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to it as to a shrine; and when it shall fall, if fall it must, the memory and the name of Washington shall shed an eternal glory on the spot.

Oration on the Character of Washington.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 1794–1878.
Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race ?

The Ages. xxxiii.
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.

Thanatopsis. Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

Ibid. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.

Ibid. Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.

Ibid. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.

Ibid. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves 1 To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Ibid

1 The edition of 1821 read,

The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take.

The groves were God's first temples. A Forest Hymn.

The stormy March has come at last,

With winds and clouds and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast •

That through the snowy valley flies. March.

But ’neath yon crimson tree
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.

Autumn Woods. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

The Death of the Flowers. And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

ibid.
Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

A Scene on the banks of the Hudson.
The victory of endurance born. The Battle-Field.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,

The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,

And dies among his worshippers.

Ibid.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 1795–1820.

When Freedom from her mountain-height

Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,

And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!

By angel hånds to valour given !
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foc but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

The American Flag.

JOHN KEATS. 1795-1821.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness.

Endymion. Book 1.
He ne'er is crown'd
With immortality, who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead.

Book i.
To sorrow

I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;

But cheerly, cheerly,

She loves me dearly;
She is so constant to me, and so kind.

Book iv. So many, and so many, and such glee.

Ibid. Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is — Love, forgive us ! - cinders, ashes, dust.

Lamia. Part in

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

Ibid. Ibid.

Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

The Eve of St. Agnes The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.

Stanza 3.

Stanza 4.

Asleep in lap of legends old.

Stanza 15.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow.

Stanza 16.

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.

Stanza 18. As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.

Stanza 27. And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon. Stanza 30.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call’d “ La belle dame sans mercy.”

Stanza 33.

That large utterance of the early gods!

Hyperion. Book i.

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

Ibid.

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.

Book ii.

Dance and Provençal song and suburnt inirth!
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene!
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth.

Ode to a Nightingaie

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that ofttiines hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Ibid.

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

Ode un a Grecian Urn. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on, -
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
Thou, silent form, doth tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral !

Ibid.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Ibid.

In a drear-nighted December,

Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity.

Stanzas.
Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings ?

Addressed to Haydon. Sonnetic Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to A pollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne,

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific, and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surinise, Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

On first looking into Chapman's Homer

E’en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.

To One who has been long in City pent.

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