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Oh! it is sweet, amid the waste of years

Oh joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell and float

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Oh! yet one smile, though dark may lour
O! my love's like the steadfast sun
One evening as the sun went down

O think it not strange that my soul is shaken
Our fathers! where are they? and where
Our task is done! on Gunga's breast
Owl! that lovest the boding sky

Prince William's bark swept on

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So ends Childe Harold his last Pilgrimage
Softly the moonlight

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Speak low!-the place is holy to the breath
Spritely Cricket, chirking still

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Tears on thy bridal morning! Tears, my love

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That happy gleam of vernal eyes

The bride is dead! the bride is dead
The brook is purling on its way
The castle clock had toll'd midnight
The chalky cliffs are fading from my view
The clouds were gathering red and dark
The forfeit's paid,-we pardon thee
The fountains mingle with the river
The leaves are falling from the trees
The masters of the earth have died
The melancholy days are come

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The moon shines bright

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The nest of the dove is rifled

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The Northern Star sailed o'er the Bar

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The pilgrim fathers-where are they
There is a dear and lovely power
There is a multitude, in number like
There is an evening twilight of the heart
There is an hour when leaves are still
There is a sweetness in woman's decay
There may be pleasure in the sound
There was a tempest brooding in the air
There was a time-sweet time of youthful folly
The Rhine! the Rhine!-May on thy flowing river
The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain
The same and oh! how beautiful!—the same
The sun is warm, the sky is clear

The sun went down in beauty-not a cloud
The thought of early death was in my heart
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear
The water roll'd-the water swell'd
The world is full of Poetry-the air
They are flown

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They grew in beauty, side by side

They tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for

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Thine is a strain to read among the hills

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'Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth

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'Tis said she once was beautiful;-and still

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'Tis time this heart should be unmoved

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Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train

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Too proud of heart to tell the grief

'Twas on a sultry summer noon

'Twixt Wit and Wisdom, Beauty sat

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When night sits on the earth

We break the glass, whose sacred wine
Weep not for her! her span was like the sky
We met but in one giddy dance

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells
What strange enchantment meets my view
When evening o'er the western hill

When the dying flame of day

When the summer harvest was gather'd in

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Where are now the dreaming flowers

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Where is the Sea?-I languish here

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Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek
Who sleeps below?-who sleeps below
Why hast thou bound around, with silver rim
Why linger on this battle heath

Will then no pitying sword its succour lend
With work in hand, perchance some fairy cap
Would that the hour you call'd me thine

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Ye dear companions of my silent hours

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Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true

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Ye tell me 'tis the opening hour

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Yes, I am rich in all excuse to mourn

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Yes! bury me deep in the infinite sea

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Yes! this is death! but in its fairest form

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PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM,
CHISWICK.

BRITISH

LIBRAR

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