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(Nor for you, for one alone,
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring,
For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane

and sacred death. .)

Come, lovely and soothing Death ;
Undulate round the world ; serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each ;
Sooner, or later, delicate Death.

Praised be the fathomless Universe
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious ;
And for love, sweet love. But praise ! O praise and praise,
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome ?
Then I chant it for thee; I glorify thee above all.
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come un-

falteringly.

Approach, encompassing Death-strong deliveress,
When it is so, when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,

colcai Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

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From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings

for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are

fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night in silence under many a star,
The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,
Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the

prairies wide,
Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death.

WALT WHITMAN (Memories of President Lincoln).

1061. FROM THE MEETING' I ASK no organ's soulless breath I know how well the fathers To drone the themes of life and taught, death,

What work the ancient schoolmen No altar candle-lit by day,

wrought; No ornate wordsman's rhetoric- I reverence old-time faith and men, play,

But God is near us now as then ; No cool philosophy to teach His force of love is still unspent, Its bland audacities of speech His hate of sin as imminent ; To double-tasked idolaters

And still the measure of our needs Themselves their gods and wor- Outgrows the cramping bounds of shippers,

creeds ; No pulpit hammered by the fist The manna gathered yesterday Of loud-asserting dogmatist, Already savours of decay ; Who borrows for the Hand of Doubts to the world's child-heart love

unknown The smoking thunderbolts of Question us now from star and Jove.

stone.

J. G. WHITTIER.

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1062. VESTA O CHRIST of God! whose life and Her smile is as a listening child's death

Who hears its mother call; Our own have reconciled, The lilies of Thy perfect peace Most quietly, most tenderly About her pillow fall. Take home Thy star-named child !

She leans from out our clinging Thy grace is in her patient eyes, To rest herself in Thine ;

Thy words are on her tongue ; Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can
The very silence round her seems
As if the angels sung.

Our well-beloved resign!
Oh, less for her than for ourselves

We bow our heads and pray ;
Her setting star, like Bethlehem's,
To Thee shall point the way.

J. G. WHITTIER.

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1063. FROM `CHILD-SONGS' Still linger in our noon of time And childhood had its litanies

And on our Saxon tongue In every age and clime ; The echoes of the home-born hymns The earliest cradles of the race The Aryan mothers sung.

Were rocked to poet's rhymo.

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Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree, nor

flower, Nor green earth’s virgin sod, So moved the singer's heart of old

As these small ones of God.

And still to childhood's sweet

appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach

From lisping voices learns,

The mystery of unfolding life

Was more than dawning morn, Than opening flower or crescent

moon The human soul new-born !

The voices loved of him who sang,

Where Tweed and Teviot glide, That sound to-day on all the

winds That blow from Rydal-side,

Heard in the Teuton's household songs,

And folk-lore of the Finn,
Where'er to holy Christmas hearths

The Christ-child enters in ! J. G. WHITTIER.

1064. COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES

COME, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses,

For sweeter sure never girl gave;
But why, in the midst of my blisses,

Do you ask me how many I'd have ?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,

Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind,
For whilst I love thee above measure,

To numbers I'll ne'er be confined.
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,

Count the flowers that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying,

Or the grain that rich Sicily yields,
Go number the stars in the heaven,

Count how many sands on the shore,
When so many kisses you've given,

I still shall be craving for more.
To a heart full of love, let me hold thee,

To a heart that, dear Chloe, is thine ;
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,

And twist round thy limbs like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is ?

My life on thy lips shall be spent !
But the wretch that can number his kisses,
With few will be ever content.

SIR C. HANBURY WILLIAMS.

1065. BROADWAY The shadows lay along Broad- She kept with care her beautiesrare way,

From lovers warm and true, 'Twas near the twilight tide, For her heart was cold to all but And slowly there a lady fair

gold, Was walking in her pride.

And the rich came not to woo : Alone walked she, but viewlessly But honoured well are charms to Walked spirits at her side.

sell,

If priests the selling do.
Peace charmed the street beneath
her feet,

Now walking there was one more
And Honour charmed the fair
air,

A slight girl, lily-pale ;
And all astir looked kind on And she had unseen company
her,

To make the spirit quail :
And called her good as fair ; 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked
For all God ever gave to her

forlorn,
She kept with chary care. And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

For this world's peace to pray ;
Eor, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,

Her woman's heart gave way !-
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
By man is cursed alway.

N. P. WILLIS.

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1066. EPITAPH ON CHARLES II

Most

HERE lies our Sovereign Lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on,
Who never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

1067. CONSTANCY

I CANNOT change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn ;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,

For you alone was born.
No, Phillis, no! your heart to move,

A surer way I'll try,
And to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on, will still love on, and die!

When killed with grief Amyntas lies,

And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall :
That welcome hour, that ends this smart,

Will then begin your pain,
For such a faithful, tender heart
Can never break, can never break, in vain.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

1068. MY LIGHT THOU ART
My light thou art, without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darkened with eternal night;
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way, I wander if thou fly ;
Thou art my light, if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life, if thou withdraw'st I die.
Thou art my life ; if thou but turn away,
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way ;
Without thee, Love, I travel not, but stray.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

1069. UPON HIS DRINKING IN A BOWL.

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup Let it no name of planets tell, As Nestor used of old ;

Fixed stars or constellations, Show all thy skill to trim it up, For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

Damask it round with gold. Nor none of his relations. Make it so large that, filled with But carve thereon a spreading sack

vine, Up to the swelling brim,

Then add two lovely boys ; Vast toasts on the delicious lake Their limbs in amorous folds enLike ships at sea may swim. twine,

The type of future joys. Engrave not battle on his cheek :

With war I've nought to do. Cupid and Bacchus my saints are ; I'm none of those that took May drink and love still reign ! Maestrich,

With wine I wash away my cares Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew. And then to love again.

J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.

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