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Forbear, till time, with lenient hand,

Has sooth'd the pangs of recent sorrow, And let the picture distant stand,

The softening hue of years to borrow. When our race have passed away, Hands unborn may wake the lay, And give to joy alone the view Of Britons' deeds at Waterloo !

The firmest mind will fail

Beneath misfortune's stroke, and stunn'd depart From its sage plan of action.

When I am nothing, let that which I was Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, A shadow in thy fancy of a thing Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember.

Byron.

Ode To The Cuckoo. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grovel

Thou messenger of spring ! Now heaven repairs thy rural Beat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year ?