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An' raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash!

I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damned my fortune to the groat;

But in requit,
Has blessed me wi' a random shot
O countra wit.


Poesy, thou sweet'st content,
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot con

ceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn
Who to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.




And also, beau sire, of other things,
That is, thou hasté no tidings
Of Love's folk, if they be glade,
Ne of nothing else that God made,
And not only fro far countree,
That no tidings come to thee,
Not of thy very neighbors,
That dwellen almost at thy dores,
Thou hearest neither that ne this,
For when thy labor all done is,
And hast made all thy reckonings
Instead of rest and of new things,
Thou goest home to thine house

And also dumbé as a stone,
Thou sittest at another booke,
Till fully dazed is thy looke,
And livest thus as an hermite.



THE Muse doth tell me where to bor

row Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace; And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss, Her divine skill taught me this, That, from every thing I saw, I could some invention draw; And raise pleasure to her height, Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling, By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut, when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady bush, or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help, I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten glad

ness, In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have

made; The strange music of the waves Beating on these hollow caves; This black den which rocks emboss Overgrown with eldest moss; The rude portals which give light More to terror than delight rhis my chamber of Neglect, Walled about with Disrespect; From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this;

God of science and of light,
Apollo through thy greate might,
This littell last booke now thou gie, *
Now that I will for maistrie,
Here art potenciall be shewde,
But for the rime is light and lewde,
Yet make it somewhat agreeable,
Though some verse fayle in a sillable,
And that I do no diligence,
To shewe craft, but sentence,
And if divine vertue thou
Wilt helpe me to shewe now,
That in my heed ymarked is,
Lo, that is for to meanen this,
The House of Fame for to discrive,
Thou shalt see me go as blivet
Unto the next laurel I see
And kisse it, for it is thy tree,
Now enter in my brest anon.

CHAUCER • Guide.

1 Quickly.

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They coud that service all by rote,
There was many a lovely note,
Some sung loud as they had plained,
And some in other manner voice

yfained, And some all out with the full throte.

They proyned hem, and made them

right gay, And daunceden, and leapten on the

spray, And evermore two and two in fere, Right so as they had chosen them to

yere In Februere, upon saint Valentine's


But now I wol you tell a wonder thing, As long as I lay in that swowning, Me thought I wist what the birds

meant, And what they said, and what was

their intent, And of their speech I had good

knowing. There heard I the nightingale say, “Now, good cuckow, go somewhere

away, And let us that can singen dwellen

here, For every wight escheweth thee to

hear, Thy songs be so elengé in good fay.” “What” (quod she) “what may

thee ailen now, It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou, For my song is both true and plaine, And though I cannot crakell so in

vaine, As thou dost in thy throte, I wot

never how.

And the river that I sate upon,
It made such a noise as it rani,
Accordaunt with the birdés har-

mony, Methought it was the best melody That might ben yheard of any mon.

And for delite, I wote never how
I fell in such a slomber and a swow,
Not all asleepe, ne fully waking,
And in that swow me thought I

heard sing
The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow.

" And every wight may understandé

mee, But nightingale so may they not

done thee; For thou hast many a nice queint cry, I have thee heard saine, ocy, ocy, How might I know what that should be?”

# Hence,

And that was on a tree right fast by, But who was then evill apaid tut I ? “Now God” (quod I) " that died on the crois

"Al fool2," (quod she,)“ wist thou

not what it is When that I say, ocy, ocy, ywis ? Then meané I that I would wonder

faine That all they were shamefully yslaine That meanen ought againé love amiss.

“And also I would that all tho were

dede That thinké not in love their life to

lede, For whoso that wol not the God of

love serve, I dare well say, he worthy is to sterve, And for that skill, ocy, ocy, I grede.'




my theme

Motions and means, on land and sea

at war With old poetic feeling, not for this, Shall ye, by poets even, be judged

amiss! Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er

it mar The loveliness of Nature, prove a

bar To the mind's gaining that pro

phetic sense Of future change, that point of

vision whence May be discovered what in soul ye

To men as they are men within

themselves. How oft high service is performed

within, When all the external man is rude

in show: Not like a temple rich with pomp

and gold, But a mere mountain chapel that

protects Its simple worshippers from sun and

shower! Of these, said I, shall be my song;

of these, If future years mature me for the task, Will I record the praises, making verse Deal boldly with substantial things,

- in truth And sanctity of passion speak of these, That justice may be done, obeisance

paid Where it is due. Thus haply shall

I teach, Inspire, through unadulterated ears Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope; No other than the very heart of man, As found among the best of those

who live, Not unexalted by religious faitli, Nor uninformed by books, good books,

though few, In Nature's presence: thence may I

select Sorrow that is not sorrow, but

delight, And miserable love that is not pain To hear of, for the glory that

redounds Therefrom to human kind, and

what we are. Be mine to follow with no timid step Where knowledge leads me; it shall

be my pride That I have dared to tread this holy

ground, Speaking no dream, but things oracu

lar, Matter not lightly to be heard by

those Who to the letter of the outward

promise Do read the invisible soul: by men

adroit In speech, and for communion with

the world Accomplished, minds whose facul

ties are then

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Most active when they are most

eloquent, And elevated most when most

admired. Men may be found of other mould

than these; Who are their own upholders, to

themselves Encouragement, and energy,

and will; Expressing liveliest thoughts in

lively words, As native passion dictates. Others,

too, There are, among the walks of

homely life, Still higher, men for contemplation

framed; Shy, and unpractised in the strife

of phrase. Meek men, whose very souls perhaps

would sink Beneath them, summoned to such

intercourse. Theirs is the language of the heav

ens, the power, The thought, the image, and the

silent joy: Words are but under-agents in their

souls; When they are grasping with their

greatest strength They do not breathe among them;

this I speak In gratitude to God, who feeds our

hearts For his own service, knoweth, lov

As Memnon's marble harp renowned

of old By fabling Nilus, to the quivering

touch Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive

string Consenting, sounded through the

warbling air Unbidden strains; e'en did

Nature's hand To certain species of external things Attune the finer organs of the mind; So the glad impulse of congenial

powers, Or of sweet sound, or fair-propor

tioned form, The grace of motion, or the bloom

of light, Thrills through imagination's tender

frame, From nerve to nerve; all naked and

alive They catch the spreading rays; till

now the soul At length discloses every tuneful

spring, To that harmonious movement froin

without, Responsive. Then the inexpressive

strain Diffuses its enchantment; Fancy

dreams Of sacred fountains and Elysian

groves, And vales of bliss; the Intellectual

Power Bends from his awful throne a

wondering ear, And smiles; the passions gently

soothed away, Sink to divine repose, and love and joy Alone are waking; love and joy

serene As airs that fan the summer. O

attend, Whoe'er thou art whom these de

lights can touch, Whose candid bosom the refining love Of nature warms; 0, listen to my

song, And I will guide thee to her favorite

walks, And teach thy solitude her voice to

hear, And point her loveliest features to

thy view.

eth us,

When we are unregarded by the world.”


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Say, why was man so eminently

raised Amid the vast creation; why or

dained Through life and death to dart his

piercing eye, With thoughts beyond the limits of

his frame, But that the Omnipotent might send

him forth In sight of mortal and immortal

powers, As on a boundless theatre to run The great career of justice; to exalt His generous aim to all diviner

deeds; To chase each partial purpose from

his breast; And through the mists of passion

and of sense, And through the tossing tide of

chance and pain, To hold his course unfaltering, while

the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep

ascent Of nature, calls him to his high

reward, The applauding smile of heaven?

else wherefore burns, In mortal bosoms, this unquenched

hope That breathes from day to day sub

limer things, And mocks possession ? wherefore

darts the mind, With such resistless ardor to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be

free, Spurning the gross control of wilful

might; Proud of the strong contention of

her toils; Proud to be daring? Who but rather

turns To heaven's broad fire his uncon

strained view, Than to the glimmering of a waxen

flame? Who that, from Alpine heights, his

Taboring eye Shoots round the wide horizon to

survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his broad tide Through mountains, plains, through

empires black with shade, And continents of sand, — will turn

his gaze

To mark the windings of a scanty

rill That murmurs at his feet? The

high-born soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring

wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of

earth And this diurnal scene, she springs

aloft, Through fields of air pursues the

flying storm; Rides on the volleyed lightning

through the heavens; Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the

northern blast, Sweeps the long track of day. Then

high she soars The blue profound, and hovering

o'er the sun Beholds him pouring the redundant

stream Of light: beholds the unrelenting

sway Bend the reluctant planets to absolve The fated rounds of time. Thence

far effused She darts her swiftness up the long

career Of devious comets; through its burn

ing signs Exulting circles the perennial wheel Of nature, and looks back on all the

stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky

zone, Invests the orient. Now amazed she

views The empyreal waste, where happy

spirits hold, Beyond this concave heaven, their

calm abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfad

ing light Has travelled the profound six thouNor yet arrived in sight of mortal

things. Nature's care, to all her children

just, With richer treasures and an ampler

state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the

city's pomp, The rural honors his: whate'er


sand years,

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