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Church,

Missionary

Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amazed to hear

Than with these horrid moods be left i' Jesting, deep in forest drear.

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On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "grenè shawe"; All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his turfèd grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fallen beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money!

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ODE

(1818)

Bards of Passion and of Mirth,

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Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?

Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;

With the noise of fountains wondrous,
And the parle of voices thund'rous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth,
Philosophic numbers smooth,
Tales and golden histories

Of heaven and its mysteries.

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Of their sorrows and delights;

Of their passions and their spites;

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Of their glory and their shame;

What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

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Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

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Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use:

Then the hurry and alarm

When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,
Fancy, high-commissioned - send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
Frow dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth.

She will mix these pleasures up

Like three fit wines in a cup,

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Where's the cheek that doth not fade,

Too much gazed at? Where's the maid 70
Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,

Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;

With a waist and with a side

White as Hebe's, when her zone

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