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O, no! in hours of golden calm
Morn met his forehead bold;
And breezy evening sang her psalm
Beneath his dew-dropped gold.

The wren its crest of fibered fire
With his rich bronze compared,
While many a youngling's songful sire
His acorned twiglets shared.

The lark, above, sweet tribute paid,
Where clouds with light were riven;
And true love sought his blue-belled shade,
"To bless the hour of heaven."

E'en when his stormy voice was loud,
And guilt quaked at the sound,
Beneath the frown that shook the proud,
The poor a shelter found.

Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,

Speak with strange tongues in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspired by thy renown,

Shall future patriots rise to fame,

And many a sun go down.

Ebenezer Elliott [1781-1849]

COLERIDGE

[1772-1834]

I SEE thee pine like her in golden story
Who, in her prison, woke and saw, one day,
The gates thrown open-saw the sunbeams play,
With only a web 'tween her and summer's glory;

Who, when that web-so frail, so transitory
It broke before her breath-had fallen away,
Saw other webs and others rise for aye

Which kept her prisoned till her hair was hoary.
Those songs half-sung that yet were all divine—
That woke Romance, the queen, to reign afresh-
Had been but preludes from that lyre of thine,
Could thy rare spirit's wings have pierced the mesh
Spun by the wizard who compels the flesh,
But lets the poet see how heaven can shine.

Theodore Watts-Dunton [1836-1914]

COWPER'S GRAVE

[1731-1800]

It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying;

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their pray

ing;

Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish: Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing!

O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was

clinging!

O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguil

ing,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears

his story,

How discord on the music fell and darkness on the glory,

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering

lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted,

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath
taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom, I learn to think upon him, With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won him,

Who suffered once the madness-cloud to his own love to blind him,

But gently led the blind along where breath and bird could find him;

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick poetic

senses

As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences; The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber.

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home

caresses,

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses: The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways removing,

Its women and its men became, beside him, true and loving.

And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious of that

guiding,

And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,

He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy desolated, -Nor man nor nature satisfies, whom only God created.

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses

And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses,

That turns his fevered eyes around,-"My mother! where's my mother?"_

As if such tender words and deeds could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart, he sees her bending o'er

him,

Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!

Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave

him,

Beneath those deep, pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save him!

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round him breaking,

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, But felt those eyes alone, and knew—“My Saviour! not deserted!"

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,

Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested? What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted?

What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father:

Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken

It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken!"

It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost creation,

That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation!

That Earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar not

hope's fruition,

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision. Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ON A BUST OF DANTE

[1265-1321]

SEE, from this counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song:
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care, and scorn, abide-
Small friendship for the lordly throng;
Distrust of all the world beside.

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A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight

Who could have guessed the visions came

Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light,

In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cuma's cavern close,

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,

But for the patient hope within,

Declare a life whose course hath been

Unsullied still, though still severe,

Which, through the wavering days of sin,

Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed,
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade;

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