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WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?-
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.—
The Knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust;

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

S. T. Coleridge.


THERE was a little lawny islet,
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven:

And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,

Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,—

Each a gem engraven:

Girt by many an azure wave

With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake's blue chasm.

P. B. Shelley.




DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bow'rs,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

S. Rogers.




KNOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom?
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute,
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?

Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

Lord Byron.

Modern Poets.





THE fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

P. B. Shelley.




THE violet loves a sunny bank,

The cowslip loves the lea,

The scarlet creeper loves the elm;
But I love thee!

The sunshine kisses mount and vale,
The stars they kiss the sea,

The west winds kiss the clover blooms;
But I kiss-thee!

The oriole weds his mottled mate,
The lily's bride o' the bee,

Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth;
Shall I wed-thee?

J. Bayard Taylor.


JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing dull, but add—

Jenny kissed me!

L. Hunt.

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