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farther off. Sedately and gravely as he looks, he is nearly as capricious and volatile as the more arrogant and ferocious one.

"And Love," said I-" whither is he departed? If not too late, I would propitiate and appease him.”

"He who cannot follow me, he who cannot overtake and pass me," said the genius, "is unworthy of the name, the most glorious in earth or heaven. Look up! Love is yonder, and ready to receive thee."

I looked. The earth was under me; I saw only the clear blue sky and something brighter above it.



At the death of his father the poet found himself in possession of an extensive estate, but, longing for a life of greater freedom and less monotony than that of an English country gentleman, he sold his patrimony and took up his abode on the Continent, where he resided during the rest of his life, with occasional visits to his native country. The republican spirit which led him to take part as a volunteer in the Spanish rising of 1808 continued to burn fiercely to the last. He even went so far as to defend tyrannicide, and boldly offered a pension to the widow of any one who would murder a despot. Between 1820 and 1830 he was engaged upon his greatest work, Imaginary Conversations

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was of Literary Men and Statesmen. This was

1775. His father was a gentleman of good family and wealthy circumstances residing in Warwickshire. The. son entered Rugby at an early age, and thence proceeded to Trinity College, Oxford. Like many others who have taken important literary positions, he left the university without a degree; and though intended at first for the army, and afterward for the bar, he declined both professions and threw himself into literature, with the assistance of a liberal allowance from his father. In 1795 his first work-a volume of poems-appeared, followed early in the present century by a translation into Latin of "Geber," one of his own English poems. Landor had no small facility in classical composition, and he appeared to have the power of transporting himself into the times and sentiments of Greece and Rome. This is clearly seen in "Heroic Idylls" (1820), in Latin, and the reproduction of Greek thought in The Hellenics is one of the most successful efforts of its kind.

followed in 1831 by Poems, Letters by a Conservative, Satire on Satirists (1836), Pentameron and Pentalogue (1837), and a long series in prose and poetry, of which the chief are The Hellenics, enlarged and completed, Dry Sticks Fagoted, and The Last Fruit off an old Tree. He resided toward the close of his life at Bath, but some four or five years before his death a libel on a lady, for which he was condemned to pay heavy damages, drove him again from his country, and he retired to his Italian home near Florence, and there in serene old age "the Nestor of English poets," one of the last literary links with the age of the French republic, passed quietly away. He died on the 17th of September, 1864, an exile from his country, misunderstood, from the very individuality of his genius, by the majority of his countrymen, but highly appreciated by those who could rightly estimate the works he has left behind him.


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Gaze upon her living eyes,

And mirror back her love for thee: Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes!

Press her lips the while they glow

With love that they have often told: Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow!

Oh, revere her raven hair!

Although it be not silver-gray, Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away Oh, revere her raven hair!

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There's a laughter-loving spirit

Glancing from the soft blue eyes,
Flashing through the pearly tear-drops,
Changing like the summer skies,
Lurking in each roguish dimple,
Nestling in each ringlet fair;
Over all the little child-face

Gleaming, glancing everywhere.
They all win our smiles and kisses
In a thousand pleasant ways
By the sweet, bewitching beauty

Of their sunny upward gaze;
And we cannot help but love them

When their young lips meet our own, And the magic of their presence

Round about our hearts is thrown.
When they ask us curious questions
In a sweet, confiding way,
We can only smile in wonder,

Hardly knowing what to say;
As they sit in breathless silence,

Waiting for our kind replies, What a world of mystic meaning Dwells within the lifted eyes! When the soul, all faint and weary,

Falters in the upward way, And the clouds around us gather,

Shutting out each starry ray,
Then the merry voice of childhood
Seems a soft and soothing strain;
List we to its silvery cadence,

And our hearts grow glad again.
Hath this world of ours no angels?
Do our dimly-shaded eyes
Ne'er behold the seraph's glory

In its meek and lowly guise?
Can we see the little children,

Ever beautiful and mild, And again repeat the story, "Nothing but a little child?"


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One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch

A curious wag, the peddler's sonAnd so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun. "We're all a set of stupid fools

To think the skipper knows by tasting What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting."

And so he took the well-greased lead

And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck (a parsnip-bed),

And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste.

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung.

The skipper stormed and tore his hair,

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Thrust on his boots and roared to Marden, 'Nantucket's sunk, and here we are

Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!'


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Full of kindness tingling,

Soul is shut from soul, When they might be mingling In one kindred whole.

There's no dearth of kindness,

Though it be unspoken: From the heart it buildeth

Rainbow smiles in token
That there be none so lowly

But have some angel-touch,
Yet, nursing loves unholy,
We live for self too much.
As the wild rose bloweth,
As runs the happy river,
Kindness freely floweth

In the heart for ever;
But if men will hanker

Ever for golden dust,
Kindliest hearts will canker,
Brightest spirits rust.

There's no dearth of kindness
In this world of ours,
Only in our blindness

We gather thorns for flowers.
Oh, cherish God's best giving,
Falling from above:
Life were not worth living
Were it not for love.




Comes to us with a slow and doubtful step,
Measuring the ground she treads on and forever
Turning her curious eye to see that all
Is right behind, and with a keen survey
Choosing her onward path.




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