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For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavoring | Above the goodly land, more his than ours,

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How little fades from earth when sink to rest The hours and cares that move a great man's breast!

Though nought of all we saw the grave may spare,

His life pervades the world's impregnate air; Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our footsteps lies,

His spirit breathes amid his native skies; With meaning won from him for ever glows Each air that England feels, and star it knows;

His whispered words from many a mother's voice

Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice;

And gleams from spheres he first conjoined

to earth

Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth.

Amid the sights and tales of common things, Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths

of kings,

Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round, Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground,

His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by, And haunt with living presence heart and eye; And tones from him, by other bosoms caught, Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought; And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill,

Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering

will.

He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers;
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation.
O shaping brain! O flashing fancy's hues!
O boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews!
O wit humane and blithe! O sense sublime!
For each dim oracle of mantled Time!
Transcendant Form of Man! in whom we
read

Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought and Deed!

Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee, We know how vast our world of life may be; | Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as

thine,

Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine. JOHN STEELING.

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.

SOULS of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,—
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old-sign
Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack,
The Mermaid in the zodiac.

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

JOHN KEATS.

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THE ARGUMENT.

Philarete on Willy calls,

To sing out his pastorals;
Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes,
'Spite of envy and the times;
And sheros how in care he uses

To take comfort from his Muses.

Philarete; Willy.

PHILARETE.

PRYTHEE, Willy! tell me this-
What new accident there is
That thou, once the blithest lad,
Art become so wond'rous sad,
And so careless of thy quill,

As if thou hadst lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks
Hast so cheered me with thy song
That I have forgot my wrong.
Something hath thee surely crost,
That thy old wont thou hast lost.
Tell me-
e-have I ought mis-said,
That hath made thee ill-apaid?
Hath some churl done thee a spite?
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night?
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass?
Or how comes this ill to pass?
Is there any discontent
Worse than this my banishment?

WILLY.

Why, doth that so evil seem
That thou nothing worse dost deem?
Shepherds there full many be

That will change contents with thee;
Those that choose their walks at will,
On the valley or the hill-
Or those pleasures boast of can
Groves or fields may yield to man-
Never come to know the rest,
Wherewithal thy mind is blest.
Many a one that oft resorts
To make up the troop at sports,

And in company some while

Happens to strain forth a smile,

Feels more want and outward smart,
And more inward grief of heart,
Than this place can bring to thee,
While thy mind remaineth free.
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth-
But what find'st thou in this earth
Wherein aught may be believed
Worth to make me joyed or grieved?
And yet feel I, naitheless,
Part of both I must confess.
Sometime I of mirth do borrow-
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;
But my present state is such
As nor joy nor grieve I much.

PHILARETE.

Why hath Willy then so long
Thus forborne his wonted song?
Wherefore doth he now let fall
His well-tuned pastoral,
And my ears that music bar
Which I more long after far
Than the liberty I want?

WILLY.

That were very much to grant.
But doth this hold alway, lad-
Those that sing not must be sad?
Didst thou ever that bird hear
Sing well that sings all the year?
Tom the piper doth not play
Till he wears his pipe away-
There's a time to slack the string,
And a time to leave to sing.

PHILARETE.

Yea! but no man now is still

That can sing or tune a quill.

Now to chaunt it were but reason

Song and music are in season.
Now, in this sweet jolly tide,
Is the Earth in all her pride;
The fair lady of the May,
Trimmed up in her best array,
Hath invited all the swains,
With the lasses of the plains,
To attend upon her sport
At the places of resort.

Coridon, with his bold rout,
Hath already been about
For the elder shepherd's dole,
And fetched in the summer-pole;
Whilst the rest have built a bower
To defend them from a shower-
Coiled so close, with boughs all green,

Titan cannot pry between.
Now the dairy wenches dream
Of their strawberries and cream;
And each doth herself advance
To be taken in to dance;
Every one that knows to sing
Fits him for his carolling;
So do those that hope for meed
Either by the pipe or reed;
And, though I am kept away,
I do hear, this very day,
Many learned grooms do wend
For the garlands to contend;
Which a nymph, that hight Desert,
Long a stranger in this part,
With her own fair hand hath wrought-
A rare work, they say, past thought,
As appeareth by the name,

For she calls them wreaths of Fame.
She hath set in their due place
Every flower that may grace;
And among a thousand moe,
Whereof some but serve for show,
She hath wove in Daphne's tree,
That they may not blasted be;
Which with Time she edged about,
Lest the work should ravel out;
And that it might wither never,
Intermixed it with Live-ever.
These are to be shared among
Those that do excel for song,
Or their passions can rehearse
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse.
Then for those among the rest
That can play and pipe the best,
There's a kidling with the dam,
A fat wether and a lamb.
And for those that leapen far,
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar,
There's appointed guerdons too:
He that best the first can do
Shall for his reward be paid
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.

With fine bone of a strange beast
That men bring out of the West;
For the next a scrip of red,
Tasselled with fine colored thread;
There's prepared for their meed
That in running make most speed,
Or the cunning measures foot,
Cups of turned maple-root,
Whereupon the skilful man
Hath engraved the loves of Pan;
And the last hath for his due
A fine napkin wrought with blue.
Then, my Willy, why art thou
Careless of thy merit now?
What dost thou here, with a wight
That is shut up from delight
In a solitary den,

As not fit to live with men?
Go, my Willy! get thee gone-
Leave me in exile alone;
Hie thee to that merry throng,
And amaze them with thy song!
Thou art young, yet such a lay
Never graced the month of May,
As, if they provoke thy skill,
Thou canst fit unto thy quill.
I with wonder heard thee sing
At our last year's revelling.
Then I with the rest was free,
When, unknown, I noted thee,
And perceived the ruder swains
Envy thy far sweeter strains.
Yea, I saw the lasses cling
Round about thee in a ring,
As if each one jealous were
Any but herself should hear;
And I know they yet do long
For the res'due of thy song.
Haste thee then to sing it forth;
Take the benefit of worth;
And Desert will sure bequeath
Fame's fair garland for thy wreath.
Hie thee, Willy! hie away.

WILLY.

Phila! rather let me stay,
And be desolate with thee,
Than at those their revels be.
Nought such is my skill, I wis,
As indeed thou deem'st it is;

But whate'er it be, I must

Be content, and shall, I trust.
For a song I do not pass

'Mongst my friends; but what, alas! Should I have to do with them

That my music do contemn?
Some there are, as well I wot,
That the same yet favor not;
Yet I cannot well avow
They my carols disallow;
But such malice I have spied,
'Tis as much as if they did.

PHILARETE.

Willy! what may those men be Are so ill to malice thee?

WILLY.

Some are worthy-well esteemed; Some without worth, are so deemed; Others of so base a spirit

They have nor esteem nor merit

PHILARETE.

What's the wrong?

WILLY.

A slight offence, Wherewithal I can dispense; But hereafter, for their sake, To myself I'll music make.

PHILARETE.

What, because some clown offends, Wilt thou punish all thy friends?

WILLY.

627

Do not, Phil! misunderstand me-
Those that love me may command me;
But thou know'st I am but young,
And the pastoral I sung

Is by some supposed to be,
By a strain, too high for me;
So they kindly let me gain.
Not my labor for my pain.
Trust me, I do wonder why
They should me my own deny.
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
On the wings of borrowed wit;
I'll make my own feathers rear me,
Whither others cannot bear me.

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