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ENVY not in any moods
the linnet born within the cage,
his license in the field of time,
unfettered by the sense of crime, to whom a conscience never wakes; nor, what may count itself as blest,
the heart that never plighted troth
but stagnates in the weeds of sloth,
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN
sitt'st behind those virgins gay, like a scorched and mildewed bough
leafless mid the blooms of May; him who lured thee and forsook
oft I watched with angry gaze, fearful saw his pleading look,
anxious heard his fervid praise; soft the glances of the youth,
soft his words, and soft his sigh;
but no true love in his eye:
S. T. COLERIDGE
fair the tints of op'ning rose,
more lovely far her beauty blows. Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
sweet the tinkling rill to hear; but, Delia, more delightful still
steal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamour'd busy bee
the rosy banquet loves to sip; sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
to the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O let me steal one liquid kiss!
for oh! my soul is parched with love.
AUGH of the mountain! lyre of bird and tree!
pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! the soul of April, unto whom are born the rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! although, where'er thy devious current strays, the lap of earth with gold and silver teems, to me thy clear proceeding brighter seems than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. How without guilė thy bosom, all transparent as the pure crystal, lets the curious eye thy secrets scan, thy smooth round pebbles count! how, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by! thou shun'st the haunts of men, to dwell in limpid fount!
H. W. LONGFELLOW
500 ON for me to profane it
NE word is too often profaned
one feeling too falsely disdained
for thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
for prudence to smother,
than that from another.
but wilt thou accept not
and the heavens reject not;
of the night for the morrow,
P. B. SHELLEY
501 THERE is a shadow
for each bough
that mountain-travellers wake;
for each star that doth shine;
a heart that beats with mine.
the shadow with it flies;
how soon sweet echo dies!
finds none on earth to love;
'twould beat with mine above.
A BACCHANALIAN SONG
the master comes along :
dance about and shout amain,
COMAN'S faith and woman's trust;
write the characters in dust : stamp them on the running stream; print them on the moonlight's beam: and each evanescent letter shall be clearer, firmer, better, and more permanent, I ween, than the thing those letters mean: I have strained the spider's thread 'gainst the promise of a maid: I have weighed a grain of sand 'gainst her plight of heart and hand : I told my true love of the token, how her faith proved light and her word was broken; again her word and truth she plight, and I believed them again ere night.
SIR W. SCOTT 504
has all her bloom and shape and air:
JHENE’ER I see those smiling eyes,
so full of hope and joy and light, as if no cloud could ever rise
to dim a heaven so purely brightI sigh to think how soon that brow
in grief may lose its every ray,
almost forget it once was gay.
the ruined hope, the friend unkind,
a chilled or burning heart behind:-
ere sullied by the darkening rain,
you Lovers that complain
and sotten the relentless stones,
nor peaceful requiem sing,
such offerings as you have,