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For of the noblest of the land

Was that deep-hushed, bareheaded band;
And central in the ring,

By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed king.*


WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! - yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever;

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest,

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a dream has power to poison sleep; We rise,-one wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive, or reason, laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;

It is the same!

for, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free;

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Naught may endure but Mutability.

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TO THE MOON.— Shelley.

ART thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?


WHEN all is done and said,

In th' end thus shall you find:
He most of all doth bathe in bliss,
That hath a quiet mind;
And clear from worldly cares,

To deem can be content
The sweetest time in all his life
In thinking to be spent.

The body subject is

To fickle Fortune's power,
And to a million of mishaps

Is casual every hour;

And death in time doth change

It to a clod of clay;

Whereas the mind, which is divine,

Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like

Unto the mind alone;

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For many have been harmed by speech,

Through thinking, few or none.



Fear oftentimes restraineth words,
But makes not thoughts to cease;
And he speaks best, that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death ;
Our kinsmen at the grave;
But virtues of the mind unto
The heavens with us we have.
Wherefore, for virtue's sake
I can be well content

The sweetest time of all my life
To deem in thinking spent.


Ir was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads,

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar!

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My truelove you did see."

"And how should I your truelove know

From many another one?

"O, by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his sandal shoon.

"But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled,
And eyes of lovely blue."

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"Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

"Here bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedewed his grave
Within yon kirkyard wall.”

“And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!"

“O, weep not, lady, weep not so!
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"O, do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove!
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

"And now, alas! for thy sad loss
I'll evermore weep and sigh;

For thee I only wished to live,
For thee I wished to die."



"Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain;

For violets plucked the sweetest showers
Will ne er make grow again.

"Our joys as winged dreams do fly;
Why, then, should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past."

"O, say not so, thou holy friar;
I pray thee, say not so!
For since my truelove died for me,
'T is meet my tears should flow."

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;

One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never."

"Now say not so, thou holy friar,


pray thee, say not so;

My love he had the truest heart;

O, he was ever true!

"And art thou dead, thou much loved youth?

And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell, home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

"But first upon my truelove's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay ;

And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf
That wraps his breathless clay."

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