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5 When last along its banks I wandered,
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 10 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 15 Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source ;
The rapt one, of the godlike forehead,
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 20 Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
25 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 30 Like London with its own black wreath,
On which, with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking, I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath.
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before ; but why, 35 O’er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ?
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
For her who, ere her summer faded, 40 Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
No more of old romantic sorrows,
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.
THERE was a roaring in the wind all night;
All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The hare is running races in her mirth;
39. Felicia Hemans.
15 I was a Traveller then
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
As high as we have mounted in delight 25 In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
I heard the skylark warbling in the sky; 30 And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy child of earth am I;
But there may come another day to me,
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 40 But how can he expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; 45 Of him who walked in glory and in joy,
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
50 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven,
As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 60 By what means it could thither come, and whence:
So that it seems a thing endued with sense;
Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead, 65 Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age :
His body was bent double, feet and head
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 70 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
45. Robert Burns.
Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
That heareth not the loud winds when they call,
At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 80 Upon that muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
85 A gentle answer did the old man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew; And him with further words I thus bespake : “What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 90 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes.
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
Of ordinary men ; a stately speech;
He told, that to these waters he had come 100 To gather leeches, being old and poor: