My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow.
No breath of air to break the wave

O Love! O Glory! what are you who fly
O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea
Of all the dresses I select Haidée's

Not in those climes where I have late been straying 152

Remember him, whom passion's power
River, that rollest by the ancient walls

Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!
Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story
Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place
Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth
Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey
Oh, Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls.
Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream
Oh, Wellington! (or Villainton '-for Fame
On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray
Once more in man's frail world! which I had left.
Once more upon the woody Apennine
One struggle more, and I am free.

Our life is two-fold: Sleep hath its own world

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate
She walks in beauty, like the night
Since our country, our God-Oh, my sire!
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run
So Castlereagh has cut his throat!

So He has cut his throat at last!

So now the Doge is nothing, and at last
So, we'll go no more a roving

Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Still must I hear ?-shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
Stop!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times

Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!

PAGE

Talk not of seventy years as age; in seven
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold

The black bands came over

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
The castled crag of Drachenfels

The harp the monarch minstrel swept
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
The King was on his throne.

The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then.
The moon is up, and yet it is not night .
The roar of waters!-from the headlong height
The ship, call'd the most holy' Trinidada'
The Spirit of the fervent days of Old

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from
The wars are over

'Tis the morn, but dim and dark

"Tis time this heart should be unmoved

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills
The winds are high on Helle's wave
The world is a bundle of hay
There be none of Beauty's daughters
There is a stern round tower of other days
There is a tomb in Arqua ;-rear'd in air
There on the green and village-cotted hill, is
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men
There's doubtless something in domestic doings
There's not a joy the world can give
They say that Hope is happiness
They tell me 'tis decided you depart

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair
This day, of all our days, has done
Thou whose spell can raise the dead
Though the day of my destiny's over
Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen
Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe
Thy days are done, thy fame begun
'Tis done but yesterday a King!.

'Tis sweet to hear

Titan! to whose immortal eyes

To be the father of the fatherless

T'our tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone

PAGE

424

41

373

85

175

27

407

36

309

188

192

389

296

4.0

378

28

215

85

42

198

189

415

173

401

43

70

385

18

86

33

52

86

18

32

19

384

374

92

67

81

413

'Twas after dread Pultowa's day

44

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps'. 412
We sat down and wept by the waters
Weep, daughter of a royal line
Well! thou art happy, and I feel.

40

16

3

38

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be
What are you doing now

71

168

What is the worst of woes that wait on age
What matter the pangs of a husband and father
When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home.

85

85

50

35

When all around grew drear and dark
When coldness wraps this suffering clay
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring.
When we two parted

11

2

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends 169
Who kill'd John Keats?

86
380

With all its sinful doings, I must say
With death doom'd to grapple

84

PAGE
260

34

HE best recommendation of The World's Classics is the books themselves, which have earned unstinted praise from critics and all classes of the public. Some two million copies have been sold, and of the volumes already published very many have gone into a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, or later impression. It is only possible to give so much for the money when large sales are certain. The clearness of the type, the quality of the paper, the size of the page, the printing, and the binding-from the cheapest to the bestcannot fail to commend themselves to all who love good literature presented in worthy form. That a high standard is insisted upon is proved by the list of books already published and of those on the eve of publication. A great feature is the brief critical introductions written by leading authorities of the day. ♡

Α'

NUMBER of the volumes are issued in the Oxford Library of Standard Works, the size and type as The World's Classics, but bound in Italian, thin boards, gilt designs, gilt top, and in Suède, yapp edges, gilt top, both with bookmarker. These are specially recommended for presentation. (The volumes are obtainable only through the booksellers.)