For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, "One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gained from heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Gray. BUGLE SONG THE splendor falls on castle walls, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Oh hark, oh, hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, ALLEN-A-DALE ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, Allen-a Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright: Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his household and home: "Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone; And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, BALLAD SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl! My blood before was thin and cold, My shadow falls upon my grave, She might have stayed a little yet, Ay, call her on the barren moor, ; And call her on the hill Full many a thankless child has beer, Her meat was served on plates of gold, But now she 'll share the robin's food, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father's will! |