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Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,

There's a golden gleam on the distant height:

There's a silver shower on the alders dank,

And the drooping willows that wave on the bank.

I see the Abbey, both turret and tower, It is all astir for the vesper hour; The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell,

But where's Father Philip should toll the bell?

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,

Downward we drift through shadow and light;

Under yon rock the eddies sleep,
Calm and silent, dark and deep.

The Kelpy has risen from the fathom

less pool,

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He has lighted his candle of death and What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you

of dool:

but here

Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh Toconjure a book from a dead woman's

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TO HALBERT.

THE WHITE LADY sings or speaks YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?

He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing; To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep Egyptian ground, The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.

WHAT I am I must not show-
What I am thou couldst not know-
Something betwixt heaven and hell-
Something that neither stood nor fell-
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good-may work
thee ill.

Neither substance quite, nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion

Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
Wayward, fickle, is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living twenty times his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!
Man awakes to joy or sorrow;
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show-

This is all that thou may'st know.

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HERE lies the volume thou boldly hast sought;

And scornest the nurture of gentle Touch it, and take it,-'twill dearly be

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RASH thy deed,

Mortal weed

To immortal flames applying;
Rasher trust

THY craven fear my truth accused;
Thine idlehood my trust abused;
He that draws to harbour late,
Must sleep without, or burst the gate.
There is a star for thee which burn'd,
Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd;
On his own weak worth relying:
Valour and constancy alone
Strip thee of such fences vain,
Can bring thee back the chance that's Strip, and prove thy luck again.

flown.

WITHIN that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.

MANY a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep;
Ethereal fires around it glowing-
Ethereal music ever flowing-
The sacred pledge of Heav'n

All things revere,
Each in his sphere,
Save man for whom 'twas giv'n :

Has thing of dust,

MORTAL warp and mortal woof
Cannot brook this charmed roof;
All that mortal art hath wrought
In our cell returns to nought.
The molten gold returns to clay,
The polish'd diamond melts away;
All is altered, all is flown,

Nought stands fast but truth alone.
Not for that thy quest give o'er :
Courage! prove thy chance once more.

ALAS! alas!

Not ours the grace

These holy characters to trace:
Idle forms of painted air,

Not to us is given to share

The boon bestow'd on Adam's race.

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And this bright font received it-and

a Spirit

COMPLAIN not on me, child of clay, If to thy harm I yield the way.

Rose from the fountain, and her date We, who soar thy sphere above,

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