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Laura in Heaven

Kingdom of God, The

138
Petrarch 57

Like as the Waves Make Toward the Pebbled Shore,

PAGE

Joseph Ernest Renan

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Night Adventure, A

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John Godfrey Saxe

215

John Godfrey Saxe
Petrarch

213

58

James K. Paulding

41

No Longer Mourn for Me When I Am Dead,

William Shakespeare

315

John Ruskin

177

F. de la Rochefoucauld

155

William Shakespeare

297

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Philosopher, The

Place of Banishment

Political Economy

Portia's Speech

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Praise of Rosalind

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William Shakespeare 280

Edgar Allan Poe

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer Day,

Charles Reade

William Shakespeare

75

129

Jean P. F. Richter

144

316

William Shakespeare 276
William Shakespeare

300

Johann C. F. von Schiller

225

Southern Refrain, A

Speech of Caius Marius to the
Storming of the Castle, The .
Stray Thoughts

Susceptibility of the Senses
Sweet and Twenty

Toussaint L'Ouverture

Toys

Romans

George Pope Morris
Sallust

6

194

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Truth

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War Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dragoons,

With Fox and Hounds

Woodman, Spare that Tree.
Young Lochinvar

Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
George Pope Morris

Sir Walter Scott

268

245

5

270

GEORGE POPE MORRIS

GEORGE POPE MORRIS, an American journalist and poet, was born at Philadelphia in 1802; died in New York in 1864. He was one of the founders of the New York Mirror. Although he produced two successful plays, his fame rests on his poems and songs.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE

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WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies.

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy

Here, too, my sisters played;
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,

VOL. VII.

And let that old oak stand!

5

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave;
And, woodman, leave the spot!
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

A SOUTHERN REFRAIN

NE

EAR the lake where drooped the willow,
Long time ago!

Where the rock threw back the billow,
Brighter than snow,

Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished
By high and low;

But, with autumn's leaf she perished,
Long time ago!

Rock and tree and flowing water,
Long time ago!

Bee and bird and blossom taught her
Love's spell to know!

While to my fond words she listened,
Murmuring low,

Tenderly her dove eyes glistened,
Long time ago!

Mingled were our hearts forever!
Long time ago!

Can I now forget her? Never!
No, lost one, no!

To her grave these tears are given,
Ever to flow;

She's the star I missed from heaven,
Long time ago!

WILLIAM MORRIS

WILLIAM MORRIS, poet, artist and social reformer, was born at Walthamstow, England, in 1834; died in London, in 1896. He was educated at Oxford. In 1863 he established manufactory for decorative furnishings and stained glass. The workman of the Middle Ages was his ideal. The time when one man conceived the design and carried it out to the finishing touches, a work of art, though it was but for kitchen use. This idea occurs constantly in his writings. His most notable works are "The Earthly Paradise," "The Tale of the House of Wolfings and "The Water of the Wonderous Isles." He also wrote a number of lectures, books and articles on socialism, and made some excellent translations.

ATALANTA'S RACE

(From "The Earthly Paradise")

PON the shore of Argolis there stands

U temple to the goddess that he sought,

That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands,

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Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought, Though to no homestead there the sheaves are

brought,

No groaning press torments the close-clipped murk, Lonely the fane stands, for from all men's work.

Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees, Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, And entering, hear the washing of the seas That twice a-day rise high above the base, And with the south-west urging them, embrace The marble feet of her that standeth there That shrink not, naked though they be and fair.

Small is the fane through which the seawind sings About Queen Venus' well-wrought image white, But hung around are many precious things, The gifts of those who, longing for delight, Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, And in return have taken at her hands The living treasures of the Grecian lands.

And thither now has come Milanion,
And showed unto the priests' wide open eyes
Gifts fairer than all those that there have shone,
Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies,
And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise
Above the deeds of foolish living things,
And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings.

And now before the Sea-born One he stands, By the sweet veiling smoke made dim and soft, And while in incense trickles from his hands, And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, Thus doth he pray to her: “O Thou, who oft Hast holpen man and maid in their distress, Despise me not for this my wretchedness!

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"O goddess, among us who dwell below, Kings and great men, great for a little while, Have pity on the lowly heads that bow,

Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile;
Wilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile
A vain device of him who set thee here,

An empty dream of some artificer?

"O, great one, some men love, and are ashamed; Some men are weary of the bonds of love; Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed, That from thy toils their lives they cannot move, And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove, Alas! O goddess, if thou slayest me

What new immortal can I serve but thee?

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