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Though so exalted she,
and I so lowly be, tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark! how the strings awake:
and, though the moving hand approach not near,
themselves with awful fear
a kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
now all thy charms apply;
revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
151 Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
is useless here, since thou art only found
to cure, but not to wound,
and she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove
my passion to remove;
physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
for thou canst never tell my humble tale
in sounds that will prevail,
nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
all thy vain mirth lay by,
bid thy strings silent lie, sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
REDEEM THE PAST
YTIS vanished all-in hurried flight-
ere yet I felt Time's trophies white
were sprinkled on my brow,—or thought, that since
beamed on me, what long years had flown;
time's snows are on my forehead thrown,
and many a winter now and many a spring are gone.
But what doth this, all this, avail ?
for soon, too soon, oblivion pale
will blot alike the good and evil of my tale.
'Twill then be said-whoe'er thou be,
that world is lost, which flattered thee,
and all thou hast pursued is fruitless vanity.
Oh! while thy sinful soul can cast
sin's robes away-redeem the past,
if not in deeds, in words to praise thy Maker haste.
H OW short is Life's uncertain space!
11 how quickly is it run!
how swift the wild precarious chase,
anxious and difficult the race!
and what the prize when won!
Youth stops at first its wilful ears
to Wisdom's kindest voice;
till now arrived to riper years,
experienced age, worn out with cares,
repents its earlier choice.
What though its prospects now appear
so grateful to the mind;
yet groundless Hope, and teasing Fear,
by turns the busy moments share,
and leave a sting behind.
J. MERRICK 154
THIS world is all a fleeting show,
1 for man's illusion given;
the smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
deceitful shine, deceitful flow-
there's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on Glory's plume,
as fading hues of even;
and Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom
are blossoms gathered from the tomb
there's nothing bright but Heaven !
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
from wave to wave we're driven, and Fancy's flash and Reason's ray serve but to light the troubled way there's nothing calm but Heaven!
T. MOORE 155 ON REVISITING THE SCENES OF HIS CHILDHOOD W ITH lorn delight the scene I view'd,
V past joys and sorrows were renew'd ;
my infant hopes and fears
look'd lovely through the solitude
of retrospective years.
And still, in Memory's twilight bowers,
the spirits of departed hours,
with mellowing tints, pourtray
the blossoms of life's vernal flowers
for ever fall'n away.
Till youth's delirious dream is o'er,
sanguine with hope, we look before,
the future good to find;
in age, when error charms no more,
for bliss we look behind.
M ORPHEUS, the humble god that dwells
IV in cottages and smoky cells,
hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
and though he fears no prince's frown,
flies from the circle of a crown.
Come, I say, thou powerful god,
and thy leaden charming rod
dipt in the Lethean lake,
o'er his wakeful temples shake,
lest he should sleep and never wake.
Nature, alas! why art thou so
obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,
yet of death it bears a taste,
and both are the same thing at last.
SIR J. DENHAM
TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER
TOVE thy mother, little one!
L kiss and clasp her neck again,-
hereafter she may have a son
will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one !
Gaze upon her living eyes,
and mirror back her love for thee,
hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
to meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes !
Press her lips the while they glow
with love that they have often told, -
hereafter thou may'st preșs in woe,
and kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press her lips the while they glow!
THE RESTORATION OF HELLAS
THE world's great age begins anew,
1 the golden years return,
the earth doth like a snake renew
her winter weeds outworn :
a brighter Hellas rears its mountains
from waves serener far ;
a new Peneus rolls its fountains
against the morning-star.
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
Another Athens shall arise,
and to remoter time
bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
the splendour of its prime;
and leave, if nought so bright may live,
all earth can take or heaven can give.
P. B. SHELLEY
SONG TO ECHO
SWEET Echo, sleeps thy vocal shell,
where this high arch o'erhangs the dell;
while Tweed, with sun-reflecting streams,
chequers thy rocks with dancing beams ?
Here may no clamours harsh intrude,
no brawling hound or clarion rude;
here no fell beast of midnight prowl,
and teach thy tortured cliffs to howl.
Be thine to pour these vales along
some artless shepherd's evening song;
while night's sweet bird from yon high spray
responsive listens to his lay.
And if, like me, some love-lorn maid
should sing her sorrows to thy shade,
O, soothe her breast, ye rocks around,
with softest sympathy of sound.
W ELL, then, I now do plainly see
V this busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
the very honey of all earthly joy
does of all meats the soonest cloy :
and they (methinks) deserve my pity
who for it can endure the stings,
the crowd, and buz, and murmurings
of this great hive, the City.
Ah! yet, ere I descend to the grave,
may I a small house and large garden have!
and a few friends, and many books, both true,
both wise, and both delightful too!
and since Love ne'er will from me flee,
a Mistress moderately fair,
and good as guardian-angels are,
only beloved and loving me !
I WOULD I were a careless child,
I still dwelling in my Highland cave,
or roaming through the dusky wild,
or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
the cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
accords not with the freeborn soul, which loves the mountain's craggy side, and seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
take back this name of splendid sound !
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this—again to rove
through scenes my youth hath known before. 162 Few are my years, and yet I feel