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KING PELLINORE’S LITERARY MAGAZINE







          Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
          A Presence which is not to be put by;
          Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
          Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
          Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
          The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
          Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
          Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
          And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
          Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

          O joy! that in our embers
          Is something that doth live,
          That Nature yet remembers
          What was so fugitive!
          The thought of our past years in me doth breed
          Perpetual benediction: not indeed
          For that which is most worthy to be blest;
          Delight and liberty, the simple creed
          Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
          With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
          Not for these I raise
          The song of thanks and praise
          But for those obstinate questionings
          Of sense and outward things,
          Fallings from us, vanishings;
          Blank misgivings of a Creature
          Moving about in worlds not realised,
          High instincts before which our mortal Nature
          Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
          But for those first affections,
          Those shadowy recollections,
          Which, be they what they may
          Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
          Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;


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