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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still !
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolld not the breath of his pride ;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword.
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

BYRON.

The Cavalier

WHILE the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed, and away
Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,-
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,-
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honour, his

renown,
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall';
But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes ;
There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose !

pay is

Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and

Brown With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown? Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier ! Be his banner unconquerd, resistless his spear, Till in peace and triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

SIR W. SCOTT.

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

MUCH have I travelld in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne :
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

J. KEATS.

a

Song

FOR MUSIC

A LAKE and a fairy boat

To sail in the moonlight clear,-
And merrily we would float

From the dragons that watch us here !
Thy gown should be snow-white silk,

And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk,

Should twine with thy raven curls.

Red rubies should deck thy hands,

And diamonds should be thy dowerBut Fairies have broke their wands, And wishing has lost its power !

Hood.

Ode written in Mdccxlvi
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes bless'd !
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung ;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there !

W. COLLINS.

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To Daffodils FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon :
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a Spring ;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.

We die,
As your hours do, and dry

Away,
Like to the Summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew
Ne'er to be found again.

R. HERRICK.

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The Solitary Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass !
Reaping and singing by herself ;
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands :
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings ?-
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;
I listened, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

WORDSWORTH. To Blossoms

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past;
But you may stay yet here a while,
To blush and gently smile;

And go at last.
What, were ye born to be

Án hour or half's delight;

And so to bid good-night ?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave :
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a while : they glide
Into the grave.

R. HERRICK.

Proud Maisie

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PROUD Maisie is in the wood,

Walking so early ;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.
'Tell me, thou bonny bird,

When shall I marry me?'-
“When six braw gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry ye.'
“Who makes the bridal bed,

Birdie, say truly ?'-
“The grey-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly.
"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady.
The owl from the steeple sing,
“Welc
ne, proud lady.”

SIR W. SCOTT.

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