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And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more

deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

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Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and sense from all thy mighty

range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; And, listening to the murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 48 1830.

William Cullen Bryant.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE

BURN

The midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa’;
The pairtricks down the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,
While, Aitting gay, the swallows play

Around the castle wa'..

8

Flowers

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay;
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains

To charm the lingering day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail

Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

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The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that nature yields

Are dearer far to me. 1807?

Robert Tannahill.

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FLOWERS

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,

Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,

Whom, therefore, I will shun:
The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one.

8

The pea is but a wanton witch,

In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;

The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead; But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

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The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me;
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,

She is of such low degree;
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom 's betrothed to the bee ;-
But I will plight with the dainty rose,

For fairest of all is she. 1827.

Thomas Hood.

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SONG

A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:

To himself he talks;
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh

In the walks ;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

12

The Throstle

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,

And the breath

Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose.
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly ;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

Lord Tennyson.

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1830.

THE THROSTLE

“SUMMER is coming, summer is coming.

I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"

Yes, my wild little Poet.

4

Sing the new year in under the blue.

Last year you sang it as gladly. “New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new

That you should carol so madly?

8

“ Love again, song again, nest again, young

again,"
Never a prophet so crazy!
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See, there is hardly a daisy.

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“Here again, here, here, here, happy year!”

O warble unchidden, unbidden ! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,

And all the winters are hidden. 1889.

Lord Tennyson.

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PHILOMELA

Hark! ah, the nightingale-
The tawny-throated!
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!--what pain !

4

O wanderer from a Grecian hore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain
That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-

world pain-
Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy rack'd heart and brain
Afford no balm ?

15

Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this

English grass,

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