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Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!

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In silence Matthew lay, and eyed

The spring beneath the tree;

And thus the dear old man replied,

The grey-hair'd man of glee:

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"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; How merrily it goes!

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Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past;
Ere from the mutilated bower I turn'd
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades
In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

WORDSWORTH.

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THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

WE walk'd along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said,
"The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering grey;

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As blithe a man as you could see

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"Our work," said I, "was well begun;

Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought ?"

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A second time did Matthew stop
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.

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And, turning from her grave, I met,

Beside the churchyard yew,

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:

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My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

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At this he grasp'd my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be."

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

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Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewilder'd chimes.

WORDSWORTH

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"

LAODAMIA.

"WITH sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughter'd Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore ;—

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endow'd

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With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,

Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands; 10 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?—O joy!

What doth she look on ?-whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould ?
It is if sense deceive her not 't is He!
And a God leads him, winged Mercury!

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Mild Hermes spake-and touch'd her with his wand That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crown'd thy Laodamía! that at Jove's command

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Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"

Forth sprang the impassion'd Queen her Lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essay'd;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.

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The Phantom parts-but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.

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