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WHAT! alive and so bold, oh earth?

Art thou not overbold?

What ! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
The last of the flock of the starry fold?
Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is filed,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead ?

How ! is not thy quick heart cold?

What spark is alive on thy hearth ?
How ! is not his death-knell knolled ?

And livest thou still, Mother Earth ?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O'er the embers covered and cold
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled -
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead ?

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“Who has known me of old,” replied Earth,

“Or who has my story told?
It is thou who art overbold."

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she

sung, "to my bosom I fold
All my sons when their knell is knolled,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.

“Still alive and still bold,” shouted Earth,

“I grow bolder and still more bold.

The dead fill me ten thousand fold
Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth,
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,
Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.

“ Aye, alive and still bold,” muttered Earth,

“Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,

In terror and blood and gold, A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. Leave the millions who follow to mould The metal before it be cold ; And weave into his shame, which like the dead Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled."

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ORPEAN bours, the year is dead,

Come and sizh, come and weep !
Merry bours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping.
Mocking your untimely weeping.

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As an earthquake rocks a corse

In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,

Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours ! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.


As the wild air stirs and sways

The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the year :- - be calm and mild, Trembling hours, she will arise With new love within her eyes.


January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave ;
February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave.
And April weeps — but, O, ye hours,
Follow with May's fairest flowers.



SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-

Swift be thy flight!


Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,

Star-inwrought !
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand -

Come, long sought !

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Death wii came when toon art dead

Sun, too soon–
Soep will come when thou art filed;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night -
Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!

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