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But where the incessant din
Of iron hands, and roars of brazen throats,
Join their unmingled notes,

While the long summer day is pouring in,

Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin, Dream I, - as in the corner where I lie, On wintry nights, just covered from the sky! Such is my fate, — and, barren though it seem, Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream !

Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the leaves are dying,

And when the song is o'er,
0, let us think of those
Whose lives are lost in woes,
Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELĖ.

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

And yet I dream, Dream what,were men more just, I might have been, How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien; The conscious crown to Nature's blissful scene, In just and equal brotherhood to glean, With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen,

Such is my dream !

And yet I dream,
I, the despised of fortune, lift mine eyes,

Bright with the lustre of integrity,
In unappealing wretchedness, on high,
And the last rage of Destiny defy ;
Resolved alone to live, alone to die,

Nor swell the tide of human misery !

And yet I dream, Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come, My last, my first, my only welcome home! Rest, unbeheld since Life's beginning stage, Sole remnant of my glorious heritage, Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, And in thy soft embrace the past forget.

Thus do I dream !

Hence, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly !
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy,

O, sweetest melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound ! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon. Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER,

ANONYMOUS.

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MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

Moan, moan, ye dying gales !
The saddest of your tales

Is not so sad as life;
Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,

Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf !
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers ;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude ;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho ! the holly!

This life is most jolly !
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly !

Hush ! hush! thou trembling lyre, Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute, For man soon breathes his last, And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.

SHAKESPEARE.

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SPRING it is cheery,

Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

When he's forsaken,

Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die ?

I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door ;

And again
The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground

With his cane.

Love will not clip him,

Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ;

Youth it is sunny,

Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?

June it was jolly,

O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye !

Youth may be silly,

Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die ?

Friends they are scanty,

Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why ;

Gold 's in his clutches,

(Buying him crutches !). What can an old man do but die ?

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time

Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round

Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn ;
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,

“ They are gone.".
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom ;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said —
Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago -
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin

At him here,

THOMAS HOOD.

WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN?

WHEN shall we all meet again ?
When shall we all meet again?
Oft shall glowing hope expire,
Oft shall wearied love retire,
Oft shall death and sorrow reign,
Ere we all shall meet again.
Though in distant lands we sigh,
Parched beneath a hostile sky;

But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer!

There's not a blade will grow, boys, ”T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.

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Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed ;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred ;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There 'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red ;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,
And the beasts must be fed :
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

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Six years

had passed, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks : The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching

white; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before, But now the bounding spirit was no more ; A moderate pace would now my body heat, A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, “ The view is poor, we need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed ; At home I felt a more decided taste, And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less, My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess. I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to

choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone ; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft, — in short, began to prose.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my head :
She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred !
Take her away from me, boys,
Your sister Winifred !
Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed !
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all 's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head ;
Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

GEORGE CRABBE.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys,
The Lord be hallowed !
Outside and in
The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed 's waste, I know, boys,

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