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BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. - Tennyson.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea,
And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy

That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay !

And the stately ships go on

To the haven under the hill ;
But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still !

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea,
But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.



WHEN chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,



I spied a man whose aged step

Seemed weary, worn with care ;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? "

Began the reverend sage;
“Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage ?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn

The miseries of man.

“ The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride,-
I've seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

“O man! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;

Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

“Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:



But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn ;
Then age and want O ill-matched pair!

Show man was made to mourn.

“ A few seem favorites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest ;
Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But, 0, what crowds in every land,

All wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn, -

That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous ills

Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still, we make ourselves

Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

“ See yonder poor o'erlabored wight,

So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil ;
And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn.

“If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,

By Nature's law designed, -
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

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If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn ?
Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow mourn ?

“ Yet, let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human kind

Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressèd, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn !

“ O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, –

The kindest and the best !
Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, O, a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

THE MARIGOLD. - George Wither.


When with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk ;
How, wien he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedewed as 't were with tears, till he returns ;

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And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,
As if she 'scornèd to be looked on
By an inferior eye, or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him :
When I thus meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples, to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow.

But, O my God! though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and have a rooting here,
Which hauls me downward, yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire,
And all my best affections I profess
To Him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
O, keep the morning of his incarnation,
The burning noontide of his bitter passion,
The night of his descending, and the height
Of his ascension, ever in my sight;
That, imitating him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way!

SONNET.-W. E. Channing.

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Hearts of eternity, — hearts of the deep!

Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate ; How that for you no living comes too late ; How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep; How ye great ha:vests from small surface reap; Shout, excellent band, in grand, primeval strain, Like midn.ght winds that foam along the main, And do all things rather than pause and weep.

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