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, Nor up "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 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, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, ALLEN-A-DALE ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning, And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 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 66 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, But now 't is turned to tears. My shadow falls upon my grave, She might have stayed a little yet, Ay, call her on the barren moor, 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! Thomas Hood. THE LAST LEAF I SAW him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound |