BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE POET'S SONG. THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town, and out of the street; A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be THE END. The Idyl of "Dora" was partly suggested by one of Miss Mitford's pastorals; and the ballad of Lady Clare, by the novel of "Inheritance." 3. |