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JOHN KEATS. 1796-1820.
ATHING of beauty is a joy for ever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness.
Endymion. Line 1.
Music's golden tongue
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor.
St. Agnes' Eve.
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon.
Ibid. Stanza 30.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
That large utterance of the early gods.
Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings.
Sonnet to Haydon.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823.
OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
ROBERT POLLOK. 1798-1827.
E laid his hand upon the Ocean's mane'
And laid my hand upon thy mane.
BYRON. Childe Harold. Canto iv. St. 184.
He was a man
Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven
To serve the Devil in.
The Course of Time. Book viii. Line 616. With one hand he put
A penny in the urn of poverty,
And with the other took a shilling out. Ibid. Line 632.
J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852.
MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.*
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them,
Like instincts, unawares.
A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet.
The Men of Old.
* Home is home though it be never so homely,' was a proverb; it is
found in the collections of the seventeenth century.
From the Opera of Clari-the Maid of Milan.
THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845.
WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
One more Unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Take her up tenderly,
Fashioned so slenderly,
The Bridge of Sighs.
My tears must stop, for every drop,
Hinders needle and thread.
And there is ev'n a happiness
That makes the heart afraid. Ode to Melancholy.
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in Melancholy.
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
I Remember, I Remember.
Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.
* It's no fish ye're buying, it's men's lives.
SCOTT. The Antiquary. Chap. xi.