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PARADISI GLORIA

There is a city, builded by no hand,
And unapproachable by sea or shore,
And unassailable by any band

Of storming soldiery for evermore.

There we no longer shall divide our time
By acts or pleasures, - doing petty things
Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme;
But we shall sit beside the silver springs

That flow from God's own footstool, and behold
Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few
Who loved us once and were beloved of old,
To dwell with them and walk with them anew,

In alternations of sublime repose,

Musical motion, the perpetual play

Of every faculty that Heaven bestows

Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.

Thomas William Parsons

TO NIGHT

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

Joseph Blanco White

LINES

WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION

E'en such is Time, that takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;

Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

Sir Walter Raleigh

UP-HILL

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark:

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

Alfred Tennyson

DEATH

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear;

Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

Walter Savage Landor

DEATH THE LEVELLER

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley

TEARS, IDLE TEARS

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the under world; Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge,
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

-

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, O Death in Life, the days that are no more. Alfred Tennyson

LIFE

Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear-

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,— but in some brighter clime

Bid me Good Morning.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld

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