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Flutter not about a place,

Ye concomitants of space!'

Mute the listening nations stand
On that dark receding land;

How faint their villages and towns,
Scattered on the misty downs!

A meeting-house

Appears no bigger than a mouse!
How long?-

Never is a question asked,
While a throat can lift the song,
Or a flapping wing be tasked.
All the grandmothers about
Hear the orators of heaven;
Then put on their woollens stout,
And cower o'er the hearth at even,
And the children stare at the sky,

And laugh to see the long black line so high.
Thence once more I heard them say,-
"Tis a smooth, delightful road;
Difficult to lose the

way, And a trifle for a load."

'Twas our forte to pass, for this

Proper sack of sense to borrow

Wings and legs, and bills that clatter,
And the horizon of To-morrow,

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GEOFFREY CHAUCER

(1328-1400)

THE PORe persoUN
CANTERBURY TALES-PROLOGUE

A GOOD man was ther of religioun,
And was a porë persoun of a toun;
But riche he was of holy thought and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk
That Cristës gospel gladly wolde preche;
His parischens devoutly wold he teche.
Benigne he was, and wondur diligent,
And in adversité ful pacient;
And such he was i-proved oftë sithes.*
Ful loth were him to curse for his tythes,
But rather wolde he yeven out of dowte,
Unto his porë parischens aboute,
Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce.
He cowde in litel thing han suffisance.

* Times.

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And schame it is, if that a prest tak keep,
A [filthy] schepherde and a clenë scheep;
Wel oughte a prest ensample for to yive,
By his clennesse, how that hisscheepschulde lyve.
He settë not his benefice to hyre,

And left his scheep encombred in the myre,
And ran to Londone, unto seyntë Poules,
To seeken him a chaunterie for soules,
Or with a brethurhede to ben withholde;
But dwelte at hoom, and keptë wel his folde,
So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye.
He was a schepperde and no mercenarie :
And though he holy were, and vertuous,
40 He was to senful man nought dispitous,

ne digne, t

Ne of his speche daungerous
But in his teching descret and benigne.
To drawë folke to heven by fairnesse,
By good ensample was his busynesse :
But it were eny persone obstinat
What so he were of high or lowe estat,
Him wolde he snybbë scharply for the nones.
A bettre preest I trowe ther nowher non is.
He waytud after no pompe ne reverence,
Ne maked him a spiced conscience,
But Cristës lore, and His apostles twelve,
He taught, and ferst he followed it himselve.
*Not affable. † Proud. + Scrupulous.

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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834)

HYMN BEfore sunRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI

HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course! So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Did'st vanish from my thought: entranced in

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Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink! Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald! wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amainTorrents, methinks, that rd a mighty voice,

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Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky

pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure

serene

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Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-
Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou,
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base,
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 60
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise;
Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

WILLIAM COLLINS

(1720-1756)

THE PASSIONS

AN ODE FOR MUSIC

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
> Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound:
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for Madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive pow'r.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire

In lightnings owned his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hands the strings.

With woful measures wan Despair,

Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delightful measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song;
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every
close,

And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

[With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

0 Pale Melancholy sat retired,

And from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul:

And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,

Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.]

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:

They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic
round;

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?

Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age;
E'en all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound-
O, bid our vain endeavours cease;
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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WILLIAM J. COURTHOPE

CHORUS FROM THE PARADISE of birDS

WE wish to declare how the Birds of the air all high Institutions designed, And holding in awe art, science, and law, delivered the same to mankind.

To begin with of old, man went naked and cold whenever it pelted or froze, Till we showed him how feathers were proof against weathers; with that he bethought him of hose

And next it was plain that he in the rain was forced to sit dripping and blind, While the reed-warbler swung in a nest with her young, deep-sheltered and warm from the wind.

So our homes in the boughs made him think of the house; and the swallow, to help him invent,

Revealed the best way to economise clay, and bricks to combine with cement. The knowledge withal of the carpenter's awl is drawn from the nuthatch's bill, And the sand-martin's pains in the hazel-clad lanes instructed the mason to drill. Is there one of the arts more dear to men's hearts? to the birds' inspiration they owe it,

For the nightingale first sweet music rehearsed, prima donna, composer, and poet;

The owl's dark retreats showed sages the sweets of brooding to spin or unravel Fine webs in one's brain, philosophical, vain— the swallows, the pleasures of travel, Who chirped in such strain of Greece, Italy, Spain, and Egypt, that men when they heard Were mad to fly forth from their nests in the

north, and follow the trail of the bird. Besides it is true to our wisdom is due the knowledge of sciences all,

And chiefly those rare metaphysics of air, men Meteorology call.

For indeed it is said a kingfisher when dead has his science alive in him still; And, hung up; he will show, how the wind means to blow, and turn to the point with his bill.

And men in their words acknowledge the birds' condition in weather and star;

For they say, "Twill be dry-the swallow is high,' or 'rain, for the chough is afar.'

'Twas the rook who taught men vast pamphlets to pen upon Social Compact and

Law,

And parliaments hold, as themselves did of old, exclaiming, Hear, hear!' for 'Caw,

caw!'

When they build, if one steal, so great is their zeal for justice, that all, at a pinch,

Without legal test will demolish his nest; and hence is the trial by Lynch.

And whence arose love? Go ask of the dove, or behold how the titmouse, unresting,

Still early and late ever sings by his mate, to lighten her labours of nesting.

Their bonds never gall, tho' the leaves shoot and fall, and the seasons roll round in their course, For their marriage each year grows more lovely and dear, and they know not decrees of divorce.

That these things are truth we have learned from our youth, for our hearts to our customs incline,

As the rivers that roll from the fount of our soul, immortal, unchanging, divine. Man, simple and old, in his ages of gold, derived from our teaching true light, And deemed it his praise in his ancestors' ways to govern his footsteps aright: But the fountain of woes, Philosophy, rose, and what betwixt reason and whim, He has splintered our rules into sections and schools, so the world is made bitter for

him.

But the birds, since on earth they discovered the worth of their souls, and resolved with a vow,

No custom to change for a new or a strange, have attained into Paradise now.

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WILLIAM COWPER

(1742-1800)

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE, 1782

TOLL for the brave,

The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

See also BOADICEA

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again
Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER's picture
THE CASTAWAY

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GEORGE CRABBE

(1754-1832)

FUNERAL OF ISAAC ASHFORD, A VIRTUOUS PEASANT

NOBLE he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;

At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face: Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,

Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved:
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,

And with the firmest had the fondest mind.
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance when he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind

To miss one favour which their neighbours find :)

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed,
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I marked his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears stealing down that furrowed cheek
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning,-though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might
succeed;

Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few :-

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