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POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

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That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore ;

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away;
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished
earth!

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

BYRON.

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LIFE.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood, -
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, - and man forgot!

THE GRAVE.

HENRY KING,

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JAMES SHIRLEY.

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And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept

In a different bed,
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses,
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies,

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie, Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

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From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm, -
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly
Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love,)

That you fancy me dead;
And I rest so contentedly
Now in my bed,

(With her love at my breast,)
That you fancy me dead,
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead :

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many

Stars in the sky;

For it sparkles with Annie,

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie,

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.

[Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.]

To make my lady's obsequies

My love a minster wrought,

And, in the chantry, service there
Was sung by doleful thought;
The tapers were of burning sighs,
That light and odor gave;

And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,
Enluminéd her grave;

And round about, in quaintest guise,

Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies
The fairest thing in mortal eyes."

Above her lieth spread a tomb

Of gold and sapphires blue :
The gold doth show her blessedness,
The sapphires mark her true;
For blessedness and truth in her
Were livelily portrayed,

When gracious God with both his hands
Her goodly substance made.

He framed her in such wondrous wise,
She was, to speak without disguise,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

No more, no more! my heart doth faint
When I the life recall

Of her who lived so free from taint,

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FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must,
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

SHAKESPEARE.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,

Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the yeara!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,
Take them, and give me my childhood again!

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