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The world forsaken, all its busy cares

The world is too much with us; late and soon
They, who have seen the noble Roman's scorn
This height a ministering angel might select
"This land of rainbows spanning glens whose walls
Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw
Those old credulities, to nature dear

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
Though joy attend thee orient at the birth.
Though many suns have risen and set

Though the torrents from their fountains

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'Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think

Thou sacred pile! whose turrets rise.

Three years she grew in sun and shower

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Thy functions are ethereal

'Tis gone; with old belief and dream

'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold

To a good man of most dear memory

To appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield.
To barren heath, and quaking fen
"To every Form of being is assigned"
Too frail to keep the lofty vow.
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men !
Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Troubled long with warring notions
Two voices are there; one is of the sea

Under the shadow of a stately pile

Up to the throne of God is borne

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Up! up! my friend, and quit your books
Up with me! up with me into the clouds !
Uttered by whom, or how inspired, designed

Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood
"Vallombrosa-I longed in thy shadiest wood

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Well may'st thou halt, and gaze with brightening eye!
Well sang the bard, who called the grave, in strains

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We pay a high and holy debt

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We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd

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We talked with open heart and tongue

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We walked along, while bright and red

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What aim had they, the pair of monks, in size

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What aspect bore the man who roved or fled

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What beast of chase hath broken from the cover?

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What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine

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What he, who 'mid the kindred throng

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"What is good for a bootless bene?''

"What know we of the blest above
What lovelier home could gentle fancy choose?
What though the Italian pencil wrought not here
What, you are stepping westward ?" "Yea"
Whence that low voice? A whisper from the heart
When first, descending from the moorlands
When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When Ruth was left half desolate

When soothing darkness spreads
When summer came

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When, to the attractions of the busy world
Where are they now, those wanton boys?
Where be the noisy followers of the game
Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds
Where will they stop, those breathing powers
While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport
While the poor gather round, till the end of time
Who is the happy warrior? Who is he

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Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce
Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore
Why should we weep or mourn, angelic boy
Why, William, on that old grey stone
Within our happy castle there dwelt one
Within the mind strong fancies work.
With little here to do or see
With nodding plumes, and lightly drest
"With sacrifice before the rising morn

Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales
Ye lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed urn
Ye sacrcd nurseries of blooming youth!
Yes, it was the mountain echo

Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King!
Ye trees! whose slender roots entwine
Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew

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THE END

Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh.

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