Upon us and departed. "Leave," she cried, And poodles yelled within, and out they came, What, with him! Girl, get you in!" She went, and in one month They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, It seems I broke a close with force and arms; I read, and fled by night, and flying turned; Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago I have pardoned little Letty; not indeed, It may be, for her own dear sake, but this, She seems a part of those fresh days to me; The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. Τυ AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." Shakspeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet's name, But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Through troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice; And you have missed the irreverent doom Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him, ere he scarce be cold, Begins the scandal and the cry: "Proclaim the faults he would not show; Break lock and seal; betray the trust; Keep nothing sacred; 't is but just The many-headed beast should know." Ah, shameless! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; He gave the people of his best; His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, Than he that warbles long and loud TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, And trust me while I turned the page, My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever poured And glistened, here and there alone The broad-limbed Gods at randon thrown By fountain-urns; — and Naiads oared |