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There but the burning sense of wrong,
Small friendship for the lordly throng;
No dream his life was—but a fight;
A lover in that Anchorite?
To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight, Who could have guessed that visions came
Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin,
But for the patient hope within,
Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe;
Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once forlorn he strayed, With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ;
The single boon for which he prayed
Betrays no spirit of repose,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine,
When Hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth •
Baron and Duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth.
He used Rome's Harlot for his mirth ; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time. O Time! whose judgments mock our own,
The only righteous Judge art thou : That poor old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now:
Before his name the nations bow; His words are parcels of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
ST. JAMES'S PARK.
Which England's Queen looks out upon, I sat there till the dewy dark
And every other soul was gone;
And sitting, silent, all alone, I seemed to hear a spirit say:
Be calm-the night is; never moan For friendships that have passed away. The swans that vanished from thy sight
Will come to-morrow, at their hour; But when thy joys have taken flight,
To bring them back no prayer hath power.
'Tis the world's law: and why deplore A doom that from thy birth was fate ?
True 'tis a bitter word—“No more !"
Thou feelest in thy inmost heart
And what thou seest is but part.
Make this thy medicine for the smart Of every day's distress; be dumb.
In each new loss, thou truly art Tasting the power of things to come.
For one who fell in battle. Room for a Soldier ! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover ; Make his mound with hers who called him once her
Where the rain may rain upon it,
Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches ;
Make his mound with sunshine on it,