« PreviousContinue »
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
On earth was never sown ;
A Lady of my own.
Myself will to my darling be
The Girl, in rock and plain,
T, kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the Fawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
Of mute insensate things.
The floating Clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend ;
Nor shall she fail to see, Even in th: motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy. -
The stars of midnight shall be deal
In many a secret place,
Shall pass into her face.
And vital feelings of delight
Her virgin bosom swell ;
Here in this happy dell.”
Thus Nature spake-The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
TO A LADY.
Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! -There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbour and a hold, Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shall see Thy own delightful days, and be
And treading among flowers of joy,
That at no season fade, Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing
A Woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, Nor leave thee when gray hairs are nigh
But an old age serene and bright,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.
THE LAST MINSTREL.
The way was long, the wind was coid. The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy; The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry. For, well ty! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more on prancing palfrey borne, He carolled, light as lark at morn, No longer courted and caressed, lligh placed in hall, a welcome guest, Me poured, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay :
Old times were changed, old manners gone,
He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower: The Minstrel gazed with wistful eyeNo humbler resting-place was nigh. With hesitating step, at last, The embattled portal-arch he passed, Whose ponderous grate and massy bar Had oft rolled back the tide of war, But never closed the iron door A gainst the desolate and poor. The duchess marked his weary pace, His timid mein, and reverend face, And bade her page the merials tell, That they should tend the old man well; For she had known adversity, Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!
When kindness had his wants supplied, And the old man was gratified, Began to rise his minstrel pride: And he began to talk anon,