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Seem but the theme of writers, and, indeed,
"Parson,” said I, "you pitch the pipe too low; But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his; Though if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music; yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream?” I asked him half-sardonically.
Give all thou art," he answered, and a light
Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarred; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seemed A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was, He scarcely hit my humor, and I said :—
"Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone
I have, I think,-Heaven knows,—as much within;
So spoke I, knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: "God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world." And I and Edwin laughed; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound.
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had withered, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true we met; one hour I had, no more, She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, The close "Your Letty, only yours;" and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel; And out I stept, and up I crept; she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers; Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she, She turned, we closed, we kissed, swore faith, I breathed
In some new planet; a silent cousin stole
Upon us and departed. "Leave," she cried,
I brave the worst;" and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yelled within, and out they came, Trustees and aunts and uncles. "What, with him!" "Go" (shrilled the cotton-spinning chorus), “ him! I choked. Again they shrieked the burthen "Him!"
Again with hands of wild rejection, “ Go! —
Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago
AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.
"Cursed be he that moves my bones." Shakspeare's Epitaph.
You might have won the Poet's name,
But you have made the wiser choice,
For now the Poet cannot die,
Nor leave his music as of old, But round him, ere he scarce be cold, Begins the scandal and the cry :
"Proclaim the faults he would not show;
Break lock and seal; betray the trust; Keep nothing sacred; 'tis but just The many-headed beast should know.”
Ah, shameless! for he did but sing
164 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE.
He gave the people of his best ;
His worst he kept, his best he gave.
Who make it seem more sweet to be
Than he that warbles long and loud
And drops at Glory's temple-gates,
TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE.
ILLYRIAN woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
With such a pencil, such a pen,
And trust me while I turned the page,
My spirits in the golden age.
For me the torrent ever poured
And glistened,-here and there alone