How SWEET it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! An old place, full of many a lovely brood, Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks; And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, Like to the bonny lass, who plays her pranks At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, WORDSWORTH THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. (See Frontispiece.) THEY grew in beauty side by side, The same fond mother bent at night She had each folded flower in sight- One 'midst the forests of the West, The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, One sleeps where southern vines are drest He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one-o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded 'midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. And, parted thus, they rest-who played Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee: They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth,— Alas for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, O earth! MRS. HEMANS. |