Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so-" Perhaps he will not sink :" A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair; Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew, The friendly many, and the favourite few; Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people: death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd, And fondly whisper'd, “Thou must go to rest;" "I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last, A dying look of love—and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above, Neatly engraved—an offering of her love; For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved had friends presumed to The least assistance-'twas her proper care. [spare
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms in long, abstracted fit; But if observer pass, will take her round, And careless seem, for she would not be found; Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
THE HON. WILLIAM SPENCER. 1770-1837.
Too late I've stay'd-forgive the crime- Unheeded flew the hours:
How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers! And who, with clear account, remarks The ebbings of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass? And who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of paradise have lent Their plumage to his wings?
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-ward had sunk. "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-wing'd Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Oh for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
'Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stain'd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry fays; But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalm'd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for She stood in tears amid the alien corn; [home, The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music: do I wake or sleep?
THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? [loth? What men or gods are these? What maidens What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone :
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal: yet do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
An, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, oh mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands dress'd? What little town by river or seashore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e'er return.
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