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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

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

hornèd moon,

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

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 :-

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

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Then ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
“ Ye are brothers ! ye are men !
And we conquer but to save :-
So
peace

instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King."
Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose ;-
As Death withdrew his shades from the day;
While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away!
Now joy, Old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blazę,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amid that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full

many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore !

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou!

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THE ORDER OF PROVIDENCE.

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

Campbell.

THE ORDER OF PROVIDENCE.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame;
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;
Lives through all life, extends through all extent;
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns;
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

Cease, then, nor order imperfection name :
Our

proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: This kind, this true degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. Submit.-In this or any other sphere, Secure to be as bless'd as thou canst bear, Safe in the hand of one disposing power, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony, not understood; All partial evil, universal good.

Pope.

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