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The antic Monkeys, whose wild gambols late, When not a breeze waved the tall jungle grass, Shook the whole wood, are hush'd, and silently Hang on the cluster'd tree.

All things in wonder and delight are still; Only at times the nightingale is heard, Not that in emulous skill that sweetest bird Her rival strain would try, A mighty songster, with the Maid to vie; She only bore her part in powerful sympathy.

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Nor trinketry on front, or neck, or breast, Marring the perfect form: she seem'd a thing Of Heaven's prime uncorrupted work, a child Of early nature undefiled,

A daughter of the years of innocence.

And therefore all things loved her. When she stood

Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies Quick as an arrow from all other eyes, Hover'd to gaze on her. The mother bird, When Kailyal's step she heard, Sought not to tempt her from her secret nest, But hastening to the dear retreat, would fly To meet and welcome her benignant eye.

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THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet

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In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell me what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

II

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My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old;
My never failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

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"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."

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Drank of this crystal well,

And before the Angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.

"If the Husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his Wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be Master for life.

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CHARLES LAMB

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FROM A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse

Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a language to my mind

(Still the phrase is wide or scant),
To take leave of thee, Great Plant!
Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate;
For I hate, yet love, thee so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain'd hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed

More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine!
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine!
Sorcerer! that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,

And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimèd lovers take

'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay Much, too, in the female way,

While thou suck'st the labouring breath Faster than kisses, or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us

That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

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ΙΟ

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While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem;

And all about us does express

(Fancy and wit in richest dress)

A Sicilian fruitfulness.

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Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.

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The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowers
Had withered in the meadow; fig and prune
Hung wrinkling; the last apple glow'd amid
Its freckled leaves; and weary oxen blink'd
Between the trodden corn and twisted vine,
Under whose bunches stood the empty crate,
To creak ere long beneath them carried home.
This was the season when twelve months before,
O gentle Hamadryad, true to love!
Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood
Was blasted and laid desolate: but none
Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck
The moss beneath it, which alone remain'd
Of what was thine.

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Old Thallinos sat mute In solitary sadness. The strange tale (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole) Echion had related, whom no force Could ever make look back upon the oaks. The father said, "Echion! thou must weigh, Carefully, and with steady hand, enough (Although no longer comes the store as once!) Of wax to burn all day and night upon That hollow stone where milk and honey lie: So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd!" Thallinos bore it thither in the morn, And lighted it and left it.

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And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trus
Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate
She sorrowed for: he slender, pale, and first
Lapp'd by the flame of love: his father's lands
Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar.
Now stood the two aside the hollow stone
And look'd with steadfast eyes toward the oak
Shivered and black and bare.

"May never we
Love as they loved!" said Acon. She at this 41
Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say,
And thought not of its bliss, but of its end.
He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, and vow'd
Nor time nor other power, whereto the might
Of love hath yielded and may yield again,
Should alter his.

The father of the youth Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart,

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Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world,
Innocence, that could clear his way to heaven;
Silver and gold and land, not green before
The ancestral gate, but purple under skies
Bending far off, he wanted for his heir.

Fathers have given life, but virgin heart
They never gave; and dare they then control
Or check it harshly? dare they break a bond
Girt round it by the holiest Power on high?

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Acon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly,
But Acon had complied 'twas dutiful!
Crush thy own heart, Man! Man! but fear to
wound

The gentler, that relies on thee alone,
By thee created, weak or strong by thee;
Touch it not but for worship; watch before
Its sanctuary; nor leave it till are closed
The temple doors and the last lamp is spent.
Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude,
Sate mournful by the dull-resounding sea,
Often not hearing it, and many tears
Had the cold breezes hardened on her cheek.

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Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks, Nor shunn'd to look upon the hollow stone That held the milk and honey, nor to lay His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid Opposite hers, when finger playfully Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side. He did not think of this, as she would do If she were there alone. The day was hot; The moss invited him; it cool'd his cheek, It cool'd his hands; he thrust them into it And sank to slumber. Never was there dream Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad. She took him by the arm and led him on

So

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Ald valley, where profusely grew
The smaller lilies with their pendant bells,
And, hiding under mint, chill drosera,
The violet, shy of butting cyclamen,

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The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks,
Her offspring round her, the soft strawberry;
The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk,
The oleander's light-hair'd progeny
Breathing bright freshness in each other's face,
And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup
Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for gods.
The fragrance fill'd his breast with such delight
His senses were bewildered, and he thought
He saw again the face he most had loved.
He stopp'd: the Hamadryad at his side
Now stood between; then drew him farther off:
He went, compliant as before: but soon
Verdure had ceased: although the ground was
smooth,

Nothing was there delightful. At this change
He would have spoken, but his guide repress'd
All questioning, and said,

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"Weak youth! what brought Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt, My life-long residence? this bank, where first I sate with him the faithful (now I know Too late!) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home;

Be happy, if thou canst; but come no more Where those whom death alone could sever, died."

He started up: the moss whereon he slept III Was dried and withered: deadlier paleness spread Over his cheek; he sickened: and the sire Had land enough; it held his only son.

ROSE AYLMER

Ah, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

A FIESOLAN IDYL

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires,
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em,
And softer sighs that know not what they want,
Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree,

Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,

While I was gazing a few paces off

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At what they seem'd to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
Such I believed it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them? when hath wind or
rain

Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walk'd off? 'Twere most ungrateful: for sweet

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Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot that, although half-erect
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms; since their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and
flies

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Of harder wing were working their way thro'
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detach'd,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun:
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 50
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said, "You find the largest." "This indeed,"
Cried she, "is large and sweet." She held one
forth,

Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her

doubt.

I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch

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