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And brid-maids singing are ; And hark the little vesper-bell
Which biddeth me to prayer.
O wedding-guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the Kirk
With a goodly company :
To walk together to the Kirk
And altogether pray, While each to his great father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths, and maidens gay.
Farewell, farewell! But this I tell
To thee, thou wedding-guest ! He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small : For the dear God, who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Turned from the bridegroom's door.
He went, like one that hath been stunned
And is of sense forlorn :
He rose the morrow morn.
Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale
My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni !- Angels rest his soul ! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ; Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, He found a baby wrapt in mosses lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost. A pretty boy, but most unteachableAnd so the babe grew up a pretty boy, And never learnt a prayer nor told a head, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself:
His love grew desperate ; and defying death,
'Tis a sweet tale
And what became of him ?
He went on ship-board,
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, IN ANSWER TO À MELANCHOLY
Away, those cloudy looks, that lab'ring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's pow'r, When the blind gamester throws a luckless die.
Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train ;
To-morrow shall the many colour'd main In brightness roll beneath his orient beam !
Wild, as th’ Autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance
Th'alternate groups of joy and grief advance Responsive to his varying strains sublinie !
Bears on its wing each hour a load of fate.
The swain, who, lull’d by Seine's mild murmurs, led
His weary oxen to their nightly shed, To-day may rule a tempest-troubled state.
Nor shall not Fortune, with a vengeful smile,
Survey the sanguinary despot's might,
And haply hurl the pageant from his height, Unwept, to wander in some savage isle.
There shiv'ring sad, beneath the tempest's frown,
Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest;
And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest! Barter for food, the jewels of his crown.
WRITTEN AFTER A WALK BEFORE SUPPER.
Tho' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker,