To Imagination
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- When weary with the long day's care,
- And earthly change from pain to pain,
- And lost, and ready to despair,
- Thy kind voice calls me back again:
- Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
- While then canst speak with such a tone!
- So hopeless is the world without;
- The world within I doubly prize;
- Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
- And cold suspicion never rise;
- Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
- Have undisputed sovereignty.
- What matters it, that all around
- Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
- If but within our bosom's bound
- We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
- Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
- Of suns that know no winter days?
- Reason, indeed, may oft complain
- For Nature's sad reality,
- And tell the suffering heart how vain
- Its cherished dreams must always be;
- And Truth may rudely trample down
- The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:
- But thou art ever there, to bring
- The hovering vision back, and breathe
- New glories o'er the blighted spring,
- And call a lovelier Life from Death.
- And whisper, with a voice divine,
- Of real worlds, as bright as thine.
- I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
- Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,
- With never-failing thankfulness,
- I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
- Sure solacer of human cares,
- And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!
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