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All is so quiet;

The

Stare

among

it's graves!

the troubled breast,

wounded Spirit, the hearts oppressed, find the repose it draves.

may

Stanny W. Longfellow.

M

POEMS OF PLACES.

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England green and old,

That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have toll'dHow glorious must their music be As breaks the hallow'd day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales

Sweet tales of olden time!

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime:

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king

From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,

And sing the rising of the Lord, From vale to mountain high.

I love ye, chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,
And bless the Lord that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And, like a son, I sing the lay

That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the Lord,

For you, ye Christian bells!

And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth,

Those chimes-those glorious Christian Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,

chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,

Upon a Christmas morn,

Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born,

How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and misletoe,
To keep the festival!

The chimes of England, how they peal
From tower and Gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill
The dim cathedral aisle;
Where windows bathe the holy light
On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls!

And then, those Easter bells, in Spring,
Those glorious Easter chimes,—
How loyally they hail thee round,
Old queen of holy times!

The joy of all the earth;

For thine thy mother's voice shall be,
And here, where God is King,

With English chimes, from Christian spires,

The wilderness shall ring.

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

SONNET.

COMPOSED UPON 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 tem

ples 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 splendor 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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

To a sheepskin gave the story:
Said he saw you in your glory
Underneath a new old-sign,
Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack
The mermaid in the Zodiac!
Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known-

Happy field or mossy cavern

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? JOHN KEATS.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear

What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones!
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their
hands,

Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin;
Here the bones of birth have cried,
"Though gods they were, as men they

died!"

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings; Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.

SOULS of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known-
Happy field or mossy cavern-
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill

SONNET.

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WINDSOR CASTLE. FROM beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls

Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,

To my low cot from ivory beds of state, Pleased I return unenvious of the great. So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of

greens,

Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill, Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring

rill:

Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells,

Now seeks the low vale lily's silver bells; Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers,

And tastes the myrtle and the citron's

flowers;

At length returning to the wonted comb, Prefers to all his little straw-built home. THOMAS WARTON.

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON
COLLEGE.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat❜ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers
among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver winding way :

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain !—
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames-for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace—
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on urgent business bent,
Their murmuring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day;

Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!

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