What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? XVI. With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. XVII. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? XVIII. We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. XIX. Yet if we could scorn, Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. XX. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! XXI. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. H THE VICAR. By W. M. PRAED. SOME years ago, ere time and taste St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Back flew the bolt of lissom lath; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say— "Our master knows you-you're expected." Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown, Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband husband clasped his ponderous Barrow ; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, |