"KITTY PALMER." THE SOLE INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD HEAD-STONE IN DULWICH CHURCHYARD. BUT "Kitty Palmer "—not a word Not even a date; it seems absurd, To care for one, one can't be knowing; Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh T'wards Kitty there, my heart will soften. There's nothing there her age to say; Young? old? all's hid by time's thick curtain; What conquests were hers? Did she reign, Heart, triumphs, for sweet recollections? Was she vain? humble? foolish? wise? Rich? poor? coy? bold? quite dull? or witty! O were you wicked with your eyes, A plague to men? I hope not, Kitty. Did children make her smile or sigh, By death-beds, sobs in vain to smother? From cradles here? ah, who can know now ! Yet still my fancy will go on. About this long-gone Kitty dreaming, Of worldly toils and cares and scheming ; How pleasantly these green elms shade it! As here I see her lie, forgot By all who used to hate or love her, With smiles to heaven,-one fit to stir So I think of her-think her fair, My sight she lives, to fancy giving Content more calm-more sweet, since more Undimmed by fears-than do the living. For we are things that know no peace, All we must fear-with which we've striven; She breathes but Heaven's, we trust-forgiven. All they who knew her, too, have passed Ah, you who here are writing this,. Is it so much that men should know Your words years hence? nay, man, breathe calmer! Will you not sleep as well, below The grass, forgot, like "Kitty Palmer ?” BENNETT. HYMN ON THE SEASONS. [I conclude this series of "Select Readings" with a "Hymn" from one whose "Seasons" ever have been, and will be, loved and admired by all the world.-Editor.] THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales, Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming a harmonious whole, That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth, And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join, every living soul |