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And as Time's car incessant runs,
And fortune fills my store,
I want of daughters and of sons
From eight to half a score.
I want (alas! can mortal dare
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
That all the girls be chaste and fair,
The boys all wise and brave.

I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour;
Who ne'er to flattery will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power,
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,
My inmost soul to see;

And that my friendship prove as strong

For him as his for me.

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His autograph upon this page.
Higher than that eagle soars,
Wider than that thunder roars,
His fame shall through the world be

And o'er the waves of time be bounding.

Though thousands as obscure as I, Cling to his skirts, he still will fly And leap to immortality.

If by his name I write my own, He'll take me where I am not known, The cold salute will meet my ear, "Pray, stranger, how did you come here?"


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A KING lived long ago,

In the morning of the world, When Earth was nigher Heaven than now:

And the King's locks curled Disparting o'er a forehead full As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn

Of some sacrificial bull.

Only calm as a babe new-born: For he was got to a sleepy mood,

So safe from all decrepitude, Age with its bane so sure gone by, (The gods so loved him while he dreamed,)

That, having lived thus long, there seemed

No need the King should ever die.

Among the rocks his city was; Before his palace, in the sun, He sat to see his people pass,

And judge them every one From its threshold of smooth stone


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I saw their thousand years of snow On high, their wide long lake below,

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And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channelled rock and broken bush;

I saw the white-walled distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view;

A small green isle, it seemed no more,

Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,

But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing,

Of gentle breath and hue.
The fish swam by the castle-wall,
And they seemed joyous each and

The eagle rode the rising blast;
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seemed to fly, -
And then new tears came in my

And I felt troubled,-and would fain
I had not left my recent chain.




THE Convent-bells are ringing,
But mournfully and slow;
In the gray square turret swinging,
With a deep sound, to and fro.
Heavily to the heart they go!
Hark! the hymn is singing —

The song for the dead below,

Or the living, who shortly shall be so!

For a departing being's soul
The death-hymn peals, and the hol-
low bells knoll:

He is near his mortal goal;
Kneeling at the friar's knee;
Sad to hear, and piteous to see,
Kneeling on the bare cold ground,
With the block before and the guards

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And the headsman with his bare arm ready,

That the blow may be both swift and steady,

Feels if the axe be sharp and true-
Since he set its edge anew:
While the crowd in a speechless cir-
cle gather,

To see the son fall by the doom of the father.

It is a lovely hour as yet
Before the summer sun shall set,
And his evening beams are shed
Full on Hugo's fated head,
As, his last confession pouring,
To the monk his doom deploring,
In penitential holiness,

He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may
Wipe our mortal stains away.

He died, as erring man should die,
Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bowed and prayed,
As not disdaining priestly aid,
Nor desperate of all hope on high.


THE night is past, and shines the


As if that morn were a jocund


Lightly and brightly breaks


The morning from her mantle gray,

And the moon will look on a sultry day.

Hark to the trump, and the drum,

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,

And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum,

And the clash, and the shout, "They come, they come!"

The horse-tails are plucked from the ground, and the sword From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.

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Duchess. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off,

Of our two cousins coming into London. York. - Where did I leave? Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows' tops,

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head,

York. Then as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know,

With slow but stately pace, kept on his course,

While all tongues cried, "God save thee, Bolingbroke!”

You would have thought the very windows spake,

So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes

Upon his visage, and that all the walls,

With painted imagery, had said at

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