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Regan. O, SIR, to wilful men,

The injuries that they themselves procure,
Must be their schoolmasters.


How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill ! *

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise ;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ;

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great.
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;

* Sir H. Wotton's advice to a friend designed for an ambassador.—That, to be in safety himself, and serviceable to his country, he should always, and upon all occasions, speak the truth. It seems a state paradox: for, says Sir H. Wotton, you shall never be believed ; and by this means your truth will secure yourself, if you shall ever be called to any account; and it will also put your adversaries (who will still hunt counter) to a loss in all their disquisitions and undertakings.

I. WALTON. Lives. + Life, that dares send

A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, “Welcome, friend !”


This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall ;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.



SINCE it hath pleased that first and supreme Fair
To take that beauty to Himself again,
Which in this world of sense not to remain
But to amaze was sent, and home repair,
The love which to that beauty I did bear,

pure of mortal spots which did it stain,
And endless, which e'en death cannot impair,
I place on Him who will it not disdain.
No shining eyes, no locks of curling gold,
No blushing roses on a virgin face,
No outward show, no, nor no inward grace,

have my thoughts henceforth to hold: Love here on earth huge storms of care doth toss, But placed above exempted is from loss.

DRUMMOND. AND when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power Of unreflecting love-then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

KEATS. SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the windI turn'd to share the transport-0 with whom But Thee-deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find ? Love, faithful love, recall’d thee to my mindBut how could I forget thee? through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.


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 their haven under the hill ;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd 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.


THE old house by the lindens

Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravell’d pathway

The light and shadow played.

I saw the


windows Wide open to the air ! But the faces of the children

They were no longer there.

The large Newfoundland house-dog

Was standing by the door ;
He looked for his little playmates,

Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,

They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness,

Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,

With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me,

He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

I pressed his warm soft hand.


THE merry merry

lark was up

and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,

When my child's laugh rang through me.
Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snowyard,

And the lark beside the dreary winter sea,
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.


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