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SLEEP.

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,

Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds or to kings, Sole comforter of minds which are oppressed.

Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things

Lie slumbering 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, oh, 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.

TO MY DEAD LOVE.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought In time's great periods shall return to nought;

That fairest states have fatal nights and days.

I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays, With toil of spright, which are so dearly bought,

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought. That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.

I know frail beauty's like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords;

That love a jarring is of mind's accords, Where sense and will bring under reason's power :

Know what I list, this all cannot me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love.

-:0:

TO THE THRUSH.

DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends,

Ere that the blushihg morn dare show her light,

Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,

(Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight;

If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends,

Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight,

May thee impòrtune, who like case pretends,

And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite; Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing !) for what thou thus complains,

Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky

Enamoured smiles on woods and flowery

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JOHN MILTON.
1608--1674.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart
dost fill,

While the jolly hours lead on propitious
May.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,

Portend success in love; oh, if Jove's will

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove

nigh;

As thou from year to year hast sung too late

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse or Love call thee his

mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am

I.

MILION-COWLEY-BOWLES.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late-espoused saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the

grave,

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,

Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.

Mine, as whom washed from spot of childbed taint

Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have

Full sight of her in heav'n without restraint,

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:

Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined

So clear, as in no face with more delight. But oh, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

WILLIAM BOWLES.

1762-1850.

TO TIME.

ودي

O TIME, who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hopes at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter

tear

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on many a sorrow past, And greet life's peaceful evening with a

smile

As some lone bird at day's departing hour Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower,

Forgetful though its wings are wet the while :

Yet ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,

Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1770-1850.

SONNET ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples
lie

Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still.

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Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet, still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were

rare,

(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there [dark, Crossing the waters) doubt, and something Of the old sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!

THE WORLD.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon, [powers: Getting and spending, we lay waste our Little we see in nature that is ours, We have given our hearts away, a sordid [moon; This sea that bares her bosom to the The winds that will be howling at all hours, [flowers;

boon!

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