And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Is not the love of these deep in my heart Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow? THE POET AND THE WORLD. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 113, 114.) I HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me; Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words v hich are things, — hopes which will not de ceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. BEREAVEMENT. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanza 98.) WHAT is the worst of woes that wait on age? LAST LEAVING ENGLAND. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 1, 2.) The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour 's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. ENGLAND. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 8-10.) I'VE taught me other tongues and in strange eyes A country with - ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind The inviolate island of the sage and free, Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, My name from out the temple where the dead And light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 66 'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. RUINS TO RUINS. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 130, 131.) OH Time! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled Time! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love, - sole philosopher, My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? THE DREAM. I SAW two beings in the hues of youth As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, |