XIII. TO A SEXTON. LET thy wheel-barrow alone- In thy Bone-house bone on bone? "Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid. -These died in peace each with the other, Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother. Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform eight feet square Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly Daughter lies, From weakness, now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride How he glories, when he sees Roses, Lilies, side by side, Violets in families! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden. Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality. And, should I live through sun and rain XIV. WHO fancied what a pretty sight Was it the humour of a Child? Or rather of some love-sick Maid, I asked 'twas whispered, The device It is the Spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, That gives to all the self-same bent Where life is wise and innocent. XV. SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. THOUGH the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Though, as if with eagle pinion If on windy days the Raven Not the less he loves his haven In the bosom of the cliff. VOL. I. T |