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I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under ;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
And their great pines groan aghast;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
It struggles and howls by fits.
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves remains ;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
And his burning plumes outspread,
When the morning-star shines dead ; As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit,
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer ;
Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my
wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-coloured bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the
of the ocean and shores ; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Teach me, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
Praise of love or wine
Or triumphal chant,
But an empty vaunt-
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What shapes of sky or plain ?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Never came near thee;
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Than we mortals dream,
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
With some pain is fraught;
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear;
Not to shed a tear,
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
That in books are found,
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
From my lips would flow,
SMOOTH run the waters where the brook is deep.
Shakspere's Henry VI. An honest man's the noblest work of God.
Pope's Essay on Man. A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.
Keats's Endymion. There was never yet philosopher That could endure the tooth-ache patiently. Shakspere's Much Ado about Nothing.
It is a custom
Shakspere's Hamlet. I am a man More sinned against than sinning.
Shakspere's King Lear. There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out.
Shakspere's Henry V. The evil that men do lives after them ; The good is oft interred with their bones.
Shakspere's Julius Cæsar. How far that little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Shakspere's Merchant of Venice.
* Most of these are gems” which, in the opinion of the Editor, ought to find a place in the memory of all young people.