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But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

Herrick.

"To Blossoms."

Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career

Wild as the wave?

Here pause, and through the starting tear
Survey this grave.

Burns.

A Bard's Epitaph."

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Should'st lead me on;

I loved to choose and see my path-but now
Lead Thou me on.

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will remember not past years.

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(ƒ). STANZAS OF SEVEN Verses.

Seven heroics, the first five rhyming at intervals, the last two in succession, form what is known as Rhyme Royal. This stanza was much used by early writers, Chaucer, Spenser, &c., but has found few imitations in modern poets, e.g. :

So every spirit as it is most pure,

And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure

To habit it, and is more fairly dight
With cheerful grace and amiable sight;
For of the soul the body form doth take
For soul is form and doth the body make.
Spenser.

Awake, awake my lyre!

And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail-
Sounds that gentle thought inspire;

Though so exalted she

And I so lowly be,

Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.

Oh, what a dawn of day!

Cowley.

"The Lover to his Lyre."

How the March sun feels like May!

All is blue again,

After last night's rain,

And the south dries the hawthorn spray

Only, my love's away!

I'd as lief that the blue were grey.

R. Browning. "A Lover's Quarrel."

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down ;
And the women were weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come back to the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Kingsley.

"The Three Fishers."

In the convent clad in grey,
Sat the monks in lonely cells,
Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,
And the poet heard their bells;
But his rhymes

Found other chimes

Nearer to the earth than they.

Longfellow..

"Olive Basselin."

Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,

Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,

Which make thee terrible and dear,
Swift be thy flight!

Shelley. "To Night."

We are so unlike each other

Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother

But for mutual tenderness.

Thou art rose-lined from the cold,
And meant, verily, to hold

Life's new pleasures manifold.

Mrs. Browning.

"Bertha in the Lane."

Though, like a wanderer,

The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone;

Yet in my dreams I'd be

Nearer, my God, to Thee—

Nearer to Thee.

Sarah Flower Adams.

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies:

What is this world's delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

Shelley.

"Mutability."

(g). STANZAS OF EIGHT VErses.

Eight heroics, the first six rhyming alternately, the last two in succession, are known as Ottara Rima. Many of the great poems of Italy, Spain, and Portugal are arranged in this stanza: Byron's translation of Morgante Maggiore and his Don Juan are the best English examples of it.

But the Consul's brow was sad,

And the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down;

And if they once may win the bridge,

What hope to save the town?"

Macaulay.

"Horatius."

A wizard is he!

Do you see, d'ye see?

Temples arise in the upper air:

Now they are gone,

And a troop comes on

Of plumed knights and ladies fair;

G

They pass—and a host of spirits grey
Are floating onward-away! away!

Sarah Flower Adams.

"March Song."

I'm wearin' awa’, John,

Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, John,
There's neither cold nor care, John,
The day's aye fair

I' the land o' the leal.

Lady Nairn.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Sir Walter Scott.

"Helvellyn."

Welcome, maids of honour!

You do bring

In the spring,

And wait upon her.

She has virgins many
Fresh and fair;

Yet ye are

More sweet than any.

Herrick.

"To Violets."

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