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What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball !
What though nor real voice, nor sound,
Amid their radiant orbs be found!

In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,

For ever singing, as they shine,

"The Hand that made us is Divine."


Song to Celia.

RINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me :

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.



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HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

[CHARLES LAMB, the genial friend of Coleridge and Southey, and the valued associate of the chief literary celebrities of the commencement of the present century, is more known by his charming "Essays of Elia" than by his rarer poctical efforts. Several of his poems are remarkable for grace and elegance. Lamb was born in 1775; passed his school days at Christ's Hospital, where he was the contemporary of Coleridge; and was afterwards employed for many years at the India House. He died in 1834.]




I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in thy father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

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The Saviour.

WAKE, sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Re-tune thy strings for Jesus' sake;

We sing the Saviour of our race,

The Lamb, our Shield, and Hiding-place.

[HENRY KIRKE WHITE was one of those poets who, removed by death before their powers had become matured, are more remarkable for promise of future excellence

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When God's right arm is bared for war,
The thunders clothe His cloudy car.
Where, where, oh where shall man retire,
To 'scape the horrors of His ire?
'Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by ;
God sees His Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in His Hiding-place.
Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To Him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for His Son.
While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fall'n, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a Hiding-place.
will glide,

Yet courage-days and years
And we shall lay these clouds aside!
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And washed in Jesus' cleansing blood.

pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,

And need no more a Hiding-place.


than for actual achievements. Born in a lowly sphere of life, Kirke White displayed sufficient talent to attract the attention of influential friends, and to become the recipient of that questionable benefit, a sizarship at Cambridge. Overstudy, and, it is said, chagrin at adverse criticism, developed in this young genius the seeds of consumption, to which disease he fell a victim in 1806, at the age of 21 years.]

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