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The Poetry of Real Life

A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison
 

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THE FUTURE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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THE FUTURE.

Down climbing Thought, that at thy prison-bars
Gasp'st for a little breath of heavenly air:
For one brief glimpse of those abodes so fair,
Which thou hast pictured 'bove yon' clear, calm stars,
That, in the deep, blue vault, like cavern-spars,
Gleam with divine intelligence, as 'twere,
Heav'n's conscious eyes—as if they had a care
Of human things: the tutelary Lars
Of those diviner homes! but 'tis not so—
They are but cressets in the hall of night:
The moving lamps, that ever come and go,
Strewing their golden fires in the sight
Of Mortals, wondering why the hall should show
So empty, lit with such a pomp of light!