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N the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,

May my lot no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,

While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn

Look forward with hope for to-morrow. With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,

As the sunshine or rain may prevail ;
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,

With a barn for the use of the flail:
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Nor what honours await him to-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely

Secured by a neighbouring hill ;
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly

By the sound of a murmuring rill :
And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,


I share what to-day may afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow.

With my

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering

Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,

Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again :

But my face in the glass I 'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.




IFE! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part ;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me 's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'T is hard to part when friends are dear Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; — Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night, – but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.

A. L. Barbauld




UCH have I travell’d in the realms of gold

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.


Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

--Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez—when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific, and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

7. Keats




ARDS of Passion and of Mirth

Ye have left your souls on earth ! Have ye souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new ? - Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wonderous And the parle of voices thunderous ; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not ; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, trancéd thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you


other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week;

Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim :-

teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.

Thus ye

Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!

7. Keats


LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.


Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

She lean'd against the 'arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

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