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And, strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not :

And suddenly one more impatient cried—
'Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?'

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Then said another- Surely not in vain

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• My Substance from the common Earth was ta’en, "That He who subtly wrought me into Shape

' Should stamp me back to common Earth again.’

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Another said—' Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,

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'Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy; 'Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy !'

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None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:

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They sneer at me for leaning all awry; 'What did the Hand then of the Potter shake? '

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Said one- Folks of a surly Tapster tell,

And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;

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• They talk of some strict Testing of us-Pish! 'He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well.'

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Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:

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But, fill me with the old familiar Juice, 'Methinks I might recover by and by !'

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So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking :
And then they jogg'd each other, Brother,
Brother!
'Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!'

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Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Winding-sheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

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That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

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Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

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Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong: Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song.

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Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before

I swore-but was I sober when I swore ?

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And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

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And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour-well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One-half so precious as the Goods they sell.

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Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose ! That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close !

The Nightingale that in the Branches sang, Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

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Ah, Love could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, 290 Would not we shatter it to bits-and then

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

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Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again :
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me-in vain !

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And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot Where I made one- -turn down an empty Glass ! TAMAM SHUD.

E. FITZGERALD.

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THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,-

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,

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Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl !

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door,

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Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old

no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!
While on mine ear it rings,

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Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

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Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea. O. W. HOLMES.

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THE MEN OF OLD

I know not that the men of old

Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of Time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

Still it is true, and over true,

That I delight to close

This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose

On all that humble happiness,
The world has since forgone,—

The daylight of contentedness

That on those faces shone !

With rights, tho' not too closely scanned,

Enjoyed, as far as known,

With will by no reverse unmanned,

With pulse of even tone,―

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They from to-day and from to-night
Expected nothing more,

Than yesterday and yesternight
Had proffered them before.

To them was life a simple art
Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;

A battle whose great scheme and scope
They little cared to know,
Content, as men at arms, to cope

Each with his fronting foe.

Man now his Virtue's diadem

Puts on and proudly wears,

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Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them,

Like instincts, unawares :

Blending their souls' sublimest needs
With tasks of every day,

They went about their gravest deeds,
As noble boys at play.-

And what if Nature's fearful wound
They did not probe and bare,
For that their spirits never swooned
To watch the misery there,—

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For that their love but flowed more fast, 45 Their charities more free,

Not conscious what mere drops they cast

Into the evil sea.

A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet,

It is the distant and the dim

That we are sick to greet :

For flowers that grow our hands beneath
We struggle and aspire,-

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Our hearts must die, except they breathe

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The air of fresh Desire.

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