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Not always from intolerable pangs

He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed For independent happiness; craving peace,

The central feeling of all happiness,

Not as a refuge from distress or pain,
A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce,
But for its absolute self; a life of peace,
Stability without regret or fear;

That hath been, is, and shall be evermore!
Such the reward he sought; and wore out Life,
There, where on few external things his heart
Was set, and those his own; or, if not his,
Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law.

What other yearning was the master tie Of the monastic Brotherhood; upon Rock Aërial, or in green secluded Vale,

One after one, collected from afar,

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An undissolving Fellowship? What but this,
The universal instinct of repose,

The longing for confirmed tranquillity,
Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime:
The life where hope and memory are as one;
Earth quiet and unchanged; the human Soul
Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed

To meditation, in that quietness!

Such was their scheme :

thrice happy he who gained

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The end proposed! And, though the same were missed

By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none, -

They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed,
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed
From the unqualified disdain; that once
Would have been cast upon them, by my Voice
Delivering its decisions from the seat

Of forward Youth: - that scruples not to solve
Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone
To overweening faith; and is inflamed,
By courage, to demand from real life

The test of act and suffering

to provoke Hostility, how dreadful when it comes, Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt!

A Child of earth, I rested, in that stage
Of my past course to which these thoughts advert,
Upon earth's native energies; forgetting
That mine was a condition which required
Nor energy, nor fortitude

a calm

Without vicissitude; which, if the like

Had been presented to my view elsewhere,

I might have even been tempted to despise.
But that which was serene was also bright;
Enliven❜d happiness with joy o'erflowing,

With joy, and -oh! that memory should survive
To speak the word—with rapture! Nature's boon,
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness

Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign;
Abused, as all possessions are abused

That are not prized according to their worth.
And yet, what worth? what good is given to Men,
More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven?
What joy more lasting than a vernal flower?

None! 'tis the general plaint of human kind
In solitude, and mutually addressed

From each to all, for wisdom's sake: This truth The Priest announces from his holy seat;

And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove,
The Poet fits it to his pensive Lyre.

Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained,
Sharp contradictions may arise by doom
Of this same life, compelling us to grieve
That the prosperities of love and joy
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure
So long, and be at once cast down for ever.
Oh! tremble Ye to whom hath been assigned

A course of days composing happy months,
And they as happy years; the present still
So like the past, and both so firm a pledge
Of a congenial future, that the wheels

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope:
For Mutability is Nature's bane;

And slighted Hope will be avenged; and, when
Ye need her favours, Ye shall find her not;

But, in her stead

-

fear doubt =

- and agony!"

This was the bitter language of the heart: But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, Though discomposed and vehement, were such As skill and graceful Nature might suggest To a Proficient of the tragic scene

Standing before the multitude, beset

With dark events. Desirous to divert
Or stem the current of the Speaker's thoughts,
We signified a wish to leave that Place
Of stillness and close privacy, a nook
That seemed for self-examination made,
Or, for confession, in the sinner's need,
Hidden from all Men's view. To our attempt
He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope
Of mossy turf defended from the sun,

And, on that couch inviting us to rest,
Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned
A serious eye, and thus his speech renewed.

“You never saw, your eyes did never look On the bright Form of Her whom once I loved: Her silver voice was heard upon the earth,

A sound unknown to you; else, honoured Friend! Your heart had borne a pitiable share

Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss,

And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought
That I remember, and can weep no more. —
Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit.
Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts
Of self-reproach familiarly assailed;

I would not yet be of such wintry bareness,
But that some leaf of your regard should hang
Upon my naked branches : — lively thoughts
Give birth, full often, to unguarded words;
I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue
Too much of frailty hath already dropped;
But that too much demands still more.

You know,

Revered Compatriot; - and to you, kind Sir, (Not to be deemed a Stranger, as you come

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