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The clouds that gather round the setting A sight so touching in its majesty:

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This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and
temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,—
All bright and glittering in the smokeless
air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

TO SLEEP

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees,

seas,

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the

sea:

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with

me here,

If thou appear untouch'd by solemn
thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the

year,

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE,
Sept. 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more
fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and

pure sky;

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do

lie

Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melo

dies

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard
trees,

And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights

more I lay,

And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:

So do not let me wear to-night away: Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?

Come, blessed barrier between day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

LONDON, 1802

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this

hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and

bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish

men:

Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like

the sea,

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

When I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold,-some fears unnamed

I had, my Country!-am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;

And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

THE INNER VISION

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or

none,

While a fair region round the traveler lies Which he forbears again to look upon; Pleased rather with some soft ideal

scene,

The work of fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
-If thought and love desert us, from
that day

Let us break off all commerce with the

muse:

With thought and love companions of

our way

Have sight of Proteus rising from the Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,—

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GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824)

SONNET ON CHILLON

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty!thou

art:

For there thy habitation is the heartThe heart which love of thee alone can bind;

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar-for 't was trod,

Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard!-May none those marks efface!

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwellingplace.

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Think of him whose prayer shall bless By that lip I long to taste;

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