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John Keats: 1796-1821.

To Autumn.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may iind Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Leigh Hunt: 1784-1859.

To tlve Grasshopper and tlie Cricket.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,

When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;

And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune

Kick the glad silent moments as they pass;

Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song—
In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

William Cullen Bryant: 1794—
The Evening Wind.


Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,

Riding all day the wild Mue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

2. Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms round

. Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to near thy grateful sound,

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth I


Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse

The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from-the innumerable boughs

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows

The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,

And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.


The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,

And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;

And they who stand about the sick man's bed
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains, to allow

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go—but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,

Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

Lord Macaulay: 1800-1859.

Ivry, a Song of the Huguenots.

[The Hugnenots was the name given to the Protestant parly in France in the sixteenth century. They were cruelly persecuted by the Catholics under the Duke of Guise, and on the eTe of St Bartholomew's Day (September 5), 1572. many thousands of them were massacred. Henry de Bourbon, king: of Navarre, one of the Huguenots who had escaped the massacre, now headed the Protestants; the Catholics, under Guise, having meanwhile formed themselves into a League for the extirpation of the heretics. On the death of the French king in 1589, Henry of Navarre became sovereign of France, but the Catholics opposed his claims, and an arduous straggle ensued between the two parties. At length, in 1590, the forces of the League under the Duke of Mayenne were completely defeated at the village of Ivry, a few miles from Paris, and Henry afterwards became king.]

L Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, 0 pleasant land of


And thou, Rochelle,1 our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.


Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine,2 the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's 3 hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.


The king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest;

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout: 'God save our lord the king.'

'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may—

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray—

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme,4 to-day, the helmet of Navarre.'

1 Rochelle was considered the Protestant capital. - The Guises belonged to the ducal family of Lorraine. 8 Coligni, Admiral of France, perished in the massacre of St Bartholomew. * The ancient royal standard of France, a little banner of red silk with many points streaming like names, borne on a gilt staff.


Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.

The fiery Duke is priding fast across St Andre's plain,1 riding

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Alraayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the golden lilies—upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van,
4 Remember St Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man;
But out spake gentle Henry : 'No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.'
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!


Bight well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good lord of Bosny hath ta'en the comet white.

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en.

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war,
Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne!
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls 1
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve,8 keep watch and ward to-night.
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

1 The battle-field. > Saint Genevieve is the patron saint of Paris.

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: 1807—

The Reaper and the Flowers.


There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.


'Shall Ihave nought that is fair ?'saith he;

'Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again.' s. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.


'My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,'

The Reaper said, and smiled; 'Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where He was once a child, s. 'They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care; And saints upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear.'


And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above.


Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,

And took the Flowers away.

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year.

Yes, the year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling;
It is a sound of woe!
A sound of woe [


Through woods and mountain passes, The winds, like anthems, roll;

They are chanting solemn masses, Singing: 'Pray for this poor Boui; Pray—pray!'

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!
There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with
Like weak despised Lear,
A king—a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! Oh, the old man gray

Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.


To the crimson woods he saith—

To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath— 'Pray, do not mock me so! Do not laugh at me!'


And now the sweet day is dead—

Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread

Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!


Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,

Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone:
'Vex not his ghost!'


Then comes, with an awful roar,

Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!
Howl! howl! and from the forest

Sweep the red leaves away!
Would the sins that thou abhorrest,
0 Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!


For there shall come a mightier blast,

There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down cast, Like red leaves be swept away; Kyrie, eleison! Christe, eleison!

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