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What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much

good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a

perfect round. All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall

exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good,

nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the

melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth

too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the

sky, Are music' sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by


And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or

agonized ? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing

might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should

be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal

and woe: But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians


Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign :

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,-yes, VOL. II.


And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the

deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting

place is found, The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.

n ROW old along with me!

U The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all

nor be afraid!”
Not that, amassing flowers.

Youth sighed “Which rose make ours,
“Which lily leave and then as best recall?”

Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned “Nor Jove, nor Mars;
“Mine be some figured flame which blends,

transcends them all!”
Not for such hopes and fears

Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!

Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
by, to solely seek and find and feast:
Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men;
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the

maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied

To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!

A spark disturbs our clod;

Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must


Then, welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!

Be our joys three-parts pain!

Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge

the throe!

For thence,-a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks. Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:

What I aspired to be,

And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink

i' the scale.

What is he but a brute

Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?

To man, propose this test

Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:

I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:

Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once “How good to live

and learn?”

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