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'Tis the bells of Shandon
hat sound so grand on
F. Mahony (Father Prout)
FROM "SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE'
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, 'Guess now who holds thee? – Death,' I said.
But there, The silver answer rang, 'Not Death, but
What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colours from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther ! let it serve to trample on.
Yet love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax. And equal light Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed. And love is fire; and when I say at need
I love thee ... mark!... I love thee!... in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright, With conscience of the new rays that proceed Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meancst creatures Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
If thou must love me, let it be for naught
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
'I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way Of speaking gently, . . . for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'
For these things in themselves, Belovéd, may Be changed, or change for thee,-and love, so
wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life !--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
E. B. Browning
A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
With the dragon-fly on the river.
From the deep cool bed of the river :
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
While turbidly flowed the river;
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan
(How tall it stood in the river !),
Steadily from the outside ring,
In holes, as he sate by the river.
(Laughed while he sate by the river), "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river. Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-
E. B. Browning
I do not love thee !-no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee !--yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me:
And often in my solitude I sigh
I do not love thee !-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak dear)
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee !--yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,
Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee! yet, alas ! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.
Carolina E. S. Norton
RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM OF
Awakel for Morning in the Bowl of Night
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
‘Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup 'Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.'
3 And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted— Open then the Door!
“You know how little while we have to stay, 'And, once departed, may return no more.'