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O never, never turn away thine ear; Forlorn in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!

To others do (the law is not severe) What to thyself thou wishest to be done.

Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,

And friends, and native land; nor those alone;

All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own."

MORNING.

BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild-brook babbling down the mountain side;

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried

In the lone valley; echoing far and wide

The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;

The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings;

Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;

Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,

And shrill lark carols clear from her

aërial tower.

EDWIN'S FANCIES AT EVENING.

WHEN the long-sounding curfew from afar

Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, Young Edwin, lighted by the evening

star,

Lingering and listening wander'd down the vale.

There would he dream of graves, and corpses pale;

And ghosts, that to the charnel-dungeon throng,

And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,

Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along.

Or when the setting moon, in crimson died,

Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep,

Te haunted stream, remote from man he hied,

Where Fays of yore their revels wont to keep;

And there let Fancy roam at large, till sleep

A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly-murmuring wind 'gan creep

Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,

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And green their helms, and green their silk attire.

And here and there, right venerably old, The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire,

And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,

A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance:

The little warriors doff the targe and spear,

And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.

They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance

To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring,

then glance

Rapid along; with many-color'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

1752-1770.

[BORN at Bristol, 1752. Son of a sexton and parish schoolmaster, and died by suicide before he had completed his eighteenth year, London, 1770. In this brief interval he gave proof of powers unsurpassed in one so young, and executed a number of forgeries almost without parallel for ingenuity and variety. His avowed compositions are very inferior to the forgeries, a fact that Scott explains by supposing that in the forgeries all his powers must have been taxed to the utmost to support the deception.]

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ON RESIGNATION.

O GOD, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
To thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the powers of human skill;
But what the Eternal acts is right.

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[ANNA LETITIA AIKIN, was born at Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, 1743. Published Poems, 1773; Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose by F. and A. L. Aikin, 1773. Married Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, 1774. Published Poetical Epistle to Mr. Wilberforce, 1791; Hymns in Prose for Little Children, 1811. Died at Stoke Newington, March

9, 1825.]

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LIFE.

"Animula, vagula, blandula." LIFE! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet.

But this I know, when thou art fled
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that then remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly,
Where bend unseen thy trackless course,
And in this strange divorce,
Ah, tell where I must seek this com-
pound I?

To the vast ocean of empyreal flame
From whence thy essence came
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when
freed

From matter's base

weed?

encumbering

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SIR WILLIAM JONES.

1746-1794.

[An Indian judge and learned oriental writer. Born in London in 1746, and died at Calcutta, 1794. In 1764 entered University College, Oxford, where he made great acquirements in oriental languages and literature; in 1783 appointed a judge in the Supreme Court of Calcutta, where he attained to great distinction, and gained the admiration of the most learned men in India; in 1799 his works were collected and published in six volumes, and his life by Lord Teignmouth in one volume in 1804.]

AN ODE, IN IMITATION OF
ALCEUS.

WHAT constitutes a state? Not high-raised battlement or labor'd mound,

Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crown'd;

Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;

Not starr'd and spangled courts, Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No: men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endured

In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;

Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,

Prevent the long-aim'd blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:

These constitute a state, And sovereign Law, that state's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill;

Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend Discretion like a vapor sinks, And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore !

No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?

Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. SWEET maid, if thou would'st charm my sight,

And bid these arms thy neck enfold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them, their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

O! when these fair perfidious maids
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?

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