Too long in the meadow staying, Did the little maiden stay. Sorrowful the tale for us, We, too, loiter mid life's flowers, A little while so glorious, So soon lost in darker hours. All love lingering on their way, Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,— The flower of fairy lore. THE FIRST GRAVE. IN THE NEW CHURCHYARD AT BROMPTON. A SINGLE grave!-the only one Where yet the garden leaf and flower A single grave!-my heart has felt How utterly alone In crowded halls, were breathed for me Not one familiar tone; The shade where forest trees shut out A single grave !—we half forget When round the silent place of rest We stand beneath the haunted yew, The place is purified with hope, The hope that is of prayer; And human love, and heavenward thought, And pious faith, are there. The wild flowers spring amid the And many a stone appears,― Carved by affection's memory, Wet with affection's tears. grass, The golden chord which binds us all But THIS grave is so desolate, I do not know who sleeps beneath, His history or name,— He is in death the same: The last leaf on the bough; Or, if some desolated hearth Is weeping for him now. Perhaps this is too fanciful;— Those gentler charities which draw Those sweet humanities which make The music which they find. How many a bitter word 'twould hush,— How many a pang 'twould save, If life more precious held those ties Which sanctify the grave! THE MOON. THE moon is sailing o'er the sky, For somewhat of companionship, And felt it were in vain she shined: Earth is her mirror, and the stars Are as the court around her throne; She is a beauty and a queen,— But what is this? she is alone. Is there not one-not one-to share I cannot choose but pity thee, I'd rather be the meanest flower That grows, my mother earth, on thee, To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me. Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death; VENICE. MORN on the Adriatic, every wave Is turned to light, and mimics the blue sky, Column, and tower, and fretted pinnacle Are white with sunshine; and the few soft shades Do but relieve the eye. The morning time The summer time, how beautiful they are ! A buoyant spirit fills the natural world, And sheds its influence on humanity; Man draws his breath more lightly, and forgets The weight of cares that made the night seem long. How beautiful the summer, and the morn, When opening over forest and green field, Fraught with sweet idleness and minstrel-dreams: More than the feelings; that of power and mind— Far spread the ocean,—but it spread to bear Doth often bear upon her ivory arm The ransom of a kingdom. By the sword, Morn on the Adriatic, bright and glad! Too gravely to be warmed by that delight |