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Silence and Foresight-Death the skeleton,
And Time the shadow,—there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple, scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship ; or in mute repose
To lie and listen to the mountain flood,
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.



She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight ;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-tine and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,


Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

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O NIGHTINGALE ! thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart :
These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce !
Thou sing'st as if the god of wine
Had helped thee to a valentine :
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night,
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves,

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I heard a stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale this very day,
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze ;
He did not cease, but cooed, and cooed ;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang of love with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending ;
Of serious faith and inward glee :
That was the song the song for me !


Oh ! what's the matter—what's the matter?
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still !
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still !

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor ;
Ill-fed she was, and thinly clad ;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

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