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The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
the hollow:-him did I accost, And what this place might be I then inquired.
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
You see these lifeless stumps of aspen woodSome say that they are beeches, others elmsThese were the bower; and here a mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms !
The arbor does its own condition tell;
There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep
that here a murder has been done, And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part, I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
What thoughts must through the creature's brain
have past ! Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, Are but three bounds and look, Sir, at this lastO Master! it has been a cruel leap!
For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ;
Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
In April here beneath the flowering thorn
Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
“ Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. The pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall all be overgrown. One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals; Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”
SONNET.-NOVEMBER First. HOW
OW clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, Shines like another sun-on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering headTerrestrial, but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained ? nor shall the aerial Powerg Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.
WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? Oh, find me, prosperous or undone ! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same ? That I may rest; and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
alas ! to have received
He was among the prime in worth,
Ah ! little doth the young-one dream,
He knows it not, he cannot guess :
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,