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But where the incessant din
While the long summer day is pouring in,
Till day is gone, and darkness doth begin, Dream I, - as in the corner where I lie, On wintry nights, just covered from the sky! Such is my fate, — and, barren though it seem, Yet, thou blind, soulless scorner, yet I dream !
Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the song is o'er,
HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.
And yet I dream, Dream what,were men more just, I might have been, How strong, how fair, how kindly and serene, Glowing of heart, and glorious of mien; The conscious crown to Nature's blissful scene, In just and equal brotherhood to glean, With all mankind, exhaustless pleasure keen,
Such is my dream !
And yet I dream,
Bright with the lustre of integrity,
Nor swell the tide of human misery !
And yet I dream, Dream of a sleep where dreams no more shall come, My last, my first, my only welcome home! Rest, unbeheld since Life's beginning stage, Sole remnant of my glorious heritage, Unalienable, I shall find thee yet, And in thy soft embrace the past forget.
Thus do I dream !
Hence, all ye vain delights,
But only melancholy,
O, sweetest melancholy ! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound ! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves ! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! A midnight bell, a parting groan ! These are the sounds we feed upon. Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
BEAUMONT and FLETCHER,
MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.
Moan, moan, ye dying gales !
Is not so sad as life;
Or with such sorrow rife.
Fall, fall, thou withered leaf !
Nor kills such lovely flowers ;
When dark misfortune lowers.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
As man's ingratitude ;
Although thy breath be rude.
Then, heigh-ho ! the holly!
This life is most jolly !
As benefits forgot :
As friend remembered not.
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly !
Hush ! hush! thou trembling lyre, Silence, ye vocal choir,
And thou, mellifluous lute, For man soon breathes his last, And all his hope is past,
And all his music mute.
SPRING it is cheery,
Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die ?
I saw him once before,
With his cane.
Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye !
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die ?
Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why ;
Gold 's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches !). What can an old man do but die ?
They say that in his prime,
Cut him down,
Through the town.
So forlorn ;
“ They are gone.".
In their bloom ;
On the tomb.
Long ago -
In the snow.
Like a staff;
In his laugh.
At him here,
WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN?
WHEN shall we all meet again ?
But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
There's not a blade will grow, boys, ”T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.
Send the colt to fair, boys,
had passed, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks : The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching
white; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before, But now the bounding spirit was no more ; A moderate pace would now my body heat, A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, “ The view is poor, we need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed ; At home I felt a more decided taste, And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less, My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess. I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to
choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone ; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft, — in short, began to prose.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
There's something not right, boys,
You may give over plough, boys,