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The dew of the morning
Of what I feel now.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met-
If I should meet thee
AN'S love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.
The Love of Women
FROM "DON JUAN"
love it known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.
They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust
Buys them in marriage-and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.
FROM "DON JUAN"
The entirely false idea that Keats fell into a decline and died as a result of the severe criticism on his "Endymion" in the "Quarterly Review", was shared by Shelley and Byron, and was generally prevalent until the publication of Milnes' "Life of Keats."
JOHN KEATS, who was killed off by one critique,
as he really promised something great,
If not intelligible, without Greek
Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.
From "The Isles of Greece"
HE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The mountains look on Marathon-
I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations-all were his!
And where are they? and where art thou,
The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though linked among a fettered race,
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopyla!
What, silent still? and silent all?
The Destruction of Sennacherib
HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,