JOHN KEATS. 1796-1820. Endymion. Line 1. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. St. Agnes' Eve. Stanza 27. Music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor. Stanza 30. And lucent sirups, tinct with cinnamon. Ode on a Grecian Urn. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Beauty is truth, truth beauty,- that is all Hyperion. Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir. Line 5. That large utterance of the early gods. Sonnet to Haydon. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings. Sonnet xi. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien. CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823. The Burial of Sir John Moore. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! ROBERT POLLOK. 1798-1827. The Course of Time. Book iv. Line 689. He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane And played familiar with his hoary locks.44 Book viii. Line 616. He was a man Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven To serve the Devil in. A Book viii. Line 632. With one hand he put penny in the urn of poverty, And with the other took a shilling out. THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845. The Death-Bed. We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, The Bridge of Sighs. Take her up tenderly, Young, and so fair! Alas! for the rarity Under the sun. Even God's providence Seeming estranged. The Seasons. Boughs are daily rifled Song of the Shirt. It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives. My tears must stop, for every drop, Hinders needle and thread. Ode to Melancholy. And there is ev'n a happiness That makes the heart afraid. There's not a string attuned to mirth, Ballad. When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die? I remember, I remember. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy. Miss Kilmansegg. Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap In imperceptible water. Her Moral. Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold. |