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A springy motion in her gait,
That flushed her spirit;
I know not by what name beside
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was trained in Nature's school
Nature had blessed her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbor, gone before To that unknown and silent shore ! Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering
wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel From the glad song would not be absent long, And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
But oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone — Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er
grown, And all their echoes, mourn; The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless
deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream Ay me! I fondly dream, Had ye been there; for what could that have
done What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, The muse herself for her enchanting son,
YEt once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,
Whom universal nature did lainent,
Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge ? His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Last came, and last did go, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Alas! what boots it with incessant care
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); And strictly meditate the thankless muse?
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : Were it not better done, as others use,
How well could I have spared for thee, young To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
swain, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold raise
Of other care they little reckoning make, (That last infirmity of noble minds)
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, To scorn delights, and live laborious days; And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
to hold Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least And slits the thin-spun life. But not the That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! praise,
What recks it them what need they? they are Phæbus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; sped; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Nor in the glistering foil
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
draw, As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, Daily devours apace, and nothing said ; Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, But that two-handed engine at the door, That strain I heard was of a higher mood ; Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. But now my oat proceeds,
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, And listens to the herald of the sea
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse, That came in Neptune's plea ;
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use swaint
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, And questioned every gust of rugged winds On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, That blows from off each beaked promontory; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, They knew not of his story;
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The air was calm, and on the level brine
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
The glowing violet, Built in th’ eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, And every flower that sad embroidery wears. His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies,
In Remembrance of the Hon. Edward Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
A GRACE though melancholy, manly too,
A shade of sweet austerity. But seen Where the great vision of the guarded mount In happier hours and by the friendly few, Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ; That curtain of the spirit was withdrawn, Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth! And fancy light and playful as a fawn, And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! And reason imped with inquisition keen, Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no Knowledge long sought with ardor ever new, more!
And wit love-kindled, showed in colors true For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
What genial joys with sufferings can consist. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. Then did all sternness melt as melts a mist So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
Touched by the brightness of the golden dawn, And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
Aërial heights disclosing, valleys green, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between, Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; And flowers and spangles of the dewy lawn. So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
And even the stranger, though he saw not these, Where, other groves and other streams along, Saw what would not be willingly passed by. With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
In his deportment, even when cold and shy, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
Was seen a clear collectedness and ease, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. A simple grace and gentle dignity, There entertain him all the saints above,
That failed not at the first accost to please; In solemn troops and sweet societies,
And as reserve relented by degrees, That sing, and singing in their glory move, So winning was his aspect and address, And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.
His smile so rich in sad felicities, Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Accordant to a voice which charmed no less, Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, That who but saw him once remembered long, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good And some in whom such images are strong To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Have hoarded the impression in their heart, Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and Fancy's fond dreams and memory's joys among, rills,
Like some loved relic of romantic song, While the still morn went out with sandals Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art.
Largely and wisely, as no worldling could.
of privacy, as from a cave, surveyed
ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.
He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn,
By wood and wild,
Frae man exiled.
And gently judged for evil and for good.
Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns,
Where echo slumbers !
My wailing numbers !
Wi’ todlin' din,
Frae linn to linn.
Mourn, little harebells owre the lea;
In scented bowers;
The first o' flowers.
But farther may we pass not; for the ground
At dawn, when every grassy blade
l'th' rustling gale, Ye maukins, whiddin' through the glade,
Come, join my wail !
Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood;
Ye whistling plover;
He's gane for ever!
Circling the lake;
Rair for his sake!
Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson.
O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O'er hurcheon hides,
Wi' thy auld sides !
Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay!