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Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance,

And the strong tide of circumstance, -
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy mournfulness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,

Put in this scrip of mine,

That grief may fall like snow-flakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,

Ready to be an angel bright,-
O sweetly mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,-
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I have been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That flowers here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
O, give, to strengthen me.

ODE TO DUTY. - Wordsworth.

STERN daughter of the voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove ;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe,
From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth;
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;

Who do thy work and know it not;

Long may the kindly impulse last!

But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand

fast!

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold,

Even now, who, not unwisely bold,

Live in the spirit of this creed ;

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried,
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust;

And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, af I may,

Through no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunction in ine wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires :
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face;

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And Fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are
fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power.
I call thee; I myself commend
Unto thy guidance, from this hour;
O, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly, wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

FAMILIAR LOVE. - Milnes.

WE read together, reading the same book, Our heads bent forward in a half embrace, So that each shade that either spirit took Was straight reflected in the other's face; We read, not silent, nor aloud, but each Followed the eye that passed the page along, With a low murmuring sound, that was not speech,

Yet with so much monotony

In its half slumbering harmony,
You might not call it song;

More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices,
Than any customed mood of human voices.
Then if some wayward or disputed sense
Made cease a while that music, and brought on
A strife of gracious-worded difference,
Too light to hurt our souls' dear unison,
We had experience of a blissful state,
In which our powers of thought stood separate
Each, in its own high freedom, set apart,
But both close folded in one loving heart;
So that we seemed, without conceit, to be
Both one and two in our identity.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.- Shirley.

THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings.

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal mide

With the poor, crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they pale captives creep to Death.

The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds;
All hands must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. - Bloomfield.

COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again;
Companion of the lonely hour!
Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And clothed with leaves my humble hower,
Since thou hast stood,

In frame of wood,

On chest or window by my

At every

side ;

birth still thou wert near,

Still spoke thine admonitions clear,

And when my husband died.

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