One evening he took up a book, And nothing in it read; Then flung it down, and groaning cried, "Oh! Heaven! that I were dead." Mary looked up into his face, And he burst into tears, and fell "Her heart is broke! O God! my grief It is to great too bear!" 'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, Sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring Was late uncommonly. And then the hot days, all at once, You looked about for shade, when scarce It happened then ('twas in the bower Perhaps you know the place, and yet No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh But clustered near the chattering brook, Those hollies of themselves a shape A close, round arbor; and it stands Within this arbor, which was still Were these three friends, one Sunday morn Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, His limbs along the moss, his head With shut-up senses, Edward lay : And he had passed a restless night, And talked as 'twere by stealth. "The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen! see! "Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your ee; "A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory too; Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Make up a glory, gay and bright, Round that small orb, so blue." And then they argued of those rays, Says this, "They're mostly green;" says that, So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts But soon they heard his hard quick pants, "A mother too!" these self-same words 66 His face was drawn back on itself Both groaned at once, for both knew well He sat upright; and ere the dream "O God, forgive me! (he exclaimed) I have torn out her heart." Then Ellen shrieked, and forth with burst Into ungentle laughter; And Mary shivered, where she sat, And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. Tomorrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow! IV. ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. DEJECTION: AN ODE. LATE, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE. I. WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, Which better far were mute. For lo! the New-moon winter bright! The coming on of rain and squally blast. And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: Those stars, that glide behind them or between, In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see, not feel how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail: And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavor, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught behold, of higher worth, |