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'T is the last rose of Summer

Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh!

Mine are the river-fowl that scream

From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear that marks my weapon's gleam

Hides vainly in the forest's edge; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;

The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey,

Even in the act of springing dies.

With what free growth the elm and plane

Fling their huge arms across my wayGray, old, and cumbered with a train

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! Free stray the lucid streams, and find

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind

Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with

snow; Farewell to the straths and green rallers

below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging |

woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring

floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not

here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the

deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Ilighlands, wherever I go.

ROBERT Bress

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere

The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here

With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky. I meet the flames with flames again,

And at my door they cower and die.

THE HUNTER'S SONG.

Here, from dim woods, the aged Past

Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless Future in the vast

And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew?

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines whose blue

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass!

Broad are these streams-my steed obeys,

Plunges, and bears me through the tide: Wide are these woods—I thread the maze

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies

O’er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn.
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten

hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground,
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady-So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark !Who calleth the maiden Joru
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble

corn ?

The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn.

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Now, through the copse where the fox is

found, MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

And over the stream at a mighty bound, My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not And over the high lands, and over the low, here;

O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go! My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the Away!—

-as a hawk flies full at his prey, deer;

So flieth the hunter, away,-away! Chasing the wild deer, and following the

From the burst at the cover till set of sun, roe,

, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

When the red fox dies, and the day is done! Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the Hark, hark ! What sound on the wind is North,

borne ? The birth-place of valor, the country of worth; 'T' is the conquering roice of the hunter's horn: Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The horn,—the horn! The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. The merry, bold roice of the hunter's horn.

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Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good / Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood? are they?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, Think not of them—thou hast thy music
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.

too: 0, what delight can a mortal lack,

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, When he once is firm on his horse's back, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn And the blast of the horn for his morning Among the river sallows, borne aloft song?

Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies; Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly

bourn; Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn! Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble The horn,--the horn!

soft O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the

skies.

morn

BARRY CORNWALL.

JOHN KEATS.

TO AUTUMN.

AUTUMN-A DIRGE.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

The warm sun is failing; the bleak wind is

wailing; Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun! Conspiring with him how to load and bless

The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers

are dying; With fruit the vines that round the thatch

And the Year eaves runTo bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,

On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of

leaves dead, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core

Is lying. To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel

Come, months, come away, shells

From November to May; With a sweet kernel—to set budding, more

In your saddest array, And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Follow the bier Until they think warm days will never cease,

Of the dead, cold Year, For Summer has o'er-brimmed their

Ana like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. clammy cells.

The chill rain is falling; the nipt worm is Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? crawling;

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find the rivers are swelling; the thunder is knellThee sitting careless on a granary floor,

ing Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

For the Year; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

To his dwelling; Spares the next swath and all its twined Come, months, come away ; flowers;

Put on white, black, and gray ; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Let your light sisters playSteady thy laden head across a brook;

Ye, follow the bier Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Of the dead, cold Year, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by And make her grave green with tear on tear.

hours.

each gone

PERCY BYSHE SHELLEY

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