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hoath fengers beary a rome

sua epelids. Leavy a red A hom » А я шеи, а по

Plying Leu needle & Threew .

Star, otitch, outch
In pronto, hangen, a cuit
And still melt a voice if décorous jutch,
house has to tone could reach the Rich.

the sung this song of the sheit!

Twas soar this! such hour that came

Stith incremitting, bought.
Some newer form of guif or shame,
Some newer care for thoughts
1

m silmne frims.

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Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,

| And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us A sigh that piercing mortifies,

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; A look that's fastened to the ground,

And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A tongue chained up without a sound !

A nearer good to cure an older ill ;

And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize Fountain-heads and pathless groves,

them, Places which pale passion loves !

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or Moonlight walks, when all the fowls

denies them!
Are warmly housed save bats and owls !
A midnight bell, a parting groan !
These are the sounds we feed upon ;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley :
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

JOHN FLETCHER.

Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.

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AUBREY DE VERE,

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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
FROM “AS YOU LIKE IT,” ACT II. SC. 7. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
Thou art not so unkind

'T is not through envy of thy happy lot,
As man's ingratitude ;

But being too happy in thy happiness, –
Thy tooth is not so keen,

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
Because thou art not seen,

In some melodious plot
Although thy breath be rude.

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;

Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere
folly :

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Then, heigh-ho, the holly! .

Cooled a long age in the deep delvèd earth,
This life is most jolly!

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

mirth !
Thou dost not bite so nigh

O for a beaker full of the warm South,
As benefits forgot :

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
Though thou the waters warp,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
Thy, sting is not so sharp

And purple-stained mouth, -
As friend remembered not.

That I might drink, and leave the world un-, Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly :

seen, Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly!

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, GOING.

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow Crumbling away beneath our very feet;

And leaden-eyed despairs, Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, In current unperceived, because so fleet;

Or new Love pine at then beyond to-morrow. Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sow

ing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blow- ! Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, ing,

| But on the viewless wings of Poesy, And still, o, still their dying breath is sweet; s Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :

BAVA

SHAKESPEARE.

TOTT

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Already with thee! tender is the night, THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR.
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
But here there is no light,

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes

The waves are dancing fast and bright,
blown

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
Through verdurous glooms and winding

The purple noon's transparent light :
mossy ways.

The breath of the moist air is light

Around its unexpanded buds;
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Like many a voice of one delight, -
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods', But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

| The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; | I see the Deep's untrampled floor
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; With green and purple sea-weeds strown ;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves ; I see the waves upon the shore
And mid-May's eldest child,

Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown :
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, I sit upon the sands alone;.
The murinurous haunt of flies on summer The lightning of the noontide ocean
eves.

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion, Darkling I listen ; and for many a time

How sweet, did any heart now share in my I have been half in love with easeful Death.

emotion!
Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, Nor peace within nor calm around,
To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, Nor that Content surpassing wealth
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, The sage in meditation found,
In such an ecstasy !-

And walked with inward glory crowned, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. vain

Others I see whom these surround ;
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird !

No hungry generations tread thee down; Yet now despair itself is mild
The voice I hear this passing night was heard Even as the winds and waters are ;
In ancient days by emperor and clown :

I could lie down like a tired child,
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path And weep away the life of care
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
home,

Till death like sleep might steal on me,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; And I might feel in the warm air
The same that oft-times hath

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Charmed magic casements opening on the foam Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

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