paths she sought to trace
The truth on sacred ground;

The thankful sigh that would arise,
When aught her doubts removed,
Full sure the explaining voice to prize,
Admiring while she loved;

The pensive brow, the world might see
When she in crowds was found;
The burst of heart, the oā€™erflowing glee
When only friends were round;

Hopeā€™s warmth of promise, prompt to fill
The thoughts with good in store,
Matchā€™d with contentā€™s deep stream, which still
Flowā€™d on, when hope was oā€™er;

That peace, which, with its own bright day,
Made cheapest sights shine fair;
That purest grace, which trackā€™d its way
Safe from aught earthly there.

Such was she in the sudden hour
That brought her Makerā€™s callā ā€”
Proving her heartā€™s self-mastering power
Blithely to part with allā ā€”

All her eye loved, all her hand pressā€™d
With keen affectionā€™s glow,
The voice of home, all pleasures best,
All dearest thoughts below.

From friend-lit hearth, from social board,
All duteously she rose;
For faith upon the Masterā€™s word
Can find a sure repose.

And in her wonder up she sped,
And tried relief in vain;
Then laid her down upon her bed
Of languor and of painā ā€”

And waited till the solemn spell,
(A lingā€™ring night and day,)
Should fill its numbers, and compel
Her soul to come away.

Such was she then; and such she is,
Shrined in each mournerā€™s breast;
Such shall she be, and more than this,
In promised glory blest;

When in due lines her Saviour dear
His scatterā€™d saints shall range,
And knit in love souls parted here,
Where cloud is none, nor change.

Oxford. August, 1828.

XI My Lady Nature and Her Daughters

Ladies, well I deem, delight
In comely tire to move;
Soft, and delicate, and bright,
Are the robes they love.
Silks, where hues alternate play,
Shawls, and scarfs, and mantles gay,
Gold, and gems, and crispĆØd hair,
Fling their light oā€™er lady fair.
ā€™Tis not waste, nor sinful pride,
ā€”Name them not, nor fault besideā ā€”
But her very cheerfulness
Prompts and weaves the curious dress;
While her holy5 thoughts still roam
Mid birth-friends and scenes of home.
Pleased to please whose praise is dear,
Glitters she? she glitters there;ā ā€”
And she has a pattern found her
In Natureā€™s glowing world around her.

Nature loves, as lady bright,
In gayest guise to shine,
All forms of grace, all tints of light,
Fringe her robe divine.
Sun-lit heaven, and rain-bow cloud,
Changeful main, and mountain proud,
Branching tree, and meadow green,
All are deckā€™d in broiderā€™d sheen.
Not a bird on bough-proppā€™d tower,
Insect slim, nor tiny flower,
Stone, nor spar, nor shell of sea,
But is fair in its degree.
ā€™Tis not pride, this vaunt of beauty;
Well she ā€™quits her trust of duty;
And, amid her gorgeous state,
Bright, and bland, and delicate,
Ever beaming from her face
Praise of a Fatherā€™s love we trace.

Ladies, shrinking from the view
Of the prying day,
In tranquil diligence pursue
Their heaven-appointed way.
Noiseless duties, silent cares,
Mercies lighting unawares,
Modest influence working good,
Gifts, by the keen heart understood,
Such as viewless spirits might give,
These they love, in these they live.ā ā€”
Mighty Nature speeds her through
Her daily toils in silence too:
Calmly rolls her giant spheres,
Sheds by stealth her dewā€™s kind tears;
Cheating sageā€™s vexā€™d pursuit,
Churns the sap, matures the fruit,
And, her deft hand still concealing,
Kindles motion, life, and feeling.

Ladies love to laugh and sing,
To rouse the chordā€™s full sound,
Or to join the festive ring
Where dancers gather

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