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JOHN DONNE.

THE FAREWELL.

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go; Whilst some of their sad friends do

say,

HENRY RIPLEY DORR.

DOOR AND WINDOW.

THERE is a room, a stately room, Now filled with light, now wrapped in gloom.

The breath goes now-and some say, There is a door, a steel-clad door,

no;

So let us melt and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;

'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,

Men reckon what it did, and meant:
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far is innocent.

Dull, sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which alimented it.

But we're by love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls, therefore (which are one),

Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no
show

To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circles just,
And makes me end where I begun.

Lined with masses of hammered ore,

Closed with a lock of Titan weight, Opened only by hand of Fate!

There is a window, broad and old, Barred with irons of massive mould;

Back from the window, closed and fast,

Stretches the vista of the Past;

A lengthening vista, faint and dim, Reaching beyond the horizon's rim.

Men may wait at the window-sill And listen, listen - but all is still.

Men may wait till their hairs are white,

Through the hours of day and night;
Men may shower their tears like
rain
And

mourn that they cannot pass
again;

Over the pathway of the Past;
But travelled first, it is travelled last!

Turn with me to the iron door Many a mortal has stood before!

Lift the latch? It is fastened down! The hinges are flecked with a rusty brown.

Batter away at its massive plates! Hark! do you hear the mocking Fates?

'Tis only the echoes that go and

come

Like the measured beats of a muffled drum!

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Some have too much, yet still they crave;

I little have, yet seek no more, They are but poor, though much they have;

And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich; they beg, I give: They lack, Ilend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain: No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane. I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly bliss;

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw;

For care, I care not what it is:

I fear not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seek for more: I like the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate;

I break no sleep to win my will;

I wait not at the mighty's gate.
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court nor cart I like nor loathe;

Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean betwixt them both Doth surest sit, and fears no fall; This is my choice; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect

ease:

My conscience clear my chief defence;

I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offence.
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

TWO APRILS.

If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to
thee?

A feather, which thou mightest cast

WHEN last the maple bud was swell- Aside, as idly as the blast,

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THE LABORER.

STAND up, erect! Thou hast the form

The light leaf from the tree.

No:-uncurbed passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus checked;

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With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.

And likeness of thy God!- who Look up, then, that thy little span

more?

A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure as breast e'er wore.

What then? Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan,
As with creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? The high

In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Nay! nurse not such belief.

Of life may be well trod.

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