Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
’Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, 5
Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lovers, or a Roman’s part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10
Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes:
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow, 25
And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! 30
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warmed the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, 35
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way) 40
Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeled,
And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne’er learned to glow 45
For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.
What can atone (O ever injured shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear,
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier: 50
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear; 55
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face? 60
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground now sacred by thy relics made.
So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70
How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80
Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
_Alexander Pope._
CLXIV
_ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET_,
A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.
Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year, 5
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; 10
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature called for aid,
And hovering death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy displayed 15
The power of art without the show.
In Misery’s darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die. 20
No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round, 25
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employed.
The busy day--the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 30
His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain, 35
And freed his soul the nearest way.
_Samuel Johnson._
CLXV
_HIGHLAND MARY._
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The castle o’ Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 5
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, 10
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o’er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life 15
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi’ mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu’ tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder; 20
But, oh! fell Deaths untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 30
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
_Robert Burns_
CLXVI
_THE CAST-AWAY._
Obscurest night involved the sky;
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 5
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast,
Than he, with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast
With warmer wishes sent. 10
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay:
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 15
Or courage die away;
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel’s course, 20
But so the furious blast prevailed,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford; 25
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow.
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate’er they gave, should visit more. 30
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die 35
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled: 40
And ever as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--‘Adieu!’
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast, 45
Could catch the sound no more.
For then by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere, 50
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson’s tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream, 55
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date;
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another’s case. 60
No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,
When snatched from all effectual aid
We perished, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea, 65
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
_William Cowper._
CLXVII
_THE LAND O’ THE LEAL._
I’m wearing awa’, John,
Like snaw when its thaw, John,
I’m wearing awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John, 5
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
In the land o’ the leal.
Ye were aye leal and true, John,
Your task’s ended noo, John, 10
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,
She was baith guid and fair, John;
Oh we grudged her right sair 15
To the land o’ the leal!
Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John,
My soul langs to be free, John,
And angels wait on me
To the land o’ the leal. 20
Now fare ye weel, my ain John,
This warld’s care is vain, John;
We’ll meet and aye be fain
In the land o’ the leal.
_Lady Nairn._
CLXVIII
_ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD._
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain 10
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour; 35
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; 50
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. 60
The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 65
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80
Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 85
This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100
‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
‘One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; 110
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
‘The next with dirges due in sad array,
Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne:
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 115
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 120
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to misery all he had, a tear;
He gained from Heaven, ’twas all he wished, a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose;)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
_Thomas Gray._
CLXIX
_WRESTLING JACOB._
Come, O Thou traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see,
My company before is gone,
And I am left alone with Thee;
With Thee all night I mean to stay, 5
And wrestle till the break of day.
I need not tell Thee who I am,
My misery or sin declare;
Thyself hast called me by my name;
Look on thy hands, and read it there! 10
But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?
Tell me thy Name, and tell me now.
In vain Thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold;
Art Thou the Man that died for me? 15
The secret of thy love untold.
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know.
Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal
Thy new, unutterable Name? 20
Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:
To know it now, resolved I am:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know.
’Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, 25
Or touch the hollow of my thigh;
Though every sinew be unstrung,
Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know. 30
What though my shrinking flesh complain,
And murmur to contend so long?
I rise superior to my pain;
When I am weak, then am I strong:
And when my all of strength shall fail, 35
I shall with the God-Man prevail.
My strength is gone; my nature dies;
I sink beneath thy weighty hand;
Faint to revive, and fall to rise;
I fall, and yet by faith I stand: 40
I stand, and will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know.
Yield to me now, for I am weak,
But confident in self-despair;
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, 45
Be conquered by my instant prayer!
Speak, or Thou never hence shall move,
And tell me, if thy Name be Love?
’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me!
I hear thy whisper in my heart! 50
The morning breaks, the shadows flee;
Pure universal Love Thou art!
To me, to all, thy bowels move;
Thy nature and thy Name is Love!
My prayer hath power with God; the grace 55
Unspeakable I now receive;
Through faith I see Thee face to face,
I see Thee face to face, and live:
In vain I have not wept and strove;
Thy nature and thy Name is Love. 60
I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;
Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend!
Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,
But stay, and love me to the end!
Thy mercies never shall remove, 65
Thy nature and thy Name is Love!
The Sun of Righteousness on me
Hath rose, with healing in his wings;
Withered my nature’s strength, from Thee
My soul its life and succour brings; 70
My help is all laid up above;
Thy nature and thy Name is Love.
Contented now upon my thigh
I halt, till life’s short journey end;
All helplessness, all weakness, I 75
On Thee alone for strength depend;
Nor have I power from Thee to move;
Thy nature and thy Name is Love.
Lame as I am, I take the prey,
Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome; 80
I leap for joy, pursue my way,
And, as a bounding hart, fly home;
Through all eternity to prove,
Thy nature and thy Name is Love!
_Charles Wesley._
PART THE FOURTH.
CLXX
_TO THE CUCKOO._
O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass, 5
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.
Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers, 10
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing, 15
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky. 20
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet; 25
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessèd bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be 30
An unsubstantial, fairy place
That is fit home for thee!
_William Wordsworth._
CLXXI
_THE RAINBOW._
Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky,
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, 5
A mid-way station given
For happy spirits to alight,
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so, 10
As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation’s face
Enchantment’s veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place 15
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky. 20
When o’er the green undeluged earth,
Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world’s gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow lustre smiled 25
O’er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang 30
On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye,
Unraptured, greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy, 35
Be still the poet’s theme!
The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs. 40
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark, 45
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 50
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
_Thomas Campbell._
CLXXII
_THE COMMON LOT._
Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:--and WHO was HE?--
Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth, 5
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone:--
That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast; 10
His bliss and woe,--a smile, a tear!--
Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits’ rise and fall,
We know that these were felt by him, 15
For these are felt by all.
He suffered,--but his pangs are o’er;
Enjoyed,--but his delights are fled;
Had friends,--his friends are now no more;
And foes,--his foes are dead. 20
He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
Oh she was fair!--but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen; 25
Encountered all that troubles thee:
He was--whatever thou hast been;
He is--what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 30
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky 35
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,--THERE LIVED A MAN! 40
_James Montgomery._
CLXXIII
_THE HOLLY TREE._
O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly Tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise, 5
As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.
Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound; 10
But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 15
Can emblems see,
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere; 20
To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;--
Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.
And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 25
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 30
And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 35
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they; 40
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly Tree.
_Robert Southey._
CLXXIV
_THE SQUIRE’S PEW._
A slanting ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane:
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again;
The window’s gothic framework falls 5
In oblique shadows on the walls.
And since those trappings first were new,
How many a cloudless day,
To rob the velvet of its hue,
Has come and passed away! 10
How many a setting sun hath made
That curious lattice-work of shade!
Crumbled beneath the hillock green
The cunning hand must be,
That carved this fretted door, I ween, 15
Acorn and fleur-de-lis;
And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel’s art.
In days of yore (as now we call)
When the First James was king, 20
The courtly knight from yonder Hall
His train did hither bring,
All seated round in order due,
With broidered suit and buckled shoe.
On damask cushions decked with fringe, 25
All reverently they knelt;
Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,
Each holding in a lily hand,
Responsive to the priest’s command. 30
Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam, long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile
Of their inscription-stone:
And there, in marble hard and cold, 35
The knight with all his train behold.
Outstretched together are exprest
He and my lady fair,
With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer: 40
Long-visaged, clad in armour, he--
With ruffled arm and bodice she.
Set forth in order as they died,
Their numerous offspring bend,
Devoutly kneeling side by side, 45
As if they did intend
For past omissions to atone
By saying endless prayers in stone.
Those mellow days are past and dim,
But generations new 50
In regular descent from him
Have filled the stately pew,
And in the same succession go
To occupy the vaults below.
And now the polished modern Squire 55
And his gay train appear,
Who duly to the Hall retire
A season every year,
And fill the seats with belle and beau,
As ’twas so many years ago; 60
Perchance, all thoughtless, as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor,
Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,
In turn receive to silent rest 65
Another and another guest:
The feathered hearse and sable train,
In all their wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate, 70
Brought many a distant county through,
To join the final rendezvous.
And when the race is swept away,
All to their dusty beds,
Still shall the mellow evening ray 75
Shine gaily o’er their heads;
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew.
_Jane Taylor._
CLXXV
_A DREAM._
Once a dream did weave a shade
O’er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn, 5
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:
‘Oh, my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh? 10
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.’
Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glowworm near,
Who replied, ‘What wailing wight 15
Calls the watchman of the night?
‘I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round.
Follow now the beetle’s hum,
Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ 20
_William Blake._
CLXXVI
_DECEMBER MORNING._