My lodging is the cold-cold ground; And when the kiss of love goes round, But I will to the grave and weep, All underneath the church-yard tree, Thelwall. THE SOLITARY TOMB, Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirred, Though a breath might have moved it so lightly; Nor a farewell note from a sweet-singing bird, Bade adieu to the suu setting brightly. The sky was cloudless and calm, except In the west, where the sun was descending; And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, As his beams with their beauty were blending. And the evening star with its ray so clear, Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere Its dewy, delightful splendour. And I stood all alone on that gentle hill, Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood And close by the foot of the hill where I stood How lonely and lovely their resting-place seemed! When, at morn or at eve, I have wandered near, And in various lights have viewed it ; With what different forms to friendship dear, Have the magic of fancy endured it! It has sometimes seemed like a lonely sail, But no image of gloom, or of care, or of strife, He was one, who, in youth, on the stormy seas, Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept Nor in woman's warm eye hath a tear ever slept And here, when the bustle of youth was past, He lived, and he loved, and he died too;— O! why was affection, which death could out-last, A more lengthened enjoyment denied to? But here he slumbers! and many there are Barton. TO MY DAUGHTER, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAY. Hail to this teeming stage of strife Hail, lovely miniature of life! Pilgrim of many cares untold! Lamb of the world's extended fold! Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears! Sweet promise of ecstatic years! How fainly would I bend the knee, And turn idolater to thee! 'Tis nature's worship-felt-confest Far as the life which warms the breast! The sturdy savage 'midst his clan, In trackless woods, and boundless plains, Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years But little reck'st thou, O my child ! The little all we here can find And the dark mystic sphere behind! |