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A lovely lady, garmented in light
The Witch of Atlas. Stanza 5
Music, when soft Voices die.
And such society
Rarely, rarely comesl Thou.
Are one. To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling,
Of the night for the morrow,
One Word is too often profaned.
Translation of Calderon's Magico Prodigioso. Scene i.
Queen Mab. i.
1 See Swift, page 292.
Heaven's ebon vault
Queen Mab. iv. Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present." A Defence of Poetry.
J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792–1852. 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; ? A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which sought through the world is ne'er met with else
where. An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain, Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again; The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, Sweet Home. (From the opera of "Clari, the
Maid of Milan.")
SEBA SMITH. 1792–1868.
And pathless was the dreary wild,
A mother wandered with her child :
The Snow Storm. 1 See Coleridge, page 504.
2 Home is home, though it be never so homely. - CLARKE : Paræmiologia, p. 101. (1639.)
JOHN KEBLE. 1792–1866.
The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask. Morning. Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die ?
The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.
Burial of the Dead.
FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794–1835.
How beautiful they stand,
O’er all the pleasant land! The Homes of England.
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers
Bright jewels of the mine,
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod :
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
They filled one home with glee: Their graves are severed far and wide By mount and stream and sea.
The Graves of a Household. Alas for love, if thou wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth!
Ibid. The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Casabianca.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And stars to set; but all,
The Hour of Death. Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
Tyrolese Evening Song. In the busy haunts of men.
Tale of the Secret Tribunal. Part i. Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit, rest thee now!
Siege of Valencia. Scene ix.
Oh, call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone :
The Child's First Grief.
The Voice of Spring.
Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory
EDWARD EVERETT. 1794-1865.
When I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Stain it with hypocritic tear. Alaric the Visigoth
Your monuments upon my breast,
Lay down the wreck of power to rest,
On him that was "the scourge of God.” Ibid. No gilded dome swells from the lowly roof to catch the morning or evening beam; but the love and gratitude of united America settle upon it in one eternal sunshine. From beneath that humble roof went forth the intrepid and unselfish warrior, the magistrate who knew no glory but his country's good; to that he returned, happiest when his work was done. There he lived in noble simplicity, there he died in glory and peace. While it stands, the latest generations of the grateful children of America will make this pilgrimage