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Far-seeing Jove's resistless power

Takes half away the soul
From him who of one servile hour

Has felt the dire control !"
This said, the swineherd passed the gate,

And entered the dwelling tall,
Where proud in state the suitors sate

Within the palace hall.
And darksome death checked Argus' breath

When he saw his master dear ;
For he died his master's eye beneath,

All in that twentieth year.

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THE CLOUD.-(Percy Bysshe Shelley.)
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noon-day dreams;
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,

Lightning, my pilot, sits ;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder

It struggles and howls by fits.
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The spirit he loves remains;
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains,
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning-star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,

In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beIts ardours of rest and love,

[neath, And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof:

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky ;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when with never a stain

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex

gleams

Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the

tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

I

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.-(Longfellow.)

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands ;
The smith a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long,

His face is like the tan ;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can;
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies ;
And with his hard rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought

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THE COMMON LOT.-(James Montgomery.)
Once, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man : and who was he?
Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown;
His name has perished from the earth :

This truth survives alone,-
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe, a smile, a tear !
Oblivion hides the rest.

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