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A lovely lady, garmented in light
From her own beauty.

The Witch of Atlas. Stanza 5
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Music, when soft Voices die.
I love tranquil solitude

And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good.

Rarely, rarely comesl Thou.
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one. To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling,
The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

One Word is too often profaned.
You lie - under a mistake,
For this is the most civil sort of lie
That can be given to a man's face. I now
Say what I think.

Translation of Calderon's Magico Prodigioso. Scene i.
How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep.

Queen Mab. i.
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton.

1 See Swift, page 292.

Heaven's ebon vault
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world.

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.
The cold winds swept the mountain-height,

And pathless was the dreary wild,
And ʼmid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wandered with her child :
As through the drifting snows she press’d,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

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 ?
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.

The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.
'T is sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.

Burial of the Dead.
Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.


FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794–1835.
The stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand,
Amid their tall ancestral trees,

O’er all the pleasant land! The Homes of England.
The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers
What sought they thus afar ?

Bright jewels of the mine,
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ?
They sought a faith's pure shrine.


Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod :
They have left unstained what there they found,
Freedom to worship God.

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet. The Palm-Tree.
They grew in beauty side by side,

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 flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

The Hour of Death. Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

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 summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is my brother gone ?

The Child's First Grief.
I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung his tassels forth.

The Voice of Spring.
I had a hat. It was not all a hat, —
Part of the brim was gone :
Yet still I wore it on.

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,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain

Stain it with hypocritic tear. Alaric the Visigoth
You shall not pile, with servile toil,

Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest,
Where man can boast that he has trod

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

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