Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces-
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady pathways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream,
And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide-branching trees, with dark-green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight-desolate and sad.
The place was such, that whoso enter'd in, Disrobed was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin,
Or to the world's first innocence was brought; Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapp'd around.
A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I stay'd, When, lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,
Which came in silence o'er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR Made, of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair
And eke with painful fingers she inwove
Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn"The willow garland, that was for her love,
And these her bleeding temples would adorn." With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell, As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.
To whom when I address'd myself to speak, She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said; The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek, And, gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled To the dark covert of that woody shade, And in her goings seem'd a timid, gentle maid.
Revolving in my mind what this should mean, And why that lovely lady plained so; Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene, And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,
I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound.
"PSYCHE am I, who love to dwell
In these brown shades, this woody dell, Where never busy mortal came,
Till now, to pry upon my shame.
At thy feet what thou dost see The waters of repentance be, Which, night and day, I must augment With tears, like a true penitent,
If haply so my day of grace
Be not yet past; and this lone place, O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence All thoughts but grief and penitence."
"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid! And wherefore in this barren shade Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed? Can thing so fair repentance need?”
"Oh! I have done a deed of shame, And tainted is my virgin fame, And stain❜d the beauteous maiden white, In which my bridal robes were dight."
"And who the promised spouse, declare: And what those bridal garments were."
"Severe and saintly righteousness Composed the clear white bridal dress; JESUS, the son of Heaven's high king, Bought with his blood the marriage-ring.
A wretched sinful creature, I Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie, Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart, And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
Soon to these murky shades I came, To hide from the sun's light my shame. And still I haunt this woody dell, And bathe me in that healing well, Whose waters clear have influence
From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
And, night and day, I them augment With tears, like a true penitent,
Until, due expiation made,
And fit atonement fully paid,
The lord and bridegroom me present, Where in sweet strains of high consent, God's throne before, the Seraphim Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn'
"Now Christ restore thee soon"-I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.
QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.
On a bank with roses shaded, Whose sweet scent the violets aided, Violets whose breath alone Yields but feeble smell or none, (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on When his eyes Olympus closed on,) While o'er head six slaves did hold Canopy of cloth o' gold,
And two more did music keep, Which might Juno lull to sleep, Oriana who was queen To the mighty Tamerlane, That was lord of all the land Between Thrace and Samarchand, While the noontide fervour beam'd, Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd.
Thus far, in magnific strain, A young poet sooth'd his vein; But he had nor prose nor numbers To express a princess' slumbers. Youthful Richard had strange fanci‹ 8, Was deep versed in old romances, And could talk whole hours upon The great cham and Prester John-- Tell the field in which the Sophi From the Tartar won a trophy- What he read with such delight of, Thought he could as eas'ly write of--- But his over-young invention Kept not pace with brave intention. Twenty suns did rise and set, And he could no farther get; But, unable to proceed,
Made a virtue out of need,
And, his labours wiselier deem'd of,
Did omit what the queen dream'd of.
NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.
To the tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."
In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold; In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold: There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, They have store of good venison, with old Canary wine, With singing and music to heighten the cheer; Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
In a costly palace Youth is still caress'd
By a train of attendants which laugh at my young lord's jest;
In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails: Does Age begin to prattle, no man heark'neth to his tales.
In a costly palace if the child with a pin
Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.
In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust, Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do, Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsman
In a costly palace Youth his temples hides.
With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides; In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallant's pride, To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side That none to do them injury may have pretence; Wretched age, in poverty, must brook offence.
HYPOCHONDRIACUS.
By myself walking, . To myself talking, When as I ruminate On my untoward fate, Scarcely seem I Alone sufficiently
Black thoughts continually Crowding my privacy; They come unbidden, Like foes at a wedding, Thrusting their faces In better guests' places, Peevish and malecontent, Clownish, impertinent, Dashing the merriment:
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