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132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But, ah, too soon each passing year, Too keenly, bids us know That earthly knowledge still retains The primal curse of woe. As life rolls on, some added stain Still marks its sinful course, Like streams, that, oft, are most impure When farthest from their source. One after one, the Passions wake, Ah, when to sleep again ? One after one, they rudely break Each chord of peace in twain. Still vainly on the restless soul, Alike through joy or care, Recurs the immortal, deep desire, To be, as once we were. It may not be :--the sullied snow Can ne'er be pure again, And, only by dissolving, lose The once-contracted stain. ......... ?Google
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