'The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay The Epitaph Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, 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. Gray, 1750. 152 Written in Northampton County Asylum I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows? I am the self-consumer of my woes; They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, I long for scenes where man has never trod— And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,The grass below; above, the vaulted sky. But with each wind that sighs The leaves from thee take wing; And bare thy branches rise Above their drifted ring. Dixon. 154 Stanzas written in dejection near Naples* I THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The breath of the moist earth is light Like many a voice of one delight, II I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. III Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. IV Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.... Shelley. 155* To Night I SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave, II Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, III When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, IV Thy brother Death came, and cried, Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, V Death will come when thou art dead, Sleep will come when thou art fled; My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, |