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think on thy home, my soul! and think aright,
of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;
the sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
and twice it is not given thee to be born.

DOTH

W. DRUMMOND

OTH then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
is this the justice which on Earth we find?
is this that firm decree which all doth bind?

are these your influences Powers above?
Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove:
and they who thee, poor idol Virtue! love,

ply like a feather tossed by storm and wind.
Ah! if a providence doth sway this all,

why should best minds groan under most distress?
or why should pride humility make thrall,
and injuries the innocent oppress?

Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
when good may have, as well as bad, their prime!

THE ROSE

W. DRUMMOND

OOK, Delia, how we esteem the half-blown Rose,

whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose
that full of beauty Time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,

but straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline;
she then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair;

so fade the roses of those cheeks of thine!
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
whose springing grace adorns thy glory now;
swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.

Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain;
but love now, whilst thou mayst be loved again.

CA

TO SLEEP

S. DANIEL

ARE-charmer sleep, son of the sable Night, brother to Death, in silent darkness born, relieve my languish, and restore the light,

with dark forgetting of my care, return.

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And let the day be time enough to mourn
the shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth;
let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
to model forth the passions of the morrow;
never let rising sun approve you liars,
to add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
and never wake to feel the day's disdain.

ART

SWEET CONTENT

S. DANIEL

RT thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
Oh, sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet in thy mind perplexed?

Oh, punishment!

dost thou laugh to see, how fools are vexed,
to add to golden numbers golden numbers?
Oh, sweet content!

canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
Oh, sweet content!

swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? Oh, punishment!

then he, that patiently want's burden bears,

no burden bears, but is a king, a king!

Oh, sweet content!

DEKKER AND HAUGHTON

TO SLEEP

OND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

the very sweetest fancy culls or frames,
when thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
in rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
all anguish; Saint, that evil thoughts and aims
takest away, and into souls dost creep,

like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
still last to come where thou art wanted most!
W. WORDSWORTH

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LONDON MDCCCII

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, have forfeited their ancient English dower of inward happiness. We are selfish men: O! raise us up, return to us again; and give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; so didst thou travel on life's common way in cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart the lowliest duties on herself did lay.

WHI

SEPTEMBER 1815

W. WORDSWORTH

HILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
with ripening harvest prodigally fair,

in brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
his icy scimitar, a foretaste yields

of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;

and whispers to the silent birds, ‘Prepare
against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.'
For me, who under kindlier laws belong

to Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
announce a season potent to renew,

mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
and nobler cares than listless summer knew.

W. WORDSWORTH

128 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES

A

TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, nor of the setting sun's pathetic light engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain for kindred Power departing from their sight: while Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, saddens his voice again, and yet again.

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might
of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
blessings and prayers in nobler retinue

than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,'
follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,

ye winds of Ocean, and the midland sea,

wafting your charge to fair Parthenope.

W. WORDSWORTH

129

130

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

NCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;

ONCE

and was the safeguard of the west: the worth

of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice the eldest child of liberty.
She was a maiden city, bright and free;
no guile seduced, no force could violate;
and when she took unto herself a Mate,
she must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
yet shall some tribute of regret be paid,
when her long life hath reached its final day:
men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
of that which once was great is pass'd away.

SONNET

W. WORDSWORTH

NOT oil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,

OT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell

nor Duty, struggling with afflictions strange-
not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
but where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
there also is the Muse not loth to range,
watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange
sky-ward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
and sage content, and placid melancholy;
she loves to gaze upon a crystal river-
diaphanous because it travels slowly;
soft is the music that would charm for ever;
the flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.
W. WORDSWORTH

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NOT

ARION

OT song, nor beauty, nor the wondrous power of the clear sky, nor stream, nor mountain-glen, nor the wide ocean, turn the hearts of men

to love, nor give the world-embracing dower
of inward gentleness: up from the bed

blest by chaste beauty, men have risen to blood,
and life hath perished in the flow'ry wood,
and the poor traveller beneath starlight bled.
Thus that musician, in his wealth of song
pouring his numbers, even with the sound
swimming around them would the heartless throng
have thrust into his death; but with a bound
spurning the cursed ship, he sought the wave,
and Nature's children did her poet save.

SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER

EAR native brook! wild streamlet of the West!

Dow many various-fated years have past,

what happy, and what mournful hours, since last I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray,

but straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, and bedded sand that, veined with various dyes, gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way, visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: ah! that once more I were a careless child! S. T. COLERIDGE

TO APRIL

EMBLEM of life, see changeful April sail

in varying vest along the shadowy skies,

now bidding summer's softest zephyrs rise,
anon recalling winter's stormy gale,

and pouring from the cloud her sudden hail;

then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes,

while Iris with her braid the welkin dyes,

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