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While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us !
And when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks sowery, will, and sweet,

And nought but love is wanting ;
We think how great had been our bliss

If Heaven had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,

With some we've left behind us !
As travellers oft look back at eve

When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing, -
So, when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

T. Moore


YOUTH AND AGE There's not a joy the world can give like that it

takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's

dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone,

which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth

itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of

happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in

vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never

stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself

comes down ; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its

own ; That heavy chill as frozen o'er the fountain of our

tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the

ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth

distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their

former hope of rest ; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and

gray beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a

vanish'd scene, As springs in deserts found scem sweet, all brackish

though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

Lord Byron



There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
And the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again !
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,
And recognized it, though an alter'd form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will hy rain and storm.

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold
This neither is its courage nor its choice,
But its necessity in being old.
"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ;
It cannot help itself in its decay ;
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'-
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
A miser's pensioner-behold our lot!
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not !

W. Wordsworth



I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups-
Those flowers made of light !
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,--
The tree is living yet !
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing ;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high ;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.

T. Hood


THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me :

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.
When I remember all

The friends so link'd together
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are flech

Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed ! Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

T. Moore


The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might :
The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight-

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'-
The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown :
I sit upon the sands alone ;
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion-
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor ihat content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ;
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild
Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,-
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

P. B. Shelley

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