SIT beneath the poplars here, traveller, when thou art weary, and drawing nigh drink of our spring; and even far away remember the fountain that Simus sets by the side of Gillus his dead child.
THEY die-the dead return not- Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye-
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls-they all are gone-
Fond wretch, all dead! Those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs-alone remain.
Misery, my sweetest friend-oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs-alone remain.
. Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure :
Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.
Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered;
And many else were free to roam abroad,
But for the main, here found they covert drear:
Scarce images of life, one here, one there,
Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal cirque
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor,
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,
In dull November, and their chancel vault,
The heaven itself, is blinded throughout night...
Pardon me, madam, you to the kings.
CONSTANCE
Thou may'st, thou shalt: I will not go with thee.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
To me and to the state of my great grief
Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
(She seats herself on the ground)
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than
do.
I will not keep this form upon my head
When there is such disorder in my wit.
[Tearing off her head-dress. fair son
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows cure!
There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;
And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world's taste
That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. .
For never touch of gladness stirs my heart,
But timorously beginning to rejoice
Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start
In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice.
Beloved! 'tis not thine; thou art not there!
Then melts the bubble into idle air,
And wishing without hope I restlessly despair.
.. How frequently does his form visit slumber and in wakefulness, in the light of day, and in the night watches; but last night I saw him in his beauty and his strength; he was about to speak, and my ear was on the stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was I alone, and the night storm was howling amidst the branches of the pines which surround my lonely dwelling: 'Listen to the moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,'- -a saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom; I listened, and thought of life and death.
will not depart !-
Is with me still, yet I from him exiled!
For still there lives within my secret heart
The magic image of the magic Child,
Which there he made up-grow by his strong art,
As in that crystal orb-wise Merlin's feat,—
The wondrous 'World of Glass', wherein inisled
All long'd for things their beings did repeat;-
And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled,
To live and yearn and languish incomplete!
A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.
YE hasten to the grave! What seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?
Oh thou quick heart, which pantest to possess
All that pale Expectation feigneth fair!
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