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CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee,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
be Words which are things,-hopes which will not deceive, 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.
My daughter! with thy name this song begun-
And reach into thy heart,—when mine is cold,
Yet this was in my nature:-as it is,
CXVII. Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation,-and a broken claim : Though the grave closed between us,—'t were the same, I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain My blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attainment,—all would be in vain,Still thou would’st love me, still that more than life retain.
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,