From the flow'r at his finger; he rose and drew near

Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear,

But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright To grow to large manhood of merciful might.

He

came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel,

The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel,

And question'd my face with wide eyes; but when under
My lids he saw tears, for I wept at his wonder,
He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then,
That the once love of women, the friendship of men
no kindness e'er came like a kiss

In past sorrow,

On

my heart in its desolate day such as this!

And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent,

And lifted him up in my arms with intent

To kiss him, but he cruel-kindly, alas!

Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of grass !
Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled

The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head,
That dissever'd my ear,—but I felt not, whose fate
Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate!

Thus I wander'd, companion'd of grief and forlorn, Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born,

But what was that land with its love, where my home
Was self-shut against me; for why should I come
Like an after-distress to my grey-bearded father,
With a blight to the last of his sight ?—let him rather
Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn
Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn

To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how
Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now
Like Gods to my humbled estate ?- -or how bear
The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care
Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came
Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same

As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream
In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream
That made wretches of many, as she roll'd her wild eyes
Against heav'n, and so vanish'd.-The gentle and wise
Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill
In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.

THE

TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.

I.

ALAS! that breathing Vanity should go

Where Pride is buried,-like its very ghost,

Uprisen from the naked bones below,

In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

On

Shedding its chilling superstition most

young and ignorant natures-as it wont

To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont !

II.

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green

Shining, far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes,-sailing as if they were,

Two far-off ships,—until they brush between The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate.

III.

And there they stand with haughty necks before God's holy house, that points towards the skies-Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,

With pouting lips,-forgetful of the grace,

Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face ;—

IV.

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,

May wear the happiness of rich attire;

And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds;-and for health deny'd,With art, that blushes at itself, inspire Their languid cheeks-and flourish in a glory That has no life in life, nor after-story.

V.

The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r,

And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear

Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly

Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so grey in goodness and in days?