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Oh, come you from the Indies? and, soldier, can you tell,
Oh a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

Oh, many a shaft, at random sent,

Oh, that those lips had language! Life hath passed,

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,
On Linden, when the sun was low,

One morn a Peri at the gate,

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,

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Since our country, our God-O my sire!
So forth issued the Seasons of the year,
Some murmur, when their sky is clear,
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
The bark that held a prince went down,
The Chief in silence strode before,.

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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink,
The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!

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The King was on his throne,

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath,

The spearman heard the bugle sound,

The stately Homes of England,

The sun stepped down from his golden throne,

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,

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What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
With fingers weary and worn,

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Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Youth, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

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THE

SENIOR POETICAL READER.

AN APRIL DAY.-Chaucer.*

GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1328-1400) was closely connected with the court of Edward III. He is looked upon as the Father of English poetry. His chief work is the Canterbury Tales, consisting of stories told by some pilgrims whom Chaucer accompanied to the shrine of St. Thomas at Canterbury.

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10

ALL day the low-hung clouds have dropt
Their garnered* fulness down;

All day that soft grey mist hath wrapt
Hill, valley, grove,* and town.

There has not been a sound to-day

To break the calm of nature,

Nor motion, I might almost say,
Of life, or living creature,

Of waving bough, or warbling* bird,
Or cattle faintly lowing ;*

I could have half believed I heard
The leaves and blossoms growing.

I stood to hear-I love it well,

The rain's continuous* sound

15 Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,

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Down straight into the ground.

For leafy thickness is not yet

Earth's naked breast to screen,*

Though every dripping branch is set

With shoots of tender green.

Sure, since I looked at early morn,

Those honeysuckle* buds

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Have swelled to double growth; that thorn

Honeysuckle, a climbing plant.

Hath put forth larger studs.

These verses are given in the spelling of the present day, as Chaucer's old mode of orthography would not be intelligible to young readers.

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That lilac's cleaving cones* have burst,
The milk-white flowers revealing ;*
Even now, upon my senses first
Methinks their sweets are stealing.*

The very earth, the steamy air
Is all with fragrance* rife ;*

And grace and beauty everywhere
Are flushing into life.

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Down, down they come-those fruitful stores!
Those earth-rejoicing drops!

A momentary * deluge* pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops.

And ere the dimples on the stream
Have circled out of sight,

Lo! from the west a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber* light.

But yet behold-abrupt* and loud,
Comes down the glittering rain;
The farewell of a passing cloud,
The fringes of her train.

*

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A PSALM OF LIFE.-Longfellow.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) was an eminent American poet. He was born at Portland, Maine, U.S., and for many years was Professor of Modern Languages and Literature at Harvard College, Massachusetts. Chief poems: Voices of the Night, Evangeline, Song of Hiawatha, Golden Legend, and Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Numbers, verse or poetry.

Goal, the place one is trying to reach; the end of a race-course. Dust thou art, &c., referring to the death of the body and its decay in the grave.

Destined, appointed, intended.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,*
Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;*
"Dust thou art,* to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined* end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us further than to-day!

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Great men. Alfred
the Great, Columbus,
Shakspeare, Captain
Cook, Nelson, George
Washington, Ste-
phenson, &c.
Sublime, grand,
noble.

Footprints, &c., the
mark which one
makes in the world
by a good and noble
life.
Main,

the ocean;
here, the length of
one's life.
Forlorn, forsaken,
helpless, unfriended.
Achieving, perform-
ing our work or task.
Pursuing, going on
without ceasing with
the work we have
undertaken; perse.
vering with our task.

THE TRAVELLER.-Addison.

JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) was born in Wiltshire. He was one of the most elegant of our prose-writers, and gained a high reputation by his poems. He became Secretary of State in 1717. Chief works: The Campaign, a poem celebrating Marlborough's victory of Blenheim (1704); essays to the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, on which his fame chiefly rests; and Cato, a tragedy written in 1713.

How are Thy servants blest, O Lord!

How sure is their defence!

Eternal wisdom is their guide,

Their help Omnipotence."

Omnipotence here means God, who is All-powerful.

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