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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

VOL. II.

Will never come back to me.

R

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 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,

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HECA

20170

ODLLIANA

LONDON:

BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

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