It may be, for her own dear sake, but this, The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. то AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." Shakspeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet's name, But you have made the wiser choice, And you have missed the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown; Hereafter neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him, ere he scarce be cold, "Proclaim the faults he would not show; Ah, shameless! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; He gave the people of his best; His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, Than he that warbles long and loud TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, And trust me while I turned the page, My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever poured And glistened, — here and there alone The broad-limbed Gods at randon thrown |