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It slept upon the grateful floor
In silent gladness evermore.

III.
The ivy felt a tremor shoot
Through all its fibres to the root:
It felt the light, it saw the ray,
It strove to blossom into day.

IV.
It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb-
Long had the darkness been its home;
But well it knew, though veiled in night,
The goodness and the joy of light.

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Its clinging roots grew deep and strong ;
Its stem expanded firm and long;
And in the currents of the air
Its tender branches flourished fair.

It reached the beam-it thrilled-it curled -
It blessed the warmth that cheers the world;
It rose towards the dungeon bars-
It looked upon the sun and stars.

VII.
It felt the life of bursting Spring,
It heard the happy sky-lark sing,
It caught the breath of morns and eves,
And wooed the swallow to its leaves.

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By rains, and dews, and sunshine fed,
Over the outer wall it spread;
And in the daybeam waving free,
It grew into a stedfast tree.

IX.
Upon that solitary place
Its verdure threw adorning grace:
The mating birds became its guests,
And sang its praises from their nests.

Wouldst thou know the moral of the rhyme ?
Behold the heavenly light! and climb.
To every dungeon comes a ray
Of God's interminable day.

CHARLES MACKAY.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

So haggard and so woe-begone ?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest 's done. I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a fairy's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean and sing

A fairy's song

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I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,

I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes —

So kissed to sleep.
And there we slumbered on the moss,

And there I dreamed, ah woe betide
The latest dream I ever dreamed

On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ;
Who cried, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!”
I saw their starved lips in the gloom

With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,

On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

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Dirge in Cymbeline.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash;

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; Fear not slander; censure rash:

Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee !

Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have ; And renowned be thy grave !

SHAKSPEARE.

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