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Unchanged in soul I wandered back
A man in years—in heart a boy.
I thought upon its cheerful hearth,
And cheerful hearts' untainted glee, And felt, of all I'd seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind !
Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude :
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
Thou dost not bite so nigh
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
The maiden lay :
* Talitha, in the dialect of the people, a term of endearment used towaris a young maiden.”-Dean Alford on "St. Mark's Gospei.”
Silence those death-wails
Of wild despair ! “Not dead, but sleeping!”
The Life is there!
Gentle His accents,
Mother, as thine; Yet Galilee's tempests
Know them Divine.
Kingly, He chaseth
The mocking band ; Softly He toucheth
The clay-cold hand.
“ Talitha Cumi !
Damsel, arise !" And slowly open
Those death-sealed eyes !
With a name of endearment,
Tender and soft, (Her mother had waked her
From sleep with it oft),
HE calls her spirit,
Beyond the tombs, “ Talitha Cumi !”—
She hears and comes. And the gates of Hades,
The gates of brass, Which through the ages
None living pass, Before those accents
Quake as with thunder, Quiver like aspens,
And part asunder ; Open like flowers Touched by the sun :
Yet through th
The soul of
“ Talitha Cum
THE WELL OF
The King was faint with
Of Bethlehem afar.
When, as the custom i His mother went along ty
By moonlight to the w Even in the desert hot an He felt again the touch He heard the murmur of
That wave beside the
Fair vision this, for warrid Athirst and weary from th MISERIES OF ROYALTY. ) HARD condition, twin-born with greatness, Subject to the breath of every fool, Vhose sense no more can feel but his own wringing ! \Vhat infinite heart's-ease must kings neglect, Chat private men enjoy! And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol ceremony ? What kind of god art thou, that suff’rest more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers ? What are thy rents? what are thy comings in ? O ceremony, show me but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration ? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men ? Wherein thou art less happy being feared Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery? Oh, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy ceremony give thee cure ! Think’st thou the fiery fever will go out With titles blown from adulation ? Will it give place to flexure and low bending ? Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it ? No, thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose ; I am a king that find thee; and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running 'fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony, Not all these laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who, with a body filled, and vacant mind, Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful bread :