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Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ;
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
He works his work, I mine.
yet his honour and his toil ; Death closes all : but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding fur rows; for my purpose holds
may be that the gulfs will wash us down :
COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the
'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews
call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley
Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy
tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.
Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to
rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow
shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.
Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of
When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land
reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it
When I dipt into the future far as human eye could
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that