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180

181

Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,
not e'en the trumpet's hour;

love is the gifted and the strong
to wake that music's power!

F. HEMANS

IL PENSEROSO

AND when the sun begins to fling

his flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
to arched walks of twilight groves,
and shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
of pine, or monumental oak,

where the rude axe with heaved stroke
was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
where no profaner eye may look,
hide me from day's garish eye,
while the bee with honeyed thigh,
that at her flowery work doth sing,
and the waters murmuring,
with such consort as they keep,
entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.

J. MILTON

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We die,

as your hours do, and dry
"away

like to the Summer's rain;
or as the pearls of morning's dew,
ne'er to be found again.

R. HERRICK

182

183

TYR

ON THE DEATH OF A SON

YRANT of man! Imperious Fate!
I bow before thy dread decree,
nor hope in this uncertain state
to find a seat secure from thee.

Life is a dark, tumultuous stream,
with many a care and sorrow foul,
yet thoughtless mortals vainly deem
that it can yield a limpid bowl.

Think not that stream will backward flow,
or cease its destined course to keep;
as soon the blazing spark shall glow
beneath the surface of the deep.

Believe not Fate at thy command

will grant a meed she never gave; as soon the airy tower shall stand, that's built upon a passing wave.

J. D. CARLYLE

A LAMENT

SWIFTER than youth's delight,

WIFTER far than summer's flight,

swifter far than happy night,

art thou come and gone:

as the earth when leaves are dead,
as the night when sleep is sped,
as the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

184

Lilies for a bridal bed,

roses for a matron's head,

violets for a maiden dead,

pansies let my flowers be:

on the living grave I bear,

scatter them without a tear,
let no friend, however dear,

waste one hope, one fear for me.

P. B. SHELLEY

THE MOUNTAIN BOY

HAT liberty so glad and gay,

WHAT

as where the mountain boy,

reckless of regions far away,

a prisoner lives in joy?

The dreary sounds of crowded earth,
the cries of camp or town,

never untuned his lonely mirth,

nor drew his visions down.

The snow-clad peaks of rosy light,
that meet his morning view,

the thwarting cliffs that bound his sight,
they bound his fancy too.

Two ways alone his roving eye

for aye may onward go,

or in the azure deep on high
or darksome mere below.

J. KEBLE

185

O

ELEGY

SNATCH'D away in beauty's bloom!
on thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

but on thy turf shall roses rear

their leaves, the earliest of the year,

and the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

and oft by yon blue gushing stream
shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
and feed deep thought with many a dream,
and lingering pause and lightly tread;

fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,
that Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
will this unteach us to complain?

or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

LORD BYRON

186

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY

THE peace of Heaven attend thy shade,

my early friend, my favourite maid!

when life was new, companions gay,
we hailed the morning of our day.

Ah, with what joy did I behold

the flower of beauty fair unfold!

and feared no storm to blast thy bloom,
or bring thee to an early tomb!

Untimely gone! for ever fled
the roses of the cheek so red;
the affection warm, the temper mild,
the sweetness that in sorrow smiled.

Alas! the cheek where beauty glowed,
the heart where goodness overflowed,
a clod amid the valley lies,

and 'dust to dust' the mourner cries.

187 O from thy kindred early torn, and to thy grave untimely borne ! vanished for ever from my view, thou sister of my soul, adieu!

Fair, with my first ideas twined,
thine image oft will meet my mind;

and, while remembrance brings thee near,

affection sad will drop a tear.

How oft does sorrow bend the head,
before we dwell among the dead!
scarce in the years of manly prime,
I've often wept the wrecks of time.

What tragic tears bedew the eye!
what deaths we suffer ere we die!
our broken friendships we deplore,
and loves of youth that are no more!

188 No after-friendship e'er can raise

the endearments of our early days;
and ne'er the heart such fondness prove,
as when it first began to love.

Affection dies, a vernal flower;
and love, the blossom of an hour;
the spring of fancy cares control,
and mar the beauty of the soul.

Versed in the commerce of deceit,
how soon the heart forgets to beat!
the blood runs cold at Interest's call;-
they look with equal eyes on all.

Then lovely Nature is expelled,
and Friendship is romantic held;

then Prudence comes with hundred eyes:
the veil is rent: the vision flies.

189 The dear illusions will not last;
the era of enchantment's past;
the wild romance of life is done;
the real history is begun.

The sallies of the soul are o'er,
the feast of fancy is no more;
and ill the banquet is supplied
by form, by gravity, by pride.
Ye gods! whatever ye withhold,
let my affections ne'er grow old;
ne'er may the human glow depart,
nor Nature yield to frigid Art!

Still may the generous bosom burn,
though doomed to bleed o'er beauty's urn;
and still the friendly face appear,

though moistened with a tender tear!

J. LOGAN

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