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Thou'rt gone the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S

HOMER

This great sonnet combines strength of feeling with stateliness of verse and splendour of imagery.

MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold,.
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne :
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

JOHN KEATS.

TO AUTUMN

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves

run,

To bend

bend with apples the moss'd cottagetrees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

And

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd

flowers; sometimes

like a gleaner thou dost

keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by

S.P.

hours.

H

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are

they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. JOHN KEATS.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

A wild poem, dealing with fairy's magic, and written with a poet's magic.

"O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

"O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

"I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too."

"I met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful-a faery's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

"I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

"I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.

"She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew; And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true.'

"She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sighed full sore: And there I shut her wild, wild eyesWith kisses four.

"And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd.-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

"I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cried-'La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!'

"I saw their starved lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill's side.

"And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'

JOHN KEATS.

THE ROBIN'S CROSS

Man has always been fond of the Redbreast, but he is not the only bird that received a pet name. We have Robin Redbreast, Philip Sparrow, Dick Swallow, Mag Pie and Jenny Wren. Few people remember that these affectionate names are additions. We hear of dickybirds, whereas it is only the swallow who was Dick. And magpie is printed as one word. Pie is her proper name, both in English and in French. Darley's poem is a darling.

A LITTLE cross

To tell my loss;
A little bed

To rest my head;

A little tear is all I crave
Upon my very little grave.

I strew thy bed

Who loved thy lays;
The tear I shed,

The cross I raise,

With nothing more upon it than

"Here lies the little friend of man."

GEORGE DARLEY.

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