The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords
If when the soul unto the lines accords.
One simile that solitary shines
In the dry desert of a thousand lines.
The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.
But let a lord once own the happy lines,
How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.
The sagacious reader who is capable of reading between these lines what does not stand written in them, but is nevertheless implied, will be able to form some conception.
Accept a miracle instead of wit,—
See two dull lines with Stanhope's pencil writ.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,—
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.
Where go the poet's lines?
Answer, ye evening tapers!
Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
Speak from your folded papers!