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One with thee enters in the home divine
To worship there, but not to praise thy shrine.
'Tis sweet to note, in varying character,
How each his bosom’d thoughts finds pictured there.
And some condemn thee as too deep a mine,
Where haply diamonds hid and rubies shine,
But they upon the surface love to flit,-
'Twere diving into Pindar's golden wit !
But these things other thoughts to me endear;
Thy book I love because thyself is there.
And all I know of glad philosophy,
And all I know of life's home poesy,
And all I know of calm and healthful thought,
And all of better wisdom Heaven hath taught,
And all that I have seen of azure sky
Brought forth from out a deep captivity,
And all which through the clouds of sin and grief
Has shed o'er life a light of sweet relief,
And all that I have known of cheering glow,
That glares not but lights up our hearth below,
And all I have of friends more dear than life,
Calming with gentler wisdom this world's strife
(So it hath pleased Heaven, who gave the same),-
These all to me are link'd with thy dear name.
Through thee, whate'er through broken clouds

hath gleam'd, Through thee from Heaven these beams on me

have stream’d. Therefore, when others talk, yet own I still Far deeper thoughts than theirs my bosom fill.



The dews of summer night did fall ;

The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies,

The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile. “ Leicester !” she cried, “is this thy love

That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,

Immur'd in shameful privity ?
No more thou com’st with lover's speed

Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she ’live, or be she dead,

I fear, stern earl, 's the same to thee. Not so the


I receiv'd
When happy in my father's hall :
No faithless husband then me griev'd,

No chilling fears did me appal.
I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn,

So merrily sung the livelong day.



If that my beauty is but small,

Amongst court ladies all despis'dWhy didst thou rend it from that hall

Where, scornful earl, it well was priz’d?
And when you first to me made suit,

How fair I was you oft would say ;
And, proud of conquest, pluck'd the fruit,

Then left the blossom to decay.
Yes, now neglected and despis'd,

The rose is pale—the lily's dead ; But he that once their charms so priz'd

Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. For, know, when sick’ning grief doth prey,

And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay

What flow'ret can endure the storm ? At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,

Where every lady 's passing rare ;
That eastern flowers that shame the sun

Are not so glowing, not so fair :
Then, earl, why did'st thou leave the beds

Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades

Muist sicken when those gauds are by? ’Mong rural beauties I was one;

Among the fields wild flowers are fair : Some country swain might me have won, . And thought my beauty passing rare.



But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,

Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. Then, Leicester, why, again I plead

(The injur'd surely may repine)— Why didst thou wed a country-maid,

When some fair princess might be thine ? Why didst thou praise my humble charms,

And, oh, then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms,

Then leave me mourn the live-long day? The village-maidens of the plain

Salute me lowly as I go ;
Envious they mark my silken train,

Nor think a countess can have woe.
The simple nymphs ! they little know

How far more happy 's their estate ;
To smile for joy—than sigh for woe;

To be content-than to be great.
How far less blest am I than them,

Daily to pine and waste with care !
Like the poor plant that from its stem

Divided feels the chilling air ! Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude: Your minions proud my peace destroy,

By sullen frowns or prating rude.

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Last night, as sad I chanc'd to stray,

The village death-bell smote my ear : They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say,

• Countess, prepare ; thy end is near ! And now, while happy peasants sleep,

Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; No one to soothe me as I weep,

Save Philomel on yonder thorn. My spirits flag, my hopes decay

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear ; And many a boding seems to say,

Countess, prepare ; thy end is near!'' Thus, sore and sad, that lady griev'd,

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,

And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared

In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,

And many a cry of mortal fear.
The death-bell thrice was heard to ring;

An aerial voice was heard to call ;
And thrice the raven flapp'd his wings

Around the towers of Cumnor Hall : The mastiff howl'd at village-door ;

The oaks were shatter'd on the green : Woe was the hour,—for never more

That hapless countess e'er was seen !

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