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Most glorious orb! thou wert a mystery ere
The mystery of thy making was reveald!
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,
Which gladden'd, on the mountain tops, the hearts
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd
Themselves in orisons! Thou material god!
And representative of the Unknown,
Who chose thee for His shadow! Thou chief star !
Centre of many stars, which mak'st our earth
Endurable, and temperest the lives
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays !
Sire of the Seasons ! Monarch of the Climes
And those who dwell in them; for near or far
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects; thou dost rise
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take
My latest look; thou wilt not beam on one
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been
Of a more fatal nature!



Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.




Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
So didst thou travel in life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.



“Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,
: · And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see;
The blinding mist came down and hid the land-

And never home came she.
“Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-

A tress o' golden hair,

O’ drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea ?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,

Among the stakes on Dee.”
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea :
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.



Ye clouds! that far above me float and pause,

Whose pathless march no mortal may control !

Ye ocean-waves! that wheresoe'er ye roll Yield homage only to eternal laws ! Ye woods! that listen to the night-bird's singing,

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches, swinging,

Have made a solemn music of the wind !
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms which never woodman trod,

How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,

Inspired beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! O ye

loud waves! and O ye forests high! And O


clouds that far above me soar'd! Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing sky!

Yea, everything that is, and will be free!

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er you be, With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty.



All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail



Unwillingly to school: And then, the lover;
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow: Then, a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth: And then, the justice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lind,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part: The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.




On that those lips had language! Life has past
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
Blessed be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it-here shines on me still the same.




Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bid'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own :
And, while that face renews my

filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ?-It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived:
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to


lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

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