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July the Fourth

Charles Tennyson-Turner, Born 1808
Nathaniel Hawthorne, Born 1804

OLD IRONSIDES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;
The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;

The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave!
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning, and the gale!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S

HALLS

The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore

MUSIC WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE

Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken;

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Ah! With what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,

Like sudden spring!

With tongues all sweet and low

Like a pleasant rhyme,

They tell how much I owe

To thee and time!

Bryan Waller Procter

HARK, HARK! THE LARK

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;

With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare

A SONG FOR MUSIC

Weep you no more, sad fountains:
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my Sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies,
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets:Doth not the sun rise smiling,

When fair at even he sets?

Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping!

While She lies sleeping

Softly, now softly lies,

Sleeping!

Anon

THE BROOK-SIDE

I wander'd by the brook-side,
I wander'd by the mill,

I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;

There was no burr of grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

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But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not,

The night came on alone,

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The little stars sat, one by one,
Each on his golden throne;

The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind, –
A hand was on my shoulder,
1 knew its touch was kind:

It drew me nearer

nearer,

We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton)

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