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ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

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

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But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whisper'd 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 callid 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 ; And longer had she sung—but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose:
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain's ball of sight seem'd bursting from

his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of diffʻring themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving callid on Hate.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;

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ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

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 kiss'd 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?
As in that loved Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power;
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeard,
Can well recall what then it heard,
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art ?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime !
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 that charms this laggard age;
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

Collins.

MANFRED'S FAREWELL TO THE SUN.

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 chiet 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 !

Byron.

MILTON.

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.

S

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THE SANDS OF DEE.

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.

Wordsworth.

THE SANDS OF DEE.

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.

Kingsley.

LIBERTY,

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 0 ye forests high!

And O ye 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.

Coleridge.

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN.

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

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