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Away! We know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain,
Or make one mourner weep the less ?
And thou—who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are thine

eyes are wet.

Byron, 1815.



When the lamp is shatter'd
The light in the dust lies dead-

When the cloud is scatter'd
The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remember'd not ;

When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.


As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute :-

No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,

Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.


When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest;

The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possess'd.

O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier ?


Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high ;

Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.



My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languish'd air,
By love are driven away :

And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave :
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold ;
O why to him was 't given

Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worship'd tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding sheet ;
When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat :
Then down I 'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!

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Blake, 128

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one ;
Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one ;
Yet the light of a whole life dies,
When love is done.




AWAY! The moor is dark beneath the moon,

Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness

soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights

of heaven.

Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle

mood : Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat

thy stay, Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away ! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

sérene] *.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around

thine head : The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy

feet : But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that

binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou

and peace may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the

deep : Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows ; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its ap

pointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear

to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings

are not free From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.




Lycidas In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted clergy then in their height.

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sere,
I come to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And, with forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.



And as

Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string :
Hence with denial vain, and

coy excuse ; So

may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my

destined Urn, he

passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed


the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night;
Oft till the Star that rose, at Evening, bright
Toward Heav'n's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' oaten Flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return !
Thee, Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves


rhyme) verse. hill)*

sacred well] Helicon. oaten] shepherd's pipe.

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