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Let the scene, that tells how fast

Youth is passing over,
Warn her, ere her bloom is past,

To secure her lover.

Woo her when the north winds call

At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,

Blaze the fagots brightly ;
While the wintry tempest round

Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.

W. C. BRYANT.

SONNET.

COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE, 1807.

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TLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these

waters, steeld
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
A vivid repetition of the stars ;
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
Amid his fellows beauteously reveal'd,
At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
Is it a mirror ?-or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds
Her own calm fires ?-But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the

reeds, “ Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"

WORDSWORTH.

HOHENLINDEN.

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N Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly :

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

sun

'Tis morn, but scarce yon

level Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !

Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And
every

turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

CAMPBELL.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

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Ow do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and

height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;
I love thee with the passion put to use
In

my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith ; I love thee with a love I seem'd to lose With

my lost saints,- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life !—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

CLERK SAUNDERS.

[OLD BALLAD.]
VLERK Saunders and may Margaret

Walk'd ower yon garden green ;
And deep and heavy was the love

That fell thir twa between.

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A bed, a bed,” Clerk Saunders said,

“ A bed for you and me!” " Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret, "66 Till anes we married be."

“ Then I'll take the sword frae my scabbard,

And slowly lift the pin ;
And you may swear, and save your aith,

Ye never let me in.

“ Take you a napkin in your hand,

Tie up your bonnie e'en, And

you may swear and save your aith, Ye saw me na since yestreen."

It was about the midnight hour

When they asleep were laid,
When in and came her seven brothers

Wi' torches burning red :

When in and came her seven brothers

Wi' torches burning bright;
They said, “ We hae but one sister,

And behold her lying with a knight!”

Then out and spake the first o' them,

“ We will awa' and let them be.” And out and spake the second o' them,

“ His father has nae mair but he.”

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And out and spake the third o' them,

“I wot that they are lovers dear.” And out and spake the fourth o' them,

They hae been in love this mony a year.”

Then out and spake the fifth o' them,

“ It were great sin true love to twain.” And out and spake the sixth o' them,

“ It were shame to slay a sleeping man.”

Then

up

and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped his bright brown brand

Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn'd

Into his arms as asleep she lay ; And sad and silent was the night

That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleepit sound,

Until the day began to dawe, And kindly to him she did say,

“ It is time, true love, you were awa'.”

But he lay still, and sleepit sound,

Albeit the sun began to sheen; She look'd atween her and the wa',

And dull and drowsie were his e'en.

Then in and came her father dear;

Said—“ Let a' your mourning be;

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