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And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful

glee, That had but newly left a mother's

knee, Prattled and played with bird and flower,

and stone, As if with elfin play fellows well known, 55 And life revealed to innocence alone.

Gazed by an idle eye, with silent might The picture stole upon my inward sight. A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er

my chest, As though an infant's finger touched my

breast. And one by one (I know not whence)

were brought All spirits of power that most had stirred

my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost; 30 Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from

above, Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for

love; Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan Of manhood, musing what and whence

is man! Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn

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Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, And all awake! And now in fixed gaze

stand, Now wander through the Eden of thy

hand; Praise the green arches, on the fountain

clear See fragment shadows of the crossing

deer; And with that serviceable nymph I stoop, The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. I see no longer! I myself am there, Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet

share. 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echo

ing strings, And gaze upon the maid who gazing

sings: Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.

70 With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, And breathe an air like life, that swells

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Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds

and waves; Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, That called on Hertha in deep forest

glades; Or minstrel lay, that cheered the baron's

feast; Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and

priest, Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long

array, To high-church pacing on the great saint's

day: And many a

which to myself I sang, That woke the tear yet stole away the

pang Of hopes which in lamenting I renewed : 45 And last, a matron now, of sober mien, Yet radiant still and with no earthly

sheen, Whom as a faery child

my

childhood wooed Even in my dawn of thought — Philos

ophy; Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,

50 She bore no other name than Poesy;

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The sullen boar hath heard the distant

horn, And whets his tusks against the gnarlèd

thorn; Palladian palace with its storied halls; Fountains, where Love lies listening to

their falls; Gardens, where Sings the bridge its airy

span, And Nature makes her happy home with

man; Where many a gorgeous flower is duly

fed With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, And wreaths the marble urn, or leans its head,

90 A mimic mourner, that with veil with

drawn Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the

dawn; Thine all delights, and every muse is

thine; And more than all, the embrace and inter

twine Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!

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And read with gentle breast. Beneath this

sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed

he. O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.; That he who many a year with toil of

breath Found death in life, may here find life in

death! Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame, He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do

thou the same!

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CHARLES LAMB

(1775-1834)

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

(1798)

I have had playmates, I have had com

panions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful

schooldays All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

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Mid Gods of Greece and warriors of ro

mance, See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees The new found roll of old Mæonides; But from his mantle's fold, and near the

heart, Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet

smart! O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, Where half concealed, the eye of fancy

views Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all

gracious to thy muse! Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,

105 And see in Dian's vest between the ranks Of the trim vines, some maid that half

believes The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves, With that sly satyr peeping through the

leaves!

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ROBERT SOUTHEY

(1774-1843)

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

(1798)

For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory." “Now tell us what 'twas all about,” 25

Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.” 30 "It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

"Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for,

I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, 35 "That 'twas a famous victory. “My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to Ay;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby, died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
“They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlb'ro'

won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!”

Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory. “And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win.” "But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell,” said he; "But 'twas a famous victory.”

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It was a summer evening;

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh, “ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out;

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THOMAS CAMPBELL-SIR WALTER SCOTT

THOMAS CAMPBELL

(1777-1844) YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

SIR WALTER SCOTT

(1771-1832)

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A NAVAL ODE

(1800-01) Ye mariners of England That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again 5 To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow – While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 15 Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. Brittania needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep; With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow – When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return; Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

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The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day;

He spurred his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky

way, That leads to Brotherstone.

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