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GOODBYE.

GOODBYE, proyd

world

OODBYE, proud world, I'm going home,

Thou’rt not my friend, and I'm not thine; Long through thy weary crowds I roam; A river-ark on the ocean brine, Long I've toss'd like the driven foam ; But now, proud world, I'm going home.

Goodbye to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
To supple Office low and high,
To crowded halls, to court, and street,
To frozen hearts, and hustling feet,
To those who go, and those who come ;
Goodbye, proud world, I'm going home.

I'm going to my own hearth-stone
Bosom'd in yon green hills, alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd;
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome,
And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,

I

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.

EMERSON

THE CAIQUE.

Y

ONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek,

Paddle the swift caique, Thou brawny oarsman with the sun-burnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul

speak!

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores
Hark! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul

pours.

Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight,
The stars themselves more bright,
As ʼmid the waving branches out of sight
The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the

night.

Under the boughs I sat and listen'd still,
I could not have

my

fill. “ How comes,” I said, " such music to his bill ? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill.”

“ Once I was dumb,” then did the Bird disclose, But look'd upon the Rose;

And in the garden where the loved-one grows
I straightway did begin sweet music to compose."

“O bird of song, there's one in this caique The Rose would also seek, So he might learn like you to love and speak.” Then answer'd me the bird of dusky beak, “ The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek.”

W. M. THACKERAY.

TO

USIC, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory ;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

M

Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

SHELLEY.

THERANIA.

O UN K season Belov'd One! to the mellow

Branches in the lawn make drooping bow'rs; Vase and plot burn scarlet, gold, and azure;

Honeysuckles wind the tall

grey turret, And pale passion-flow'rs. Come thou, come thou to my lonely thought,

O Unknown Belov'd One.

Now at evening twilight, dusky dew down-wavers,

Soft stars crown the grove-encircled hill ; Breathe the new-mown meadows, broad and

misty;
Through the heavy grass the rail is talking ;

All beside is still.
Trace with me the wandering avenue,

O Unknown Belov'd One.
In the mystic realm, and in the time of visions,

I thy lover have no need to woo;
There I hold thy hand in mine, thou dearest,
And thy soul in mine, and feel its throbbing,

Tender, deep, and true :
Then my tears are love, and thine are love,

O Unknown Belov'd One.

Is thy voice a wavelet on the listening darkness ?

Are thine eyes unfolding from their veil ? Wilt thou come before the signs of winterDays that shred the bough with trembling fingers,

Nights that weep and wail ?
Art thou Love indeed, or art thou Death,
O Unknown Belov'd One ?

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE BLOSSOM.

M

ERRY, merry Sparrow !

Under leaves so green
A. happy Blossom

Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek
your
cradle

narrow,
Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty Robin !
Under leaves so green

A happy Blossom
Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Pretty, pretty Robin,
Near my bosom.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

SONNET.

[LOVE'S SLAVE.]

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EING your slave, what should I do but tend

I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my Sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu ;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your

affairs

suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, Save, where you are how happy you make those : So true a fool is love, that in your will (Though you do anything) he thinks no ill.

SHAKESPEARE.

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