Keats continued.] Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings? Addressed to Haydon. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies On first looking into Chapman's Homer. The poetry of earth is never dead. On the Grasshopper and Cricket. CHARLES WOLFE. 1791 - 1823. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Ibid. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! Ibid. HENRY HART MILMAN. And the cold marble leapt to life a god. The Belvidere Apollo. Too fair to worship, too divine to love. Ibid. 500 Milnes. Payne. - Uhland. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. But on and up, where Nature's heart Beats strong amid the hills. Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube. St. 2. Great thoughts, great feelings came to them, Like instincts, unawares. The Men of Old. A man's best things are nearest him, Lie close about his feet. The beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Ibid. I wandered by the Brookside. J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792 – 1852. Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.1 Home, Sweet Home.2 JOHN LOUIS UHLAND. 1787-1862. Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee; Take, I give it willingly; For, invisible to thee, Spirits twain have cross'd with me. The Passage. 1 "Home is home though it be never so homely" is a proverb, and is found in the collections of the seventeenth century. 2 From The Opera of Clari—the Maid of Milan. From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, Ion. Acti. Sc. I. "T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Act i. Sc. 2. ROBERT POLLOK. 1799-1827. He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane" The Course of Time. Book iv. Line 389. He was a man Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven To serve the Devil in. Book viii. Line 616. With one hand he put A penny in the urn of poverty, And with the other took a shilling out. Book viii. Line 632. 1 Cf. Byron, Childe Harold, Canto iv. St. 184. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 1797-1839. I'd be a Butterfly; living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away. I'd be a Butterfly. Oh! no! we never mention her, Her name is never heard ; My lips are now forbid to speak That once familiar word. Oh! no! we never mention her. We met 't was in a crowd. We met. Why don't the men propose, mamma, Why don't the men propose? She wore a wreath of roses, The night that first we met. She wore a wreath. Tell me the tales that to me were so dear, Long, long ago, long, long ago. The rose that all are praising Is not the rose for me. Long, long ago. The rose that all are praising. O pilot! 't is a fearful night, The Pilot. fonder ; Absence makes the heart grow Gayly the Troubadour Touched his guitar. Isle of Beauty. Welcome me home. Keble. · Procter. 503 JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866. Why should we faint and fear to live alone, 'T is sweet, as year by year we lose Burial of the Dead. Abide with me from morn till eve, BRYAN W. PROCTER. The sea! the sea! the open sea! The Sea. I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! I am where I would ever be, With the blue above and the blue below, Ibid. I never was on the dull, tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more. |