When the last sunshine of expiring
In summer’s twilight weeps itself
Who hath not felt the softness of
Sink on the heart, as dew along th
With a pure feeling which absorbs

This Band, which bound thy yellow
Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge o
It claims my warmest, dearest care
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge
A palace and a prison on each hand
I saw from out the wave her struct
As from the stroke of the enchante
A thousand years their cloudy wing

Oh, say not, sweet Anne, that the
The heart which adores you should
Such Fates were to me most unkind
To bear me from love and from beau
Your frowns, lovely girl, are the

Who killed John Keats?
“I,” says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
“Twas one of my feats.”
Who shot the arrow?

Oh, Wellington! (or 'Villainton’—
Sounds the heroic syllables both w
France could not even conquer your
But punn’d it down to this facetio
Beating or beaten she will laugh t

Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well ha
By all, save one, perchance forgot
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea

Eternal Spirit of the chainless M
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, t
For there thy habitation is the he
The heart which love of thee alone
And when thy sons to fetters are c

This day, of all our days, has don
The worst for me and you:-
'Tis just six years since we were
And five since we were two.

‘Away, away, your fleeting arts
May now betray some simpler hearts
And you will smile at their believ
And they shall weep at your deceiv
Dear, simple girl, those flatterin