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And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

1844.

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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE

How many Summers, love,

Have I been thine?

How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?

Time, like the winged wind
When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loath,

On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears,-a soft regret

For joys scarce known;

Sweet looks we half forget;

All else is flown!

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1832.

To Mary

Ah! With what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!

With tongues all sweet and low,

Like a pleasant rhyme,

They tell how much I owe

To thee and Time!

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Bryan Waller Procter.

TO MARY

THE twentieth year is well-nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow;

'T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

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Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

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For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

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But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language utter'd in a dream;

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Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

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Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st,

My Mary!

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1793.

John Anderson My Jo

And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

William Cowper.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;

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1790.

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we 'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo!

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Robert Burns.

PIPING DOWN THE VALLEYS

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PIPING down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me:

Pipe a song about a lamb!"

So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again";

So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;

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1789.

Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'
So I sung the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book, that all may read."
So he vanished from my sight;

And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

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William Blake.

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