Where now Romance's rich attire, Burn'd down along the West, XVI. Alas! with care we sow the wind, Each proffer'd ransom Time disdains : Vanish'd for ever and forgot, The place that knew him knows him not! XVII. Ho! wanderer, ho!-eschew the wrong, The still small tongue that whispers peace : And know that, from this dream call'd life, Unto the eager to be pure The path is straight-the palm is sure! XVIII. For ne'er hath prodigal come round, At contrite hearts he will not scoff- And though their dye be black as night, WEEP NOT FOR HER. A DIRGE. I. WEEP not for her!-Oh! she was far too fair, Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth! The sinless glory, and the golden air Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth: A spirit wander'd from its native zone, Which, soon discovering, took her for its own: Weep not for her! II. Weep not for her!-Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright; Like flowers that know not what it is to die; Like long-link'd shadeless months of Polar light; Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, While Echo answers from the flowery brake : III. Weep not for her!-She died in early youth, And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews; Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze; Her wine of life was run not to the lees: Weep not for her! IV. Weep not for her!-By fleet or slow decay, She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven: V. Weep not for her!—It was not hers to feel The miseries that corrode amassing years, 'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel, To wander sad down Age's vale of tears; As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree, And on earth's wintry world alone to be : Weep not for her! VI. Weep not for her!-She is an angel now, VII. Weep not for her!-Her memory is the shrine Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers; Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline; Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers; Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light; Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night: VIII. Weep not for her!—There is no cause for woe; And from earth's low defilements keep thee back: So, when a few fleet severing years have flown, She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate-and lead thee on! Weep not for her! THE FOWLER. And is there care in Heaven? and is there love And all his works with mercy doth embrace, To serve on wicked man-to serve his wicked foe! SPENSER. I. I HAVE an old remembrance-'tis as old |