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Now woods have overgrown the mead,

And hid the cliffs from sight; There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,

And prowls the fox at night. Bryant.


A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mnists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

And hurried landward far away,
Crying, “ Awake! it is the day.”

It said unto the forest, “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, “O bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, “O Chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

It whispered to the fields of

“Bow down, and hail the coming morn."

It shouted through the belfry-tower,
“ Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, “ Not yet! in quiet lie.” Longfellow.


There lay upon the ocean's shore

What once a tortoise served to cover. A year and more,

with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by,

As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry

Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan,

The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman

Had stumbled o’er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay,

Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray

Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry,

As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury,

And, having mused upon it, 66 Why, here,” cried he, “ the thing of things

In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,

A wonderful invention!”

So said, so done; the chords he strained,

And, as his fingers o'er them hovered,
The shell disdained a soul had gained,

The lyre had been discovered.
O empty world that round us lies,

Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,
Brought we but eyes like Mercury's,

In thee what songs should waken!— Lowell.


Whither, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, – The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright. — Bryant.


There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamp shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it?— No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined ;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet –

But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! arm! it is – it is the cannon's opening roar.

- Byron.


Good name in man or woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash;

'Tis something - nothing –
'Twas mine — 'tis his — and has been slave to thousands.
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed. Shakespeare.



Nay, then farewell !
I've touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting : I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon

him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And when he thinks, – good, easy man,

- full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!

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