He laid us as we lay at birth Ah! since dark days still bring to light Yes, only four!—and not the course Of figures, with her fulness vast Stern law of every mortal lot! And builds himself I know not what But thou, when struck thine hour to go, Yet would we keep thee in our heart - And be as if thou ne'er hadst been. And so there rise these lines of verse We stroke thy broad brown paws again, We see the flaps of thy large ears Nor to us only art thou dear Thy memory lasts both here and there, Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, What, was four years their whole short day? By mounded turf, and graven stone. 1 Sunt lacrima rerum ! We lay thee, close within our reach, Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travellers on the Portsmouth road; There build we thee, O guardian dear, Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode ! Then some, who through this garden pass, People who lived here long ago Charles Kent POPE AT TWICKENHAM BEYOND a hundred years and more, A garden lattice like a door Stands open in the sun, Admitting fitful winds that set Astir the fragrant mignonette In waves of speckled dun: Sweet waves, above whose odorous flow Red roses bud, red roses blow, In beds that gem the lawn Enamell'd rings and stars of flowers, By summer beams and vernal showers From earth nutritious drawn. Within the broad bay-window, there, One hand upon his knee, The day is fair, the hour is noon, All drench'd with recent rains, the leaves And twinkling diamonds in the grass Yet, blind to each familiar grace, That lonely man sits brooding there, Still huddled in his easy-chair, With memories life will rue. Where bay might crown that honor'd head, A homely crumpled nightcap spread Avows in every dropping line Yet never to those mournful eyes, No token here of studied grief, A simple scene and true. 'Mid silvery sheen of burnish'd plate, The chill'd and tarnish'd chocolate On snow-white damask stands ; A drowsy bee above the cream I know not which began to range But this I know, the God of Love Doth shake his hand against us, And scorning says we ne'er did prove True passion- but pretences. THE MASTER-CHORD LIKE a musician that with flying finger Startles the voice of some new instrument, And, though he know that in one string are blent All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger Among the lighter threads, fearing to start The deep soul of that one melodious wire, Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire, And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart; Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I Stir every lighter theme with careless voice, Gathering sweet music and celestial joys From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly; Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover, And dare not stoop, fearing to tell - I love her. EARTH SAD is my lot; among the shining spheres Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, And ever, in my never-ending flight, Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears. Young wives' and new-born infants' hapless biers Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight; But I, the ancient mother, am not wise, William Johnson Corp MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH You promise heavens free from strife, still; Your chilly stars I can forego, This warm kind world is all I know. You And child-like hide myself in love. But, if buried seeds upthrow What the seeds are, whence they shoot, Dionysia, o'er this tomb, Where thy buried beauties be, Coventry FROM "THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE" THE DEAN'S CONSENT THE Ladies rose. I held the door, To hurt the hope that she 'd be mine. Towards my mark the Dean's talk set: At Sarum; he was pleas'd to see A full glass prefaced my reply: I lov'd his daughter, Honor; I told My estate and prospects; might I try To win her? At my words so bold My sick heart sank. Then he : He gave His glad consent, if I could get Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd have Only three thousand pounds as yet; More by and by. Yes, his good will Should go with me; he would not stir; He and my father in old time still Our chosen pathway, when it lies Or aiter others' destinies, That, though his blessing and his pray'r Patmore My chance, he hop'd, was good: I'd won They invest their vanities admir'd ; Mine was a choice I could not rue. He ceas'd, and gave his hand. He had won (And all my heart was in my word) From me the affection of a son, Whichever fortune Heaven conferr'd! Well, well, would I take more wine? Then go To her; she makes tea on the lawn These fine warm afternoons. And so We went whither my soul was drawn ; And her light-hearted ignorance Of interest in our discourse Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance Her beauty with pathetic force, As, through the flowery mazes sweet, Fronting the wind that flutter'd blithe, And lov'd her shape, and kiss'd her feet, Shown to their insteps proud and lithe, She approach'd, all mildness and young trust, And ever her chaste and noble air Gave to love's feast its choicest gust, A vague, faint augury of despair. HONORIA'S SURRENDER From little signs, like little stars, Whose faint impression on the sense The very looking straight at mars, Or only seen by confluence ; From instinct of a mutual thought, Whence sanctity of manners flow'd; |