Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapp'd his hand in mine and sang— "Oh! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into a bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. "Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. "Who'd serve the state? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all but let me live my life. : "Oh! who would love? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea: but let me live my life." He sang his song, and I replied with mine, I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, Came to the hammer here in March-and this I set the words, and added names I knew. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me, Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 66 Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm, Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. "Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast. Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip, I go to-night I come to-morrow morn. "I go, : but I return: I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.” Did what I would; but ere the night we rose In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf The limit of the hills; and as we sank The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the country looks! Is yonder planting where this byway joins The turnpike? James. Yes. John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. John. What is it now? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see Beyond the watermills ? James. Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad: the place is to be sold. John. Oh, his. He was not broken. |