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Few-and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet:

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring —
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times -
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill, -
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And stedfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,

The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,

With the same breeze that bend,-
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,-

Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them up to heaven!

MRS. HEM ANS.

146. AN ENGLISH PEASANT.

[From THE PARISH REGISTER.]

TO pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene:
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,

At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved:
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind.

I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried:
The still tears, trickling down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride Who, in their base contempt, the great deride: Nor pride in learning-though my clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew None his superior, and his equals few :But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd; In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied; In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; I see no more those white locks, thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honour'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force,) are there: But he is bless'd, and I lament no more,

A wise good man, contented to be

poor.

CRABBE.

147.

CORONACH.*

[From THE LADY OF THE LAKE.]

HE is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi†,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray ‡,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

* A funeral song.

SIR W. SCOTT.

The hollow side of a hill, where game usually lies. A plundering expedition.

148. THE SLAVE'S DREAM. QESIDE the ungather'd rice he lay, His sickle in his hand;

BESIDE

His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand;

Again in the mist and shadow of sleep
He saw his native land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flow'd;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode,
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;

They clasp'd his neck, they kiss'd his cheeks,
They held him by the hand:

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids,

And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

The bright flamingoes flew;

From morn till night he follow'd their flight,

O'er plains where the tarmarind grew,

Till he saw the roof of Caffre huts

And the ocean rose to view.

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