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Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard

And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd

Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse';
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

T. Campbell




'HE sun upon the lake is low,

The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow,

Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care

From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair

Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high,

Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy

The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow

The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now

For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,

By day they swam apart,
And to the thicket wanders slow

The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side

Twitters his closing song -
All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tarries long!

Sir W. Scott



RT thou pale for

A Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

P. B. Shelley


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WIDOW bird sate mourning for her Love

Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.

P. B. Shelley

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Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd 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, blesséd barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !

W. Wordsworth





UR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud hal

lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw

By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw ;

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array

Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track : ’T was Autumn, - and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to

part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fulness of heart,

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'Stay - stay with us ! rest! - thou art weary and

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

T. Campbell




DREAM'D that as I wander'd by the way

Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearld Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets ;

Faint ox-lips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine

Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day ; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; And flowers azure, black, and streak’d with gold, Fairer than



any waken'd

And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with

And starry river-buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers

Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprison’d children of the Hours

Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay,
I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come
That I might there present it - 0! to Whom?

P. B. Shelley

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