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Where Nature offers, at all hours,
Out of her free imperial store,

That perfect Beauty their weak powers
Can help her to create no more :
And grateful for that ancient aid,

Comes forth to comfort and relieve
Those minds in prostrate sorrow laid,
Bidding them open and receive!

Though still 'tis hardly she that gives,
For Nature reigns not there alone,
A mightier queen beside her lives,
Whom she can serve but not dethrone;
For she is fallen from the state
That waited on her Eden-prime,
And Art remains by Sin and Fate
Unscathed, for Art is not of Time.

OTHER SCENES.

M

Though blank the range of place and fact To hearts that only rise and fall,

God and the Poet can extract

Beauty and Truth from each and all.

THE DEATH OF DAY.

WRITTEN ON THE RHINE.

FULL of hours, the Day is falling Where its brethren lie,

A stern and royal voice is calling The beautiful to die.

The banners of the west
A splendid breadth unfold,—

Their glory be unblest!

There is blood upon the gold.

Great Time, how canst thou slay,

With such a funeral state,

The gay and gentle Day,

Whom none could fear or hate?

Oh! mark him on his bed,

How flushed his quiet cheek,

How lowly droops his head, And eyes that more than speak.

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