Mary, I dare not call thee dear, I've lost that right so long; But now that pride hath flown, How loath to part, how fond to meet, At sunset, with what eager feet I hastened unto thee! Scarce nine days passed us ere we met Thy face was so familiar grown, A moment's memory when alone, That witching look to trace; Though there thy beauty lingers yet, It wears a stranger's face. When last that gentle cheek I prest, I little thought that seeming jest Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers. MY BROTHER'S GRAVE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. Few words upon the rough stone graven, In simplest phrase recorded there: No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave, In mockery o'er my brother's grave. The place is silent-rarely sound To death's lone dwelling speaks of life; Nor breaks the silence still and deep, Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, Art laid in that unstartled sleep The living eye hath never known.' Those windows on the Sabbath day; And, passing through the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave. But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime, Pouring its music on the breeze, Proclaims the well-known holy time Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; When rustic crowds devoutly meet, And lips and hearts to God are given, And souls enjoy oblivion sweet Of earthly ills, in thought of heaven; What voice of calm and solemn tone Is heard above thy burial stone? What form, in priestly meek array Beside the altar kneels to pray? What holy hands are lifted up To bless the sacramental cup? Full well I know that reverend form, And if a voice could reach the dead, Those tones would reach thee, though the worm, My brother, makes thy heart his bed; That sire, who thy existence gave, Now stands beside thy lowly grave. It is not long since thou were wont Untainted by the world's control. My soul was then, as thine is now, And years have passed, and thou art now My father's eye has lost its gloom; With thee he roams, an infant shade; But not more pure than thou he died. Blest are ye both! your ashes rest Beside the spot ye loved the best; And that dear home, which saw your birth, O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. But who can tell what blissful shore Your angel spirit wanders o'er? And who can tell what raptures high Now bless your immortality? TO CORINNA TO GO A-MAYING. ROBERT HERRICK. Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, Nay, not so much as out of bed; And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin, When as a thousand virgins on this day, Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this, Made up of white thorn neatly interwove; Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the key's betraying This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying THE THREE WARNINGS. MRS. THRALE. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave-' You must,' says he, What more he urged I have not heard, Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke- Well pleased the world will leave.' What next the hero of our tale befell, He chaffered, then he bought and sold, His friends not false, his wife no shrew, But while he viewed his wealth increase, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Brought on his eightieth year. The unwelcome messenger of Fate Half-killed with anger and surpris 'So soon returned!' old Dodson cries. 'So soon, d'ye call it?' Death replies: 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.' 'So much the worse,' the clown rejoined{ To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.' 'I know,' cries Death, that at the best,' I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; 'Hold!' says the farmer; 'not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' 'And no great wonder,' Death replies, 'However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends 'Perhaps,' says Dodson, 'so it mign But latterly I've lost my sight.' This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; |