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SHAKESPEARE.

That undiscovered country, from whose bourn And do our loves all perish with our frames ?
No traveller retums, – puzzles the will, Do those that took their root and put forth buds,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, And then soft leaves unfolded in the warmth
Th fly to others that we know not of? Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty,
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers ?
And thus the native hue of resolution

Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

speech, And enterprises of great pith and moment, And make it set forth winning harmonies, With this regard, their currents turn awry,

That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And lose the name of action.

And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance,
Are these the body's accidents, no more?

To live in it, and when that dies go out
THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S GRAVE. Like the burnt taper's flame?
HUSBAND and wife ! no converse now ye hold,

O listen, man ! As once ye did in your young days of love, A voice within us speaks the startling word, On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays,

“Man, thou shalt never die !" celestial voices Its silent meditations and glad hopes,

Hymn it around our souls ; according harps, Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ;

By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss Of morning sang together, sound forth still Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares The song of our great immortality ; Call you not now together. Earnest talk Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, On what your children may be moves you not. The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned seas, Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ;

Join in this solemn, universal song. Not like to that in which ye rested once

O listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in Most happy, — silence eloquent, when heart From all the air ! ”T is in the gentle moonlight ; With heart held speech, and your mysterious Is floating in day's setting glories ; Night, frames,

Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat

Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears ;Touched the soft notes of love.

Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtfuleve,

As one great mystic instrument, are touched

A stillness deep, By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Insensible, unheeding, folds you round,

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in ;

The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth Away from all the living, here ye rest,

Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls In all the nearness of the narrow tomb,

To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now;
Dread fellowship ! -- together, yet alone. Why is it that I linger round this tomb ?

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no | They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes,
bounds,

And put on those of light. They ’re gone to dwell But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out In love, — their God's and angels' ? Mutual love, The Eternal Mind, the Father of all thought, That bound them here, no longer needs a speech Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? For full communion ; nor sensations strong, Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? – To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh By natures new impart themselves, though silent. Lifting that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love, In glory! — throne before which even now Affections sanctified, and the full glow Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down of being, which expand and gladden one, Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ? By union all mysterious, thrill and live Souls that thee know by a mysterious sense, In both immortal frames ; - sensation all, Thou awfulunseen Presence, — are they quenched? And thought, pervading, mingling sense and Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes

thought ! By that bright day which ends not, as the sun Ye paired, yet one ! wrapt in a consciousness His role of light flings round the glittering stars ? | Twofold, yet single, this is love, this life!

moun.

Not to be ended ! Ended bliss, And life that will not end in this ! My days go on, my days go on.

VII.

Why call we, then, the square-built monument,
The upright column, and the low-laid slab
Tokens of death, memorials of decay ?
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man,
And learn thy proper nature ; for thou seest
In these shaped stones and lettered tables figures
Of life. Then be they to thy soul as those
Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God
Brought to the old Judeans; - types are these
Of thine eternity.

I thank thee, Father,
That at this simple grave on which the dawn
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath
No close, thou kindly unto my dark mind
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away
From this green hillock, whither I had come
In sorrow, thou art leading me in joy.

Breath freezes on my lips to moan :
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.

VIII.

I knock and cry, — Undone, undone ! Is there no help, no comfort,

none ? No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Where others drive their loaded wains ? My vacant days go on, go on.

RICHARD HENRY DANA.

IX.

DE PROFUNDIS.

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June :
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such.

What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

I.

X.

The face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

II.

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with “Good day"
Make each day good, is hushed away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

III.

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

IV.

And cold before my summer 's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here,
While the tears drop, my days go on.

V. The world goes whispering to its own, “This anguish pierces to the bone"; And tender friends go sighing round, “What love can ever cure this wound ?" My days go on, my days go on.

VI.

No bird am I, to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures,
And yet my days go on, go on.

XI.

I ask less kindness to be done,
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,
Till days go out which now go on.

XIV.

From gracious Nature have I won
Such liberal bounty? may I run
So, lizard-like, within her side,
And there be safe, who now am tried
By days that painfully go on?

xv.

- A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's when the drcha Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

XVI.

God's Voice, not Nature's. Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Day-spring he, whose days go on.

The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

For us,

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, He reigns above, he reigns alone ;

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Systems burn out and leave his throne :

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folus ; Around him, changeless amid all,

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Ancient of Days, whose days go on.

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
He reigns below, he reigns alone,
And, having life in love foregone

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering He reigns the jealous God. Who inourns

heap, Or rules with him, while days go on?

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. By anguish which made pale the sun,

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, I hear him charge his saints that none

The swallow twittering from the straw-built Among his creatures anywhere

shed, Blaspheme against him with despair,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, However darkly days go on.

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No mortal grief deserves that crown.

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. O supreme Love, chief Misery, The sharp regalia are for Thee

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Whose days eternally go on !

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield !

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy - whatever 's undergone,

stroke ! Thou knowest, willest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood ;

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Only the Good discerns the good,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; I trust thee while my days go on.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, Whatever 's lost, it first was won :

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, We will not struggle nor impugn.

Await alike the inevitable hour ;
Perhaps the cup was broken here,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.
I praise thee while my days go on.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted I praise thee while my days go on;

vault, I love thee while my days go on ;

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost,

Can storied urn, or animated bust, I thank thee while my days go on.

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, CHURCHYARD.

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; The ploughinan homeward plods his weary way, Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

and leaves the world to darkness and to me. And froze the genial current of the soul.

XXII.

XXIII.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Soine village Hampden, that, with dauntless Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : breast,

“ Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, The little tyrant of his fields withstood ;

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ;

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

“ There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone “ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Their growing virtues, but their crimes con Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; fined ;

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;

love. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

“ One morn I missed him on the customed hill, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

Another came,

nor yet beside the rill, With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ;

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Along the cool, sequestered vale of life

Slow through the church-way path we saw him They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

borno ;

Approach and read (for thou canst read the lay Yet even these bones from insult to protect,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With unconth rhymes and shapeless sculpture

decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, muse,

And melancholy marked him for her own. The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews,

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, He gained from heaven ('t was all he wished) a Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

friend. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ?

No further seek his merits to disclose, On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, --Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;

(There they alike in trembling bope repose,) E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

The bosom of his Father and his God. E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

THE EPITAPH.

THOMAS GRAY.

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