For Memorizing Ring out the grief that saps the mind, Ring out the slowly dying cause, With sweeter manners, purer laws! Ring out the want, the care, the sin, But ring the fuller Minstrel in! Ring out false pride in place and blood, Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of Good! Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring in the valiant man and free, -Alfred Tennyson. For Memorizing Soldier, rest! SOLDIER, REST! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Dream of fighting fields no more; No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, Ruder sounds shall none be near; Guards nor warders challenge here; Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, -Sir Walter Scott. For Memorizing Like a glow-worm golden, In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its ærial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view; Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Match'd with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. For Memorizing Keen as are the arrows Of that silvery sphere, In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not; Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower; For Memorizing TO A SKYLARK. Hail to thee, blithe spirit Bird thou never wert That from heaven, or near it, In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire: The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the setting sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. |