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TRUE BEAUTY.

Men call you fair, and you do credit it,

For that yourself you daily such do see;
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit

And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me. For all the rest, however fair it be,

Shall turn to naught, and lose that glorious hue; But only that is permanent and free

From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. That is true beauty, that doth argue you

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;

Derived from that fair spirit from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed.

He only fair, and what he fair hath made;
All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.

Spenser.

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE

I.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,-
That thou, light-wing’d Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

II.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

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Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

III.
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few sad last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

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IV.

Away, away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards;
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the queen moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry fays;

But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy

ways.

V.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ;

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ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

VI.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time'

I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,

In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-

To thy high requiem become a sod.

VII.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird !

No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

VIII.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

THE SONG OF THE MARINER.

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Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ?
Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep?

Keats,

THE SONG OF THE MARINER.

A 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

horned 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 !

Cunningham.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

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OF Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand;
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line;
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.
But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of oak !" our captains cried, when each

gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again ! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back ;-
Their shots along the deep slowly boom :-

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