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ΠΑΤΕΡ ἡμῶν ὁ ἐν τοῖς οὐρανοῖς, ἁγιασθήτω τὸ ὄνομά Ἐλθέτω ἡ βασιλεία σου· γενηθήτω τὸ θέλημά σου, ὡς ἐν οὐρανῷ, καὶ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς. Τὸν ἄρτον ἡμῶν τὸν ἐπιούσιον δὸς ἡμῖν σήμερον. Καὶ ἄφες ἡμῖν τὰ ὀφειλήματα ἡμῶν, ὡς καὶ ἡμεῖς ἀφίεμεν τοῖς ὀφειλέταις ἡμῶν. Καὶ μὴ εἰσενέγκης ἡμᾶς εἰς πειρασμὸν, ἀλλὰ ῥῦσαι ἡμᾶς ἀπὸ τοῦ πονηροῦ. Ὅτι σοῦ ἐστίν ἡ βασιλεία, καὶ ἡ δύναμις, καὶ ἡ δόξα, εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. ̓Αμήν.
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
"Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps." Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776.
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
But with a hope.-
Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again I seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life,-where not a flower appears.
Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain,
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.
He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
'Tis to create, and in creating live
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
Yet must I think less wildly:-I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late! Yet am I changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.
Something too much of this:—but now 'tis past,
He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen,
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.