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And not sit beside the nest,
And not sit both night and day,
He doth give his joy to all:
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not near.
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
Oh! He gives to us his joy,
That our griefs He may destroy :
A DEAD ROSE.
O Rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee.
The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,—
If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined because
If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.
The fly that 'lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose, than to' any roses bold
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming:
They've hushed the Minster bell:
She's coming, she's coming!
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast :
She comes-she's here-she's past-
Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint!
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
But suffer me to pace
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait
William Makepeace Thackeray.
ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A floweret crushèd in the bud,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
So soon to' exchange the imprisoning womb
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
Riddle of destiny, who can show,
Or lacked she the Promethean fire
(With her nine moons' long workings sickened)
And cut the branch; to save the shock
And wisest clerks have missed the mark
Why human buds, like this, should fall
That has his day; while shrivelled crones
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infant's glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
ON THE SAME.
Child of a day, thou knowest not
And why the wish! the pure and blest
Walter Savage Landor.