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146

and Ocean mid his uproar wild
speaks safety to his island-child,

hence for many a fearless age

has social Quiet loved thy shore, nor ever proud invader's rage

or sacked thy towers or stained thy fields with gore.

SWE

SONG TO ECHO

S. T. COLERIDGE

WEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen within thy airy shell,

by slow Meander's margent green,

and in the violet-embroidered vale

where the love-lorn nightingale

nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
that likest thy Narcissus are?

Oh! if thou have

hid them in some flowery cave,
tell me but where,

sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,
so mayest thou be translated to the skies,
and give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.
J. MILTON

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NOT

OT faster yonder rowers' might
flings from their oars the spray,
not faster yonder rippling bright,
that tracks the shallop's course in light,
melts in the lake away,

than men from memory erase
the benefits of former days.

Then if in life's uncertain main
mishap shall mar thy sail;

if faithful, wise and brave in vain,
woe, want and exile thou sustain

beneath the fickle gale;

waste not a sigh on fortune changed,

on thankless courts or friends estranged.

SIR W. SCOTT

148

I

149

150

TO CONTEMPLATION

VIEW thee on the calmy shore

when Ocean stills his waves to rest; or when slow-moving on the surges hoar meet with deep hollow roar

and whiten o'er his breast;

or lo! the moon with softer radiance gleams,
and lovelier heave the billows in her beams.

When the low gales of evening moan along,

I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, and roam the pathless forest wilds among,

listening the mellow murmur of the trees full-foliaged, as they lift their arms on high and wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.

O

R. SOUTHEY

ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE 1740

THOU my lyre, awake, arise,
and hail the sun's returning force;
even now he climbs the northern skies,
and health and hope attend his course.
Then louder howl the aerial waste,
be earth with keener cold embraced,
yet gentle hours advance their wing;
and Fancy, mocking Winter's might,
with flowers and dews and streaming light
already decks the new-born spring.
O fountain of the golden day,
could mortal vows promote thy speed,
how soon before thy vernal ray
should each unkindly damp recede!
how soon each hovering tempest fly,
whose stores for mischief arm the sky!

DAVID'S SONG TO MICHAL

WAKE, awake, my Lyre!

AWA

M. AKENSIDE

and tell thy silent master's humble tale
in sounds that may prevail;

sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.

151

152

Though so exalted she,
and I so lowly be,

tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. Hark! how the strings awake:

and, though the moving hand approach not near,
themselves with awful fear

a kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;

now all thy charms apply;

revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

is useless here, since thou art only found
to cure, but not to wound,

and she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove

my passion to remove;

physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!

for thou canst never tell my humble tale
in sounds that will prevail,

nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
all thy vain mirth lay by,

bid thy strings silent lie,

sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.

REDEEM THE PAST

IS vanished all-in hurried flight

TIS

ere yet I felt Time's trophies white

A. COWLEY

were sprinkled on my brow,-or thought, that since

the light

beamed on me, what long years had flown;

time's snows are on my forehead thrown,

and many a winter now and many a spring are gone. But what doth this, all this, avail?

for soon, too soon, oblivion pale

will blot alike the good and evil of my tale.
'Twill then be said-whoe'er thou be,

that world is lost, which flattered thee,
and all thou hast pursued is fruitless vanity.
Oh! while thy sinful soul can cast

sin's robes away-redeem the past,

if not in deeds, in words to praise thy Maker haste.

153

154

LIFE

HOW short is Life's uncertain space!

how quickly is it run!

how swift the wild precarious chase,
anxious and difficult the race!

and what the prize when won!

Youth stops at first its wilful ears
to Wisdom's kindest voice;
till now arrived to riper years,
experienced age, worn out with cares,
repents its earlier choice.

What though its prospects now appear
so grateful to the mind;

yet groundless Hope, and teasing Fear,
by turns the busy moments share,
and leave a sting behind.

HEAVEN

HIS world is all a fleeting show,
Tor man's illusion given;

the smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

there's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on Glory's plume,
as fading hues of even;

J. MERRICK

and Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom
are blossoms gathered from the tomb—
there's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
from wave to wave we're driven,
and Fancy's flash and Reason's ray
serve but to light the troubled way—

there's nothing calm but Heaven!

T. MOORE

155 ON REVISITING the scenes of hHIS CHILDHOOD

ITH lorn delight the scene I view'd,

WITH

past joys and sorrows were renew'd;

my infant hopes and fears

look'd lovely through the solitude

of retrospective years.

And still, in Memory's twilight bowers,
the spirits of departed hours,

with mellowing tints, pourtray

the blossoms of life's vernal flowers
for ever fall'n away.

Till youth's delirious dream is o'er,
sanguine with hope, we look before,
the future good to find;

in age, when error charms no more,
for bliss we look behind.

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157

J. MONTGOMERY

MORPHEUS

MORPHEUS, the humble god that dwells

in cottages and smoky cells,

hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
and though he fears no prince's frown,
flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I say, thou powerful god,

and thy leaden charming rod

dipt in the Lethean lake,

o'er his wakeful temples shake,

lest he should sleep and never wake.

Nature, alas! why art thou so
obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,

yet of death it bears a taste,

and both are the same thing at last.

SIR J. DENHAM

TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER

OVE thy mother, little one!

LOVE

kiss and clasp her neck again,—
hereafter she may have a son

will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!

Gaze upon her living eyes,

and mirror back her love for thee,-
hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
to meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!

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