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And tones from him, by other bosoms caught,
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought;
And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill,
Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering will.
Above the goodly land, more his than ours,
He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers;
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation.
O shaping brain! O flashing fancy's hues!
O boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews!
O wit humane and blithe! O sense sublime!
For each dim oracle of mantled Time!
Transcendent Form of Man! in whom we read
Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought, and Deed!
Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee,
We know how vast our world of life may
Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine,
Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine.

Walter Savage Landor.



LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet, could he speak
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and, when he found
"Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me! but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "'These may she never share!"

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,

And, oh! pray, too, for me!



Y brier that smelledst sweet,
When gentle Spring's first heat
Ran through thy quiet veins;

Thou that couldst injure none,
But wouldst be left alone,

Alone thou leavest me, and naught of thine remains.

What! hath no poet's lyre
O'er thee, sweet breathing brier,
Hung fondly, ill or well?
And yet, methinks, with thee
A poet's sympathy,

Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell.

Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you;

Your tender prime must bleed
Ere you are sweet, but freed

From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.

Allan Cunningham.


AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray

Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cowered close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs :
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.

She combed her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes, and clasped her shoon;

And from her home, by Preston-burn,

Came forth the rival light of morn.

The lark's song dropped,-now loud, now hush,
The goldspink answered from the bush;
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Called from the misty mountain top.

"Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake ;—
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.
Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Takest thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.



WET sheet and a flowing sea-
A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast-
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
. While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high-

And white waves heaving high, my boys—

The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud-
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

Thomas Haynes Bayly.


UPON the hill he turned,

To take a last fond look
Of the valley and the village church,
And the cottage by the brook;
He listened to the sounds,

So familiar to his ear,

And the soldier leant upon his sword,
And wiped away a tear.

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