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Full many a gem of purest ray serene

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless Haply some hoary-headed swain may say :breast,

“Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ;

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
The applause of listening senates to command,

“ There at the foot of yonder nodding beerh, The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone “Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scom, Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; fined ;

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;

love. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

“One morn I missed him on the customed hill, To quench the blushes of ingenuons shame,

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

Another came, – nor yet beside the rill, With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; “The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Along the cool, sequestered vale of life

Slow through the church-way path we saw him They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

borno ;

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Yet even these bones from insult to protect,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture

THE EPITAPH. decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, muse,

And melancholy marked him for her own. The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews,

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, He gained from heaven ('t was all he wished) a Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

friend. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ?

No further seek his merits to disclose, On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

The bosom of his Father and his God. E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

THOMAS GRAY.

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But where the incessant din
Of iron hands, and roars of brazen throats,
Join their unmingled notes,

While the long summer day is pouring in,

Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin, Dream I, -- as in the corner where I lie, On wintry nights, just covered from the sky! Such is my fate, — and, barren though it seem, Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream !

Then, when the gale is sighing, And when the leaves are dying,

And when the song is o’er, 0, let us think of those Whose lives are lost in woes,

Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELE.

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

HENCE, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly !
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy,
O, sweetest melancholy !

And yet I dream, Dream what,were men more just, I might have been, How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien ; The conscious crown to Nature's blissful scene, In just and equal brotherhood to glean, With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen,

Such is my dream!

And yet I dream,
I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eyes,

Bright with the lustre of integrity,
In unappealing wretchedness, on high,
And the last rage of Destiny defy;
Resolved alone to live, alone to die,

Nor swell the tide of human misery !

And yet I dream, Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come, My last, my first, my only welcome home! Rest, unbeheld since Life's beginning stage, Sole remnant of my glorious heritage, Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, Aud in thy soft embrace the past forget.

Thus do I dream !

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MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

Moan, moan, ye dying gales !
The saddest of your tales

Is not so sad as life;
Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,

Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf !
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers ;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers. Hush ! hush ! thou trembling lyre, Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute, For man soon breathes his last, And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho ! the holly!

This life is most jolly !
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere solly:

Then, heigh-ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly !

SHAKESPEARE.

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