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BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

THE POET'S SONG.

THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose,

He pass'd by the town, and out of the street;

A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And the waves of shadow went over the wheat,

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet,

That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,

The snake slipt under a spray,

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the

prey,

And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away."

THE END.

The Idyl of "Dora" was partly suggested by one of Miss Mitford's pastorals; and the ballad of Lady Clare, by the novel of "Inheritance."

3.

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