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Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay:
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock with me after I am gone.

you

SHAKESPEARE.

Song of the Stars.

HEN the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,

And the empty realms of darkness and

death

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath,
And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame
From the void abyss by myriads came-

In the joy of youth as they darted away,

Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rang,

And this was the song the bright ones sang :

Away, away, through the wide, wide sky-
The fair blue fields that before us lie—
Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll,
Each planet, poised on her turning pole ;
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light.

For the source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides,
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides :

SONG OF THE STARS.

Lo, yonder the living splendours play;
Away, on our joyous path away!

Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,
In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass!

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!

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And the path of the gentle winds is seen,

When the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.

And see where the brighter day-beams pour,

How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower!
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews!
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round.
Away, away!-in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, love is brooding, and life is born,
And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres!
To weave the dance that measures the

Glide on in the glory and gladness sent
To the farthest wall of the firmament,

The boundless visible smile of Him,

years.

To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim.

BRYANT.

[WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, one of the most popular of American poets, is chiefly known in England by many beautiful little pieces, among which may be mentioned "The Indian Maid's Lament," "Thanatopsis," "The Evening Wind," "The Death of the Flowers," and "The Gladness of Nature." His longer poems are less pleasing.]

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ET Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold
Which he won from her proud invader;

[THOMAS MOORE, the national poet of Ireland, was born in Dublin, in 1779. His poetical activity extended over a period of fifty years-from 1792, when he was a contributor to a Dublin magazine, to 1842, when he revised a collected edition of his poems. His "Lalla Rookh" has been translated, not only into almost every European language, but actually into Persian. Moore lived till 1852, in the enjoyment of a liberal pension.]

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When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,
Led the Red-branch knights to danger-

Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear, cold eve's declining,

He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining;

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of Time
For the long-faded glories they cover.

MOORE.

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[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, in 1770, and died at Rydal Mount, in the Lake district, on the 23rd of April, 1850, in the 80th year of his age. His long and blameless life was passed chiefly among the glorious scenes of Nature he described so well; for in the

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