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WHERE Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,

Letting the rose-leaves fall : But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,

Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody

Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.

When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?
When will the heart be aweary of beating ?

And nature die ?
Never, oh! never, nothing will die ;

The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
The heart beats,

Nothing will die.

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Nothing will die ;
All things will change
Thro' eternity.
'Tis the world's winter ;
Autumn and summer
Are gone long ago;
Earth is dry to the centre,
But spring, a new comer,
A spring rich and strange,
Shall make the winds blow
Round and round,
Thro' and thro',

Here and there,

Till the air And the ground Shal be fill'd with life anew.


When will the stream be aweary of


Under my eye? When will the wind be aweary of blowing

Over the sky ?

The world was never made ;
It will change, but it will not sade.
So let the wind range ;
For even and morn

Ever will be

Thro' eternity.
Nothing was born;
Nothing will die ;
All things will change.

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The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,

Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore ;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro' eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.


CLEARLY the blue river chimes in its


Under my eye ; Warmly and broadly the south winds are


Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are

fleeting ; Every heart this May morning in joyance

is beating

Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat ;
For all things must die.

All things must die.
Spring will come never more.

Oh! vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See ! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call'd—we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still ;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.

Oh! misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing ;
Ice with the warm blood mixing ;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell :
Ye merry souls, farewell.

Below the thunders of the upper deep ;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights

flee About his shadowy sides: above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and

height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering

green. There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his

sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface



The winds, as at their hour of birth,

Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth

With mellow preludes, “We are free.'

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