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Years ago.

Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground Haply of lovers none ever will know,

growing, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ;

Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing

Roll the sea. Heart handfast in heart as they stood, “Look thither,"

Till the slow sea rtse and the sheer cliff crumble, Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers

Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, to the sea;

Till the strength of the waves of the high tides

humble For the foam flowers endure when the rose-blos

The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, soms wither, And men that love lightly may die — but we?

Here now in his triumph where all things falter, And the same wind sang and the same waves

Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand whitened,

spread, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,

As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,

Death lies dead. In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. lightened,

Love was dead.

Or they loved their life through, and then went

whither And were one to the end – but what end, who

knows? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love

them What love was ever as deep as a grave! They are loveless now as the grass above them,

Or the wave.

The Latter Rain.
The latter rain,- it falls in anxious haste
Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare,
Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste
As if it would each root's lost strength repair ;
But not a blade grows green as in the Spring;
No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves;
The robins only mid the harvests sing,
Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves;
The rain falls still, - the fruit all ripened drops,
It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ;
The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ;
Each bursting pod of talents used can tell;
And all that once received the early rain
Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

JONES VERY.

All are at one now, roses and lovers,
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the

sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers

In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons here-

after
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or

weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter

We shall sleep.

Autumn.

The Autumn is old;

The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gathered up gold,

And now he is dying:

Old age, begin sighing !
The vintage is ripe;

The harvest is heaping;
But some that have sowed

Have no riches for reaping:
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

Here death may deal not again for ever;

Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up

never, Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.

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Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past ;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

Grongar Hill. SILENT nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings, Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale. Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse. Now, while Phæbus, riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky, Grongar Hill invites my song Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head, While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale,

As circles on a smooth canal.
The mountains round, unhappy fate !
Sooner or later, of all height,
Withdraw their summits from the skies,
And lessen as the others rise.
Still the prospect wider spreads,
Adds a thousand woods and meads;
Still it widens, widens still,
And sinks the newly-risen hill.

Now I gain the mountain's brow;
What a landscape lies below!
No clouds, no vapors intervene;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show
In all the hues of heaven's bow !
And, swelling to embrace the light,
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies ;
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires;
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads,
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks.

Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ;
And beyond, the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye;
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood :
His sides are clothed with waving wood :
And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below;
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps,
And with her arms from falling keeps;
So both, a safety from the wind
In mutual dependence find.
"Tis now the raven's bleak abode;
'Tis now th' apartment of the toad;
And there the fox securely feeds;
And there the poisonous adder breeds,

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Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ;
While, ever and anon, there fall
Huge heaps of hoary, mouldered wall.
Yet Time has seen that lifts the low
And level lays the lofty brow-
Has seen this broken pile complete,
Big with the vanity of state.
But transient is the smile of Fate!
A little rule, a little sway,
A sunbeam in a winter's day,
Is all the proud and mighty have
Between the cradle and the grave.

And see the rivers, how they run
Through woods and meads, in shade and sun,
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow,
Wave succeeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life to endless sleep!
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought
To instruct our wandering thought;
Thus she dresses green and

gay To disperse our cares away.

Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow!
The woody valleys, warm and low;
The windy summit, wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruined tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm -
Each gives each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.

See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie;
What streaks of meadow cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem ;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass;
As yon summits, soft and fair,
Clad in colors of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the same coarse way -
The present's still a cloudy day.

Oh may I with myself agree,

And never covet what I see;
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ;
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul.
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.

Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep;
While the shepherd charms his sheep;
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, even now, my joys run high.

Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
Search for Peace with all your skill ;
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor.
In vain you search; she is not here !
In vain you search the domes of Care !
Grass and flowers Quiet treads,
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure - close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often, by the murmuring rill,
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.

JOHN DYER.

November.

The mellow year is hasting to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast-
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows,
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define;
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying ;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes – dying, dying, dying!

O love, they die in yon rich sky;

They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer - dying, dying, dying!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

The Evening Wind.

Folding the Flocks. SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up; for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops, how they kiss Every little flower that is: Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a string of crystal beads. See the heavy clouds low falling And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from under ground; At whose rising, mists unsound, Damps and vapors, fly apace, And hover o'er the smiling face Of these pastures; where they come, Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore from such danger lock Every one his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come as a scout From the mountain, and, ere day, Bear a lamb or kid away; Or the crafty, thievish fox, Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourself from these, Be not too secure in ease; So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your master's love. Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids. So farewell : Thus I end my evening knell.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

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Bugle Song. The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying ; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes – dying, dying, dying!

The wide, old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast.

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the

grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway

The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; That they who near the churchyard willows

stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone,

Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, further going! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfand faintly blowing !

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