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Seem but the theme of writers, and, indeed,
“Parson,” said I, “you pitch the pipe too low: But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his ; Though if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music; yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream?” I asked him half-sardonically.
“Give 2 Give all thou art,” he answered, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; “I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin; my ears could hear Her lightest breaths; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came ; Her voice fled always through the summer land; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.”
Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarred; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seemed A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was, He scarcely hit my humor, and I said:—
“Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone
I have, I think-Heaven knows, as much within;
So spoke I, knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: “God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world.” And I and Edwin laughed; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound.
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had withered, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true we met; one hour I had, no more, She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, The close “Your Letty, only yours;” and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel; And out I stept, and up I crept ; she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers; Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she, She turned, we closed, we kissed, swore faith, I
In some new planet; a silent cousin stole
VOL. I. 11
I brave the worst; ” and while we stood like fools
Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago
TO —, AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.
“Cursed be he that moves my bones.” -
You might have won the Poet's name,
Of sounder leaf than I can claim ;
But you have made the wiser choice,
And you have missed the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown ; Hereafter neither knave nor clown
Shall hold their orgies at your tomb.
For now the Poet cannot die,
Begins the scandal and the cry:
“Proclaim the faults he would not show; Break lock and seal; betray the trust; Keep nothing sacred; 'tis but just
The many-headed beast should know.”
Ah, shameless! for he did but sing
No blazoned statesman he, nor king.
164 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE.
He gave the people of his best;
Who will not let his ashes rest
Who make it seem more sweet to be
And dies unheard within his tree,
Than he that warbles long and loud
To tear his heart before the crowd
TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE.
ILLYRIAN woodlands, echoing falls
The vast Akrokeraunian walls,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
I read and felt that I was there :
And trust me while I turned the page,
My spirits in the golden age.
For me the torrent ever poured
By fountain-urns;–and Naiads oared