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Oh, lone and lorn my lot !
To me the sunshine is a joy unknown;
In vain earth's lap with rarest flowers are strown -

I crush, but see them not."

4. “Thy converse drew us with delight,

The man of rathe and riper years :
The feeble soul a haunt of fears,
Forgot his weakness in thy sight.”

5. “Well I ween, the charm he held

The noble Ladye had soon dispelled;
But she was deeply busied then
To tend the wounded Deloraine."


“ Who shall tempt with wandering feet
The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss,
And through the palpable obscure find out
His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight,
Upborne with indefatigable wings,
Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive
The happy isle?"

7. “For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,

Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the May
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd,
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye,
Climbed to the top of the garden wall
To spy some secret scandal if he might,
And saw the Queen, who sat betwixt her best
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her Court
The wiliest and the worst."



DIRECTIONS. - Write out in prose the meaning of the following poem. Review. See that all your words are properly used, all your sentences correctly formed, and all your paragraphs regularly constructed.


A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's

tears ;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine.

“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd

around, To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, - fair Bingen on the Rhine.

“Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
For I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.
For my father was a soldier, and, even when a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to

shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine.

“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping

head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and

gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and

mine), For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine.

“There's another, - not a sister, in the happy days gone by;
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ;
Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, -
O friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest

Tell her the last night of my

life (for ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine.

“ I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly


Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, -
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse ; his grasp was childish

weak, His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to speak. His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to shine. As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine.




DIRECTION. — Follow the Direction of the preceding Exercise.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language ; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air
Comes a still voice. — Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form is laid with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements, -
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone : nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers, of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, -
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.

The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. - Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound

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