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And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper'd tones
I've said to my beloved, "Such, sweet girl!
The inobtrusive song of happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd,
And the heart listens !"

But the time, when first
From that low dell, steep up the stony mount
I climb’d with perilous toil and reach'd the top,
Oh! what a goodly scene! here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd,
Now winding bright and full

, with naked banks ; And seats and lawns, the abbey and the wood, And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire ; The channel there, the islands and white sails, Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless oceanIt seemed like Omnipresence! God, methought, Had built him there a temple : the whole world Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference, No wish profaned my overwhelméd heart. Blest hour! It was a luxury,—to be!

Ah! quiet dell! dear cot, and mount sublime ! I was constrain’d to quit you. Was it right, While my unnumber'd brethren toild and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart With feelings all too delicate for use? Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : And He that works me good with unmoved face, Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, My benefactor, not my brother man! Yet even this, this cold beneficence Praise, praise it, O my soul! oft as thou scann'st The sluggard pity's vision-weaving tribe! Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, Nursing in some delicious solitude

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies !
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of Science, Freedom, and the truth in Christ.

Yet oft when after honourable toil
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot!
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes—sweet abode !
Ah!—had none greater! and that all had such !
It might be so—but the time is not yet.
Speed it, O Father! let thy Kingdom come!


This spirited ballad is by DRAYTON, one of the early English poets. Its very ruggedness contributes to its vigour.

FAIR stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt

In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French General lay,

With all his power.

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the king sending,
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,

Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
“ Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.
" And for myself,” quoth he,
“This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me!
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth be slain,
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

“Poictiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell ;

No less our skill is,
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming tbe regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French lilies."
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver 'man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone;
Drum now to drum did

To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make

earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake

Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Struck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went-

Our men were hardy.
This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,

Bruised his helmet.

many a cruel dent

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Like Mekkah's milky stone, which wastes away
Beneath the kiss of worshippers, so life
Darkens and wanes beneath its crowd of cares;
While Time's last sands silt up the streams of soul,
Less, gradually decreasing, less and less.


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