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Like a vex'd bark, is toss'd upon the waves Of pain and pleasure by the warring breath Of passions, which are winds that bear it on, And only to destruction. Never more Shall I speak recklessly of death; or shun A quiet thought or solitary hour; Or drown that consciousness, our moral life, In the red wine cup: now my better heart Luxuriates in repose; I can pass days Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,— The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,— Each tree a natural harp,—each different leaf A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving. [In leaning from the casement he catches a sight of.