A POET'S EPITAPH. On her cheek an autumn flush Round her eyes her tresses fell, And her hat with shady brim, : Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean Hood. 147 A POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a statesman, in the van A lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh; Art thou a man of purple cheer, 148 A POET'S EPITAPH. Art thou a man of gallant pride, Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, -A moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how, to this poor sod; One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling An intellectual all in all! Shut close the door, press down the latch; But who is he with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew Or fountain in a noon-day grove; TO MARY IN HEAVEN. The outward shows of sky and earth, In common things that round us lie That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak, both man and boy, Hath been an idler in the land: Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. -Come hither in thy hour of strength; 149 Wordsworth. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. Oh, Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? To live one day of parting love? 150 PERSONAL TALK. Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past! Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Burns. PERSONAL TALK. NOR can I not believe but that hereby THE THREE SONS. The poets-who on earth have made us heirs 151 Wordsworth. THE THREE SONS. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould; They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be,-I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind; The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find: Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as chil dren talk; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next; |