Few-and by still conflicting powers Such ties would make this life of ours It may be that thy brother's eye A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — The tune that speaks of other times - The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night; Yet scorn thou not for this, the true 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, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, With the same breeze that bend,- Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside, MRS. HEM ANS. 146. AN ENGLISH PEASANT. [From THE PARISH REGISTER.] TO pomp and pageantry in nought allied, At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd: I mark'd his action, when his infant died, 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, From the rain-drops shall borrow, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, Fleet foot on the correi†, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray ‡, How sound is thy slumber! * 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 Again in the mist and shadow of sleep Wide through the landscape of his dreams He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasp'd his neck, they kiss'd his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode 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. |