CONSOLATION
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ist clogs the sunshine.Smoky dwarf housesHem me round everywhere;A vague dejectionWeighs down my soul. Yet, while I languish,Everywhere countlessProspects unroll themselves,And countless beingsPass countless moods. Far hence, in Asia,On the smooth convent-roofs,On the gilt terraces,Of holy Lassa,Bright shines the sun. Grey time-worn marblesHold the pure Muses;In their cool gallery,By yellow Tiber,They still look fair. Strange unloved uproar[A]Shrills round their portal;Yet not on HeliconKept they more cloudlessTheir noble calm. Through sun-proof alleysIn a lone, sand-hemm'dCity of Africa,A blind, led beggar,Age-bow'd, asks alms. No bolder robberErst abode ambush'dDeep in the sandy waste;No clearer eyesightSpied prey afar. Saharan sand-windsSear'd his keen eyeballs;Spent is the spoil he won.For him the presentHolds only pain. Two young, fair lovers,Where the warm June-wind,Fresh from the summer fieldsPlays fondly round them,Stand, tranced in joy. With sweet, join'd voices,And with eyes brimming:"Ah," they cry, "Destiny,Prolong the present!Time, stand still here!" The prompt stern GoddessShakes her head, frowning;Time gives his hour-glassIts due reversal;Their hour is gone. With weak indulgenceDid the just GoddessLengthen their happiness,She lengthen'd alsoDistress elsewhere. The hour, whose happyUnalloy'd momentsI would eternalise,Ten thousand mournersWell pleased see end. The bleak, stern hour,Whose severe momentsI would annihilate,Is pass'd by othersIn warmth, light, joy. Time, so complain'd of,Who to no one manShows partiality,Brings round to all menSome undimm'd hours. [Footnote A: Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849.]
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