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From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
A RECEIPT FOR SALAD.
To make this condiment your poet begs
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate cannot harm me, - I have dined to-day."
THE PEDLER'S PACK.
FROM "THE WINTER'S TALE."
Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.
TROCHEE trips from long to short ;
Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred racer.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
'Twas soar this! such hour that came ,
Still incremitting, hought
care for thoughts
h msilmare hums.
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION.
THE NOBLE NATURE.
In bulk, doth make man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and scar :
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
It was the plant and flower of Light.
They are but poore, though much they havc,
And I am rich with little store.
I grudge not at another's gaine ;
I brooke that is another's bane.
I joy not in no carthly blisse ;
I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is ;
I feare not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beautie bright, or force of love.
MY MINDE TO ME A KINGDOM IS.
I wish but what I have at will ;
I wander not to seeke for more ; I like the plaine, I clime no hill ;
In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe.
My minde to me a kingdom is ;
Such perfect joy therein I finde As farre exceeds all earthly blisse
That God or nature hath assignde ;
I seek no more than may suffice.
Look, what 1 lack my mind supplies.
And hastie clymbers soonest fall ; I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toile, anıl keepe with feare ; Such cares my mind could never beare. No princely pompe nor welthie store,
No force to win the victorie, No wylie wit to salve a sore,
No shape to winne a lover's eye, To none of these I yceld as thrall ; For why, my mind despiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave;
i little have, yet seek no more.
PRELUDE TO THE VOICES OF THE
'T is much immortal beauty to admire,
PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,
And winds were soft and low,
Alternate come and go ;
No sunlight from above,
The shadows hardly move.
I lay upon the ground;
With one continuous sound ;-
The feelings of a dream,
O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils ;
Man by man was never seen ; All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet ; We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie ;
All is thus but starlight here. What is social company
But a babbling summer stream ? What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream ? Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught.
And dreams of that which cannot die,
Bright visions, came to me,
Like ships upon the sea ;
Ere Fancy has been quelled ;
And chronicles of eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes,
Even in the city's throng I feel the freshness of the streams That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams, The holy land of song.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.
THE INNER VISION.
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.