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Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show

Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!


And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last-

My Mary!

William Cowper


Y boat is on the shore,


And my bark is on the sea;

But before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;

And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate!

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be,-Peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

Lord Byron



OHN ANDERSON my jo, John,


When we were first acquent

Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;

But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;

But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

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Strangers yet!

After childhood's winning ways,
After care and blame and praise,
Counsel asked and wisdom given,
After mutual prayers to Heaven,
Child and parent scarce regret
When they part-are strangers yet.

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I bade my heart more constant be.

I bade it keep the world away,

And grow a home for only thee;

Nor feared but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

The fault was grave! I might have known,
What far too soon, alas! I learned—
The heart can bind itself alone,

And faith may oft be unreturned.
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell-
Thou lov'st no more;-Farewell!


Farewell! and thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse

Even for a moment didst depart

From thy remote and spherèd course

To haunt the place where passions reignBack to thy solitude again!

Back! with the conscious thrill of shame
Which Luna felt, that summer night,
Flash through her pure immortal frame,
When she forsook the starry height
To hang over Endymion's sleep
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved
How vain a thing is mortal love,
Wandering in Heaven, far removed.
But thou hast long had place to prove

This truth-to prove, and make thine own: "Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone.”

Or, if not quite alone, yet they
Which touch thee are unmating things-
Ocean and clouds and night and day;

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