This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the attempt made to include in it all the best original lyrical pieces and songs in our language, by writers not living, and none besides the best. The Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and valued.
When once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to delight in excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely.
The azure lake is argent now I follow thee alone...
In the season of white wild roses Together already we stand.
Time's corrosive dewdrop eats Of earth in earth and rust in rust.
Sleep puts out silent fingers, Wrecks of the past ashore.
I see the lost Love in beauty The worm and the wormwood again.
Earth all one tomb lies round me, God cannot save me! I cry.
With the cry I wake;—and around me And the night falls heavy and sweet.
In the hollow Follow, O follow!
Follow, O follow!—and we follow
The Sun whispers, O remember! O sweet September!
Kiss and cling to them, kiss and leave them, O sweet September?
There is a garden where lilies The silken butterflies glide.
I may not enter the garden, I see the children go.
They bring back light on their faces; Or the songs of the butterflies be.
The monument outlasting bronze was promised well by bards of old.
Our hope is less to last through Art than deeper searching of the heart, than broader range of uttered truth.
Shakespeare's stage must hold the glass to every age.
A thousand forms and passions glow With strains of fuller harmony.