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• The next, with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
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.
152 Written in Northampton
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows ?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
I long for scenes where man has never trod
For scenes where woman never smiled or weptThere to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.
Why fadest thou in death,
Oh yellow waning tree?
And green the oak by thee.
But with each wind that sighs
The leaves from thee take wing ;
154 Stanzas written in dejection near
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light
Like many a voice of one delight,
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
green and purple seaweeds strown;
I sit upon the sands alone ;-
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that Content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walk'd with inward glory crown'dNor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surroundSmiling they live, and call life pleasure ;To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are ;
And weep away the life of care
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony....
SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Come, long-sought !
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sigh'd for thee;
I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me ?
No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-
Ode to a Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
In some melodious plot
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.