7 "Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, 'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, Sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring And then the hot days, all at once, It happened then ('twas in the bower Perhaps you know the place, and yet No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh But clustered near the chattering brook, Those hollies of themselves a shape As of an arbor took, A close, round arbor; and it stands Within this arbor, which was still Were these three friends, one Sunday morn 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell. His limbs along the moss, his head Upon a mossy heap, With shut-up senses, Edward lay: And he had passed a restless night, And talked as 'twere by stealth. "The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, Sec, dearest Ellen! see! 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your ee; "A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory too; Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Make up a glory, gay and bright, Round that small orb, so blue.". And then they argued of those rays, Says this, "they're mostly green;" says that, So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts "A mother too!" these self-same words His face was drawn back on itself, Both groaned at once, for both knew well He sat upright; and ere the dream "O God, forgive me! (he exclaimed) I have torn out her heart." Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; And Mary shivered, where she sat, And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and Tomorrow! and To-morrow 1 ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. DEJECTION: AN ODE Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE 1. WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now, perhaps, their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are! My genial spirits fail; III. And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze forever On that green light that lingers in the west: IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And from the soul itself must there be sent |