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Early Friendship.

Still in Fancy's rich domain

Oft shall we three meet again.
The half-seen memories of childish days,
When pains and pleasures lightly came and

When the dreams of life are fled, went;

When its wasted lamps are dead; The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent

When cold oblivion's shade, In fearful wanderings through forbidden ways;

Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; The vague but manly wish to tread the maze

Where immortal spirits reign, Of-life to noble ends; whereon intent,

There shall we three meet again. Asking to know for what man here is sent,

The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze;
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end
Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature:

Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend
With strength no selfish purpose can secure;

When I do count the clock that tells the time, My happy lot is this, that all attend

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; That friendship which first came, and which when I behold the violet past prime, shall last endure.

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; AUBREY DE VERE.

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves, When shall we Three Meet again? Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;

Then, of thy beauty do I question make,
When shall we three meet again ?

That thou among the wastes of time must go,
When shall we three meet again !

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
Oft shall glowing hope expire,

And die as fast as they see others grow;
Oft shall wearied love retire,

And nothing'gainst Time's scythe can make defence,
Oft shall death and sorrow reign,

Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. Ere we three shall meet again.

Though in distant lands we sigh,
Parched beneath a hostile sky;
Though the deep between us rolls,
Friendship shall unite our souls.

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate; Rough winds do shake the darlig buds of May,

And Summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed, Featured like him, like him with friends posAnd every fair from fair sometime declines,

sessed, By chance, or nature's changing course, un- Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, trimmed ;

With what I most enjoy contented least ; But thy eternal Summer shall not fade,

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; Haply I think on thee, and then my state Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, (Like to the lark at break of day arising

When in eternal lines to time thou growest. From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

So is it not with me as with that Muse,

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse;

I summon up remembrance of things past, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse; And with old woes new wail my dear time's Making a couplement of proud compare,

waste. With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, gems,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. Oh let me, true in love, but truly write,

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And then believe me, my love is as fair

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er As any mother's child, though not so bright The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air: Which I new pay, as if not paid before: Let them say more that like of hearsay well; But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.

All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

Let those who are in favor with their stars,

Of public honor and proud titles boast ;
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumphs bars,

Unlooked-for joy in that I honor most.
Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honor razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove nor be removed.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear

Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear

But things removed, that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

FULL many a glorious morning have I seen

Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavy alchemy;

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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, Not marble, not the gilded monuments

And make me travel forth without my cloak, Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

But you shall shine more bright in these contents Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, time.

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, When wasteful war shall statues overturn, For no man well of such a salve can speak,

And broils root out the work of masonry, That heals the wound, and cures not the dis- Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall grace:

burn Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief –

The living record of your memory. Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : 'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief

Shall you pace forth: your praise shall still find To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah, but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds, Even in the eyes of all posterity, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.

That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. What is your substance, whereof are you made,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. That millions of strange shadows on you tend 1 Since every one hath, every one, one shade,

And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

from “In Memoriam." Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,

I ENVY not, in any moods, And you in Grecian tires are painted new :

The captive void of noble rage, Speak of the spring, and foison of the year –

The linnet born within the cage, The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

That never knew the summer woods. The other as your bounty doth appear; And you in every blessed shape we know.

I envy not the beast that takes In all external grace you have some part ;

His license in the field of time,

Unfettered by the sense of crime, But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

To whom a conscience never wakes :

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

For that sweet odor which doth in it live.

Nor, what may count itself as blest,

The heart that never plighted troth,

But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest.

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