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To the Muses

When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.— That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine

own.

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Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string! 'T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring

Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spellAnd now, 't is silent all!-Enchantress, fare thee

well!

1810.

Sir Walter Scott.

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TO THE MUSES

WHETHER On Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,

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1783.

Wandering in many a coral grove;
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,

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The sound is forced, the notes are few. 16
William Blake.

"THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS"

1807.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

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Thomas Moore.

THE LOST LEADER

JUST for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat-
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allow'd;
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags-were they purple, his heart had been
proud!

We that had lov'd him so, follow'd him, honor'd him,

Liv'd in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learn'd his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,-they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, -He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! 16

We shall march prospering,-not thro' his

presence;

Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;

Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his qui

escence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declin'd, one more foot-path

untrod,

One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to

God!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait

us,

Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the throne!

1845.

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Robert Browning.

THE VOICE OF TOIL

I HEARD men saying, Leave hope and praying, All days shall be as all have been;

To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, The never-ending toil between.

The Voice of Toil

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger, In hope we strove, and our hands were strong; Then great men led us, with words they fed us, And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory,
Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
In that good world to which they led;

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Where fast and faster our iron master,
The thing we made, for ever drives,

Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
Forgetting that the world is fair;

Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul
perish;

Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.

Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us
As we lie in the hell our hands have won?
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
The great are fallen, the wise men gone.

I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the

wronger,

When day breaks over dreams and sleep?

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