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النشر الإلكتروني

Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

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Written December 30, 1816, on a challenge from Leigh Hunt, who printed both his and Keats's sonnets in his paper, The Examiner.

THE poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's he takes the lead

In summer luxury, he has never done

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With his delights; for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

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Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

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SELECTIONS FROM SNOW-BOUND

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

THE FATHER

OUR father rode again his ride
On Memphremagog's wooded side;
Sat down again to moose and samp
In trapper's hut and Indian camp;
Lived o'er the old idyllic ease
Beneath St. François' hemlock trees;
Again for him the moonlight shone
On Norman cap and bodiced zone;
Again he heard the violin play
Which led the village dance away.
And mingled in its merry whirl
The grandam and the laughing girl.
Or, nearer home, our steps he led
Where Salisbury's level marshes spread

Mile-wide as flies the laden bee;
Where merry mowers, hale and strong,
Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along
The low green prairies of the sea.

We shared the fishing off Boar's Head,
And round the rocky Isles of Shoals
The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals;
The chowder on the sand-beach made,
Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot,
With spoons of clam-shell from the pot.

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We heard the tales of witchcraft old,
And dream and sign and marvel told
To sleepy listeners as they lay
Stretched idly on the salted hay,
Adrift along the winding shores,

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When favoring breezes deigned to blow
The square sail of the gundelow

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And idle lay the useless oars.

THE MOTHER

OUR mother, while she turned her wheel
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel,
Told how the Indian hordes came down
At midnight on Cocheco town,
And how her own great-uncle bore
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore.
Recalling, in her fitting phrase,

So rich and picturesque and free,
(The common unrhymed poetry
Of simple life and country ways,)
The story of her early days,

She made us welcome to her home

Old hearths grew wide to give us room;
We stole with her a frightened look

At the gray wizard's conjuring-book,

The fame whereof went far and wide
Through all the simple country-side;
We heard the hawks at twilight play,
The boat-horn on Piscataqua,
The loon's weird laughter far away;
We fished her little trout-brook, knew

4. Dover in New Hampshire.

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