IN yonder grave a Druid lies.

Where slowly winds the stealing

wave;

The year's best sweets shall duteous rise

To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,

And while its sounds at distance swell,

Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,

tide

Would that I had passed away

Ere I knew that I was born; For I stand in the blessed light of day Like a weed among the corn, The black rock in the wide blue sea, The snake in the jungle green: Oh! who will stay in the fearful way Where such ugly things are seen? Yet mine is the fate of lonelier state Than that of the snake or rock; For those who behold me in their path

Not only shun, but mock.

O Ugliness! thy desolate pain

Had served to set the stamp on Cain!