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That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have
still Remained a child, and at thy sovereign will Gambolled about our house, as in times past. Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, Hastening to leave thy friends !—for which intent, Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment After some thirty years, spent in such bliss As this earth can afford, where still we miss Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold. O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say, Looking upon thee reverend in decay, “ This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare, With her respected Grandsire may compare.' Grandchild of that respected Isola, Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. But they have died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou mayest, and owe to chance The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find, Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind To thee and thy deservings. That last strain Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again Another cheerful goblet, while I say “ Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
FOR their elder Sister's hair
Martha does a wreath prepare
Of bridal rose, ornate and gay;
Tomorrow is the wedding-day.
She is going.
Mary, youngest of the three,
Laughing idler, full of glee,
Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her-
But she's going.
Vex not, maidens, nor regret
Thus to part with Margaret.
Charms like yours can never stay
Long within doors; and one day
You'll be going.
You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
That stoop their pride and female honour down
To please that many-headed beast the town,
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
You keep your native dignity of thought;
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
As tributes due unto your natural vein.
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
That vanish and return we know not how-
And please the better from a pensive face,
A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
QUEEN-BIRD that sittest on thy shining nest,
And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,
And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest
Lest the white mother wandering feet molest :
Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,
Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able
To tread the land or waters with security.
Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
The births of heaven like to yours would shine.
Was it some sweet device of Faery
That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade,
And fancied wanderings with a fair-haired maid ?
Have these things been? or what rare witchery,
Impregning with delights the charmed air,
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
In those fine eyes ? methought they spake the while
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
Still court the footsteps of the fair-haired maid ?
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
And ’mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclined
Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid !
Beloved! I were well content to play
With thy free tresses all a summer's day,
Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.
Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
In gentle sort, on those who practise not
Or love or pity, though of woman born.
WHEN last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
Ofttimes would Anna seek the silent scene,
Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
No more I hear her footsteps in the shade :
Her image only in these pleasant ways
Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
I held free converse with the fair-haired maid.
I passed the little cottage which she loved,