And locks of sunshine) in his age composed, His green old age, which kept his energies And seraph's ardours bright and unimpaired A piteous sight it would have been, to one Who knew not that her hopes had upward filed, And there had settled ere the spirit was freed, To see that lovely sufferer. Spring long since Had flushed each thicket, and the wilding rose Began to shew its streak, a tender hue, Like that which lingered yet on Esther's lips, While the poor hectic patient, pillow-propt, Sat in the doorway to inhale the breeze. Calmly she looked on death, as on a cloud Behind whose folds the Sun of Righteousness Is hidden from terrestrials, and whose gloom We all must enter; but once past, by those To whom the Scripture utters words of hope, Then comes the perfect Day. So she prepared In calmness for the grave,-she chose the spot Where she would lie; she named the friendly band Whose last sad office was to bear her forth; Portioned her little store of worldly goods, That each beloved one might retain of her Some valued keepsake; evidenced her faith The church prescribes,--and then, in patient hope Waited the final summons. While she sat, Pale as the alabaster of a tomb, Scarcely less still-her poor shrunk fingers wrought The Garland which I spake of; it was made Slowly, with many a pausing interval, When even the scissors were a weight her strength As if with funeral strewings, gently forth She breathed the imprisoned soul. Time had been given Save recollections in a few fond hearts, And a green, unmarked mound,—then this frail thing Makes it his solitary perch, and sings As 't were a requiem for the buried maid. Dust, damp, and mouldiness have somewhat dimmed Its pristine purity, and fragments fall Unnoted; so, not long the villagers Will point to Esther's Garland, and enforce The moral of our life's uncertainty, And of the Crown which goodness gains in death. THE SECRET. A DIALOGUE. B. "I have a counsel for thy gentle ear, A secret deep, I fain would whisper in it!" "Of love, I guess: come closer, then, my dear, And if 'tis worth a farthing pray begin it." "Well, then. He (you know who!) was here this minute; And no, I can't go on-indeed I can't; I thought him all devotion to my aunt; And now-such love-and, oh! that I should win it! Nay, do not smile, his is no soul of iron; He sits for ever with an upturned eye, Doing the Poet' most enchantingly; And cuts his hair, too, by the prints of Byron : |