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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.

Stanza 3.

And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon.

Ibid. Stanza 30.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Ode on a Grecian Urn.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

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
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Sonnet xi.


CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823.

OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!


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 played familiar with his hoary locks.*
The Course of Time. Book iv. Line 689.

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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.*

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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,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

One more Unfortunate

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;

Fashioned so slenderly,

The Death-Bed.


The Bridge of Sighs.

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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.

Miss Kilmansegg.

* It's no fish ye're buying, it's men's lives.

SCOTT. The Antiquary. Chap. xi.

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