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While the wretch with mournful dole,

Wrings his hands in agony,
Praying for his brother's soul,
Whom he pierced suddenly,-

Shrinks to hear thy boding cry;
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
To him it is not harmony.


To a Cricket.
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will;
For thy song with Summer's filled —
Filled with sunshine, filled with June;
Firelight echo of that noon
Heard in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May,
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees, and birds, and flowers away:
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill !


The Cricket. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.

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Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair

O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.


O HAPPY sleep! that bear’st upon thy breast
The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest,

Draw near me through the stillness of this place

And let thy low breath move across my face,
As faint winds move above a poplar's crest.
The broad seas darken slowly in the west ;
The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest;
Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space,

O happy Sleep!
There is no sorrow hidden or confessed
There is no passion uttered or suppressed,

Thou canst not for a little while efface;

Enfold me in thy mystical embrace, Thou sovereign gift of God most sweet, most blest, O happy Sleep!


A Woubting heart.
WHERE are the swallows fled ?

Frozen and dead
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart !
Far over purple seas,
They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze
To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die

Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid its rays

These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth ?

O doubting heart !
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky

That soon, for Spring is nigh,
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.

Fancy. Ever let the Fancy roam; Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her; Open wide the mind's cage-doorShe'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. O sweet Fancy! let her loose ! Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming. Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting. What do then 9 Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear fagot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky. Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commissioned ;- send her! She has vassals to attend her; She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth ;With a still, mysterious stealth ;

White as Hebe's when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid. -- Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string,
And such joys as these she'll bring -
Let the winged Fancy roam;
Pleasure never is at home.


She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it,- thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear -
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn;
And, in the same moment - hark!
'Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep :
And the snake, all winter-thin,
Cast on sunny bank its skin ;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest ;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering
While the autumn breezes sing.

The Windy Night
Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,
How the midnight tempests howl!

With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon;

Or whistle and shriek
Through limbs that creak.
“Tu-who! Tu-whit!”

They cry, and flit, "Tu-whit! Tu-who!” like the solemn owl!

Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,
Sweep the moaning winds amain,

And wildly dash

The elm and ash,
Clattering on the window sash

With a clatter and patter
Like hail and rain,
That well-nigh shatter
The dusky pane!
Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,
How the tempests swell and roar!

Though no foot is astir,

Though the cat and the cur
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor,

There are feet of air
On every stair -
Through every hall!
Through each gusty door
There's a jostle and bustle,

With a silken rustle,
Like the meeting of guests at a festival !

Oh sweet Fancy! let her loose ! Every thing is spoilt by use ; Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary Where's the face One would meet in every place! Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft ! At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind : Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter Ere the god of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side



Alow and aloof,

Mournfully! oh, mournfully
Over the roof,

This midnight wind doth moan!
How the stormy tempests swell!

It stirs some chord of memory
And make the vane

In each dull, heavy tone!
On the spire complain;

The voices of the much-loved dead
They heave at the steeple with might and main,

Seem floating thereupon,
And burst and sweep

All, all my fond heart cherished
Into the belfry, on the bell !

Ere death had made it lone.
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well,
That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep,

Mournfully! oh, mournfully
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell !

This midnight wind doth swell

With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy,

Hope's passionate farewell

To the dreamy joys of early years,
Blow, blow, thon Winter Wind.

Ere yet grief's canker fell

On the heart's bloom,-ay! well may tears
Blow, blow, thou winter wind -

Start at that parting knell!
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.

The Holly-Tree.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;

The holly-tree !
Then, heigh ho! the holly!

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
This life is most jolly!

Its glossy leaves

Ordered by an intelligence so wise
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky-
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
As benefits forgot ;
Though thou the waters warp,

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Thy sting is not so sharp

Wrinkled and keen;
As friend remembered not.

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

Can reach to wound;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Then, heigh ho! the holly!

Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
This life is most jolly!

I love to view these things with curious eyes, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the holly-tree
The Midnight Wind.

Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
MOURNFULLY! oh, mournfully

One which may profit in the after-time.
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet, plaintive melody

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Of ages long gone by!

Harsh and austere -
It speaks a tale of other years,

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Of hopes that bloomed to die,-

Reserved and rude ;
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
And loves that mouldering lie!

Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

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