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All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,

The mill-round of our fate appears
A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;

The fountains of my hidden life

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Of such is your spirit's comrade,
The perfect friend.

HOWARD ARNOLD WALTER

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PORTRAIT

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine

thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,

"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian revery,

A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, Life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss. Ah, that maternal smile! it answers "Yes." I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was; where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.

What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learnt at last submission to my lot,

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, "T is now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and, more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in mem'ry's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here.

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart- - the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.

But no

what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

And now, farewell! Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done :
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again,
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

WILLIAM COWPER

A MAN

(For My Father)

I LISTENED to them talking, talking,
That tableful of keen and clever folk,
Sputtering - followed by a pale and balking
Sort of flash whenever someone spoke;
Like musty fireworks or a pointless joke,
Followed by a pointless, musty laughter. Then
Without a pause, the sputtering once again.
The air was thick with epigrams and smoke;
And underneath it all

It seemed that furtive things began to crawl,
Hissing and striking in the dark,
Aiming at no particular mark,
And careless whom they hurt.

The petty jealousies, the smiling hates

Shot forth their venom as they passed the plates, And hissed and struck again, aroused, alert; Using their feeble smartness as a screen

To shield their poisonous stabbing, to divert From what was cowardly and black and mean.

Then I thought of you,

Your gentle soul,

Your large and quiet kindness;
Ready to caution and console,
And, with an almost blindness
To what was mean and low.
Baseness you never knew;

You could not think that falsehood was untrue,

Nor that deceit would ever dare betray you.

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