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On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl!

And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed, —
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

Oliver Wendell Holmes



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OOR Soul, the center of my sinful earth,

Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more:-
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there's no more dying then.

William Shakespeare


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THO is this I hear? -Lo, this is I, thine heart,

That holds on merely now by a slender string.
Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent a part,

The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing,

Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering.-
Y ea, and for what?—For that thy sense found sweet.--
What irks it thee?-I feel the sting of it.---

Leave me at peace.—Why?—Nay now, leave me at peace; I will repent when I grow ripe in wit.

1 Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne. In 'this edition italics Histinguish the speeches of the "heart."

1 say no more.—I care not though thou cease.—

What art thou, trow?-A man worth praise, perfay.

This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring.'Tis a mule's age.Art thou a boy still?—Nay.

Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting,

Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?— Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies, I can make out.—No more?-Nay, in no wise.

Shall I begin again the count of these! — Thou art undone.--I will make shift to rise.

I say no more.— I care not though thou cease.

I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart.

Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, Then mightst thou plead this pretext with thine heart;

But if thou know not good from evil a whit,

Either thy head is hard as stone to hit,
Or shame, not honor, gives thee most conteni.
What canst thou answer to this argument?

When I am dead I shall be well at ease.-
God! what good hope!—Thou art over-eloquent.—

I say no more.— I care not though thou cease.-

Whence is this ill? —From sorrow and not from sin.

When Saturn packed my wallet up for me I well believe he put these ills therein.--.

Fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee?

Hear now the wise king's counsel; thus saith he:
All power upon the stars a wise man hath;
There is no planet that shall do him scathe.-

Nay, as they made me I grow and I decrease.-
What say'st thou?—Truly this is all my faith.
I say no more.—I care not though thou cease.-

Wouldst thou live still?-God help me that I may!—
Then thou must-What? turn penitent and pray?.
Read always-What?-Grave words and good to say;
Leave off the ways of fools, lest they displease.—-
Good; I will do it.—Wilt thou remember?—Yea.—
Abide not till there come an evil day.

I say no more. I care not though thou cease.


François Villon


'TERN Daughter of the Voice of God!

Who art a light to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove;

Thou, who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe,

From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth
Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
Who do thy work, and know it not:
O! if through confidence misplaced

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold
Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,

Live in the spirit of this creed,
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried,

No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust:

And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul

Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control,

But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires:

My hopes no more must change their name;
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear

The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and


To humbler functions, awful Power!

I call thee: I myself commend

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