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b. Brentworth. Eng. June tl, 1588.
d. London, May 2. hiiC", •

For a Servant 6*13

For a Widower or Widow . . . 662

From " Poverty" 662

Hymn for Anniversary Marriage

bays 662

WOLCOT, JOHN (Peter Pindar).

b. Dodbrooke. Devon'l.irc, Eng.. 1738.
d. Somen Town. London. Jan. 13. l81.'.

To my Candle 664

The Pilgrims and the Peas . . 792
The Razorseller 792


b. Dublin. Ireland, Dec. 14,17g1.

d. Cove ot Cork, now 0.ueenstown, Feb, 21, 1823.

Burial of Sir .Tohn Moore ... 665

Go, Forget Me 665

To Mary 664


b. Rcltuete. Mass.. Jan. 13, 1789.
d. New York, Dec. «. 1042.

The Old Oaken Bucket .... 666


b. Coekermouth, Eng.. April 7. 1770.
d. Rydsl Mount, April 23, 1840.

Apostrophe to the Poet's Sister
(Linea romfiosed a ftw mites

from Tintern Abbey) .... 667

Evening 675

From "Intimations of Immor-
tality" 650

Lucy 672

Scorn not the Sonnet .... 675

She was a Phantom of Delight. fi74

The Daffodils 671

Tile Deaf Dalesman (Exrursion) 66!)

The Prop of Faith " 668
The Solace of Nature (Lino
comixixnl a few mile$ abort

Tintern Abh'y) 666

The World is too much with

us 675

Thy Art be Nature 674

To a Distant Friend 672

To a Skylark 673

To a Young Lady 671

To Sleep 672

To the (uckoo 676

Twilight 672

Undeveloped Genius (Excursion) 668

We are Seven 673

Westminster Bridge 675


b. Bocton lor Buughton Hall), Kent, Eng..
Mirch 31. IMS. d. Eton, Dee., 163S.

A Happy Life 676


b. Alington Castlc. Kent.. Eng.. 1J03.

d. Sherborne. Eng.. Oct 11,

A Lover's Prayer 677

Description of the One he would

Love . . > 677

Pleasure mixed with Pain . 677


b. t.phem. Hauip"hire. Eng.. 1IS4.

d. Wcliwyn. Henfordshire. April 12. 1765.

Ail Change; no Death (Nit1ht

Thoughts) VI. 688

Ambition (Night Thoughts) VII. 683
Cheerfulness in Misfortune

{Night Thoughts) ... IX. 684
Conscience(Night Thoughts) II. 678
Cruelly (Night Thoughts) . III. 681
Different Sources of Funeral

Tears (Xight Thoughts) V. 682
Effect of Contact with the World

(Aight Thoughts) ... II. 679
Effort, the Gauge of Greatness

(Night Thoughts) . . . II. 680
False Terrors in view of Death

(Night Thoughts) . . . IV. 682
Insufficiency of the World

[Night Thoughts) ... II. 680
Joy to be Shared (Night

thoughts) 11. 678

Power of the World (Night

Thoughts) V. 683

Procrastination, and Forgetful-

ness of Death (Night

Thought s) I. 677

The Crowning Disappointment

(Night Thoughts) ... II. 679
The End of the Virtuous (Night

Thought*.) II. 680

The Glorv of Death (Night

Thoughts'! III. 681

The other Life the End of This

(Night Thoughts) . . . III. 681
The World a Grave (A'ight

Thoughts) IX. 684

Time, its Use and Misuse (Night

Thoughts) II. 678

Virtue, the Measure of Years

(Night Thoughts) ... V. 683
Wisdom (Xight Thoughts) VIII. 684

b. Monmouth. Ills.. 18i7.

The Horseman (From The Cen-
tury) 858



A Traveller across the desert waste

Found on his way a cool, palmshaded spring, And the fresh water seemed to his pleased taste, In the known world, the most delicious thing. "Great is the caliph!" said he; "I for him

Will fill my leathern bottle to the brim."

He sank the bottle, forcing it to drink Until the gurgle ceased in its lank throat;

And as he started onward, smiled to think

That he for thirst bore God's sole antidote.

Days after, with obeisance low and meet,

He laid his present at the caliph's feet.

Forthwith the issue of the spring was poured

Into a cup, on whose embossed outside.

Jewels, like solid water, shaped a gourd.

The caliph drank, and seemed well satisfied,

Kay, wisely pleased, and straightway gave command

To line with gold the man's workhardened hand.

The courtiers, looking at the round reward,

Fancied that some unheard-of virtue graced


The bottled burden borne for their loved lord, And of the liquid gift asked but to taste.

The caliph answered from his potent throne:

"Touch not the water; it is mine alone!"

But soon — after the humble giver went.

Overflowing with delight, which bathed his face — The caliph told his courtiers the intent

Of his denial, saying: "It is base Not to accept a kindness when expressed

By no low motive of self-interest.

"The water was a gift of love to me, Which I with golden gratitude repaid.

I would not let the honest giver see That, on its way, the crystal of the shade

had changed, and was impure; for

so, no less, His love, thus scorned, had turned to


"I granted not the warm, distasteful draught

To asking lips, because of firm mistrust,

Or kindly fear, that, if another quaffed,

He would reveal his feeling of disgust,

And he, who meant a favor, would depart.

Bearing a wounded and dejected heart."


Our old colonial town is new with May:

The loving trees that clasp across the streets, Grow greener sleeved with bursting buds each day. Still this year's May the last year's May repeats; Even the old stone houses half renew Their youth and beauty, as the old trees do.

High over all, like some divine desire

Above our lower thoughts of daily care,

The gray, religious, heaven-touching spire

Adds to the quiet of the springtime air;

And over roofs the birds create a sea, That has no shore, of their May melody.

Down through the lowlands now of lightest green, The undecided creek winds on its way.

There the lithe willow bends with graceful mien, And sees its likeness in the depths all day;

While in the orchards, flushed with May's warm light,

The bride-like fruit-trees dwell, attired in white.

But yonder loom the mountains old and grand, That off,"along dim distance, reach afar,

And high and vast, against the sunset stand, A dreamy range, long and irregular —

A caravan that never passes by, Whose camel-backs are laden with the sky.

So, like a caravan, our outlived years Loom on the introspective landscape seen

Within the heart: and now, when

May appears, And earth renews its vernal bloom

and green, We but renew our longing, and we


"Oh, would that life might ever be all May!

"Would that the bloom of youth

which is so brief, The bloom, the May, the fullness

ripe and fair Of cheek and limb, might fade not

as the leaf; Would that the heart might not

grow old with care, Nor love turn bitter, nor fond hope


But soul and body lead a life of May!"


As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood That gave them birth, so every deed we do Partakes of our inborn disquietude Which spurns the old and reaches toward the new. The noblest works of human art and pride

Show that their makers were not satisfied.

For, looking down the ladder of our


The rounds seem slender; all past work appears Unto the doer faulty; the heart bleeds,

And pale Regret comes weltering in tears,

To think how poor our best has been, how vain,

Beside the excellence we would attain.

Sarah Flower Adams.


Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee:
E'en though it be a cross

That raiseth me,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee.

Though like a wanderer,

Daylight all gone,
Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone,
Yet in my dreams, I'd be
Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee.

There let the way appear
Steps up to heaven;

All that thou sendest me

In mercy given,
Angels to beckon me
Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee.

Then with my waking thoughts,
Bright with thy praise,

Out of my stony griefs,
Bethel I'll raise;

So by my woes to be

Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee.

Or if on joyful wing,

Cleaving the sky,
Sun, moon, and stars forgot

Upward I fly,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee.

Joseph Addison.


O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright,

Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!

Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,

And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;

Eased of her load, subjection grows

more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy


Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay,

Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores;

How has she oft exhausted all her stores,

How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,

Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!

On foreign mountains may the sun

The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine;

With citron groves adorn a distant soil,

And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:

We envy not the warmer clime, that lies

In ten degrees of more indulgent skies;

Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,

Though o'er our heads the frozen

Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's


And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.


It must be so— Plato, thou reason'st well!—

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,

This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,

Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul

Back on herself, and startles at

destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; "lis heaven itself that points out an

hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful


Through what variety of untried being,

Through what new scenes and

changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect

lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness

rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power

above us — And that there is, all nature cries


Through all her works — he must

delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must

be happy. But when? or where? This world

was made for Caesar. I'm weary of conjectures. This

must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.)

Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life.

My bane and antidote, are both

before me: This in a moment brings me to an


But this informs me I shall never die.

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

Unhurt amidst the wars of elements.

The wreck of matter, and the crush

of worlds. What means this heaviness that

hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all

my senses? Nature oppressed, and harassed out

with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll

favor her. That my awakened soul may take

her flight, Renewed in all her strength, and

fresh with life. An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt

or fear

Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;

Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.

Mark Akenside.


Come then, tell me, sage divine,

Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e'er incline

Toward immortal Glory's throne?

For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza'streasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice.
As one approving word of her impar,
tial voice.

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