то AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." Shakspeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet's name, But you have made the wiser choice, And you have missed the irreverent doom For now the Poet cannot die, But round him, ere he scarce be cold, "Proclaim the faults he would not show; Ah, shameless! for he did but sing 164 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. He gave the people of his best; His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be Than he that warbles long and loud TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, And trust me while I turned the page, For me the torrent ever poured And glistened,-here and there alone By fountain-urns ;—and Naiads oared A glimmering shoulder under gloom From him that on the mountain lea “COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD.” COME not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou would'st not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : THE EAGLE. A FRAGMENT. HE clasps the crag with hookéd hands; Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; THE TALKING OAK. I. ONCE more the gate behind me falls II. Beyond the lodge the city lies, III. For when my passion first began,. IV. To yonder oak within the field V. For oft I talked with him apart, Until he plagiarized a heart, And answered with a voice. VI. Though what he whispered under Heaven I found him garrulously given, VII. But since I heard him make reply "Twere well to question him, and try VIII. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, IX. Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs ? X. "O Walter, I have sheltered here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year, Made ripe in Sumner-chace : XI. "Old Summers, when the monk was fat, XII. "Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, XIII. "And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive |