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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.
66 Give ? Give all thou art,” he answered, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; s I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin; my ears could hear Her lightest breaths; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always through the summer land; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.”
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.
good and increase of the world.”
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, 66 O leave me !" “Never, dearest, never; here
I brave the worst;” and while we stood like fools
Nor cared to hear ? perhaps; yet long ago
AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.
"Cursed be he that moves my bones."
You might have won the Poet's name,
If such be worth the winning now,
And gained a laurel for your brow Of sounder leaf than I can claim;
But you have made the wiser choice,
A life that moves to gracious ends
Through troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice;
And you have missed the irreverent doom
Of those that wear the Poet's crown ;
Hereafter neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomh.
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
A song that pleased us from its worth;
No public life was his on earth, No blazoned statesman he, nor king.
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
The little life of bank and brier,
The bird that pipes his lone desire
Than he that warbles long and loud
And drops at Glory's temple-gates,
For whom the carrion vulture waits
TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE.
ILLYRIAN woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Penesan pass,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
With such a pencil, such a pen,
You shadow forth to distant men,
And trust me while I turned the page,
And tracked you still on classic ground,
For me the torrent ever poured
And glistened,,here and there alone
The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns ;-and Naiads oared