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Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue :
Where, winnow'd by the gentle air
Her silken tresses darkly flow
And fall upon her brow so fair,
Like shadows on the mountain snow.
Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
In converse sweet to wander far-
O bring with thee my Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star !

T. Campbell



Swiftly walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,-

Swift be thy flight !
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray

Star-inwrought !
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land
Touching all with thine opiate wand-

Come, long-sought !
When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sigh’d for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried

Wouldst thou me ?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
Shall I nestle near thy side ?
Wouldst thou me ?-And I replied

No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon-
Sleep will come when thou art fled ;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovéd Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!

P. B. Shelley


Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair ?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
Bound to thy service with unceasing care-
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak !—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken birds-nest fill'd with snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine-
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know !

W. Wordsworth


When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss ;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame :
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well :
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met :
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee ?-
With silence and tears.

Lord Byron


HAPPY INSENSIBILITY In a drear-nighted December Too happy, happy Tree Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity : The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them, Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime. In a drear-nighted December Too happy, happy Brook Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look ; But with a sweet forgetting They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time. Ah would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy ! But were there ever any Writhed not at passéd joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbéd sense to steal itWas never said in rhyme.

7. Keats


Where shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die
Under the willow.

Eleu loro
Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day

Cool streams are laving :
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving ; There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never !

Eleu loro
Never, O never !
Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her ?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying ;

Eleu loro
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap

O’er the falsehearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted : Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it
Neyer, O never !

Eleu loro
Never, O never !

Sir W. Scott

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