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But as the careworn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye Stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath

And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid ?
It may be strange-yet who would change

Time's course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone

And left our bosoms bleeding?
Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying fleetness;
And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportion's to their sweetness.

T. Campbell



Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of Man :
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span :
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook :-
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

7. Keats


O World ! O Life! O Time !
On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before ;
When will return the glory of your prime ?

No more- -O never more !
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight :

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more-O never more !

P. B. Shelley

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky :
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old

Or let me die !
The Child is father of the Man :
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

W. Wordsworth



OF EARLY CHILDHOOD There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight

To me did seem

Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it has been of yore ;-
Turn wheresoe'er I

may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more !

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;

But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief :
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, -
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong :
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

And all the earth is gay ;

Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday ;-

Thou child of joy
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

Shepherd boy!
Ye blesséd creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;

My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.

O evil day ! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning

This sweet May morning;

And the children are pulling

On every side
In a thousand valleys far and wide

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear !

-But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone :

The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting

And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness

And not in utter nakedness
But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy;
The youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended ;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with easures of her own ;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother's mind

And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,

Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes !
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art;

A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral ;

And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song :

Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his . humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest !

On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,

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