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THE HUMAN SEASONS

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

John Keats

SOUL AND BODY

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[Foil'd by] those rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?

Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
William Shakespeare

THE GOOD GREAT MAN

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits
Honour and wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It seems a story from the world of spirits
When any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merits that which he obtains.

For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain!
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ?
Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.

Hath he not always treasures, always friends,

The great good man? Three treasures, — love, and light,
And calm thoughts equable as infant's breath;

And three fast friends, more sure than day or night, —
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

FREDERICKSBURG

The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow.
'Twas such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.

Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration: on yon height,

Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;
A signal-rocket pierces the dense night,

Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath; Hark! the artillery massing on the right,

Hark! — the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL

Weep with me, all you that read

This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.

It was a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When fates turned cruel,

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel;

And did act (what now we moan)

Old men so duly,

Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one

He played so truly.

So by error to his fate

They all consented,

But viewing him since, alas too late,

They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him;

But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson

HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two and wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done;

I fear no more.

John Donne

SLEEP, SILENCE' CHILD

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed;
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possessed,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou sparest, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show;
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,

Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath:
I long to kiss the image of my death.

William Drummond

MY GARDEN

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Fern'd grot

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not —

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign;

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

Thomas Edward Brown

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