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JOHN KEATS (Continued)

THE TERROR OF DEATH .

LAST SONNET .
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Rose AYLMER
TWENTY YEARS HENCE
PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE
ABSENCE
DIRCE
CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM ATHENS
MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL .
WELL I REMEMBER
No, My Own LOVE
ROBERT BROWNING .
THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA
IPH IGENEIA
‘Do You REMEMBER ME?'
FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE
ON LUCRETIA BORGIA's HAIR
ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY
To My NINTH DECADE
DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME

ON LIVING Too LONG .
THOMAS HOOD

FAIR INES
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
THE DEATH BED .

PAST AND PRESENT
SIR AUBREY DE VERE

GLENGARIFF
HARTLEY COLERIDGE

SHE IS Not FAIR .
JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE

To NIGHT
GEORGE DARLEY

THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE
THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, LORD MACAULAY

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THE ARMADA .
A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH

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SIR WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN
THE REFUSAL OF CHARON

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HUGH MILLER
THE BABIE

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HELEN SELINA, LADY DUFFERIN
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

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CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
LETTY'S GLOBE.

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SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND

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ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE, 1-44

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THE SLEEP
EDWARD FITZGERALD

RUBAIYAT OF OM. KHAYYÁM OF NAISHÁPÚR . . 970

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WILLIAM COLLINS

(1720-1759]

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FIDELE

TO

fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherds lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scéne shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

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295

ODE WRITTEN IN

MDCCXLVI

How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

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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,
Throng'd around her magic cell
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd 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 power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre

And swept with hurried hand the strings.

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.

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'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.

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