BYRON.
_Ancient_ of days! _august Athena!_ where,
Where are thy men of might--thy _grand_ in soul?
Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were.
First in the race that led to _Glory's goal_,
They won, and _passed_ away. Is this the whole?
A _school_-boy's tale--the wonder of an _hour_!
The warrior's-weapon and the _sophist's stole_
Are sought in _vain_, and o'er each _mouldering_ tower,
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of _power_.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The _Minstrel_ was _infirm_ and old;
His withered cheek and _tresses_ gray
_Seemed_ to have known a better day;
The harp, his _sole remaining joy_,
Was carried by an _orphan_ boy.
The last of all the bards was he
Who sung of border _chivalry_;
For, well-a-day! their _dale_ was fled;
His _tune_ful brethren all were dead;
And he, _neglected_ and _oppressed_,
Wished to be with them and at rest.
WORDSWORTH.
Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What _power_ is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess;
Years to a mother bring _distress_;
But do not make her love the less.
My son, if thou be _humbled_, _poor_,
Hopeless of _honor_ and of _gain_,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with _grief_ and _pain_.
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly _grandeur_ I _despise_,
And _Fortune_ with her gifts and lies.
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