Puslapio vaizdai
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Walk'd off? "T were most ungrateful: for sweet scents

Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,

And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best

stores.

They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,

And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)

Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me; the ever-sacred
cup

Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warm'd by the eye intent on its pursuit ;
I saw the foot that, although half-erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms; since
their hour

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The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

FAREWELL TO ITALY

I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believ'd?),
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherish'd thee so
little;

Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd; But thou didst promise this, and all was well.

For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the lone heart

Can lift no aspiration - reasoning
As if the sight were unimpair'd by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheer'd corruption! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.

THE MAID'S LAMENT

ELIZABETHAN

I LOV'D him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately liv'd for me, and when he found
'T was vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath

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ROBERT BROWNING

THERE is delight in singing, though none hear

Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for
thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and
hale,

No man hath walk'd along our roads with step

So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the
breeze

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Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous
breast.

She would not leave behind her those she lov'd:

Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assail'd the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words
are few,

And shortly none will hear my failing voice,

But the same language with more full appeal

Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains

Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come; Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.

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