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Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were
dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears
to shed. I wept, as I remembered how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian
guest, - A handful of gray ashes, long long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my
dear time's waste;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, And moan the expense
many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before:
-- But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
All night had shout of men and cry
Of woeful women filled His way;
On Friday, clamour and display
Public was Death; but Power, but Might,
But Life again, but Victory,
Were hushed within the dead of night,
The shutter'd dark, the secrecy.
THERE was no song nor shout of joy
Nor beam of moon or sun,
Long ago begun;
Was quiet and gray,
Over the open bay.
Her sails were brown and ragged,
And her crew hollow-eyed,
And their shoulders pride;
And in her hold
J. C. SQUIRE
Tell me about that harvest field.
-Oh! Fifty acres of living bread.
The colour has painted itself in my heart.
So now I take it everywhere;
Trees are at the farther end,
A hedge is round it, very tall,
You only need to close your eyes
I will not have that harvest mown:
I've fifty acres in my head.
Sometimes when I have found a friend
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been
Where maids have spent their hours.
Ye have beheld how they
With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away
The richer cowslips home.
You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring,
With honeysuckles crowned.
But now we see none here
Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair
Adorned this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock, and needy grown,