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Keats continued.]

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Ode on a Grecian Urn.

Hear ye not the hum

Of mighty workings?

Addressed to Haydon.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken ;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

On first looking into Chapman's Homer.

The poetry of earth is never dead.

On the Grasshopper and Cricket.

CHARLES WOLFE. 1791 - 1823.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Ibid.

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! Ibid.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

And the cold marble leapt to life a god.

The Belvidere Apollo.

Too fair to worship, too divine to love. Ibid.

500

Milnes. Payne. - Uhland.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

But on and up, where Nature's heart

Beats strong amid the hills.

Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube. St. 2.

Great thoughts, great feelings came to them,

Like instincts, unawares.

The Men of Old.

A man's best things are nearest him,

Lie close about his feet.

The beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

Ibid.

I wandered by the Brookside.

J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792 – 1852. Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there's no place like home.1 Home, Sweet Home.2

JOHN LOUIS UHLAND.

1787-1862.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;

Take, I give it willingly;

For, invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have cross'd with me.

The Passage.

1 "Home is home though it be never so homely" is a proverb, and is found in the collections of the seventeenth century.

2 From The Opera of Clari—the Maid of Milan.

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From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirror'd; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.

Ion. Acti. Sc. I.

"T is a little thing

To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when Nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

Act i. Sc. 2.

ROBERT POLLOK.

1799-1827.

He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane"
And played familiar with his hoary locks.1

The Course of Time. Book iv. Line 389.

He was a man

Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven

To serve the Devil in.

Book viii. Line 616.

With one hand he put

A penny in the urn of poverty,

And with the other took a shilling out.

Book viii. Line 632.

1 Cf. Byron, Childe Harold, Canto iv. St. 184.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 1797-1839.

I'd be a Butterfly; living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

I'd be a Butterfly.

Oh! no! we never mention her,

Her name is never heard ;

My lips are now forbid to speak

That once familiar word.

Oh! no! we never mention her.

We met 't was in a crowd.

We met.

Why don't the men propose, mamma,
Why don't the men propose?

Why don't the men propose?

She wore a wreath of roses,

The night that first we met.

She wore a wreath.

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,

Long, long ago, long, long ago.

The rose that all are praising

Is not the rose for me.

Long, long ago.

The rose that all are praising.

O pilot! 't is a fearful night,
There's danger on the deep.

The Pilot.

fonder ;

Absence makes the heart grow
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

Gayly the Troubadour

Touched his guitar.

Isle of Beauty.

Welcome me home.

Keble. · Procter.

503

JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866.

Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die,
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.
The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday
after Trinity.

'T is sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.

Burial of the Dead.

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die. Evening.

BRYAN W. PROCTER.

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

The Sea.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be,

With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go.

Ibid.

I never was on the dull, tame shore,

But I loved the great sea more and more.

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