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Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
- LORD BYRON.
A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
SWEET AND BITTER.
SWEET is the rose, but grows upon a brere;
Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough;
Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough;
Most sorts of men do set but little store.
Ir flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
That roamed through the young world, the glory
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.
Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.
IN SAN LORENZO.
- LEIGH HUNT.
Is thine hour come to wake, O slumbering Night?
Though thou be stone and sleep, yet shalt thou hear When the word falls from heaven-Let there be Light. Thou knowest we would not do thee the despite
To wake thee while the old sorrow and shame were
We spake not loud for thy sake, and for fear
Yea, we kept silence of thee for thy sake,
But will not yet thine Angel bid thee wake?
– A. C. SWINBURNE.
LONG-WHILE I sought to what I might compare
Not to the Sun; for they do shine by night;
Nor to the Stars; for they have purer sight; Nor to the Fire; for they consume not never; Nor to the Lightning; for they still persever;
Nor to the Diamond; for they are more tender; Nor unto Crystal; for naught may them sever;
Nor unto Glasse; such baseness might offend her. Then to the Maker's self they likest be, Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.
CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
O Love! has she done this to thee?
- JOHN LYLY.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
GREEN little vaulter on the sunny grass,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
- LEIGH HUNT.