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THE CYPRESS-WREATH

LADY, twine no wreath for me,
or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Too lively glow the lilies light,
the varnished holly's all too bright,
the may-flower and the eglantine
may shade a brow less sad than mine;
but, lady, weave no wreath for me,
or weave it of the cypress-tree.

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
with tendrils of the laughing vine;
the manly oak, the pensive yew,
to patriot and to sage be due;
the myrtle-bough bids lovers live,
but that Matilda will not give;
then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Yes, twine for me the cypress-bough,
but O, Matilda, twine not now:
stay 'till a few brief months are past,
and I have looked and loved my last.
When villagers my shroud bestrew
with pansies, rosemary, and rue,
then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
and weave it of the cypress-tree.

ALAS,

INSTABILITY OF AFFECTION

SIR W. SCOTT

how light a cause may move
dissension between hearts that love;
hearts that the world in vain had tried,
and sorrow but more closely tied;

that stood the storm, when waves were rough,
yet in a sunny hour fall off,

a something light as air—a look,

a word unkind or wrongly taken

O love, that tempests never shook,

a breath, a touch like this hath shaken.

And ruder words will soon rush in
to spread the breach that words begin;

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and eyes forget the gentle ray
they wore in courtship's smiling day;
and voices lose the tone that shed
a tenderness round all they said;
till fast declining, one by one,
the sweetnesses of love are gone,
and hearts so lately mingled seem
like broken clouds, or like the stream,
that smiling left the mountain's brow,

as though its waters ne'er could sever,
yet, ere it reach the plain below,
breaks into floods that part for ever.

T. MOORE

THE OMNIPRESENCE OF THE GREAT SPIRIT

HERE is a tongue in every leaf,

THERE

a voice in every rill—

a voice that speaketh everywhere,

in flood and fire, through earth and air-
a tongue that's never still.

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
through every thing we see,
that with our spirits communeth
of things mysterious—life and death,
time and eternity!

I see him in the blazing sun

and in the thunder-cloud;

I hear him in the mighty roar
that rusheth through the forests hoar

when winds are raging loud.

I feel him in the silent dews

by grateful earth betrayed;

I feel him in the gentle showers,
the soft south-wind, the breath of flowers,
the sunshine and the shade.

I see him, hear him, everywhere,
in all things-darkness, light,

silence, and sound; but most of all,
when slumber's dusky curtains fall,

I' the silent hour of night.

C. BOWLES

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AD DIVINAM SAPIENTIAM

ALMIGHTY Spirit! thou that by

set turns and changes from thy high
and glorious throne dost here below
rule all, and all things dost foreknow;
can those blind plots we here discuss
please thee, as thy wise counsels us?
When thou thy blessings here dost strow,
and pour on Earth, we flock and flow
with joyous strife and eager care,
struggling which shall have the best share
in thy rich gifts, just as we see
children about nuts disagree.

Some that a crown have got and foiled
break it; another sees it spoiled

ere it is gotten: thus the world
is all to piece-meal cut, and hurled
by factious hands. It is a ball
which fate and force divide 'twixt all
the sons of men. But O good God!
while these for dust fight and a clod,
grant that poor I may smile and be
at rest and perfect peace with Thee.

DEAR

THE POET TO HIS FARM

H. VAUGHAN

EAR mansion, once my father's home,
sweet farm, his pride and joy,

ye could not shield, ye could not save,
when he was carried to the grave,
his little orphan boy!

A stranger came with iron hand,

lord of that evil day:

and drove me forth with weeping eye,

to seek through toil and poverty

my miserable way.

But now my gracious Prince restores
his poet's home again:

he comes with his victorious reed,
to teach the river, mount and mead
a proud yet grateful strain.

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He comes in yonder latticed room
to dream of manhood's days;
he comes, beneath his father's trees
to mix with rustic melodies

the great Farnese's praise.

Break forth, my father's blessed home,
thou prize of minstrelsy!

He comes, the good old master's son:
up with thy tuneful benison,

give praise and melody!

E. W. BARNARD

THE CASTLE OF ARLINKOW

HIGH on a rock, whose castled shade

darkened the lake below,

in ancient strength majestic stood
the towers of Arlinkow.

The fisher in the lake below
durst never cast his net,
nor ever swallow in its waves

her passing wing would wet.

The cattle from its ominous banks

in wild alarm would run,

though parched with thirst and faint beneath
the summer's scorching sun.

For sometimes when no passing breeze

the long lank sedges waved,

all white with foam and heaving high
its deafening billows raved;

and when the tempest from its base
the rooted pine would shake,
the powerless storm unruffled swept
across the calm dead lake.

And ever then when death drew near
the house of Arlinkow,

its dark unfathomed depths did send
strange music from below.

R. SOUTHEY

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HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR

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I have to write,

then I'll give o'er,

and bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute,

that I must stay,

or linger in it,

and then I must away.

O Time that cut'st down all,
and scarce leav'st here
memorial

of any men that were;

How many lie forgot

in vaults beneath;
and piece-meal rot
without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone
I rear for me,

ne'er to be thrown
down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up,
if so they please,
here is my hope,

and my pyramides.

R. HERRICK

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· PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE

BUSED mortals! did you know

AB

where joy, hearts-ease, and comforts grow,
you'd scorn proud towers,

and seek them in these bowers

where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,
but blustering care could never tempest make,
nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here's no fantastic masque or dance,
but of our kids that frisk and prance;

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