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Oh, call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone:

The summer comes with flower and bee,
Where is my brother gone?

The Child's First Grief. I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung his tassels forth.

The Voice of Spring.

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EDWARD EVERETT. 1794-1865.
When I am dead, no pageant train

Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear.
You shall not pile, with servile toil,

Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil

Lay down the wreck of power to rest,
Where man can boast that he has trod

On him that was "the scourge of God."

Alaric the Visigoth.


No gilded dome swells from the lowly roof to catch the morning or evening beam; but the love and gratitude of united America settle upon it in one eternal sunshine. From beneath that humble roof went forth the intrepid and unselfish warrior, the magistrate who knew no glory but his country's good; to that he returned, happiest when his work was done. There he lived in noble simplicity, there he died in glory and peace. While it stands, the latest generations of the grateful children of America will make this pilgrimage

to it as to a shrine; and when it shall fall, if fall it must, the memory and the name of Washington shall shed an eternal glory on the spot.

Oration on the Character of Washington.


Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?

Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.

The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.


Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.

All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.

The Ages. xxxiii.

1 The edition of 1821 read,


So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.


The innumerable caravan that moves

To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take.






The groves were God's first temples.

The stormy March has come at last,
With winds and clouds and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

A Forest Hymn.

But 'neath yon crimson tree

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.

Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Autumn Woods.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown
and sear.
The Death of the Flowers.
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no



The victory of endurance born.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.


A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson.

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The Battle-Field.


When Freedom from her mountain-height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes.
The milky baldric of the skies,


And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given!
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?
The American Flag.

JOHN KEATS. 1795-1821.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness.

He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead.

Endymion. Book i.

To sorrow

I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,

She loves me dearly;

She is so constant to me, and so kind.

So many, and so many, and such glee.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is Love, forgive us! cinders, ashes, dust.

Book ii.

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

Book iv.


Lamia. Part ii.


Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 3.

The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
Asleep in lap of legends old.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow.

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.

As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy."

That large utterance of the early gods!

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.
The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.
Dance and Provençal song and sunburnt mirth!
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene!
With beaded bubbles winking at the burn,
And purple-stained mouth.

Stanza 4.

Stanza 15.

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Stanza 16.

Stanza 18.

Stanza 27.

Stanza 30.

Stanza 33.

Hyperion. Book i.

Though the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that ofttimes hath


Book ii.

Ode to a Nightingale.


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