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[Tennyson continued.

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky.

In Memoriam. cv.

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ibid.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The eager heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

And thus he bore without abuse
The grand old name of gentleman,
Defamed by every charlatan,

And soil'd with all ignoble use.

One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.

Ibid.

Ibid. cx.

[blocks in formation]

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

A sacred burden is this life ye bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly.
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,

But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.

Lines addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the
Lenox Academy, Mass.

Whittier. Poe. - Layard. 525

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

The hope of all who suffer,
The dread of all who wrong.

The Mantle of St. John De Matha.

Making their lives a prayer.

On receiving a Basket of Sea Mosses.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been !"

Maud Muller.

EDGAR A. POE. 1811-1849.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

The Raven.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!

Quoth the Raven: "Nevermore."

Ibid.

A. H. LAYARD.

I have always believed that success would be the inevitable result if the two services, the army and the navy, had fair play, and if we sent the right man to fill the right place.

Speech, January 15, 1855. Hansard, Parl. Debates,
Third Series, Vol. 138, p. 2077.

526 Sprague. Greene. - Cranch.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

Lo, where the stage, the poor, degraded stage, Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.

Curiosity.

Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends, An incarnation of fat dividends.

Behold in Liberty's unclouded blaze

We lift our heads, a race of other days.

Ibid.

Centennial Ode. St. 22.

Yes, social friend, I love thee well,

In learned doctors' spite;

Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,

And lap me in delight.

To my Cigar.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

1802-1867.

Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,—

We ne'er shall see him more :

He used to wear a long black coat,
All buttoned down before.

Old Grimes.

CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH.

Thought is deeper than all speech;
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

Stanzas.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Not from a vain or shallow thought
His awful Jove young Phidias brought.

Out from the heart of Nature rolled

The burdens of the Bible old.

The Problem.

The hand that rounded Peter's dome,

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome,
Wrought in a sad sincerity;

Himself from God he could not free;

He builded better than he knew ;-
The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon
As the best gem upon her zone.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home :
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.

Good-Bye.

What are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet?

Ibid.

If eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being.

The silent organ loudest chants

The master's requiem.

The Rhodora.

Dirge.

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

Hymn, sung at the Completion of the Concord Monumeni.

Strike

Strike

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

for your altars and your fires ;
for the green graves of your sires;

God, and your native land!

Marco Bozzaris.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke ;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine; And thou art terrible, the tear,

'The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,

And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

Ibid.

The thanks of millions yet to be.

Ibid.

One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days;

Ibid.

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