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Regards with patriot love. |
We trust, in plumed procession, |
For such the angels go, |
Rank after rank, with even feet |
And uniforms of snow. |
DAWN. |
When night is almost done, |
And sunrise grows so near |
That we can touch the spaces, |
It 's time to smooth the hair |
And get the dimples ready, |
And wonder we could care |
For that old faded midnight |
That frightened but an hour. |
THE BOOK OF MARTYRS. |
Read, sweet, how others strove, |
Till we are stouter; |
What they renounced, |
Till we are less afraid; |
How many times they bore |
The faithful witness, |
Till we are helped, |
As if a kingdom cared! |
Read then of faith |
That shone above the fagot; |
Clear strains of hymn |
The river could not drown; |
Brave names of men |
And celestial women, |
Passed out of record |
Into renown! |
THE MYSTERY OF PAIN. |
Pain has an element of blank; |
It cannot recollect |
When it began, or if there were |
A day when it was not. |
It has no future but itself, |
Its infinite realms contain |
Its past, enlightened to perceive |
New periods of pain. |
I taste a liquor never brewed, |
From tankards scooped in pearl; |
Not all the vats upon the Rhine |
Yield such an alcohol! |
Inebriate of air am I, |
And debauchee of dew, |
Reeling, through endless summer days, |
From inns of molten blue. |
When landlords turn the drunken bee |
Out of the foxglove's door, |
When butterflies renounce their drams, |
I shall but drink the more! |
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, |
And saints to windows run, |
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